Until a few weeks ago he had taken his special vision for granted. For him the world at midnight had been a dazzling place, one he could navigate with the same ease he used to move around in daylight. His talent had enabled him to see the energy that was only visible after dark. Paranormal auroras flooded the skies. Currents and waves of light illuminated the world in an array of hues and shades and shadows that had no names. The colors of night were magic, the real deal.

It wasn’t just the thrill he got from the experience of viewing the world after dark that he would miss for the rest of his life. His ability had made him a damn good cleaner, one of the best. He could track the psychic monsters through the darkest night. When he was in his other vision, the tracks of the bad guys seethed with violent heat.

Going psi-blind would soon cost him his job, the one thing he had been good at—hunting monsters. It had been his way of proving to everyone associated with the Foundation that the Chastains were trustworthy, honorable and loyal; his way of living down his grandfather’s reputation as a traitor.

When he lost his talent completely he would not belong here at the Fogg Club. Hell, he wouldn’t be any good to the Foundation. He would be looking for a new path out in the normal world.

Okay, time to stop feeling sorry for yourself.

The lenses in his glasses had adjusted to the low light level of the club. He made his way along the mezzanine to the bar. Hank Sheffield was pouring drinks. When he saw North he grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf and a glass.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” Hank said. He put the glass on the gleaming bar top and poured some of the expensive whiskey into it. “The rest of the team rolled in a couple of hours ago.”

“I stopped off at Area Fifty-One to play some blackjack,” North said. He picked up the whiskey and took a healthy swallow.

“Any luck?”

“Some,” North said. He had pocketed a few hundred bucks. He probably could have won more but he never played for high stakes. Gambling was just a game, after all. Winning was certainly better than losing but he never got a genuine rush out of the experience.

Hank got a shrewd look. “Good crowd at Area Fifty-One?”

For the first time that evening, North felt a spark of amusement. Hank’s ex-wife, Jeanie, owned the Area 51 club. It was no secret that the two were still sharing the same house and, no doubt, the same bed, but they had concluded they did not make good business partners. After the divorce, Jeanie had opened Area 51 and become Hank’s chief competitor. They both catered to the same clientele—the employees, consultants, museum staff and researchers associated with the Foundation. The secretive organization devoted to all things paranormal was headquartered in Las Vegas.