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Shouts broke out in the séance room. The table, cloaked in throbbing, paranormal fire, lurched into Ken, ramming him against the wall below the shattered window. Ana shrieked as the table attacked him again and again. Ken flailed and disappeared below our view, the hot red and yellow energy still hovering over him like a carrion bird on the thermals.

A bright orange flash struck the stereo and it blared a jumbled cacophony of swing music, chopping up "Jumpin' at the Woodside" with "In the Mood" and "Sing, Sing, Sing.”

"Stop it!" Tuckman demanded, jumping up and blocking all exit from the observation room. Terry and I stared over his shoulder toward the pandemonium, appalled.

"I'm not doing anything!" Terry shouted.

"The meters are flipping out. There's something really nasty in there," Quinton snapped. "Where's the damned fire extinguisher?”

I couldn't keep track of which angry knot of energy had done what anymore. The room was thick with the dizzying strobe and strain of Grey forces, a rising tsunami of fury and panic. A cataract of books rushed up from the bookshelves and pelted down on the people in the room. Something red snatched at Patricia's head and she shouted in pain. A spangle of blood and the bright shape of her earring arced to the floor.

Under the boiling storm of Grey, the table lurched again, scrabbling its feet against the floor like a bull and jerking toward the corner beside the door. Ana was in its path, half crouched on the floor, covering her head with her arms. Nearby, Dale had flattened himself over Cara. Ian, Ken, and Wayne had all vanished onto the floor near the broken observation room window.

On the video monitor, there was no violent storm of light, only the strange movement of shadows from the swinging chandelier. I could see Wayne patting at Ken's legs, his voice steaming in the room's uncanny cold, sound smothered in the screaming of the stereo, then turning his head to watch the table.

I looked back through the broken window. Trailing red and yellow streamers, the table charged toward Ana. She dodged, jumping over the Stahlqvists and Ian, and ran up onto the couch, still covering her head with her arms as if she were being bombarded by an invisible flight of ravens.

The table jerked forward, changing direction and tipping toward the sofa cushions. Ana bounded across the upholstery, her feet skimming over the back, to leap off the arm of the sofa nearest the door as the table crashed down onto the couch.

Wayne ran to catch her, scooping her from the air with a ropy arm. He wrenched at the door handle. It came away in his hand.

The table bounced and wheeled on its edge, sweeping toward the door.

Beside me, Quinton and Terry began beating at the monitor board with their jackets as smoke erupted from below. "Get out! The panel's catching fire!”

Dale Stahlqvist snatched at a leg of the rolling table, pulling it away from his wife and Ana. Red and yellow light strobed in the room, lending a disjointed, horror-film aspect to the scene. Patricia picked up a wooden chair and began to beat at the rogue table, screaming at it as blood ran down her neck.

I needed a closer look at Celia. In the confusion, I bolted toward the observation room door as the board full of Christmas lights in the séance room exploded, raining colored glass and sparks over Ana, Cara, and Wayne. The stereo let out a final tortured howl and fell silent as both rooms blacked out.

I heard the whoosh of a fire extinguisher behind me as I rushed into the hall. The séance room door crashed open, flooding the hall with Celia's hot glow and tangled lines. Wayne, Ana, and Cara rushed out as I skidded into the sudden fire and knives of the poltergeist.

A tornado of fury twisted around me, pulling and tearing at me with murderous power. Crystal planes, glittering like ice sheets, cut kaleidoscopic slices of time, flaying me with instants of memory— flashes of lives and shattered jumbles of faces. . and the odor of gun-smoke and salt wrack. The sensation of foulness pushed against me and I reeled forward, desperate to escape it.

Then I was through it and the séance sitters were milling, hysterical and gabbling, into the hall around me. Acrid smoke and the smell of the extinguisher's chemicals flooded from the rooms on a raft of chill. But I still had the other smell in my nose—the stink that had clung under the scent of superglue at Mark's apartment. The odor of the poltergeist.

Turning, I saw the hot swirl of Celia's shape collapse, spiraling away like water down a drain and leaving only dim, frayed threads like a spiderweb spun between the participants. I shuddered. It was a force—an entity—capable of great destruction, and the feel and smell of it only confirmed the sickening idea that had been growing in my mind for a while. I had passed through the thing that had killed Mark Lupoldi.

It hadn't just been present and it wasn't a coincidence. One or some of these people had created a killer ghost. I had no doubt of it, but Solis wouldn't like it. He would require a more prosaic solution and I might have to be the one to point him to it. No one else would or could.

I stood in the hall, breath heaving, and looked them over. Ken was still missing. Tuckman and Terry had come into the hall with Quinton a smoke-wrapped step behind them. Cara had allowed Dale to comfort her and I could see thin blood trickling from beneath her bandage as she leaned against him. Wayne had vanished again, leaving Ana in the care of Ian.

I caught up to Wayne exiting the séance room. Glancing in, I could see Ken sitting up against the control room wall. He shook his head as if dazed or deafened. I looked at Wayne.

"Bruised, but not broken, I think," he said. "Just knocked silly. How 'bout you call the medics and I'll take a look at the rest?”

"We'll have to keep them calm and here and not let them go wandering off like Cara did last time.”

"Check. Go tell Tuckman. He'll listen to you more than me.”

"OK. Be back in a minute." I glanced in at Ken one more time, but he hadn't changed any—his shield of blankness was still missing, but there was nothing much else to see. I dug up my cell phone and called 911 as I headed for Tuckman.

Quinton buttonholed me. "I really don't like this.”

"Join the club. What went wrong?”

He gave me a grave look. "I was going to ask you that. The machinery was all doing what it should have—right up until the electrical surge that fried most of it. What caused the surge seems to be your field, not mine.”

"I'm afraid I don't know, either. Some kind of ghost energy, but—”

He waved my explanation aside. "I don't want to know. Magic just makes my head ache. What I do want to know is if this is going to attract cops.”

I chewed my lip. "I think so. There's a murder investigation involved and I suspect the detective in charge has been watching at least a few of these people.”

"Then I need to go, but I'll call you later. There's something I need to check out.”

"Something wrong?”

"Maybe, but I want to be sure first. I've got your cell phone number. I'll call you when I know. Now, I'm out of here.”

I reserved judgment on his mysterious habits and blew out a breath. "I'm stuck a while longer or I'd offer you a lift back to Pioneer Square. Will you be OK?”

He chuckled. "I'm great at getting around. But you be careful, Harper. This thing's a mess.”

I gave him a sardonic look. "No duh.”

He gave me a small smile, then shook his head and loped for the back stairs with his pack slung over one shoulder.

I caught up to Tuckman next, hearing the screech of a siren and the clatter of noise from in front of the building. "Hey," I said, catching his arm to turn his attention from the hysterical Patricia, who was still pinching her bleeding ear. "You're going to have cops all over you in a few minutes and you need to keep this bunch contained—”