Born of Deception (5 page)

He shakes his head, looking calmer. At least his face isn’t as red. “No, you can take a break until dress rehearsal on Thursday. You’re happy with third billing, aren’t you?” he asks before I exit the stage.

I nod. Second billing is a throwaway spot. Usually, the audience is restless by then and just wants to see the main attraction. Third spot from the end and top billing are the best spots in the lineup. I’ve been at the top of the bill before, but that was when I was with my mother, not just Anna the Magician.

“Good.” He waves a hand, his quick mind already leaping to the next problem at hand.

I give my assistant a thumbs-up, and she waves and disappears through the door. The stagehand is taking away the iron maiden as I leave. “Thanks!” I mouth as the comedian, Bruce Horner, starts his routine.

I hurry to my hotel room to get ready for my appointment. Doubt niggles in my stomach as I change into a plain skirt and blouse and run a brush through my hair. I know I should wait for Cole, but curiosity and my determination to be independent win out.

Before heading to my appointment at the Society, I order fish and chips from a stall. The man behind the counter fries them in a vat of bubbling oil and shakes salt over the whole thing before serving them to me in a cone of newspaper. Like a Londoner, I eat them right in the street under a store awning, giggling as vinegar and oil run out down my hands. The man kindly gives me a damp towel to clean myself up with and after doing so, I hail a cab.

I stare out the window, watching drizzle saturate the city. London feels different from New York. It’s not really less busy and the clothing is similar, though you’re much more likely to run into a woman still clinging to the longer skirts of another era here. But the city is older than anything we have in America, and it’s not unusual to find entire blocks filled with buildings constructed during the medieval era. In New York, most Gothic architecture is simply a clever reproduction. Another difference is in the inhabitants. People on the streets of London tend to be far more polite than in New York, but much less friendly, if that makes any sense.

I rest my forehead against the cool window, trying to calm myself. My decision to attend the meeting without Cole seems more and more foolhardy the closer I get to the Society. After all, there are people here who neither Cole nor Leandra trust. But then I get angry with myself. It’s not as though anyone in the Society can force me to do anything against my will. I’m seventeen now and working and living on my own. Surely I’m old enough to make my own decisions.

My attention is caught by a familiar-looking man crossing the street in front of me. I stare puzzled for a moment before recognition comes with heart-stopping realization.

Dr. Boyle.

Dr. Boyle wanted Cole to join his demented plan to attain wealth and power so badly he was willing to do anything—including extortion, blackmail, and kidnapping—to accomplish it. The scar from the gunshot wound I obtained last fall in that evil man’s quest still aches.

Frantically, I slide to the other side of the seat, trying to see if that is indeed who it was. I didn’t get a good look at him, but the man did have the same ruddy English squire looks that Dr. Boyle has. I stare at the man’s retreating back as my taxicab drives in the opposite direction. My heart slows. I might have been mistaken. I probably was. I am, after all, in England. There are probably lots of men who look like country squires here.

The motorcar stops in front of a tall, nondescript brick building and I hand the driver some pound notes, hoping I’m not being taken advantage of. I can’t seem to figure out the money exchange to save my life and I’m going through much more money than I thought I would.

I hesitate in front of the building. If I wanted to change my mind, now is the time. I look up, and for a moment I think I see a pale face staring down at me but then it disappears. I shiver. I take a deep breath, firm my chin, and march to the front door. There’s no sign hanging out front to indicate if this is the right place or not, but the number matches, so this must be it. I’m just wondering whether I should knock or go on in when the door is flung open.

A young woman about my age stands in the doorway and I stare as if mesmerized. I’ve worked in theaters all my life, so beautiful women are nothing new to me, but I’ve never seen anyone as arresting as the girl before me. Her hair is caught back with a silver ribbon and hangs in glossy black ringlets down her back. For the first time I regret my own bobbed locks. Her skin glows like a pink rose dusted with cinnamon and the fringe of her lashes cast shadows on her cheekbones. But it’s her eyes that grab my attention and hold it: They’re large and so dark you can barely tell the pupil from the iris.

“You must be Anna! Come in. The powers that be are expecting you.”

I hesitate in the doorway and lift my lips in a tentative smile. The girl’s own smile is friendly and open.

She stands aside to let me in and I find myself in a formally appointed reception room with a matched set of overstuffed red chairs and several large potted palms. A small French desk sits next to a door ornately carved with symbols. “My name is Calypso Ruiz. Mr. Gamel and the others are occupied, but I can take you upstairs.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Oh. Perhaps now isn’t a good time? I can come back later, if that would be better.”

She shakes her head, causing her curls to riot. “Don’t be silly. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you! Would you like the grand tour?”

She gives me an enchanting smile and I shake off my jitters. My bad experiences in New York left me jumpy and suspicious.

Actually, that’s not true. My whole life has left me jumpy and suspicious.

Returning the smile, I nod.

She waves her arm at the door. “After you.”

I walk ahead and my eyes widen. The wood on the door is dark, probably mahogany, and covered with exquisitely detailed carvings. They almost look like cryptograms interlaced with grape vines and ivy. “This is beautiful. Do you know what the symbols mean?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. I know it’s old. Maybe Gamel would know. He knows everything.”

She gives me a wink and I grin, liking her more and more.

“Actually, Mr. Price would be the one to ask. He had the door installed.”

“I haven’t met Mr. Price yet.”

Calypso makes a face. “You will. He’s one of the researchers and he’s said to be brilliant, though he’s a bit terrifying if you ask me.”

I want to ask her why he’s scary, but can feel her impatience, so I turn the knob and walk through. She follows me and I’m surprised when she leaves the inner door open. Surely they wouldn’t want just anyone off the street to come in, would they?

I shut it myself and then follow her down a long hall. She’s wearing a plain cotton blouse and a red-and-yellow flowered skirt that swirls around her calves as she walks. She chatters away in a musical accent I can’t place. It’s definitely not English, nor is it European like Cole’s. It’s more exotic and makes me think of tropical breezes and white sandy beaches.

“The Society has been in this building for about a year. This floor is mainly offices, where the scientists compile their data and Sensitives are vetted. Some of the experiments are down here, too.” She turns to me, a frown marring her lovely features. “Have you been tested yet?” I shake my head and her frown deepens. “That’s odd. Usually Sensitives are tested before they’re given the tour. They must be very sure about your abilities.”

Calypso doesn’t show me the offices but instead leads me to a stairwell at the end of the hallway. “We spend most of our time up here.”

“How long have you been a part of the Society?” I ask.

“Four months.” She stops and turns to me. Because she’s two steps ahead, she towers over me, though on level ground we’re about the same height. “I’ve been waiting for someone my age to join up. I don’t have many friends here.”

She dimples into a disarming smile that I would find immediately suspect, if she weren’t so open and friendly. My duplicitous mother is the most charismatic woman God ever placed on the earth, so I’m not only immune to charm, I’m suspicious of it. But there’s something so immediately likable about Calypso that I find myself responding.

Like the hallway below, the walls are done in a cream plaster with intricate molding at the ceiling. At the top of the stairs, a door opens up to a wide room with a dark parquet floor, several leather club chairs, a comfortable leather couch, and shelves with rows of books. An arched doorway on the other side of the room opens into a packed meeting room. A knot of people near the bookshelves appear to be having an intense, whispered conversation, while louder voices issue from the adjoining room.

The overall feeling is tense and, though I can’t pick up just one emotion in a room full of them, the common thread I feel is fear. Suddenly, I wish Cole were here with me instead of off doing whatever it was he had deemed more important. Of course, I didn’t let him know I was coming, so I really can’t fault him. But now I desperately wish I had waited.

Because something feels very, very wrong.

Four

A
rather round young man spots us and hurries over. He stops and eyes me, suspicion written all over his pale freckled face. “Who is this?”

“Anna,” Calypso says simply, not introducing us.

“Anna Van Housen,” I amend, holding out my hand. He looks at it for a moment before shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t do that.”

My hand drops to my side.

“My name is Jared Taylor.”

Jared looks to be in his early to mid-twenties, and everything about him, from his pale red hair to his pale eyelashes over pale blue eyes, is nondescript. I wonder what his abilities are that he doesn’t shake hands. Having tried to avoid touch for most of my life, I sympathize with whatever it is.

He clears his throat, trying to cover an awkward moment. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna. I’m sorry you aren’t getting much of a welcome. We have a bit of a situation here.” He glances into the meeting room.

“What’s going on?” I ask. I don’t mean to pry, but the emotions swirling around the room have my nerves on edge.

Jared glances again at the open door. “I’m not sure . . .”

“Oh please, she’s practically one of us,” Calypso says. She turns to me. “A Sensitive went missing today. He was taken from his home. Or Mr. Gamel’s home, I should say.”

Apprehension mushrooms in my stomach. “Pratik?” I whisper.

Calypso nods, her forehead wrinkling. “You know Pratik?”

I nod. “He came with Cole to pick me up from the ship. What happened?”

“Apparently Pratik didn’t feel well this morning and stayed home. When Gamel returned home for lunch, he found the door open and his house in disarray.”

“Calypso!” Mr. Gamel walks into the room, catching her words. “I’ve warned you to be more circumspect about what you say.”

Instead of looking chastened, Calypso merely shrugs. “I haven’t the time for your cloak-and-dagger mentality, Mr. Gamel.”

“Our cloak-and-dagger mentality may be more important than ever,” Mr. Gamel snaps.

I frown as agitation comes off him in frazzled waves. “Why do you say that, Mr. Gamel?”

He turns to me with a little bow of his head. “My apologies, Miss Van Housen. When I sent that message this morning, I had no idea what the day would hold.”

“I don’t see why not. This is the second Sensitive who has gone missing in a matter of weeks,” Calypso breaks in.

“Enough!” Mr. Gamel thunders.

Unfazed by his anger, Calypso raises her eyebrows at me. “Welcome to the family, Anna. Don’t mind Mr. Gamel. He’s not nearly as gruff as he sounds.”

Mr. Gamel ignores her. “There is nothing to indicate foul play with Jonathon Velasquez. He merely moved on, just as he always has.”

“But with poor Pratik . . . ,” she says.

“Leave it alone, Calypso,” Mr. Casperson orders, coming up behind Gamel.

Strangely enough, she does, and Mr. Gamel continues more quietly, “This is an unfortunate incident, but there is nothing to tie his abduction with his abilities. No one is targeting Sensitives.”

I detect the worry under his words. No matter what he says, Mr. Gamel is very concerned.

“Unfortunately, we cannot offer the welcome we had originally intended, but I’m sure Calypso will take care of you. I must speak to the authorities. As Pratik’s sponsor they will want to interview me.”

He gives another bow and exits, leaving me with Calypso, Jared, and Mr. Casperson. One of the women standing by the bookshelves joins us and Mr. Casperson introduces us. I learned my lesson and don’t try to shake hands, instead offering a European nod of the head in greeting.

“Anna Van Housen, Jared’s twin, Jenny Taylor.”

Jenny is as slender as her brother is chubby, but shares the same strawberry blonde hair and freckled skin.

I’m curious about their abilities and yet dread the moment when we’ll discuss them. I’ve never been good at sharing bits and pieces of myself.

“How many Sensitives are there?” I ask.

“You mean how many are in our happy little family?” Calypso smiles.

Mr. Casperson frowns, his blue eyes disapproving. “There used to be ten, but several moved away and others have distanced themselves from the Society. So I guess that leaves six?”

Jenny nods. “For now.”

Mr. Casperson glances at his pocket watch. “My apologies, but I really must be going. I have an appointment for dinner. Good day.”

He nods, and soon I can hear his quick staccato steps descending the staircase.

“Don’t you all have places to be?” A man’s voice booms out across the room and I jump.

The tall man walking toward us has large features, a massive head, and sharp, knowing eyes. He spots me and I see surprise flicker across his face before it settles back into annoyance. He holds out his hand without hesitation and I know that this is a man who is afraid of very little.

“I apologize for my rudeness. I am Mr. Harry Price, one of the researchers. You must be Anna Van Housen. I’ve been looking forward to our meeting, but I hardly think today is the day for socializing.” He casts a stern eye over the Sensitives. “Perhaps it would be best if you came back in a few days.”

Jared and Jenny nod at me, snatch up their coats, and leave.

I notice that no one said a word to Mr. Price.

Calypso tilts her chin and glares at Mr. Price before defiantly tossing her head. “Come on, Anna. Let’s go grab some dinner.”

She tucks her arm into mine and I let her lead me out the door and down the stairs. By the time we reach the street, she’s giggling like a child.

“I’m sorry, but the look on his face was priceless. The scientists and board members have started discouraging our friendships, but I think that’s just ridiculous, don’t you? Who do they think they are, telling us who we can and can’t talk to?”

The emotions conveyed from her touch are dizzying. They go from simple glee to resentment to anger in a flash, and as soon as we reach the carved door I pull my arm from hers in relief.

“When did they start discouraging socialization among the Sensitives?” I ask.

She waits until I open the door and sails through like a young queen, then surprisingly, opens the outside door and holds it for me.

“It started in just the last couple of months,” she says, and then changes the subject. Her thoughts are apparently as variable as her feelings. “So, do you want to go to dinner or do you have someplace you need to be?” she asks matter-of-factly.

I shake my head. “I’m meeting someone for dinner, but perhaps some other time?”

“I’d like that. We have so much to talk about. I’ll see you in a couple of days?”

Her smile lights up her face and eyes and I return it. As she heads down the street with a merry wave, my heart warms in spite of the chill. London seems a bit less lonely. Maybe being a member of the Society is going to be better than I hoped.

Unlike Claridge’s decor, which is so proper as to be uncomfortable, the opulence of Frascati’s has an overdone American feel that puts me at ease. We enter through yellow revolving doors and are escorted to our seats past a vestibule with a plush red carpet, bright brocade settees, and gilt chandeliers. The dining area itself is decorated in gold and silver and surrounds a banjo-shaped dance floor. An orchestra is warming up on the other side of the room, and there are so many fresh flower arrangements that it smells like a summer garden in the middle of winter.

“When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Cole asks as soon as we’re seated.

He had picked me up at the hotel in his shiny motorcar, and while I should have felt like the luckiest girl in the world sitting against the luxurious leather seat, I had a hard time relaxing. I know I have to tell him about the visit to the Society and ask him if he knows about Pratik, but I also know he’s going to be angry and upset, so I put it off. “Sometimes I forget you can feel what I feel. It hardly seems fair.”

He lifts an eyebrow and his lips curl at the corners. My heart skips a beat. Most of the time I’m used to how good-looking he is, but sometimes it sneaks up on me.

“You can feel what I feel too, so it’s hardly an advantage. It’s only a disadvantage when we try to hide things.”

His accent is more pronounced, which means he’s tired, and I’m instantly contrite. I hadn’t even asked him what had come up to make him miss our day together. “You first,” I tell him. “What happened today? Is everything all right?”

He nods. “It is now. My mother became horribly ill this morning with extreme stomach pain. I had to call for the doctor.”

“I’m so sorry.” I put my hand over his on the table. “How is she now?”

“She’s fine. The doctor couldn’t find anything wrong and gave her something to help with the pain. She fell asleep for a few hours and when she woke up, she was perfectly fine. I was going to cancel this evening, but she insisted I come out. My grandmother is with her, so it will be all right.”

I sense his worry and squeeze his hand. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

He nods. “She’d like you to come for tea this Sunday. I told her you were going to be going on tour soon and she and my grandmother would like to meet you before you go.”

I swallow and put my hands in my lap. Tea with Cole’s mother and grandmother? I know Cole comes from old English money. How can I, a poor American in show business, measure up to that? “That sounds lovely.”

He laughs as if sensing my thoughts. “Stop fretting. They’re going to love you. Now, tell me what is bothering you besides facing two dowagers over tea?”

I stare at the menu, avoiding his eyes. “What does
déjeuner
mean?”

“A midday meal, or lunch. I didn’t know you couldn’t speak French.”

A surge of annoyance mixed with embarrassment sweeps over me and my cheeks heat. How upper-class English of him to assume that everyone had learned French. “I didn’t go to school,” I tell him, my words clipped.

“I’m sorry. You’re so well read I forget that you’re self-educated. Now what’s wrong besides your boyfriend’s thoughtlessness?”

“Monsieur, mademoiselle, have you decided?”

I turn to the waiter with relief, but know I’m only putting off the inevitable.

After we give our order, I turn to find Cole regarding me gravely. I sigh. “I got a message from Mr. Gamel this morning. He wanted to meet with me.”

Cole nods. “I figured he would. When?”

“This afternoon.” I glance up at him and his face is still. Taking a deep breath I continue, “I actually met some of the other Sensitives.”

Cole studies one of the giant potted palms decorating the restaurant. His brow furrows and he finally turns to me. “I wish you would have waited. I really want to be with you whenever you go there.”

I try for a light laugh but end up barking like a seal. “Honestly, if I am going to be a member, I’ll have to go on my own occasionally. If you think it’s dangerous, I don’t have to be a member.”

Cole shakes his head, impatient. “But you wanted to connect with other Sensitives. It’s what you’ve wanted since the first time I told you there were others like us.”

For a moment I think back to that conversation, how relieved I’d been to learn that I wasn’t crazy, that other people had strange abilities like mine. I’d spent so much of my life hiding my abilities, to know there were others . . . I nod. “I did. I do. I just didn’t know it would be so complicated.”

His dark eyes soften, looking like black velvet in the light. “I’m sorry. But under the circumstances . . .” He shrugs. “I’m just not sure I trust everyone on the board. That doesn’t mean I don’t think the Society is worth it. That it’s not worth fighting for. Sensitives need protection and help. If you could have seen Pratik when he first got here . . .”

“Pratik!”

Cole brows rise. “What?”

“At the Society today. That’s why Mr. Gamel couldn’t meet with me. Pratik is missing.”

Our food arrives and we fall silent until the waiter leaves.

Cole turns to me, his face white. “I think you had better start at the beginning.”

I recount my afternoon as he stirs his soup round and round with his spoon. “Do you think Dr. Boyle could be behind the abduction?”

Cole holds up a finger. “First things first. We don’t even know if it’s an abduction. Pratik’s a nice fellow but very quiet. He’s had a rough time and always seems to have a lot going on up here.” Cole taps his finger against his forehead. “It’s entirely possible that Pratik had some sort of an episode and ran off.”

“Mr. Gamel didn’t seem to think so. He called the authorities.”

“He probably called on Harrison to investigate. He wouldn’t go to the other police. At least not right away.” Cole absentmindedly spoons consommé into his mouth.

I stare. “Why wouldn’t he go to the police? I know the existence of Sensitives is very hush-hush, but does that mean that something could happen to one of us and no one would care?”

Cole looks around the room and frowns. “Not so loud. Of course, people would care. Harrison is a detective with Scotland Yard. He is someone we trust—and a darn good investigator.”

I lean back in my rich leather chair and cross my arms. I really, really do not like being hushed. And what
we
is he talking about? Is he aligning himself with the scientists? The board? I thought it was
us
against
them
. I can’t help but feel like London is different and we’re different in it. Our synchronicity seems off in this city that is his home but is as foreign to me as a new costume.

The waiter comes to take our food; though I haven’t touched mine, he replaces it with a plate of terrine with chutney and tiny triangles of toast. I want to tell him to take it away, that I’m not hungry, but don’t want to completely ruin the evening.

Disturbed, I reach out psychically to try to get a sense of Cole’s emotions. Something far different from the warm connection I usually feel from him zings down the line. I frown, concentrating. The hairs along my arms rise as an unfamiliar, almost predatory feeling insinuates itself between us. It’s as if there’s an intruder on our wavelength. Cole stiffens and I know he feels it too. I freeze as his eyes search the patrons, busy eating all around us.