Jayne Castle: Dark Light

"Elvis isn't a pet," she said, pulling herself together with an effort. "He's a companion. Now, if you don't mind, I have another question regarding your plans for the Crystal City Guild."

Fontana looked amused. "You seem to be obsessed with the future of this organization."

"The Guilds wield enormous power in all of the city-states. That was especially true here in Crystal under your predecessor's administration. Naturally my readers are anxious to know what to expect now that there is a new chief."

Fontana shrugged. "The Guilds are respected, well-established institutions. They have always played active roles in the political and social affairs of their communities. I see no reason for that to change."

In Sierra's opinion, the Guilds were all about power, and there was certainly a lot of it here in Fontana's office—not just the political and social kind but also the sort produced by raw psi energy. Some of that was coming from Fontana himself. But the room also shimmered faintly with energy. In fact, there was so much psi swirling in the atmosphere she knew there had to be a secret entrance to the ancient underground tunnels somewhere nearby. Here in the Old Quarter there were reputed to be hundreds of old holes-in-the-wall, as they were called.

She straightened a little in her chair. She had come here for answers, and she intended to get them.

"I'll allow that the Guilds are well-established institutions," she said briskly, "but don't you think it's going a bit too far to say that they are respected? I'm sure you're well aware that all of the organizations have serious problems when it comes to public relations."

Elvis chose that moment to leave the spotlight. He drifted across the desk, cape fluttering behind him, and came to a halt in front of Fontana's coffee cup.

"Any large corporation has a few public relations issues," Fontana said. He watched Elvis with a mildly wary expression. "Is the bunny housebroken?"

"Dust bunnies are naturally very clean, and the Guilds are not normal business entities," Sierra shot back. "The best that can be said about them is that they are uneasy crosses between emergency militias and closely held, highly secretive private corporations."

Fontana's dark brows rose slightly. "Would that be the dust bunnies or the Guilds?"

She flushed. He's trying to push your buttons. Don't let him do it . "I'm talking about the Guilds, of course."

"Corporations run like military organizations," Fontana repeated in that maddeningly thoughtful way. He inclined his head. "That's a fairly accurate description. You have to admit that the Guilds are unique."

"Many people feel that it would be more accurate to say that they are little better than legalized mobs of gangsters. Guild chiefs have traditionally considered themselves to be above the law."

"No one is above the law, Miss McIntyre" Fontana said gently.

"The former chief, Brock Jenner, took a different view. Some would say a more traditional view. He ran the Crystal City Guild as if it were his own private fiefdom. There were persistent rumors to the effect that under his watch the organization dabbled heavily in a variety of illicit activities."

"You ought to know, Miss McIntyre. Your stories in the Curtain were responsible for a lot of those rumors."

"Naturally my readers want to know if they can expect more of the same now that you're in charge."

"I think that is what is known as a loaded question."

"Are you going to answer it?"

"Are you certain that your readers care about my plans for the Guild? I was under the impression that the readers of the Curtain were more interested in insightful investigative reporting about people who have the misfortune to get kidnapped by aliens and dragged down into the catacombs for strange sexual experiments."

Sierra bit back her frustration. She had done some good work at the Curtain . The problem was that when you ran a piece with a headline like "Guild Conceals Discovery of Secret Alien Lab" next to a story entitled "Woman Pregnant with Alien Baby," credibility became an issue. Few people seemed to notice or care that the gutsy tabloid was the only paper in town that had dared to print negative stories about the local Guild organization.

"If you have such a low opinion of me, my paper, and its readers, why did you agree to do this interview?" she asked.

Elvis chose that moment to go up on his hind legs. He hooked his front paws over the rim of the coffee mug and dipped his head inside.

"Oh, dear." Mortified, Sierra leaped to her feet, pen and notepad clutched in one hand. She leaned over the wide desk, scooped up Elvis, and sat down quickly. "Sorry about that. He's a little caffeine junkie."

"Not a problem." Fontana got to his feet with a lithe uncoiling motion and crossed the room to a handsome serving cart. He picked up the coffeepot and filled a mug. "Does he take cream and sugar?"

"Uh, no." Sierra clutched the wriggling Elvis. "He likes his coffee straight. But this really isn't necessary."

Fontana carried the mug back across the room and set it down on the corner of the desk.

"Help yourself, big guy," he said.

Elvis did not need a second invitation. He bounced from Sierra's knee up onto the desk and ducked his head into the mug. Tiny slurping sounds followed.

Sierra watched him uneasily. Elvis usually had excellent instincts when it came to people. If he didn't like someone, he made his feelings clear. But he had taken to Fontana right from the start. She wasn't sure what to make of that. Or course, it was possible that dust-bunny intuition, like her own, wasn't infallible.

Fontana looked at Sierra. "Another cup for you, Miss McIntyre?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you." She glanced at her notes, determined to take charge. "Are you aware of the growing problem of the illegal drug called ghost juice?"

"I've read your stories about it, yes."

"Then you know that, for some reason, the majority of the addicts are former Guild men who are now living on the streets of the Quarter?"

Fontana lounged against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. "I believe I read that in your last piece on the subject, yes."

"It's the truth. The experts think that for some reason, ghost hunters might be more susceptible to the drug because of their particular parapsych profiles. There's an old saying that the Guild takes care of its own. Don't you think that the Crystal organization should be actively working to get the drug off the streets?"

"You know, my public relations people advised me not to grant this interview."

"I'll bet they did. I'm sure they would prefer that you not talk to the press at all."

"It isn't the press, in general, they're worried about." Fontana smiled. "It's you, Miss McIntyre. You have something of a reputation."

"Your public relations people don't like me very much, if that's what you mean."

"That's what I mean." He uncrossed his arms and reached back across the desk to pick up a copy of the Curtain . He held up the front page so that she could read it.

"This is your most recent scoop, I believe," he said. "Oddly enough, my PR people felt that it was a little biased."

She glanced at the paper. Beneath the masthead with its familiar slogan, "Go Behind The Curtain for the Truth," was a screaming banner headline: "Mystery Man in Charge of Crystal Guild. What Is He Hiding?"

The headline was accompanied by a photo of Fontana getting out of a sleek, black Raptor sports car. Phil Trager, the Curtain's , staff photographer, had grabbed the shot on the fly, but it was a good one. In the picture Fontana looked a lot like he did in person: dangerous. But the impression was not a function of his looks or size. Fontana dominated his environment with his seemingly effortless aura of controlled power.