Jayne Castle - Silver Master

Welcome back to my other world, Harmony.

Two hundred years ago a vast energy Curtain opened in the vicinity of Earth, making interstellar travel practical for the first time. In typical human fashion, thousands of eager colonists packed up their stuff and lost no time heading out to create new homes and new societies on the unexplored worlds. Harmony was one of those worlds.

The colonists brought with them all the comforts of home—sophisticated technology, centuries of art and literature, and the latest fashions. Trade through the Curtain flourished and made it possible to stay in touch with families back on Earth. It also allowed the colonists to keep their computers and high-tech gadgets working. Things went swell for a while.

And then one day, without warning, the Curtain closed, disappearing as mysteriously as it had opened. Cut off from Earth, no longer able to obtain the tools and supplies needed to keep their high-tech lifestyle going, the colonists were abruptly thrown back to a far more primitive existence. Forget the latest Earth fashions; just staying alive suddenly became a major problem.

But on Harmony folks did one of the things humans do best: they survived. It wasn’t easy, but two hundred years after the closing of the Curtain, the descendants of the First Generation colonists have fought their way back from the brink to a level of civilization roughly equivalent to the early twenty-first century on Earth.

Here on Harmony, however, things are a little different, especially after dark. You’ve got those dangerously sexy ghost hunters, the creepy ruins of a long-vanished alien civilization, and a most unusual kind of pet. In addition, an increasingly wide variety of psychic powers are showing up in the population.

Nevertheless, when it comes to love, some things never change….

If, like me, you sometimes relish your romantic suspense with a paranormal twist, Harmony is the place for you.

Love,

Jayne

HARMONY

Two Hundred Years after the Closing of the Curtain…

SHE HAD NEVER LIKED THE PARKING GARAGE, ESPECIALLY at night. It was dark and gloomy, and the disturbing echoes of the heels of her classic pumps on the concrete made her uneasy. Sometimes she heard other people’s footsteps as well.

But tonight the garage was eerily silent. The instant the elevator doors opened she went briskly toward the space where her car was parked. She kept a tight grip on her purse and stayed as far away as possible from the dark canyons between the few remaining vehicles.

Not that there had been any recent incidents reported, she reminded herself. Several months ago a rash of car prowls had caused management to tighten building security for a while. The guards had caught the thieves in short order. Unfortunately, the new security staff had been let go in an economy move a few weeks later.

Tonight her own footfalls were the only ones she heard.

She walked faster, all of her senses, normal as well as paranormal, fully alert.

Her car was in sight now. She had her key ready in her hand.

She sensed him when she went past the deep shadow cast by a support pillar. He was less than three paces away, waiting for her. The floodwaters of his twisted, unwholesome psychic energy lapped at her, a rising tide of rage that was just barely under control.

Panic struck. She bolted toward the vehicle. Only a few more feet. If she could just get inside, get the door locked…

But he was moving fast now, bounding forward like a great beast charging its prey. There was no need to look over her shoulder. She knew who he was. His heavy boots thudded on the concrete, running her down.

She fled toward the car, but she knew she was not going to make it. He was too close, right on top of her.

His arm snaked out and caught her by the throat, jerking her to a halt. He pulled her back hard against his big frame. She tried to scream, but he tightened his grip, choking her. She struggled wildly, kicking back with one foot.

The heel of her shoe connected with his shin. She kicked back again, frantic.

“Bitch.”

He staggered a little, but he did not go down. He shook her, making her head spin. Then he slammed her hard, facedown, against the fender of her car.

He ripped off her jacket, revealing the sleeveless camisole beneath.

“Stupid bitch,” he said, his voice hoarse and ragged. “Did you really think I’d let you get away with saying no to me? No one says no to me. No one.”

She realized then that the struggle was arousing him sexually. Her stomach churned. She tried to scream, but her voice was frozen in her throat.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him raise one hand. She realized he was holding a small object. The next thing she knew, he was pressing the syringe against her bare arm, just below her shoulder. She felt a sharp, stinging pain.

A fresh wave of icy terror slammed through her, but she could not even lift a finger to defend herself.

He held her pinned against the fender while the drug took effect. It didn’t take long. Within seconds an otherworldly sense of lethargy stole over her, sapping all of her physical energy. Her body folded in on itself, leaving her utterly limp, boneless.

But the drug did not knock her out, not entirely. She remained dazed but semi-awake, trapped in a terrifying dreamlike state. She was aware of what was happening around her, but she was powerless to act.

He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her across the garage to where a large black car was parked. She heard the sound of the trunk being opened.

Then she was inside the trunk, and the lid was coming down, leaving her frozen in the darkest night she had ever known.

She had thought that her level of shock and horror could not climb any higher. She was wrong.

LUNCH HAD NOT GONE WELL. THERE HAD BEEN AN UNfortunate scene that had resulted in a lot of disapproving glares and rude remarks from other restaurant patrons. She had been asked to pay her bill and leave immediately. Her request that the remainder of her salad be put into a carry-out bag had been met with icy refusal.

Celinda was still fuming and still hungry when she opened the door of the office of Promises, Inc. Mostly she was angry at herself because she had been so embarrassed she had felt it necessary to leave a tip.

Laura Gresley was at her post at the reception desk. Her customary smile—polite, professional, and polished—seemed slightly off. There was a forced quality about it.

“Oh, good, you’re back, Celinda,” she said, clearly relieved. “I was about to call your personal phone.” She lowered her voice. “There are some people here to see you.”

“Some people?” Normally clients came in alone, not in groups. “My next appointment isn’t until two thirty.”

“These two don’t have an appointment,” Laura said with an ominous air.

“But I don’t have room to squeeze in anyone who doesn’t already have an appointment. I’m booked solid this afternoon; you know that.”

It was the wedding season, the most popular time of the year for formal Covenant Marriages. That meant that Promises, Inc., and other matchmaking agencies were swamped. The number of weddings taking place always produced a lot of new clients. It was simple physics: weddings inspired families to put a lot of pressure on relatives of a certain age who were still single. In desperation many of the pressured turned to agencies.