Born of Illusion (18 page)

Yes it did,
whispers a small, traitorous voice.

“I guess I should be going as well. It’s getting late,” he says with a stiff little nod.

He tries to brush past me, but I step in front of him and plant my hands on my hips. Now that I want to talk to him, he’s in a hurry to leave? We’ll see about that. “Wait, I thought we were going to . . .”

He presses a finger to my lips and I freeze, all my nerve endings suddenly focused on the heat being generated from that simple touch. Our eyes meet. The anger in his gaze ebbs and the corners of his mouth tilt up ever so slightly. He motions with his head toward the silent kitchen.

“Tomorrow,” he mouths, taking his finger from my lips. I press them together, missing the heat.

“Good night, Anna,” he says simply, and walks out the doorway.

I give myself a mental shake. Fine, but tomorrow I want answers.

“So what do you think of Mrs. Lindsay?” Mother asks as I enter into the kitchen. “The nerve of that woman! I detest skeptics. They’re such sneaky liars.”

I hide a smile. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. “I don’t think she was a skeptic, Mother. I think she was another medium.”

My mother narrows her eyes. “That makes sense. I’ll have a word with Jacques. We’re going to need better information on our clients from here on out. It’s getting too risky.” She pulls the mask out of her sleeve and lays the key to the handcuffs on the table. “So what happened out here anyway?”

I’m ready for the question and answer without hesitation. “I tripped the cord. Mrs. Lindsay looked like she was going to attack you, so I kicked it with my foot. Sorry to make such a mess, but at least you were able to get back into the cabinet safely.”

I see her mental guesswork as she tries to remember where I was when it happened, but I know the mask grants limited visibility and it was very dark in the room.

“Sorry about the lamp,” I say sincerely.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Jacques will buy me a new one if I ask.”

I frown. I hate being dependent on someone I don’t trust.

Mother turns toward me, her face so innocent that I stiffen in preparation.

“So, you and Owen?”

I sigh. “Me and Owen, what?”

“Well, you’re going dancing with him Friday, aren’t you? Do you like him?”

I shrug, thinking it’s a little late for coy mother-daughter talks. When you make your daughter help you cheat people out of money for a living, you forfeit your right to teach her life lessons.

“You’ll have fun,” she says.

“Why did you invite Cole tonight?” I keep my voice casual.

She busies herself with wiping down an already clean counter. “I wanted you to have choices.”

I sense she wants to discuss it further and hesitate. Do I really want to know what’s on her mind? Part of my survival has always included not dwelling too deeply on my mother’s motivations. So I give the pretense of a giant yawn and edge toward my bedroom. “I’m really tired. I think I’m going to call it a night.”

For a moment, I think I see a look of disappointment flash across her face but then she smiles. “Good night then, darling. Sleep tight.”

She leans toward me and I dutifully kiss her cheek.

“Good night, Mother.”

I wonder about that look as I head off for bed. Is she really disappointed that I won’t confide my thoughts and dreams to her? Did I just miss an opportunity to get closer to my mother? Or was it an act? It’s impossible to tell.

The weight of my clothes is dragging me down. I can’t breathe. Mama. I have to help her. My lungs are burning for air. She’s screaming my name. I can’t breathe. I’m so sorry.

I awake soaked with sweat, my legs caught up in a tangle of blankets. I kick them off and listen. Nothing. I check on my mother, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal. After getting a drink of water from the kitchen, I return to my bedroom, my mind racing. Why is this happening? Is it real? I slip back into bed and pull the blankets up to my chin.

Fear sits on my chest like a heavy cat, staring me in the eye. Walter, the visions, someone stalking me . . . I wish there were someone I could talk to. Someone who understands. Someone who could help. I curl up in a tight fetal position and pull the blankets over my head.

I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

I wake hours later, gratified to see the sun shining through the window. Fear has little toehold on sunny days. This morning, I talk to Cole.

I wash quickly, taking more care than usual with my appearance. The memory of Cole’s finger on my lips has me changing my hat three times, even though I call myself all sorts of silly names for doing it. Nerves bounce around in my stomach like a juggler with bowling pins—as much from the prospect of seeing Cole again as from what I might learn from him. Because I know what I felt last night when the tendrils of his emotions wove their way across the table to me. He can do what I do.

I rouge my lips and then, dissatisfied, wipe off the makeup. I’m not flashy or mysterious. Staring at myself in the mirror, I wonder what other people see. “A beautiful young woman,” Owen had called me. Does Cole think I’m beautiful, too? Living with my mother, who turns heads as she walks down the street, it’s difficult to know.

Unlike my mother, who transforms herself, depending on her mood, I always look the same—serious and thoughtful—no matter what I’m wearing or how I do my makeup. Today, I’m wearing black silk stockings, a dark blue wool dress, and my dark surplice coat. The hat I finally decide on is a new black cloche with a beaded flower on one side. I look smart and modern, but in no way bewitching. Impatiently, I turn away from my reflection and gather up my things.

I head downstairs and pause before the door. Should I knock? Just ask Mr. Darby if I could talk to Cole? What would a respectable girl do?

I’m saved from having to figure it out when the door opens and Cole slips out.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

We stare at each other for a moment before he gestures toward the door. The sun may be shining, but the air is crackling with cold and I pull on my soft leather gloves.

“Would you like to go to Child’s for waffles?” he asks, offering me his arm.

I nod, and we walk in silence to the elevated train stop. Men in their dark suits and bowler hats are hurrying to and fro. Women, mostly office workers, are rushing to get to the office in order to make the first pot of coffee.

The El is crowded, but Cole and I push our way on like true New Yorkers. We can’t talk here, but he gives me a reassuring smile as I cling to the strap hanging from the roof. He’s pressed so close against me that I can smell the clean scent of his soap underneath the stench of body odor, perfume, and cigarettes coming from the other passengers. My head reaches his chest and my gaze travels up to where the collar of his white shirt meets the dip in his throat. I stare at it, transfixed, wondering what it would be like to press my lips precisely there. My face flushes hot and my throat gets dry. I’ve never felt so shaky or confused in my entire life.

So I pick his pocket.

I don’t mean to do it. I haven’t done it in ages—not since I was eleven or twelve and we needed cash for a fast train out of town. But standing so close to him and feeling so strange, I can’t help myself. I figure I’ll just pass it off as a joke and hand him back his wallet or keys or whatever it is I come up with. A quip about the dangers of a crowded train and it would be over. But the minute my fingers curl around an envelope, my mind flashes to that loopy, feminine writing on the letter addressed to Cole on Mr. Darby’s desk and I know I won’t be giving it back. I slip the envelope into my pocket, my cheeks burning.

Cole looks down, his expression puzzled. I give him a half smile and drop my eyes, sure guilt is written on my face. I’d forgotten that he may be able to read me as well as I read others.

At Child’s, the cheery blue awning and the waffle maker in the window welcome us, but I’m too impatient for answers to appreciate any of it. I bite my tongue and wait for Cole to speak, but he seems in no hurry, so I watch as he butters his waffles, then pours a great deal of syrup over the top. He digs in and I wait for a moment before cutting into mine. Though they smell delicious, my stomach is too knotted for me to eat.

“Are the waffles not to your liking?”

That damned formal tone again. Taking a deep breath, I put down my fork and simply stare at him. He stares right back at me.

“I wish . . .” He stops and his mouth draws into a straight line.

I lean forward, my heart swelling. “What do you wish?”

His lips curve slightly at the corners. “I wish we had met under different circumstances. That I didn’t have to try to explain.” He shakes his head as if impatient with himself.

“But you haven’t explained anything!”

“I know. I’m terrible at this. I just never imagined it would be you.”

He’s talking in circles and looks as if he wishes a hole would open and swallow him up. “I don’t understand.”

“I wish we were just out having breakfast together, without all the rest of it.” The words come out in a rush.

I gape for a moment before sitting up straight. “You’re shy!”

Cole glances away. “I guess. A bit. At least around women. In my defense, it
was
an all-boys boarding school.”

It makes so much sense now. The formality. Being uncomfortable around my mother. My chest tightens as my heart grows tender and bruised for him. Then I remember my reason for being here.

Answers.

“I think I know what you’re trying to say,” I say carefully, as if navigating through shards of glass. “But I really need to know what’s going on. I need you to explain the rest of it.”

Cole looks down at his hands. They’re strong hands with tapered fingers and short fingernails. I remember the way his finger felt on my lips.

“I know what you are.”

My eyes jerk back up to his face.

“At least what I think you are.”

I bite my lip and drop my eyes. “What? A girl? A magician?” I don’t say a fraud, but the word hangs between us, bright and deadly.

“No, a Sensitive.”

The word
fraud
falls, with a plop, into the syrup.

“A what?”

“A Sensitive. Someone with psychical powers.”

I bite my lip and glance away, afraid of what he might see in my eyes. “Really?” I say faintly. “And what kind of powers do you think I have?”

“I know you feel other people’s emotions. I also know you can speak to the dead, though whether that’s something you can do on your own or just with me, I’m not sure. You said you’ve never done it before?”

I shake my head before what he’s said sinks in. “Wait. What do you mean, just with you?”

He glances away. “I’m a Sensitive too. Well, not really. I’m more like a conduit. My abilities make yours stronger. I can even mimic them as long as I’m with you.”

My mind whirls and my heart thuds painfully against my chest. The restaurant tilts and wavers before righting itself and I cling to the edge of the table. “So that explains Walter.”

He nods and looks down at his hands. “I’m not sure if it would have happened anyway or if my presence made your abilities that much stronger. That’s why I wanted to talk to you so badly last night. I’m sorry I waited so long.”

I close my eyes for a moment, the feeling of Walter using my body so strong that I almost gag.

“Anna, I know. I didn’t mean for that to happen. And I did stop it, once I realized . . .”

“When you grabbed my hand.”

He nods. “I have the ability to block, or stop, the powers. Remember at the movie theater? When you felt that poor woman’s emotions? As soon as I knew what was happening, I stopped it, but then I got interested in the movie and it slipped past me again.”

So I was right. It was Cole’s presence that was changing my abilities. My stomach churns and I take a sip of hot coffee to settle it. The mug is thick and comforting. I wrap my hands around it and take another sip. All around us is the buzz of conversation but nothing can drown out the buzz of anxiety and hope ringing in my ears.

“You can, um, control it?”

“Yes, but it takes time. It takes longer for some people to learn than it does for others.”

My heart stops. For a moment, I can’t breathe or move. Finally, I look into Cole’s eyes, which are edged with worry and something else I can’t identify.

“There are others?” I whisper.

He looks away. “Yes.”

I’m not alone
.

Relief, sweet and liberating, overwhelms me and I slump back in my chair. There were times growing up when I thought I was a lunatic, imagining things. But all along, there were others. It’s not that I haven’t suspected it. There are too many books on the subject of psychical phenomena to be a coincidence, but to have it actually confirmed. . . .

“Who?” My voice comes from a lost, lonely place deep inside.