Jayne Ann Krentz, who also writes under the names Amanda Quick and Jayne Castle, is the author of the compelling and critically-acclaimed Arcane Society world. She has more than forty New York Times bestsellers under various pen names and more than twenty-five million copies of her books are in print. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.

Visit her website at www.jayneannkrentz.com

Arcane Society Novels:

By Jayne Ann Krentz
writing as Amanda Quick

Second Sight
The Third Circle
The Perfect Poison

By Jayne Ann Krentz

White Lies
Sizzle and Burn
Running Hot

By Jayne Ann Krentz
Writing as Jayne Castle

Dark Light

Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz
writing as Amanda Quick

With This Ring
I Thee Wed
Wicked Widow
Lie By Moonlight
The Paid Companion
Wait Until Midnight
The River Knows
Affair
Mischief

Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz

Light in Shadow
Truth or Dare
Falling Awake
All Night Long
Fired Up

Burning Lamp

JAYNE ANN KRENTZ WRITING AS AMANDA QUICK

Hachette Digital

www.littlebrown.co.uk

COPYRIGHT

Published by Piatkus

ISBN: 978-0-7481-1749-9

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Jayne Ann Krentz

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Piatkus
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ

www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk

For my brother, Jim Castle,
a man of great talent, with love

THE DREAMLIGHT TRILOGY

Dear Reader:

The Arcane Society was founded on secrets. Few of those secrets are more dangerous than those kept by the descendants of the alchemist Nicholas Winters, fierce rival of Sylvester Jones.

The legend of the Burning Lamp goes back to the earliest days of the Society. Nicholas Winters and Sylvester Jones started out as friends and eventually became deadly adversaries. Each sought the same goal: a way to enhance psychic talents. Sylvester chose the path of chemistry and plunged into illicit experiments with strange herbs and plants. Ultimately he concocted the flawed formula that bedevils the Society to this day.

Nicholas took the engineering approach and forged the Burning Lamp, a device with unknown powers. Radiation from the lamp produced a twist in his DNA, creating a psychic genetic “curse” destined to be passed down through the males of his bloodline.

The Winters Curse strikes very rarely, but when it does, the Arcane Society has good reason for grave concern. It is said that the Winters man who inherits Nicholas’s genetically altered talent is destined to become a Cerberus—Arcane slang for an insane psychic who possesses multiple lethal abilities. Jones & Jones and the Governing Council are convinced that such human monsters must be hunted down and terminated as swiftly as possible.

There is only one hope for the men of the Burning Lamp. Each must find the artifact and a woman who can work the dreamlight energy that the device produces in order to reverse the dangerous psychic changes brought on by the curse.

In the Dreamlight Trilogy (Book One: Fired Up, Book Two: Burning Lamp, and Book Three: Midnight Crystal, coming in September 2010) you will meet the three men—past, present and future—of the Burning Lamp. These are the dangerous, passionate descendants of Nicholas Winters. Each will discover some of the deadly secrets of the lamp. Each will encounter the woman with the power to change his destiny.

And ultimately, far in the future, on a world called Harmony, one of them will unravel the lamp’s final mystery, the secret of the Midnight Crystal. The destinies of both the Jones and the Winters families hang in the balance.

I hope you will enjoy the trilogy.

Sincerely,
Jayne

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NICHOLAS WINTERS, APRIL 14, 1694 . . .

I shall not long survive but I will have my revenge, if not in this generation, then in some future time and place. For I am certain now that the three talents are locked into the blood and will descend down through my line.

Each talent comes at a great price. It is ever thus with power.

The first talent fills the mind with a rising tide of restlessness that cannot be assuaged by endless hours in the laboratory or soothed with strong drink or the milk of the poppy.

The second talent is accompanied by dark dreams and terrible visions.

The third talent is the most powerful and the most dangerous. If the key is not turned properly in the lock, this last psychical ability will prove lethal, bringing on first insanity and then death.

Grave risk attends the onset of the third and final power. Those of my line who would survive must find the Burning Lamp and a woman who can work dreamlight energy. Only she can turn the key in the lock that opens the door to the last talent. Only such a female can halt or reverse the transformation once it has begun.

But beware: Women of power can prove treacherous. I know this now, to my great cost.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NICHOLAS WINTERS, APRIL, 17, 1694 . . .

It is done. My last and greatest creation, the Midnight Crystal, is finished. I have set it into the lamp together with the other crystals. It is a most astonishing stone. I have sealed great forces within it but even I, who forged it, cannot begin to guess at all of its properties, nor do I know how its light can be unleashed. That discovery must be left to one of the heirs of my blood.

But of this much I am certain: The one who controls the light of the Midnight Crystal will be the agent of my revenge. For I have infused the stone with a psychical command stronger than any act of magic or sorcery. The radiation of the crystal will compel the man who wields its power to destroy the descendants of Sylvester Jones.

Vengeance will be mine.

PROLOGUE

London, late in the reign of Queen Victoria . . .

It took Adelaide Pyne almost forty-eight hours to realize that the Rosestead Academy was not an exclusive school for orphaned young ladies. It was a brothel. By then it was too late; she had been sold to the frightening man known only as Mr. Smith.

The Chamber of Pleasure was in deep shadow, lit only by a single candle. The flame sparked and flared on the cream-colored satin drapery that billowed down from the wrought-iron frame above the canopied bed. In the pale glow the crimson rose petals scattered across the snowy white quilt looked like small pools of blood.

Adelaide huddled in the darkened confines of the wardrobe, all her senses heightened by dread. Through the crack between the doors she could see only a narrow slice of the room.

Smith entered the chamber. He barely glanced at the heavily draped bed. Locking the door immediately, he set his hat and a black satchel on the table, looking for all the world as though he were a doctor who had been summoned to attend a patient.

In spite of her heart-pounding fear, something about the satchel distracted Adelaide, riveting her attention. Dreamlight leaked out of the black bag. She could scarcely believe her senses. Great powerful currents of ominous energy seeped through the leather. She had the unnerving impression that it was calling to her in a thousand different ways. But that was impossible.

There was no time to contemplate the mystery. Her circumstances had just become far more desperate. Her plan, such as it was, had hinged on the assumption that she would be dealing with one of Mrs. Rosser’s usual clients, an inebriated gentleman in a state of lust who possessed no significant degree of psychical talent. It had become obvious during the past two days that sexual desire tended to focus the average gentleman’s brain in a way that, temporarily at least, obliterated his common sense and reduced the level of his intelligence. She had intended to take advantage of that observation tonight to make her escape.

But Smith was most certainly not an average brothel client. She was horrified to see the seething energy in the dreamprints he had tracked into the room. His hot paranormal fingerprints were all over the satchel, as well.

Everyone left some residue of dreamlight behind on the objects with which they came in contact. The currents seeped easily through shoe leather and gloves. Her talent allowed her to perceive the traces of such energy.

In general, dreamprints were faint and murky. But there were exceptions. Individuals in a state of intense emotion or excitement generated very distinct, very perceptible prints. So did those with strong psychical abilities. Mr. Smith fit into both categories. He was aroused, and he was a powerful talent. That was a very dangerous combination.

Even more unnerving was the realization that there was something wrong with his dreamlight patterns. The oily, iridescent currents of his tracks and prints were ever so faintly warped.

Smith turned toward the wardrobe. The pale glow of the candle gleamed on the black silk mask that concealed the upper half of his face. Whatever he intended to do in this room was of such a terrible nature that he did not wish to take the chance of being recognized by anyone on the premises.

He moved like a man in his prime. He was tall and slender. His clothes looked expensive, and he carried himself with the bred-in-the-cradle arrogance of a man accustomed to the privileges of wealth and high social rank.

He stripped off his leather gloves and unfastened the metal buckles of the satchel with a feverish haste that in another man might have indicated sexual lust. She had not yet had any practical experience of such matters. Mrs. Rosser, the manager of the brothel, had informed her that Smith would be her first client. But during the past two days she had seen the tracks the gentlemen left on the stairs when they followed the girls to their rooms. She now knew what desire looked like when it burned in a man.

What she saw in Smith’s eerily luminous prints was different. There was most certainly a dark hunger pulsing in him but it did not seem related to sexual excitement. The strange, ultralight radiation indicated that it was some other kind of passion that consumed him tonight. The energy was terrifying to behold.

She held her breath when he opened the satchel and reached inside. She did not know what to expect. Some of the girls whispered about the bizarre, unnatural games many clients savored. But it was not a whip or a chain or leather manacles that Smith took out of the satchel. Rather it was a strange, vase-shaped artifact. The object was made of metal that glinted gold in the flickering candlelight. It rose about eighteen inches from a heavy base, flaring outward toward the top. Large, colorless crystals were set in a circle around the rim.

The waves of dark power whispering from the artifact stirred the hair on the nape of her neck. The object was infused with a storm of dreamlight that seemed to be trapped in a state of suspension. Like a machine, she thought, astonished; a device designed to generate dreamlight.

Even as she told herself that such a paranormal engine could not possibly exist, the memory of a tale her father had told her, an old Arcane legend, drifted, phantomlike through her thoughts. She could not recall the details but there had been something about a lamp and a curse.

Smith set the artifact on the table next to the candle. Then he went swiftly toward the bed.

“Let us get on with the business,” he muttered, tension and impatience thickening the words.

He yanked aside the satin hangings. For a few seconds he stared at the empty sheets, evidently baffled. An instant later rage stiffened his body. He crushed a handful of the drapery in one fist and spun around, searching the shadows.

“Stupid girl. Where are you? I don’t know what Rosser told you, but I am not one of her regular clients. I do not make a habit of sleeping with whores, and I certainly did not come here tonight to play games.”

His voice was low and reptilian cold now. The words slithered down Adelaide’s spine. At the same time the temperature in the chamber seemed to drop several degrees. She started to shiver, not just with terror but with the new chill in the atmosphere.

He’ll check under the bed first.

Even as the thought whispered through her, Smith seized the candle off the table and crouched to peer into the shadows beneath the bed frame.

She knew that he would open the wardrobe as soon as he realized that she was not hiding under the bed. It was the only other item of furniture in the room that was large enough to conceal a person.

“Bloody hell.” Smith shot to his feet so swiftly that the candle in his hand flickered and nearly died. “Come out, you foolish girl. I’ll be quick about it, I promise. Trust me when I tell you that I have no plans to linger over this aspect of the thing.”

He stilled when he saw the wardrobe.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you? Brainless female.”

She could not even breathe now. There was nowhere to run.

The wardrobe door opened abruptly. Candlelight spilled into the darkness. Smith’s eyes glittered between the slits in the black mask.

“Silly little whore.”

He seized her arm to haul her out of the wardrobe. Her talent was flaring wildly, higher than it ever had since she had come into it a year ago. The result was predictable. She reacted to the physical contact as though she had been struck by invisible lightning. The shock was such that she could not even scream.

Frantically she dampened her talent. She hated to be touched when her senses were elevated. The experience of brushing up against the shadows and remnants of another person’s dreams was horribly, gut-wrenchingly intimate and disturbing in the extreme, a waking nightmare.

Before she could catch her breath she heard a key in a lock. The door of the chamber slammed open. Mrs. Rosser loomed in the entrance. Her bony frame was darkly silhouetted against the low glare of the gaslight that illuminated the hallway behind her. At that moment she embodied the nickname that the women of the brothel had bestowed upon her: The Vulture.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans, sir,” Rosser said. Her voice was as hard and pitiless as the rest of her. “You must leave the premises immediately.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Smith demanded. He tightened his grip on Adelaide’s arm. “I paid Quinton an exorbitant price for the girl.”

“I just received a message informing me that this establishment is now under new ownership,” Rosser said. “It is my understanding that my former employer recently expired. Heart attack. His business enterprises have been taken over by another. There is no cause for concern. Rest assured your money will be refunded.”

“I don’t want a refund,” Smith said. “I want this girl.”

“Plenty more where she came from. I’ve got two downstairs right now who are younger and prettier. Never been touched. This one’s fifteen if she’s a day. Doubt that you’d be the first to bed her.”

“Do you think I give a damn about the girl’s virginity?”

Rosser was clearly startled. “But that’s what you’re paying for.”

“Stupid woman. This concerns a vastly more important attribute. I made a bargain with your employer. I intend to hold him to it.”

“I just told you, he is no longer among the living. I’ve got a new employer.”

“The business affairs of crime lords are of no interest to me. The girl is now my property. I’m taking her out of here tonight, assuming the experiment is completed to my satisfaction.”

“What’s this about an experiment?” Mrs. Rosser was outraged. “I never heard of such a thing. This is a brothel, not a laboratory. In any event, you can’t have the girl and that’s final.”

“It appears that the test will have to be conducted elsewhere,” Smith said to Adelaide. “Come along.”

He jerked her out of the wardrobe. She tumbled to the floor.

“Get up.” He used his grip on her arm to haul her to her feet. “We’re leaving this place immediately. Never fear, if it transpires that you are of no use to me, you’ll be quite free to return to this establishment.”

“You’re not taking her away.” Rosser reached for the bellpull just inside the door. “I’m going to summon the guards.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Smith said. “I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense.”

He removed a fist- sized crystal from the pocket of his coat. The object glowed blood red. The temperature dropped another few degrees. Adelaide sensed invisible ice-cold energy blazing in the chamber.

Mrs. Rosser opened her mouth but no sound emerged. She raised her arms as though she really were a great bird trying to take wing. Her head fell back. A violent spasm shot through her. She collapsed in the doorway and lay very still.

Adelaide was too stunned to speak. The Vulture was dead.

“Just as well,” Smith said. “She is no great loss to anyone.”

He was right, Adelaide thought. Heaven knew that she had no fondness for the brothel keeper but watching someone die in such a fashion was a horrifying experience.

Belatedly, the full impact of what had just occurred jolted through her. Smith had used his talent and the crystal to commit murder. She had never known that such a thing was possible.

“What did you do to her?” Adelaide whispered.

“The same thing I will do to you if you do not obey me.” The ruby crystal had gone dark. “Damn things never last long,” he muttered. He dropped the stone back into his pocket. “Come along. There is no time to waste. We must get out of here at once.”

He drew her toward the table where he had left the artifact. She could feel the euphoric excitement flooding through him. He had just murdered a woman and he had enjoyed doing it; no, he had rejoiced in the experience.

She sensed something else as well. Whatever Smith had done with the crystal had required a great deal of energy. The psychical senses, like every other aspect of the mind and body, required time to recover after one drew heavily on them. Smith would no doubt soon regain the full force of his great power, but at that moment he was probably at least somewhat weakened.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said.

He did not bother to respond with words. The next thing she knew, icy cold pain washed through her in searing waves.

She gasped, doubled over and sank to her knees beneath the weight of the chilling agony. So much for thinking that he had exhausted his psychical resources.

“Now you know what I did to Rosser,” Smith said. “But in her case I used far more power. Such intense cold shatters the senses and then stops the heart. Behave yourself or you will get more of the same.”

The pain stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving her dazed and breathless. Surely this time he had used the last of his reserves to punish her. She had to act quickly. Fortunately he was still gripping her arm. She required physical contact to manipulate another individual’s dreamlight energy.

She raised her talent again, gritting her teeth against the dreadful sensations, and focused every ounce of energy she possessed on the currents of Smith’s dreamlight. In the past year she had occasionally manipulated the wavelengths of other people’s nightmares but she had never before attempted what she was about to try now.

For an instant Smith did not seem to realize that he was under attack. He stared at her, mouth partially open in confusion. Fury quickly ignited in him.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. “You will pay for this, whore. I will make you freeze in your own private hell for daring to defy me. Stop.”

He raised his other arm to strike her but it was too late; he was already sliding into a deep sleep. He started to crumple. At the last second he tried to grab the edge of the table. His flailing arm knocked the candle off the stand and onto the floor.

The taper rolled across the wooden floorboards toward the bed. There was a soft whoosh when the flame caught the trailing edge of the satin drapery.

Adelaide rushed back to the wardrobe and took out the cloak and shoes that she had stashed inside earlier in preparation for her escape. By the time she was dressed the bed skirt was fully ablaze, the flames licking at the white quilt. Smoke was drifting out into the hall. Soon someone would sound the alarm.

She pulled the hood of the cloak up over her head and went toward the door. But something made her stop. She turned reluctantly and looked back at the artifact. She knew then that she had to take the strange object with her. It was a foolish notion. It would only slow her down. But she could not leave it behind.

She stuffed the relic into the black satchel, fastened the buckles, and started once more toward the door. She paused a second time over Smith’s motionless figure and quickly searched his pockets. There was money in one of them. The dark ruby-colored crystal was in another. She took the money but when she touched the crystal she got an uneasy feeling. Heeding her intuition, she left it where it was.

Straightening, she went to the door, stepped over Rosser’s dead body and moved out into the corridor.

Behind her the white satin bed was now engulfed in crackling, snapping flames. Down the hall someone started screaming. Men and women in various stages of dress and undress burst out of nearby doorways, seeking the closest exits. No one paid any attention to Adelaide when she joined the frantic crush on the staircase.

Minutes later she was outside on the street. Clutching the satchel, she fled into the night, running for her life.