Fired Up

across the gym, drowning the hunters in a maelstrom of energy.
    Jack’s power did not crackle and pulse through the room—it roared silently through the space. And suddenly she understood. This was what she had done when she had worked the lamp for him in Las Vegas. She remembered the sense of a psychic key turning in a lock. She had unsealed Jack’s ability to transform the lamp into a powerful weapon. In military terms the artifact was a force multiplier.
    The third talent.
    The hunters screamed. Their bodies jerked wildly in the intense ultralight cast by the stones in the lamp. One by one, they collapsed, unmoving.
    Jack carried her through the tangle of bodies and the forest of gleaming stainless-steel machines out into the night.
    “Avenging angel,” she whispered. Darkness and fever started to claim her, but there was something she needed to say. “Promise me one thing.”
    His arms tightened around her. “Anything.”
    “Whatever you do, don’t let Arcane give me the antidote.”
    “Those bastards injected you with the formula?”
    She could hardly talk now. “Yes. But don’t tell anyone.”
    “Chloe.”
    “Just say I collapsed because of the heavy psi drain.”
    “You can’t ask that of me. I won’t lose you because you refuse the antidote.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m immune. Just like you.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “I’ll explain later. All I need is a little time to fight off the effects of the drug. Just as you did. Promise me you won’t let Arcane know what happened. If they give me the antidote, I might lose my para-senses for good.”
    “But how can you know you’re immune to the formula?”
    “I’m a dream-psi reader. I get my talent from the dreamlight end of the spectrum, same as you. I’m pretty sure that all of us who have an affinity for that kind of energy are naturally immune.”
    “Pretty sure.”
    “Okay, very sure. Makes sense when you think about it.”
    “How does it make sense?”
    “Later.” She could no longer keep her eyes open. “Right now I need you to trust me. Promise me you won’t let anyone give me the antidote.”
    He hesitated. “Only if you promise me that you won’t die.”
    “I’ll be fine. Trust me, Jack.”
    “All right,” he said. “No antidote.”
    “One more thing.”
    “You’re real chatty for someone who is running a sky-high fever.”
    “I love you,” she said.
    She sank down into sleep. The last thing she remembered was the comforting strength of his arms and his power wrapping her close.
    She thought she heard him say I love you, too, but maybe that was just a dream.

53
    THE PHONE RANG JUST AS FALLON WAS SCOOPING AN EXTRA spoonful of Bold Roast into the filter basket of his industrial-size coffeemaker. He would have preferred to go across the street to the Sunshine Café for another cup, but the little restaurant had closed, as always, promptly at five thirty. As was his newfound custom, he had watched Isabella Valdez turn over the sign in the window. And, as was her custom, Isabella had looked up and waved cheerfully at him. Then she had walked the four blocks to the inn, where she rented a room.
    He grabbed the phone midway through the first ring. “What do you have for me, Jack?”
    “I’ve got Chloe. She’s safe. We’re out of the gym. If you get someone in there quickly you’ll find a dead high-level Nightshade agent named Nash. We think he’s from Portland. There are also a bunch of unconscious drug-hyped hunters. At least they were all unconscious when we left. Guy named Hulsey got away through what looked like an underground tunnel. That must have been how they smuggled Chloe inside without the auras noticing.”
    Fallon forgot about the coffee and everything else around him. He felt as if he’d been winded by a body blow.
    “Hulsey?” he repeated. “Are you certain that was the name of the man who got away?”
    “That’s how he introduced himself to Chloe. Claimed to be the director of research for Nightshade.”
    “Humphrey Hulsey, Basil Hulsey’s descendant.” While he talked, Fallon picked up another phone and punched in a code. “We recently found out that’s how Nightshade got the drug in the first place. Basil Hulsey worked on the formula for the First Cabal in the late eighteen hundreds.”
    “I remember the story.”
    “Hulsey left his notes and journals to his son, who passed them on down through the family. A couple of months ago we learned that one of those