Born of Illusion (10 page)

“What a screwy life you must have led!”

I think back to our years of travel and all the people we’d met. “Yes, but . . .” I hesitate.

“Pretty lonely, too, I bet.”

My eyes widen. “How did you know?”

“I guessed.”

We fall silent for a moment. No one else has ever noticed my loneliness, but then, no one else has been paying much attention.

“You’re sitting pretty now, though, with your new show.”

We drive in silence for a few blocks. “I have a confession to make,” he finally says.

“What’s that?”

“I told my uncle I wanted to meet the amazing Madame Marguerite Van Housen, but I was much more interested in meeting you.”

I frown. What a line.

“I wanted to know how such a beautiful young woman could also be such a talented magician.”

“Oh.” My cheeks flush a darker shade of red.

He laughs, and I’ve never felt less sophisticated.

“What kind of work do you do that you have to get up so early?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t feel up to telling him the story of my life.

“I work in a bank on Wall Street. It’s not very exciting, but the pay is good.”

It sounds exciting to me. Well, not exactly exciting. More like solid and comfortable. Which, given the harum-scarum life I’ve led, sounds pretty wonderful.

“So how about you? You happy being in the show?”

I think about it. “Sort of. But I’d rather just do magic and skip the mentalist act.”

Owen smiles. “The show is nifty, it really is, but I think it would be even better if there were more magic and less of the other stuff. I’ve always enjoyed magic.”

I snort. “Try telling my mother that.”

“Why doesn’t she want you to have a bigger part in the show? You’re good enough to do bigger illusions.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “But Mother
is
the headliner.”

“Ah.” His voice is leading, but I don’t take the bait.

“So are you really Harry Houdini’s daughter?”

My breath hitches and my fists clench. I stare at them in the darkness. Counting to three, I slowly uncurl them before replying. “Where did you hear that?”

“I said something to my uncle about how talented you are, and he said you should be, since you were Houdini’s daughter.”

I stare out the windows at the dark streets, a solid mass of emotion pressing against my chest. Wherever I go, the rumors follow. I suspect Mother starts most of them herself.

“Hey,” he says, reaching across to touch my arm lightly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s pretty great.”

“It’s just not something I talk about.” I shake my head. He must think I’m a real flat tire, a bore even.

He pulls up in front of my building. “That’s okay. I can think of better things to talk to a pretty girl about.”

“And what would that be?”

“‘Of shoes and ships and sealing wax . . .’”

“‘Of cabbages and kings,’” I finish, laughing. I’ve read
Through the Looking-Glass
at least a dozen times.

I reach for the car door.

“No, wait. Allow me!”

He hops out and rushes around the car, while I settle back, a small smile playing about my lips. Living a nice, respectable life definitely has its benefits. This is the second time in less than a week that a handsome young man has treated me like a lady instead of some sort of stage hussy. It makes me feel . . .
special
. Just before he reaches the door, however, Owen stumbles and falls, landing in the gutter. One moment he’s there, and the next he’s sprawled, spread eagle, on the street. I wrench on the handle and jump out, careful not to step on him.

“Are you all right?”

He springs to his feet, brushing off his suit. “Yes. But what do they say about pride going before a fall?”

I stifle a laugh. “I never understood that, myself. I always thought pride went after the fall.”

He gives me an embarrassed grin. “I can assure you, that is indeed the case.”

I smile back. “Well, thank you for the ride.”

He wipes off his hand on his trousers before taking mine and kissing it. “My pleasure, Miss Van Housen. Especially the bang-up finish.”

There’s a smudge of dirt under one of his cheekbones and I have to smile. Then he catches both my hands in his. They’re warm and gentle and to my relief, sending me no overt emotional messages. My breath hitches as his laughing blue eyes grow serious. “Would you like to go dancing with me sometime?”

“Why?” I ask, and then want to kick myself again. I can pick a lock or pocket with ease, make cards appear and disappear like a jack-in-the-box, and break in and out of small-town jails without being detected, but put me in the presence of a nice young man and I become the village idiot.

“Because I like you.”

I lower my eyes to hide my confusion. He likes me? Isn’t this all happening a little fast? I look back to his face. His dimples deepen as a smile curves his lips, and a lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. But then, maybe this is how it works. I shove the Harry Houdini comment out of my mind and answer his smile with one of my own.

“Perhaps.”

He laughs. “Perhaps?”

I nod, too embarrassed to speak.

He gives my hand a squeeze. “That’s swell, Anna. See you soon.”

I turn away to unlock the door to my building and wait until Owen’s car chugs away before letting myself look back over my shoulder. The events of the evening are catching up to me. I’m always tired after a show, but tonight, after the fight with my mother, even my bones feel fragile.

Suddenly the hair on my neck and arms prickles and foreboding brushes across my skin like a blood-dipped feather. My fingers, so adept at picking locks, fumble with the key. Like a child afraid to look under the bed, I’m terrified to peek behind me, afraid of what I might see. A thief or worse? The door falls open, and I shoot through it, giving the stoop one sweeping glance before shutting the door behind me.

Nothing.

But I can still feel something out there, lurking. And whatever it is, it isn’t going anywhere soon.

“Quit your sulking and help me choose a hat.”

I’m lying on the sofa reading an old copy of the
Sphinx
magazine, trying to ignore my mother, who has been hovering all morning. Being ignored is her worst nightmare and my best line of defense.

I raise an eyebrow and give her a cursory glance. She’s dressed for the day in a soft maroon worsted-wool suit that reaches just below her knees. The color sets off her creamy complexion—my mother’s proud of her skin and deplores the fashion that makes women powder their faces white. She only does it at night or for shows.

She sets two hatboxes down on the coffee table and pulls out a jade-green cloche and then a black one.

As always, I’m torn by my desire to please my mother and my survival instincts. After a brief struggle, I sigh and lay down my magazine. “The black one. It’ll go with the dress once you take your coat off.”

“Hmm. I think perhaps the green.”

Of course she does. I pick up my cards and begin shuffling.

She pins on the hat and twirls for me. “How do I look?”

“Lovely as always. Where are you going?”

“Lunch with Jacques.”

Worry pulses through me and I rub my temples. “And then what?”

She frowns. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Are we working tonight?” What I’m asking is whether we are doing a séance or not. The theater is closed Sunday nights to appease the churchgoers.

Mother shakes her head. “No. Jacques thinks we should only do a few séances a month. That way they’re more exclusive and we can charge more.”

I breathe out a sigh of relief and she frowns. “Have a lovely time and don’t spend too much money,” I say before she can chide me about my attitude. It works.

“Don’t worry so much about money, darling.” She gathers up her purse and gloves and I get up and follow her to the door. “We’re going to have plenty from now on.” She pats my shoulder patronizingly. “And don’t wait around for me. I’m not sure when I’ll be home. Now I really must go; Jacques is probably already downstairs. Oh, and I ordered some material for a new spirit manifestation. It’s even gauzier than what we’re using and will be perfect. Can you pick it up for me?”

I give her a small, defeated nod.

She writes the directions on a piece of paper and hands it to me before opening the door. I turn toward the window so I can watch her get into Jacques’s car.

Then her scream shatters the air.

I whirl around, expecting to see her being hauled away by an unknown enemy. Instead she is standing frozen in the doorway. I’m by her side in a heartbeat, my hands raised, wishing I had my balisong, anything, to use as a weapon. But there is no one there. Then I notice her extended finger and suck in my breath when I see what she’s pointing at. A sewer rat the size of a small cat is lying on our doorstep.

“What is that?” my mother asks, her voice raw.

I swallow, my pulse starting to slow. “It’s just a rat.”

“How did it get here and what do we do with it?” As usual, she’s completely at a loss. I touch her shoulder.

“Go on with Jacques,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of it.”

The gratitude in Mother’s eyes is real, and she leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers. She skirts the dead animal carefully and hurries down the stairwell.

I rush back into the apartment and over to the window just in time to see her climbing into Jacques’s sleek Packard. Then, with a heavy sigh, I grab a rag from under the kitchen sink and use it to pick up the rat by the tail. Staring at its dull brown eyes and long yellow teeth, I can’t help but wonder what killed it. I toss it down the incinerator, shuddering.

As soon as I shut and lock my apartment door, I lean against it, breathing heavily. I’ve lived in the building for more than a month and have never seen traces of rodents. So how does one end up dead in the hall smack dab in front of our doorway? Coincidence? Or did someone leave it there for us to find? And if so, why? I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. My mind spins with all the other things that have happened in the last week. The visions. Walter. Feeling the emotions of people without even touching them. Are they all connected? If so, how?

Something niggles at the edge of my mind and I take a deep breath, letting it come to me.

Cole.

Everything started changing when I first met Cole.

I walk into the sitting room and stand in front of the window, not seeing the street below. Hugging my arms around me, I think hard, one thought racing after another. The very first vision I had about my mother was right after I ran into Cole in the street. The first time I ever channeled a dead person, Cole was there. The first time I felt someone’s feelings without touching them, Cole was there. But that’s
insane
. How could Cole possibly have an effect on my abilities? And how can I find out without giving myself away?

One thing is certain. If I want to keep my mother safe, I’d better figure it out.

Nine

I
spend the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon cleaning our flat, allowing the menial work to soothe the turmoil in my mind.

No matter what I think of him, Jacques has secured us a wonderful apartment. It boasts a modern kitchen—the first I’ve ever had—with a gas stove, a sink with hot and cold running water, and tiny black and white tiles on the floor. A work area runs the length of one wall, and a small wooden table stands in front of a sunny window. Just off the kitchen, I have the unheard-of luxury of my own bedroom—the first time in my life I don’t have to share with my mother.

After I finish cleaning, I glance at the clock. It’s still too early to leave. Mother’s errand will have to wait because I have other plans for this afternoon. Plans that have me twitchy as a cat’s tail. Biting my lip, I’m drawn back to my bedroom and pull out my hatboxes. I take out my handcuffs, lock them, and then pick them open several times. The action calms me. I replace them and take out an old handbill showing Houdini locked inside a chest. I study the chest as if it were real instead of a drawing. I’m pretty sure I know how he’s able to escape, leaving the chest locked and bound with chains. All it would take is someone to replace the longer bolts with shorter ones. Of course, he would need a tool of some sort to pound them out. Not sure where he would hide it, though. Perhaps his hair?

I stare at the publicity still, remembering the first time my mother told me Houdini was my father. I must have been four or five, and it was one of those rare occasions when she wasn’t working or going out with a gentleman caller. I don’t remember which city we were in but I remember it being nice, with clean sidewalks and shiny shops. She had bought me a lollipop for a treat and I slowly licked its sugary sweetness while we strolled along hand in hand. The sun felt nice on my back, and she was showing me the difference between a hat that would look good forever and one that would be outdated in a year. I remember being more interested in the lollipop than in what she was saying, but it still felt good that she was talking to me so seriously. Then she suddenly stopped, staring at a giant poster in the window.