A Barricade in Hell (31 page)

Nathan never noticed, never flinched. Unseen and unacknowledged, the spirits eventually wandered away.

Going downtown was difficult enough without watching ghosts flock to him. More spirits of dead soldiers wandered the streets each day, lost and confused. The daily papers were all filled with news of the Great War, while photos of towns shelled and prisoners of war forced to pose for news photographers splashed across the front page. Other photos showed the aftermath of battles, bodies of men and horses strewn across the ground, broken and lifeless.

Ghosts sometimes gathered on the battlefield as well, fuzzy, indistinct images in the background of the photographs that Gabe never saw, but I did. Spirits near enough to the camera were often clear enough to recognize faces. Far too often these men stared at their own lifeless bodies, expressions a mix of shock and puzzlement. I'd stopped reading the papers as a result.

“Dee?” Dora held up a sleek, honey brown mink jacket. “What do you think of this one?”

“The color's very nice.” I stepped closer, grateful to be distracted from my maudlin thoughts. Maybe with enough encouragement, she'd buy this one. “I think that shade compliments your hair and your complexion well enough.”

She held the jacket up under her chin and stood in front of the full-length mirror, peering at her image with a slight frown. The shop owner, a short, square, and balding man named Mr. Hopkins, hovered behind the glass-topped counter, blotting his upper lip with a handkerchief while awaiting her decision. “The color is nice enough. But I'm not at all sure that the yellow tones go well with my skin. You don't think this shade of brown makes me look a bit sallow?”

“Never, Miss Bobet. Your complexion could never be described as sallow.” Mr. Hopkins's face was ashen and his hands trembled, making me fear for his health. Isadora had been nothing but pleasant since we came in, yet he acted more nervous by the minute. The effect Dora had on complete strangers frequently baffled me. “Your friend is right. This mink is the perfect golden brown for you.”

Dora's frown deepened. “The cut is very pretty, I grant you that. I hate to be such a bother, but mink might not be at all right for me this year, no matter what shade. Perhaps I should try something else entirely.” She turned to Mr. Hopkins, all dimples and charm, and smiled. “Do you know what might really be lovely? Chinchilla.”

“Oh. What a marvelous choice.” Mr. Hopkins's manner brightened, and he put away the handkerchief. “Yes, chinchilla would be lovely with your eyes. I have just the coat in the back. One moment.”

He disappeared through an ivory damask curtain into the back room. Dora toured the displays in the showroom, fingering ermine hats and fox fur muffs, and studying a case of pearl necklaces. I sat in a chair near the mirror, resigned to waiting until she'd found the perfect coat.

Mr. Hopkins pushed back through the heavy curtain, a full-length coat over his arm. He smiled and held it open for Isadora to slip into. “Try this, Miss Bobet. I think this might be the perfect coat.”

The showroom lights played over alternating shades of dappled gray fur, so that it appeared as if Dora were donning a shadow. A small smile showed how pleased she was. The coat fell below her knees, softly flared at the bottom and held closed by a single rhinestone button at her throat. A wide shawl collar framed her face, and the sleeves ended in narrow cuffs that seemed tailored for her small wrists. The color did bring out the blue of her eyes.

She preened and twirled in front of the mirror, reminding me a great deal of Sadie. The two of them took the same joy in clothes and turning heads. And I'd little doubt that Dora would turn heads in this coat. She looked stunning.

“I'm totally delighted, Mr. Hopkins. This coat is exactly what I'd hoped to find.” Her reflection in the oval cheval mirror was bright and cheerful in a way I'd not seen since Daniel left. A bit of my perpetual worry for her lifted. “If you'd be kind enough to prepare a bill, we can settle up. I'll wear the coat home.”

The bell over the front door sounded. I saw a broad-shouldered man in a gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a red bow tie reflected in the mirror. He was very tall and had to duck slightly as he came in the shop door to keep from hitting his head. The stranger wore a felt fedora much like Gabe's, but newer and more expensive. I noticed a small black ring on the little finger of his left hand as he removed his hat. His short straw-colored hair was slicked back with pomade.

Mr. Hopkins muttered an apology to Dora and hurried to the counter near the door. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“My employer left a coat here to be mended. I've come to collect it for her.” The man laid his palm on the glass, fingers splayed wide. “You promised the repairs would be finished this evening.”

I pretended to watch Isadora in the mirror, but I was really watching the stranger. There was something vaguely menacing in the stranger's stance and the tone of his voice, and I flinched from looking at him directly. Everything about the way he approached Mr. Hopkins was oddly out of tune with coming to collect a repaired coat.

Still, I didn't fight the compulsion to eavesdrop and not let on. More than mere curiosity prodded me to listen. This stranger hadn't done more than walk into the room, hadn't so much as glanced in my direction, but I was wary of him. That merited paying attention.

“What was the name on the order, sir?” Mr. Hopkins was sweating again, handkerchief balled in one hand, but he stood rock steady behind the counter, order book open before him. “I have quite a few coats and jackets waiting for pickup.”

“The name is Fontaine.”

Dora stiffened, her gaze flying to the man's reflection. She put a trembling hand on my arm, a warning I didn't need. I couldn't say whether she meant to caution me not to turn and stare, or if holding my arm was to keep from doing so herself. She continued to fuss with the drape of the coat, but her smile turned brittle, forced.

I smoothed her coat collar, stealing glances at the stranger in the mirror, and leaned close to whisper. “Who is he?”

She gave me an imploring look and flipped the collar up to cover most of her face. “Not now. We'll talk later.”

“Effie Fontaine.” The tall man glanced toward me and Isadora, but took no further notice of us. “She left a fox coat two days ago. Your girl said the small tear in the lining would be simple to repair.”

Mr. Hopkins ran a finger down his list. “Oh yes, here's the notation. I'll fetch the coat from the back. It won't take but a moment.”

The curtain swayed softly as Mr. Hopkins hurried away. For the moment, he appeared to have forgotten about Dora and me completely, but I couldn't say as I blamed him. Ridding his shop of the tall, rather threatening man at the counter seemed like the wisest and safest course of action for all of us.

I should have known Dora would veer far from the safe and wise. She gripped my arm firmly and steered me to a display of fur hats in the corner of the showroom farthest from the counter. “Stay here, Dee, and ignore anything that goes on. Pretend to be selecting a hat or spend time staring at the paint on the wall. I don't care which you choose, just don't turn around.” Dora glanced over her shoulder. “I don't want him to get a good look at your face. I'll explain later.”

“Isadora Bobet—”

“Do as I ask, Delia.” Her voice hissed in my ear. “I don't have time to explain. Trust me.”

Trusting Dora often required a significant leap of faith, but I did what she asked and stayed put. Angling the small vanity mirror on the display table allowed me to see Dora and not reflect my face into the room. I took a mink cloche from a stand, keeping up the charade of shopping. Running my fingers through silky fur didn't stop my heart from roaring loud in my ears. Something was very wrong here. Dora's silence rendered me even more anxious.

Dora sauntered up to the counter, crowding in next to the man who worked for Effie Fontaine. She smiled her brightest, most guileless smile, confirming that I wouldn't approve of what she planned to do. “Excuse me, but will Mr. Hopkins be much longer?”

The stranger stared down at her, stone-faced and cold at first, but before long the merest hint of a smile appeared and his expression became more cordial. “I hope not, miss. Bringing a coat from the back room shouldn't take too long.”

“No, I suppose not.” Dora leaned against the edge of the counter, a fingertip idly tracing patterns over the smeared mark his hand had left on the glass top. Patterns that looked vaguely like warding glyphs if I concentrated on the way her hand moved, but from across the room, I couldn't be sure. “And please forgive me if this is too forward, but I couldn't help but overhear what you said to Mr. Hopkins. You work for Effie Fontaine? The pacifist lecturer?”

“Miss Fontaine is my employer.” His smile broadened, but if anything, that made me more leery of him. I could imagine a snake's eyes glittering in just that way before swallowing a mouse. “You've heard of her?”

“Of course! She's the talk of San Francisco social circles. Everyone who is anyone knows about her lectures and the work she's doing to keep our boys out of the war.” Dora sighed dramatically. “I've heard so many good things about Miss Fontaine's cause. You must be proud to work for her.”

Dora wielded charm like a battle mace, bashing away until all defenses crumbled. The set of her shoulders, the tilt of her head as she gazed into his eyes, and her coquettish smile were all familiar, and I'd no doubt that Isadora had a legitimate reason for pretending to flirt with him. But there was an edge there as well, and she never stopped tracing patterns on the glass.

She was afraid of this stranger, careful and guarded, but didn't want him to know. That worried me most of all.

His reflection darkened the mirror suddenly, startling me. I wasn't certain what I saw clinging to the stranger like a half-shed skin and looming over Dora: remnants of a haunting spirit, smoky shreds of living shadow, or a manifestation from another plane that I didn't have a name for. Whatever surrounded this man was a part of him, yet separate. Watching it writhe made gooseflesh rise on my skin.

Turning to look at him directly made the shadowy nimbus fade to an indistinct blur clinging to his skin, almost as if this second self knew I watched, and made an attempt to hide. What I saw wasn't a dark aura, but something else entirely. A person's aura was a reflection of their inner self and could be dark or light, but auras didn't vanish viewed head-on. They grew stronger, more distinct. Perhaps the patterns Dora had traced again and again were the key, allowing me to see his true nature.

Glancing at Dora and seeing the way her free hand twisted in the expensive coat assured me that what I'd seen was real. The symbols were meant as protection against that dark, second self dwelling within the stranger. If I recoiled from a reflection, the darkness would hit her ten times stronger. I turned my back and watched them in the mirror again, all the while cursing the fact I didn't know what Dora was doing or how I could help her. All I was certain of was the way my throat tried to close and sweat trickled down my sides.

The stranger cocked his head, still smiling, but now there was a different kind of appraisal in the way he looked at Dora. “Effie does important work, yes, and she's a good, dedicated person to partner with. Have you been able to attend one of her talks yourself?”

Dora laid her hand flat on the counter, grounding herself in the wards she'd drawn. Her smile was the perfect blend of dazzling femme fatale and lost waif. “No, and I'd dearly love to. It seems that each time I try to obtain tickets, they've already sold out.”

“Then it's fortunate that we met. My name is Maximillian Roth. Allow me to remedy your lack of tickets.” He fished in an inside jacket pocket and pulled out a creased and worn-looking envelope. “Is one ticket enough, or will you be bringing your shy friend over there along?”

Her eyes flicked toward me and back to his face. “Would three tickets be too much to ask? My beau has been dying to hear Miss Fontaine speak.”

“By all means, bring your beau.” Mr. Roth laughed, but whatever amused him failed to warm his pale blue eyes. He pulled three rusty red paper tickets from the envelope and held them out to Dora. “Her next talk is Friday night at the Baptist church on Clement Street. The man at the door will know to watch for you and that you and your friends are my guests. You're all invited to the private reception Effie holds afterwards as well.”

“You're much too kind.” Dora tucked the tickets into a coat pocket. “I wonder what's keeping Mr. Hopkins so long?”

The shopkeeper rushed out of the back room as if Dora's question had summoned him. Mr. Hopkins's face was bright red, and crimson blotches ran down his neck.

“I'm so sorry for the delay, sir. The repairs were finished, but the girls hadn't put the coat into a muslin sleeve yet. Getting the stains out without damaging the mink took longer than estimated.” Mr. Hopkins passed over the wrapped coat and quickly stepped back, putting the counter between him and Maximillian. “Miss Fontaine settled the bill when she left the coat.”

“No harm done. Waiting gave me an opportunity to have a pleasant chat with this charming lady.” Maximillian bowed shallowly before donning his hat. “I hope to see you on Friday. I'm looking forward to introducing you to Effie.”

Dora looked him in the eye and offered a hand for him to kiss, a mannerism that lingered from her time in Europe. I so rarely saw her touch strangers that seeing her do so with this man came as a shock.

His smile was rather smug as his lips brushed her knuckles, becoming more so when Isadora didn't let go of his hand.

“I quite enjoyed our conversation as well.” Dora favored him with her most fetching smile and touched the ring on his little finger. “Can I impose on you to answer one last question? My German is a bit rusty. What does the inscription on your ring say?”