Born of Illusion (12 page)

As I pass a dilapidated building with blacked-out windows, the front door opens. Music and light fill the street, and a burly man, holding another man by his suit jacket, steps outside.

“And don’t come back unless you have the money, ya piker!” he says, tossing the man into the gutter.

I freeze, my heart beating in my ears.

The man stares at me. “You coming inside?”

I shake my head. Shrugging, he steps back and slams the door.

The man in the gutter moans and I’m half tempted to help him, but fear paralyzes me. For the first time it dawns on me that I’m in very real danger. Giving him wide berth, I quicken my step. The few street lights flicker on and I see a corner ahead. I hurry toward it, trying not to run. I’m at West End Avenue and Fiftieth Street. We live on West Seventy-Fourth. I rack my brain trying to remember how New York is laid out.

I start walking again, hoping I’m going in the right direction. There are fewer people on the street now and the wind picks up, scattering trash across the cracked sidewalk. I hear something behind me. Heart in my throat, I slow, and the sound stops. I begin walking and the noise resumes. Footfalls. My breath quickens as I struggle not to run. Kam Lee, an acrobat from San Francisco, once told me that criminals are attracted by fear and repelled by confidence. He refused to teach me kung fu, as it wasn’t proper for girls, but he did teach me how to walk aggressively.

I stretch myself taller and square my shoulders. Lengthening my strides, I change my gait from uncertain to arrogant.

Casually, I glance behind me. Is it my imagination or did something just disappear into the shadows? Am I being followed?

I speed up and the footfalls behind me resume. Swallowing, I feel for the fan knife I’ve kept in my purse ever since my mother and I were mugged in Kansas City several years ago.

I try to remain calm, but my senses switch to high alert. At first, I only get a general sense of menace, then malevolence, deep and smoky, oozes out in pulsing waves and surrounds me. My breath hitches and I jerk the knife out of my purse. Gripping it tight, I forget all of Kam Lee’s teaching and break into a dead run.

The footsteps behind me keep pace, never coming closer but never falling behind, either. Tears leak from my eyes and soon I can’t hear anything over my own labored breathing. My heart pounds and dizziness overwhelms me. If I don’t do something soon, I’ll collapse with exhaustion and be overtaken.

Instinctively, I skid to a stop and whirl around, knife in hand. Kam Lee told me it’s better to face off with an opponent than to run. If my pursuer thinks I’m an easy mark, he’s got another thing coming.
Come and get me,
I think, snapping the blade open.

“Anna! Anna!”

Suddenly, someone catches me up in their arms from behind and I scream. With a lightning flick of my wrist, I slash downward toward the arm that’s holding me. I hear a muffled curse just before I’m shoved away. My knife clatters to the ground.

“Anna! It’s all right; it’s me!”

Shocked, I stare up into Cole Archer’s alarmed brown eyes.

Acting on instinct, I grab for the knife, but Cole is faster and kicks it away before I can reach it. I crouch on the ground, staring up at him, wild-eyed and panting.

“Anna, it’s okay.” His voice is soothing, and I relax in spite of being disoriented.

Why is he here? Could he be the one . . . but as soon as the thought pops into my mind, I discard it. Cole isn’t breathing hard and his clothes aren’t mussed. He holds out a hand. With one eye on me, he bends and picks up the knife. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

With a shuddering breath, I open my mouth to speak and instead burst into tears.

Cole reaches for me and I allow myself to be gathered up, shaking, into his arms. His warmth and strength engulf me and I take another deep breath. I can feel concern emanating from him in waves. It’s the only time I have ever gotten a good read on him.

“Someone was following me.”

He looks behind me, his eyes scanning the street. “No one’s there.”

I look, too, through eyes blurred with tears, but the street is nearly empty. “Someone was there,” I say positively.

But strangely enough, I suddenly feel it again, more distant this time but with the same menace, lurking out there in the dark. I still, concentrating, and the pulsing feeling fades, bit by bit, as if the threat was moving away from me.

“It’s leaving,” I murmur softly. I feel him nod, accepting my words, even though I hardly know what I mean. My abilities, as familiar to me as my own skin, seem to be changing, growing, and becoming something I hardly recognize.

I remember my earlier revelation and wonder if these changes are indeed due to Cole’s presence in my life. Uneasy, I turn back, only to realize that his eyes are inches from mine, so close I can see little flecks of mahogany and gold amid the brown. Embarrassment heats my cheeks and I step awkwardly out of his arms. Cole clears his throat and hands me a handkerchief. I turn away and wipe my face, as mortified by my reaction to his proximity as I am by my tears. I hand the sodden handkerchief back without meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Are you okay? Did he . . . ?”

I shake my head. “I never even saw who it was.”

“Good.”

I stare in horror at the rip in his sleeve. “Did I get you?”

“No. You came close, though.” He looks at the open knife in his hand and raises an eyebrow. “What type of weapon is this?”

I look down, embarrassed. “It’s a balisong—a fan knife.” Not something a real lady would carry in her purse.

He frowns at it in his palm. The knife has swung open into three hinged pieces: the delicately etched bone covers and the blade itself. “And you have it, why?” His voice is slightly amused but also puzzled, no doubt wondering why a respectable young woman would need such a wicked weapon.

Perhaps because I could never be classified as respectable?

“For protection.” Sensing his curiosity, I take the knife and expertly swing it around in my hands, the ominous clicking of the blade as it hits the handles making Cole’s eyes widen. I give it another twirl before latching it and sticking it back in my purse.

“Where did you get it?”

“Swineguard the Magnificent.” Disbelief creeps over his strong features and I’m suddenly annoyed. “A sword swallower. He gave it to me and taught me how to use it.”

“A sword swallower?” His voice rises, incredulous.

Shame and disappointment sink my stomach and I turn my face away. I remember Swineguard giving me his dessert at the food tent every night, how he worried when I roamed around strange towns by myself, and how he tried not to laugh at my knife-throwing attempts.

I loved Swineguard. Why should I be ashamed of that? Because he wasn’t respectable? Because he worked in a circus and had tattoos covering both arms?

“Shouldn’t we be getting home?” I ask, purposely sidestepping the topic. Someone as proper and formal as Cole wouldn’t understand my circus family.

“Of course.” Cole offers his arm, and once again I find his emotions curiously blocked. Not a jumble like so many others I’ve felt, but simply not there.

“What on earth are you doing out here anyway? This isn’t a safe neighborhood, especially at night.”

Anger prickles across my skin at his words. “I took a walk and got lost,” I tell him.

He frowns. “You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself at night. What was your mother thinking?”

I stop walking and yank my arm out of his. “I was perfectly safe! Until I got lost,” I amended. “Besides, what are
you
doing here if it’s such a bad neighborhood?”

“I had an appointment,” he says shortly.

What kind of appointment could he possibly have in this neighborhood on a Sunday night? But I say nothing.

I put my arm back in his and we resume walking.

Cole clears his throat uncomfortably, and it occurs to me that perhaps I confuse him as much as he does me. “Do you have family in the city?” he asks as if we’re picking up the brief conversation we had in the movie theater.

I shake my head. “I don’t have family, period. It’s just my mother and I.” I wait for the inevitable question and it comes almost immediately.

“What about your father?”

I shrug. “I never knew my father.” Let him think what he wants. I’m certainly not telling him I’m Harry Houdini’s bastard daughter.

“When did you start performing?”

Is he really interested or is he just being polite? I sneak a sideways glance at him. The moonlight softens the planes of his face, making him look younger, less guarded. Suddenly, I want him to understand that being the friend of a sword swallower doesn’t mean I’m a circus sideshow, and that some of those so-called freaks were the nicest people I have ever met.

“I guess I was eight or nine when I first started performing. Before that, I just helped my mother with her séances. In a traveling circus everybody helps out with everything.”

“And how did you help out?” His voice is bemused, and I lift my chin.

“I was the knife girl,” I answer with dignity.

“The knife girl?”

I bristle, annoyed by his amused skepticism. “Yes! The original one ran off with a cowboy in Kansas City, and Swineguard needed someone to throw knives at for the second part of his act.”

“And what was the first part of the act?”

“He swallowed swords for the first part. He was talented and wonderful and I adored him.” I throw this last part out defiantly.

“Except when he was throwing knives at you.”

I laugh in spite of my annoyance. “Even then,” I insist. For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him about the time I was shot out of a cannon but decide against it. He probably already thinks the worst of me. I’m used to being judged for my unorthodox life and I try not to let it bother me much, but somehow, the thought of Cole judging me rankles.

We walk for a few moments in silence before he finally says, “Anna, you have lived a most exciting life.”

My eyes widen. That’s definitely not the reaction I expected. Maybe it was exciting. But I’d give up all the excitement for one day of not worrying about bad managers, law-enforcement officials, and where our next meal was coming from.

“What about you?” Perhaps I could get some answers straight from the horse’s mouth.

“My family lives in Europe.”

“What did they think about you moving here?”

“They know I won’t be here permanently.”

As interested as he was in my life, Cole gives answers about his own grudgingly, offering no extraneous information.

“You know, Europe is a pretty big place. Think you could be more specific?” My nerves are jangling like coins in a tin cup. He now knows more about me than almost anyone besides my mother. He owes me at least the basics about himself. It’s only fair.

To my surprise, he laughs out loud. “I guess that’s fair.”

What is he, a mind reader? “I certainly think so.”

“Very well then. My parents are British, but my father worked for the government, so we traveled a lot. Italy, France, Greece. When I was old enough to go to school, I was placed in a boarding school.”

My mind conjures visions of
Jane Eyre
. “Was it horrible?”

“Not really. At least not until the war. You see, the school was in a little town in western Germany. I heard very little from my parents for four years.”

“That’s terrible!”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t too bad. It was a small boarding school, in a tiny, unimportant town. The war missed us, really. The teachers’ greatest fear was that we older boys would be forced to fight for Germany. I was twelve by the time the war ended and big for my age. The staff would hide us whenever there were rumors of soldiers nearby. The worst part was not knowing how my parents were.”

Something compels me to ask, “And how were they?”

“My mother was fine. My father didn’t survive the war.”

“I’m so sorry.” I glance at him sideways. While his voice is casual, tension firms the already Spartan planes of his face, making him look more reserved than ever. The laughing young man of a few minutes ago is completely gone.

“Were you close?”

He gives a half smile. “As close as you can be when you are sent off to boarding school at a young age. He was a good father. He had integrity and truly believed in his work. I hope to be half the man he was.”

I want to tell him that he seems to be on the right track, but I don’t. Although it feels so intimate walking and talking in the dark, I barely know him. I decide a change of subject is in order. “How do you know Jacques? It wasn’t a coincidence that you were chosen for our show, was it?”

I can see the flush of his cheeks by the light of the streetlamp.

“Er, no. Mr. Darby introduced me to Jacques. After running you down in the hallway, I wanted to meet you properly and asked him to introduce us. I’d expected a formal meeting, not a part in your show. Then I was invited to the séance.”