He raked the windowless room with the beam of his flashlight. "What about the armoire in the corner?"
She studied the old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. The doors were closed but a lot of fog shivered around it.
"Definitely something in there," she said. "But it's different from the stuff that's coming up from under the floor."
He started to prowl the room with the flashlight. "No dust down here. Someone keeps this room clean."
She sniffed the air. "I can smell some kind of strong detergent or disinfectant. Damn, I knew it. This is going to be one of those body-in-the-basement scenarios."
"Starting to feel that way." He looked at her. "Not your first, I take it?"
"No. Unfortunately, with my kind of talent I get this kind of thing occasionally. Goes with the territory. When do we call the local cops?"
"As soon as we know for sure that we've got something to show them," Fallon said. "Without hard evidence, we'd just be asking for trouble."
"I guess J&J can't just pick up the phone and tell the local authorities that one of the firm's agents has had a psychic vision telling her that there's a body in the old Zander house."
"Regular law enforcement tends to take a dim view of people who claim to have paranormal powers. Can't blame the cops. Lot of fake mediums and phony psychics out there. They've given our end of the investigation profession a bad name."
"I know."
"I'll check the armoire first." He started toward the wardrobe.
"Fallon," she said. "Wait."
He stopped and looked back at her.
"Do you hear a clock?" she asked.
He went silent. They both listened to the steady, stately ticking of an old-fashioned antique clock.
"It's coming from inside the armoire," Fallon said. "I didn't hear it a few seconds ago. It just started up."
"Sounds like the clock on your desk in the office," she said. "The old one that you said was a Victorian-era antique."
"Yes," he said. "It does."
He opened the door of the armoire and aimed the flashlight inside. Isabella held her breath, half expecting a body to fall out.
But the only object in view was a large, ornate mantel clock. It sat on a shelf. The beam of the flashlight glinted on the brass pendulum and gilt trim.
Isabella stilled. "Please don't tell me that we're going to have to decide whether to cut the blue wire or the red wire."
"No." Fallon examined the clock and the interior of the wardrobe with the flashlight. "No wires. It's not attached to anything. It's just a clock. Looks Victorian, like mine."
"Old-fashioned clocks like that have to be wound every week or so. The fact that it's ticking indicates that someone comes down here on a regular basis."
"But we didn't hear it when we first entered the basement," Fallon said. He aimed the flashlight at the back of the clock, clearly fascinated now. "I'll be damned. It's one of Mrs. Bridewell's inventions. I can see the alchemical symbol she used as her signature. How in hell did the device end up here?"
"Who is Mrs. Bridewell? Never mind, you can explain later. Why did it start ticking?"
"Our presence activated it. Which makes this a red-wire-blue-wire scenario after all." He came toward her swiftly and grabbed her arm in one of his big, powerful hands. "Out. Now."
"What's going to happen?"
"I have no idea," Fallon said. "But it won't be good."
They got as far as the bottom step before the flashlights failed, plunging the basement into midnight. The faint twilight that filled the doorway at the top of the stairs darkened rapidly.
"What's going on?" Isabella asked softly.
"The clock." Fallon drew her to a halt halfway up the steps and lowered his voice. "It's doing this. Generating some kind of energy that is eating all the normal light in the house. Filling the place with night."
The relentless ticking continued.
"I don't get that, but I agree we definitely need to leave," she said.
"Too late." Fallon's voice was very low now. He spoke directly into her ear. "We're going back down. Hang on to the railing. If you fall on these stairs, you could break your neck."
She seized the metal banister and probed cautiously for the edge of each concrete step with the toe of her shoe. Simultaneously she pushed her talent a little higher. The para-fog did not illuminate objects the way normal light did, but the seething psi whirlpool in the center of the space and the dark light around the armoire were clearly visible. The luminescence provided a general sense of direction.
She sensed Fallon heightening his own talent and wondered how the basement appeared to him. He seemed remarkably sure-footed on the steps. It occurred to her that with his unusual ability, he had probably created a very clear mental construct of their surroundings.
"Why are we going back down?" she breathed.
"Because we are no longer alone in the house," he said.
The floorboards squeaked overhead. Fallon was right. The house was no longer giving off empty vibes.
"Something tells me that is not a prospective buyer," Fallon said.
"But the darkness extends to the floor above. I saw it filling the hallway. It must be like midnight up there now. How can he navigate?"
"Probably because he is some kind of talent."
Fallon must have turned his head toward her then, because she could suddenly perceive the dark heat in his eyes.
"You can see in this night?" she whispered.
"I come from a long line of hunter-talents. Good night vision runs in the family. Whatever happens, keep silent. I'll handle this."
They reached the last step. Fallon drew her through the cold sea of energy and brought her to a halt. The absolute night was disorienting, but when she put out her hand, she realized that they were standing under the staircase.
They listened to the footsteps overhead. The long, sure strides were definitely those of a man, Isabella thought. He was moving like someone who could see in the dark.
The intruder was coming down the hall toward the basement entrance. A moment later she sensed the presence in the open doorway at the top of the staircase. She knew from Fallon's great stillness that he, too, was aware of the stalker.
The intruder started down into the basement.
"Welcome to my little game," the man said. Unwholesome good cheer reverberated through the words. "I've never used local players. Too risky. But when I heard that the silly new real estate agent in town had hired an investigator to clear out the ghosts in the old Zander place, I knew I would have to change the rules for this round."
The hunter paused midway down the steps.
"Then, again, you aren't exactly local, are you? The office of Jones & Jones is over in Scargill Cove. So, I guess I'm not bending the rules all that much after all. Let's see now, you're hiding either under the stairs or behind the armoire. There is no other option in this room. Keeps the scoring simple. I'll try the armoire first."
Isabella sensed the hunter's sudden movement on the staircase. At first she thought that he was rushing down toward the armoire. But in the next instant she heard the jarring thump of running shoes on the floor directly in front of her. The hunter had vaulted over the railing.
"Fooled you," the stalker said happily. "I chose the stairs. Bonus points for me. My name is Nightman, by the way. Think of me as an avatar."
A pair of eyes hot with madness and psi burned in the mist from a distance of less than two yards. The preternatural speed, balance and agility with which the intruder had moved, as well as the intense energy in the atmosphere, told Isabella that the intruder was a true hunter-talent.
"Well, well, well," Nightman said, "I can sense a little energy in the atmosphere. Maybe you two aren't complete frauds, after all, huh?"