"I could not agree with you more, however-" The sound of sighing hinges stopped her.

"The door," she said. "It's closing."

"So it is."

They both rushed for the door. Owen reached it first, but the mirrored panel swung back into place just before he could get his booted foot into the opening. Virginia heard an ominous click.

"It's locked," she said.

"It's all of a piece," Owen said. "This entire affair has been a source of great annoyance to me from the start."

"My condolences," she murmured.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he went back to the bed and picked up the bloody knife. He crossed the room again and smashed the heavy hilt of the weapon against the door panel. There was a sharp, splintering crack. A large fissure appeared in the mirror. He struck again. This time several jagged shards fell to the floor, revealing a portion of a wooden door.

She studied the new lock that had been installed in the ancient door. "I don't suppose you're any good at picking locks, Mr. Sweetwater?"

"How do you think I got in here tonight?"

He took a thin length of metal out of the pocket of his coat, crouched and went to work. He got the door open in seconds.

"You amaze me, sir," Virginia said. "Since when do gentlemen learn the fine art of lock-picking?"

"The skill comes in quite handy in the course of my investigations."

"You mean in the course of your unfortunate campaign to destroy the careers of hardworking people such as myself who are guilty of nothing more than trying to make a living."

"I believe you refer to my efforts to expose those who earn their livings by deceiving the gullible. Yes, Miss Dean, that is precisely the sort of research that has intrigued me of late."

"Those of us who are practitioners of the paranormal can only hope that you will find a new hobby soon, before you destroy our business entirely," she said.

"Come now, Miss Dean. Are you not at least somewhat relieved to see me tonight? If I hadn't arrived when I did, you would still be trapped in this room with the body."

"Your point is well taken," she admitted.

"You can thank me later."

"I'll try to remember to do that."

He tossed the knife aside, wrapped his gloved hand around her wrist and drew her toward the door. She did not trust Owen Sweetwater. She could not afford to trust him. In the past few weeks it had become clear that he was engaged in a personal quest to expose practitioners of the paranormal as charlatans.

He was not the first so-called investigator to attempt to label all practitioners as frauds. But she had privately begun to wonder if, in his zeal, Sweetwater had decided to take matters a step further. Two glass-readers-women with talents similar to her own-had died under mysterious circumstances in the past two months. The authorities had declared the deaths accidental, but she had her doubts.

Perhaps Owen Sweetwater had taken it upon himself to do more than try to destroy careers. Perhaps, in addition to acting as judge and jury, he had assumed the role of executioner. There was something in his eyes, in the energy around him, that told her his nature was that of the hunter and that his chosen prey would be human.

Sweetwater was certainly no friend or ally, but all indications were that he did not intend to kill her, at least not here and now. Going with him seemed a wiser choice than attempting to find a route to safety on her own. She did not even know where she was.

They went through the doorway. Owen paused long enough to light a lantern that he had evidently left on the other side of the entrance. The flaring light illuminated an ancient corridor fashioned of stone.

"Where are we?" she whispered.

"In a basement below the grounds of the Hollister mansion," Owen said. "The house was built on the ruins of a medieval abbey. There is a warren of tunnels and cells down here. The place is a maze."

"How did you find me?"

"You probably don't want to know the answer to that question."

"I insist on knowing how you found me, sir."

"I have had two people watching your house from an empty house across the street for the past few nights."

For a moment she was too stunned to speak.

"How dare you," she finally managed.

"I told you that you would not like the answer. When you set off tonight for a reading, my watchers thought nothing of it. You go out several nights a week to practice your art. But when you did not return in a reasonable length of time, the watchers sent word to me. I went to your town house and asked your housekeeper for the address of your client."

"Mrs. Crofton told you that I came here to do a reading?"

"She was concerned that you had not returned. When I arrived on the grounds of the Hollister estate I knew at once that something was very wrong."

"Your talent told you as much?" she asked, deeply wary.

"I'm afraid so."

"How?"

"Let's just say that you are not the first woman to disappear into these tunnels. The difference between you and the rest of Hollister's victims is that you are alive."

"Dear heaven." She took a moment to grasp the meaning of what he had said. "You detect violent death?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Explain yourself, sir."

"Trust me, you are better off not knowing."

"It's a bit late to concern yourself with my delicate sensibilities," she snapped. "I just woke up in a bed with a high-ranking gentleman who was recently stabbed to death."

"Your nerves are obviously quite sturdy. Nevertheless, this is not the time or place to discuss the nature of my talent."

"And why is that?" she asked.

"We have more pressing priorities at the moment. I would remind you that if you did not stab Hollister to death, then it follows that someone else did. That individual may still be in the vicinity."

She swallowed hard. "Right, then. I'll save the questions for later."

"A wise decision," Owen said.

He stopped so suddenly that Virginia stumbled against him. He did not seem to be aware of the impact. He raised the lantern and held it so that the yellow glare lit the passageway to the right.

"Do you feel some energy?" he asked in low tones.

A strange flicker of icy awareness brushed Virginia's senses.

"Yes," she said.

The sensation grew stronger. It was accompanied by a rhythmic clank-and-thud.

A miniature carriage rolled toward them out of the darkness. When it came into the light Virginia saw that it was drawn by two clockwork horses. The toy vehicle stood about a foot tall. The equipage was a work of art, not a child's plaything. Every detail was exquisitely rendered. The cab was finished in gleaming black enamel and elaborately gilded. Small windows glinted in the lantern light. The horses were realistically sculpted, complete with flowing black manes and tails. Their harness fittings were trimmed with gold.

"Why would someone leave such an expensive toy down here?" Virginia asked.

Owen took her arm again and drew her back a step. "That thing is no toy."

She could not take her eyes off the carriage. It fascinated her.

"What, then?" she asked.

"Damned if I know."

Another wave of chilling energy feathered her senses.

"I can sense the power in the device," she said. "It's glasslight, the same kind of energy that I read in mirrors. But only humans can generate psychical energy. How is that carriage doing it?"

"We are not going to investigate." Owen hauled her around a corner, out of the direct path of the clockwork carriage. "We must keep the wall between us and that device, whatever it is. Stone blocks psychical currents."

A faint, frightened voice came out of the dark passageway behind the carriage.

"Is there someone out there? Please help me."

Owen stilled. "Damn," he said, very softly. "One complication after another."

Virginia turned back toward the intersection of the hallways.

"Who's there?" she called in a low voice.

"My name is Becky, ma'am. Help me, I beg you. I can't get out. It's very dark here. There are bars on the door."

"Another one of Hollister's victims," Owen said.

Virginia glanced at him. "We must do something."

"We can't get to her unless we can get past that clockwork mechanism."

"It is producing my kind of energy," she said. "I might be able to control it."

"Are you certain?"

"I must try. Let me take a look."

Owen's fingers closed like a manacle around her wrist. "Whatever you do, don't let go of my hand. Understand?"

"Yes, yes, of course," she said, impatient now. "I need some light."

He held the lantern out and aloft so that it partially illuminated the intersecting corridor.

The clank-and-thud noise had ceased. Virginia risked a peek around the corner.

In the flaring light the windows of the miniature vehicle glinted ominously. As though sensing prey, the automaton lurched forward again.

"Interesting," Owen said, listening. "It seems to be activated by movement. Since it is a psychical device of some sort, it is probably reacting to our auras."

"Yes, I think so." She pulled back out of range of the carriage and flattened herself against the stone wall. "The energy is infused into the windows. I cannot be absolutely positive until I try, but I believe I may be able to neutralize the currents, at least temporarily."

In the adjoining corridor the clank-and-thud noise ceased again.

"It definitely reacts to motion," Owen said. "If you can neutralize it long enough for me to get to it, I may be able to smash it or disable it. If it is a true clockwork mechanism, there will be a key."