Mercer Island real estate was a classic example of the oldest rule in the business: Location, location, location. The I-90 bridge linked the island directly to Seattle on the west and to the sprawling upscale suburban communities on the east side of the lake. Waterfront homes on Mercer Island were priced somewhere in the stratosphere. Large yachts were parked at the docks in front of the properties that rimmed the edge of the island.

She checked her watch and pressed the doorbell. Three o’clock.

The last time she had come here a housekeeper had opened the door, but today Barbara Rollins greeted her.

Barbara was an elegantly groomed woman in her midseventies. Her hair was silver white and cut in a short bob. Her beautifully tailored cream-colored trousers and pale blue silk shirt looked like they had come from the couture department at Nordstrom’s. A small blue-and-cream scarf was knotted around her throat. There was a short stack of gold bangles on her left arm and some extraordinary rings on her fingers.

“Miss Harper,” she said. Her voice was coolly polite with just the right touch of reserve that women in her position employed when dealing with salesclerks and the hired help. “Please come in.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said. She knew she could not achieve the same degree of refined reserve, so she went for confident and professional instead. The combination usually worked well with clients like Rollins.

She moved into the soaring, two- story foyer. A massive chandelier, in the unmistakable style of a famous Northwest glass artist, was suspended from the ceiling. It looked like an explosion of crystal flowers.

“Please come with me,” Barbara said. “I want to talk to you before I show you the collection. As I’m sure you can understand, the decision to sell George’s antiquities has been an extremely difficult one for me. He was quite passionate about the artifacts.”

“I remember.”

She followed Barbara Rollins into a glass-walled room done in classic old-school Seattle designer-style: beige-on-beige accented with wood. Beyond the windows was an extensive garden. Beyond the garden a boat dock jutted out into the lake. She was mildly surprised to see that the boat tied up at the dock was a small cabin cruiser. The last time she had called on the Rollinses there had been a large sea-going yacht sitting in the water.

Automatically she opened her senses and examined the heavy layer of psi prints in the room. Some of the tracks of dream psi were decades old. Footsteps on the carpet glowed faintly with the usual mix of human emotions—love, anger, excitement, yearning, sadness and loss. But none of the prints burned with the eerie heat that indicated powerful psychic ability. There was no sign of the disturbing acid-hued smoke that she had come to recognize as the hallmark of formula-enhanced talent.

The fact that she was even looking for evidence of Nightshade here in the home of an old client told her that her nerves and her senses were still on edge. She tried to relax and prepared to go to work.

“I don’t see the yacht,” she remarked.

“It went to my son and his wife,” Barbara said. “But none of my children want the antiquities.”

“Estate sales are often difficult,” Chloe said gently. This was not the first time she had dealt with grieving spouses who felt guilty about selling off a collection of valuable objects that had been acquired by the dear departed.

“Please sit down, Miss Harper.” Barbara gestured to a glass-and-beige-stone coffee table where two pots and two delicate china cups and saucers had been laid out.

Chloe sank down on one of the off- white chairs. She set her satchel on the floor at her feet.

Barbara indicated the gleaming silver pots. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, thank you.”

Barbara picked up one of the pots. “As you know, George collected the antiquities over a number of years. I think he intended to leave them to a museum, but he never got around to making the arrangements. My son and daughter are encouraging me to sell the artifacts. But before I make any decisions I want to get some idea of the value of the various pieces. George trusted you. He said you were very reliable. Milk or sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

Barbara handed her the cup and saucer. Then she poured some coffee for herself. “I suppose I shall have to think about selling the house now, as well. It’s too big for one person. But I hate the thought of moving. This was our home for forty years.”

“I understand,” Chloe said.

She sipped some tea. In situations like this clients needed time to talk. She listened politely and tried not to glance at her watch.

Eventually, however, she set her cup down with a firm little clink of china on china.

“Shall we look at the collection, Mrs. Rollins?”

“Yes, of course. The gallery is at the back of the house.”

Barbara put down her coffee cup and got to her feet. She led the way along a hall and stopped at a door that could have doubled as a bank vault. She punched in a code.

“George had this gallery built especially for the collection. State-of-the-art security all the way.”

“I remember,” Chloe said.

Barbara opened the heavy door and stood back graciously.

Chloe moved into the shadowed room. The space was filled with glass cases crammed with objects. A number of stone statues dotted the gallery. She set her satchel on a nearby table and started to open it. There was something wrong with the leather buckle. She could not seem to grasp it properly. A wave of dizziness hit her. She tried to focus, but the room was spinning and nothing made sense.

Tentacles of darkness reached out, wrapped around her and dragged her down into the depths.