CHAPTER 52

Gwendolyn Swan gripped the balcony railing with both hands. She looked out at the white sand beach and the sparkling ocean beyond. “Perfect weather. Perfect island. And the local government encourages small businesses like money laundering and private pharmaceutical labs.”

“Stop trying to cheer me up,” Eloisa said. She walked out of the cottage, crossed the wide balcony and stopped at the railing. “The project was a disaster. After all our planning. All our work. I still can’t believe it ended the way it did.”

“We have the most important thing: Aurora Winston’s logbooks. We’ve also got a fortune in artifacts. I know that market and I know the players in that world. We’ll soon have the cash we need to set up your lab. Thanks to Grandmother, we have enough data to make it possible for us to create some basic paranormal weapons and we have the original enhancement formula.”

“We have what Aurora Winston believed is the original enhancement formula,” Eloisa said. “But she notes it came from an old herbal, and the herbalist said it was copied from an alchemist’s journal. Even if it works we’re going to have to figure out how to re-create the Vortex crystal. There’s a lot of work ahead.”

“Think of it as our life’s work,” Gwendolyn said. “We’re going to create Vortex 2.0.”

“Starting over.” Eloisa sighed. “Well, at least I’m no longer working for a big corporation that has its own agenda.”

“And I’m no longer dusting artifacts and trapping rats in a basement,” Gwendolyn said. “This sun is amazing, isn’t it? So very un-Seattle.” She put on her new designer sunglasses and smiled. “Know what?”

“What?”

“I think Aurora Winston would be proud of us.”

CHAPTER 53

They stood in the hallway outside the locked room on the locked floor of Halcyon.

“You don’t have to do this,” Olivia said.

Harlan looked at the door of Room 5. “Yes. I do.”

“I understand,” Olivia said. “I’ll wait out here.”

The orderly unlocked the door of the hospital room.

“Miss Whittier is in a nonresponsive state,” he said. “She appears to be awake, but she isn’t. The doctors aren’t sure what’s going on.”

“I understand,” Harlan said.

He walked into the room and stopped. Low classical music was playing from concealed speakers. Larissa was sitting in a chair, facing the window and a view of the gardens. Even dressed in the uniform worn by all the patients on the locked ward—blue scrubs—she was a striking woman. She was only a few years younger, the product of one of Stenson’s early affairs.

“I’ll be right here outside the door if you need me,” the orderly said.

“Thank you.”