All the Colours of Night Read online

  Jayne Ann Krentz is the critically acclaimed creator of the Arcane Society world, Dark Legacy, Ladies of Lantern Street and Rainshadow Island series. She also writes as Amanda Quick and Jayne Castle. Jayne has written more than fifty New York Times bestsellers under various pseudonyms and more than thirty-five million copies of her books are currently in print. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.

  www.jayneannkrentz.com

  www.facebook.com/JayneAnnKrentz

  @JayneAnnKrentz

  The Fogg Lake Trilogy:

  By Jayne Ann Krentz

  The Vanishing

  All the Colours of Night

  By Jayne Ann Krentz

  When All the Girls Have Gone

  Promise Not To Tell

  Untouchable

  Cutler, Sutter & Salinas Novels:

  By Jayne Ann Krentz

  When All the Girls Have Gone

  Promise Not To Tell

  Untouchable

  Burning Cove Novels:

  Writing as Amanda Quick

  The Girl Who Knew Too Much

  The Other Lady Vanishes

  Tightrope

  Arcane Society Novels:

  Writing as Jayne Ann Krentz, Amanda

  Quick & Jayne Castle

  Second Sight

  White Lies

  Sizzle and Burn

  The Third Circle

  Running Hot

  The Perfect Poison

  Fired Up

  Burning Lamp

  Midnight Crystal

  In Too Deep

  Quicksilver

  Harmony (Ghost Hunters) Novels:

  Writing as Jayne Castle

  After Dark*

  After Glow*

  Ghost Hunter*

  Silver Master*

  Dark Light

  Obsidian Prey

  Midnight Crystal

  Canyons of Night

  The Lost Night

  Deception Cove

  The Hot Zone

  Siren’s Call

  Illusion Town

  Ladies of Lantern Street Novels:

  Writing as Amanda Quick

  Crystal Gardens

  The Mystery Woman

  Dark Legacy Novels:

  By Jayne Ann Krentz

  Copper Beach

  Dream Eyes

  Whispering Springs Novels:

  By Jayne Ann Krentz

  Light in Shadow

  Truth or Dare

  Vanza Novels:

  Writing as Amanda Quick

  With This Ring

  I Thee Wed

  Wicked Widow

  Lie By Moonlight

  Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz

  writing as Amanda Quick:

  The Paid Companion

  Wait Until Midnight

  The River Knows

  Affair

  Mischief

  Slightly Shady

  Otherwise Engaged

  Garden of Lies

  ’Til Death do Us Part

  Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz:

  Falling Awake

  All Night Long

  River Road

  Trust No One

  Secret Sisters

  *Not published by Piatkus

  PIATKUS

  First published in the United States in 2021 by Berkley,

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Piatkus

  Copyright © 2021 by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Hope and Love” copyright © 2021 by Jared Curtis

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those

  clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-349-42443-9

  Piatkus

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  For Frank, as always, with love

  Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,

  And Hope without an object cannot live.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Hope and Love

  “I don’t know who I am,” you say,

  “Or why my hands deal dust,

  As though the lot of cards I hold

  Have crumbled as I play.”

  “As if my sense of self,” you claim,

  “Has drifted into air,

  And nothing that I try to do

  Brings credit to my name.”

  Name and Game are not the way

  To find the solid ground;

  Hope and Love are better paths

  For what ahead may lay.

  Attend and listen deep within.

  Though hard to hear the voice

  Calling out to you alone

  In such a world of din,

  The voice is patient, and will sing

  The notes that help you close the ring.

  —Jared Curtis

  CHAPTER 1

  Why kill me?” Sierra Raines said. “I’m just the go-between.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Raines,” Parker Keegan said. He aimed the pistol at her. The weapon shook a little in his hand. Keegan’s eyes were wild with lust—not the sexual kind; a different sort of madness, but just as dangerous. “I’m afraid this is the end of our business association.”

  Another crazy, obsessive, paranoid collector, Sierra thought. Should have seen this coming. The problem was that most of her clients qualified as crazy, obsessive, or paranoid—usually some creepy combination of all three. If she avoided all the collectors and dealers in the hot artifacts trade who fit one or more of the three categories, she would be out of business in a day.

  Keegan, however, was proving to be more of a problem than the majority of her clients. There was the gun, for one thing. Thankfully, very few of the collectors and dealers she did business with had gone so far as to pull out a pistol, although one or two had produced large knives, and there was the scary dude who had tried to lock her up in the trunk of a car that he intended to push off a pier on Lake Washington. Most collectors were thrilled to conclude a successful transaction and were eager to do more business with her. She was slowly but surely establishing a reputation as reliable and discreet.

  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that there were a few drawbacks in her new business. There had been glitches and major disasters in all of her previous attempts to discover her calling. She was starting to think of herself as a serial career killer.

  They were standing in Keegan’s private gallery. Like the galleries of most collectors who were obsessed with artifacts that had an association with the paranormal, the room was a converted basement. There was no one else in the big house and the nearest neighbors were a mile down the road. If Keegan shot her, no one would hear the crack of the pistol.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Ms. Raines,” Keegan said. “I am very grateful to you for locating the artifact and delivering it so promptly and so discreetly. The problem is that you now know far too much about my collection and my business affairs.”

  Keegan was not particularly dangerous looking. Thin, short and middle-aged, he had the vibe of a fussy academic. But if there was one thing Sierra had discovered in the past few months, it was that when it came to collectors and dealers, looks were invariably deceiving.

  Mirrors, however, never lied, not to someone with her talent. And there happened to be one—a large, elaborately framed nineteenth-century looking glass—hanging on the wall directly behind Keegan. When she jacked up her talent she could see the reflection of his energy field. Unstable was the only way to describe it.

  Not that she had needed a mirror to arrive at that diagnosis, she thought.

  “I’m a Vault agent, Mr. Keegan,” she said, keeping her tone polite but firm. “You know as well as I do that Mr. Jones is not going to be happy if one of his go-betweens gets murdered on this job.”

  “I have considered the problem of Mr. Jones. Don’t worry, Ms. Raines, your body will never be found. I intend to tell Jones you failed to deliver the artifact. He will be convinced you stole it and disappeared with it.”

  “No,” Sierra said. “He won’t believe it. You do not want to cross Mr. Jones.”

  “I’m not afraid of Jones,” Keegan snapped.

  But he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself rather than her.

  “There is no reason to kill me,” she said gently. “You’ve got the artifact. Mr. Jones has built a reputation for confidentiality. As long as his clients don’t try to cheat him, he keeps their secrets. So do his agents.”

  “Unfortunately, I have trust issues,” Keegan said.

  “No kidding. As it happens, I have a few myself.” She gave him her flashiest smile and casually stripped off one of her sleek black leather gloves. “That is, of course, why I take precautions at every stage of the delivery.”

  Keegan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sierra raised her ungloved hand to the small locket she wore. She flipped it open to reveal the mirror inside. It was not a standard mirror, but rather a flat circle of highly reflective crystal.

  “I won’t bore you with a lengthy explanation of how this works,” she said. “That would involve some complicated physics. All you really need to know is that you’re about to faint.”

  “Faint? You’re crazy. Why would I faint? I’m in excellent health. I’m a vegan.”

  She focused quickly and channeled a little heat through the mirror crystal, reflecting the currents of Keegan’s energy field straight back at him. The rebounding waves sent the equivalent of an electrical shock through his aura, effectively short-circuiting it.

  Keegan stiffened. His eyes fluttered and closed. The gun fell from his hand and he sank to the floor without so much as a groan.

  There was a sharp crack as the handsome nineteenth-century mirror on the wall fractured into a spiderweb of fissures.

  Control was everything, Sierra reminded herself. She was pretty good when it came to channeling energy through the crystal, but when she got nervous, stuff sometimes happened. It was a pity in this case because the old mirror had definitely had a paranormal vibe. In good condition it would have been worth a lot of money on the underground market.

  She had bigger problems, however. Her fingers burned. She flicked her hand several times in an instinctive but utterly futile attempt to cool the singed sensation. Hastily she pulled on the leather glove.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  She took a few deep breaths and gritted her teeth until the burn began to fade. Using her talent at full throttle always gave her an unpleasant psychic jolt, but lately the experience was more painful than usual because she had not yet recovered from the severe burn she had received on the last job. Her senses tended to overreact to anything with a disturbing psychic vibe. She had never been comfortable coming into physical contact with strangers because she never knew what to expect from their energy fields, but these days the simple act of touch had become an extremely fraught experience.

  Her mother had suggested the leather gloves. They had been made for her by a family friend who knew a lot about the physics of the paranormal. Leather was a reasonably good insulator. Not as good as steel or glass, of course, but definitely more fashionable. Walking around with chain-mail gloves or a pair made of glass would have drawn a lot of unwanted attention.

  Sierra closed the locket and hurried across the gallery. She crouched beside Keegan, unwilling to take off a glove to touch his throat to check for a pulse. Luckily his chest was rising and falling in a normal fashion. He was alive but unconscious. There was no way to know how long he would remain in that state or what he would remember when he woke up.

  It didn’t matter. The deal was off as far as she was concerned. She had done her job. The buyer had failed to hold up his end of the bargain. It was bad enough that he had tried to murder her. The bastard hadn’t paid his bill. Jones would not be happy about that. Keegan would not be able to purchase the services of a Vault agent in the future.

  In addition, she would make sure the news that Keegan was both dangerous and a deadbeat went out on the rumor network that linked the freelance go-betweens who worked the Pacific Northwest market. Keegan would find it difficult if not impossible to hire another reliable transporter. He would be forced to deal with the raiders, who were far more dangerous than he was.

  She moved to the display stand and winced when she picked up the vintage desk calendar she had just delivered. She could feel the vibe even through the leather glove. The thing was really hot. Definitely a lost lab artifact. It had absorbed some serious paranormal radiation from the office in which it had been used decades earlier. She detected a whisper of panic, too. Whoever had left the calendar behind had been terrified. It was not an uncommon kind of heat in the lost lab artifacts she transported. She had come to think of the residual emotions as a psychic signature of relics connected with the government’s secret Bluestone Project.

  She inserted the desk calendar back into the leather bag she had used to transport it and headed for the door.

  “I’ll see myself out,” she said to the unconscious Keegan. “And just to be clear, you and I will not be doing any more business in the future.”

  She went up the basement steps to the ground floor of the big house and hurried along the darkened hall to the back door. When she had arrived she had deliberately parked behind the mansion to reduce the possibility of her car being noticed by a passerby. She had covered her license plates as an added precaution.

& nbsp; She had also driven a complicated, circuitous route to Keegan’s house, making certain she had not been followed. Raider crews sometimes tailed go-betweens like vultures, hoping to swoop in to grab the relic before it could be delivered to a client.

  Outside she hurried through the light rain to her black SUV. The vehicle looked like a gazillion other SUVs on the road in the Pacific Northwest, but she was proud of it. The car represented her biggest investment to date in her new career. She would be making payments on it for a long time. It wasn’t as if she’d had a choice. A go-between couldn’t operate without a sturdy, reliable vehicle. The SUV was specially equipped with a steel lockbox in the cargo compartment. Steel was an effective insulator. It blocked most paranormal energy.

  She vaulted up into the driver’s seat, dumped her backpack and the leather bag onto the passenger’s seat, fired up the engine and drove down the long, narrow driveway to the main road.

  When she was well clear of the house, she stopped long enough to toss the pistol into the lake. There was no point leaving the gun around, because it was evidence that might lead to questions about her presence in the house. Worst-case scenario was that Keegan would go to the cops and accuse her of being an intruder, although that was unlikely. Collectors avoided the authorities for the same reason others in the artifacts trade did: no one wanted that kind of attention. But you never knew for sure how an irate collector would react. They were all unpredictable.

  Once the gun had vanished into the lake, she uncovered the SUV’s license plates and got back on the road.

  Satisfied that she did not have a tail, she motored sedately across the 520 Bridge, heading toward the bright lights of downtown Seattle. It was after midnight and there was very little traffic. Seattle was a boomtown these days thanks to the tech industry, but it was still a relatively quiet place in the wee hours of the morning. That worked out well for her because a lot of her business was conducted during those hours.

  She drove straight to an alley in Pioneer Square, the old, historic section of the city. The narrow lane between two brick buildings was lit only by a weak yellow bulb over an unmarked door. It was the sort of location sensible people intuitively avoided, especially at night.

  She parked directly in front of the unmarked door. A burly figure dressed in a dark jacket and a knit cap detached itself from the shadows of the vestibule and ambled around to the driver’s side of the car. He opened the door.