Born of Deception (8 page)

Calypso is in the lobby when I get back from the theater and greets me with a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you rang me up,” she says, her dark eyes pensive. “I’m worried about Pratik and don’t want to be by myself.”

“I didn’t want to be by myself today either, so I guess it was meant to be. Has anything else happened?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. I just started thinking about his disappearance and then I couldn’t stop. I hardly slept at all.”

I tilt my head. Her normally lively spirit is considerably dimmer and dark circles lie heavy under her eyes. She looks as exhausted as I feel and I link my arm with hers. “You know what my best friend once said? That there is nothing that ails one that can’t be made considerably better by a piece of delectable chocolate cake. Do you know of a handy bakery?”

She gives me a smile. “I knew you would make me feel better. There’s one over by where I live that may have just what we’re looking for.”

Both of us are still dressed for the cold, in wool coats and dark hats, so we simply turn around and head back out. We take the tube to St. Charles stop and I’m amazed at how clean it seems to be compared with New York’s subway. When we emerge, the rain has picked up and we huddle under her large black umbrella watching the water cascade down its sides.

“We’ll have to get you your very own umbrella,” she says. “It’s practically a rite of passage, you know.”

“Yours is plenty big!” I tell her, marveling at its size.

“I have an extra one just like it in my room. We’ll go get it after our cake.” She leads me swiftly down a narrow street flanked by three- and four-story buildings, so close together they almost blot out the sky. These gracious old structures would be architectural wonders anywhere else in the world, but the people here live, fight, give birth, and die in them as if they aren’t anything unusual. I have no time for lollygagging, though, as the street is busy with motorists, and I’m delighted to see a double-decker bus splashing toward us. Calypso waits until it goes by and then once again we risk life and limb by darting across the thoroughfare, dodging traffic. She ignores the number of horns honking at us and steps up onto the sidewalk as if that’s a normal occurrence. Perhaps it is.

She takes me through a narrow door with panes of glass so old they look wavy, and I’m immediately assailed by the warm, yeasty scent of fresh bread. She shuts her umbrella and points me in the direction of one of the empty, chipped café tables in front of the shop. “Go sit and I will order us the best hot chocolate and chocolate cake you have ever tasted.”

I sit at one of the small tables in front of a large bay window that is so steamy from the heat of the ovens in the back that it’s impossible to see through. The bakery is warm and cozy and just perfect for a gray, drizzly afternoon. I slip my coat off my shoulders and take the cup Calypso offers. The chocolate is hot and comforting and I bless the person who made it.

By the time she returns with the cake, I am already feeling much better. She sets the slice between us and hands me a fork. Her hair is plaited loosely in the back with a ribbon, and dark waves frame her face. She still looks tired, but less worried.

I take a sip of my hot chocolate and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the creaminess.

She laughs. “I told you it was good. Try the cake.”

I take a forkful of cake and then nod as a velvety sweetness spreads through my mouth. “You were right. It’s delicious.” We smile at one another and I feel a discernible lightening of the emotions between us.

I’m suddenly curious about this girl who is fast starting to fill the void created after saying good-bye to Cynthia. “I take it you don’t have family here?”

The drop in her mood is so sudden, I look up from the cake, startled.

Her mouth twists. “I do but we’re estranged. My mother is in the States.”

Her expression is closed, and I know I shouldn’t pry but am compelled to ask, “And your father?”

“My father is here in London, but we don’t speak.” Her smile is grim. “I take after him in many ways and he can’t accept the fact that I may be as talented or more talented than he is.”

My eyes widen. “Is he a Sensitive?”

She snorts. “No. He’s an
in
sensitive.”

“Is that why you stay in a boardinghouse?” I’m curious about her life. She’s younger than I am but seems both childish and ageless at the same time.

She nods. “The Society rents rooms for us in a house not too far from their old office. It’s a nice place and it’s ever so much better than staying with my father in the mausoleum.”

She gives an exaggerated shudder.

I frown. “Do all the Sensitives live there? At the boardinghouse?”

She nods.

“Then why was Pratik staying with Mr. Gamel?”

She presses her lips together. “I’m not exactly sure. He didn’t make friends easily.”

She stands and puts on her coat. “Are you finished?”

I nod reluctantly. The thought of going out into the rain doesn’t hold much appeal, but impatience is shooting off her in little sparks. So I crawl into my coat before heading back out into the drizzle.

I follow her through a maze of narrow streets, and traffic becomes scarce. Black umbrellas bob along the sidewalks like a funereal march of mushrooms. The rain has lessened, but one can hear the dripping as if the world is so saturated that it will never dry out. Foreboding runs down my spine, as if someone just walked over my grave.

“Here we are!”

She pulls me up a short walk to a gray stone Georgian building that rises four stories from the street. Black wrought iron decorative bars cover the lower windows, giving it the look of a prison. The black paint on the front door is chipped and the stone steps are pitted. The house itself is flanked by two other row homes done in the same style, but better cared for, giving this one the look of a poor and bitter relation.

Suddenly a feeling of apprehension rushes over me and I stop at the threshold, my limbs sluggish and heavy.

Calypso turns to me. “What’s wrong?”

My tension eases at the sound of her voice. Silly. I’m being silly.

I follow her into the house, chiding myself.
I just need to get used to the ancient atmosphere of London,
I tell myself. Of course, it seems creepy considering how old everything is. And the fog and the wet aren’t helping.

The foyer leads to a wide hallway, with arched doors on either side. “There’s the dining room in there, but most of us don’t eat here much.” She lowers her voice. “The cook is horrible. That’s the lounge.”

Calypso pauses and I poke my head in. Deep leather couches, rows of bookcases, and a large fireplace give the room a cozy feel except for the chill that permeates the entire house. “It would be nice with a fire,” I tell her, and she nods.

“The landlady refuses to pay for either a good cook or any heat that she doesn’t have to. Jared once left a glass of water on the window ledge as an experiment and it was frozen solid the next morning.”

I shiver. It’s hard to imagine what her father’s house is like if this place is better.

“My room is upstairs but let’s go get the umbrella first before I forget it. It’s down in the cellar . . .”

Just then a faint scream comes from deeper within the house. Both Calypso and I freeze.

“Did you hear that?” she asks.

My stomach churns and my legs twitch as if they are going to run me out of the house on their own. Before I can answer, another scream sounds and this time it doesn’t stop.

Calypso whirls around and runs toward the source of the sound, and in spite of legs that want to collapse underneath me, I follow. At the end of the hall she turns in to the kitchen, where an older woman in a long apron stares transfixed at an open door across the room. When she sees Calypso, she points at the door.

We approach cautiously. The screams take on an eerie, keening quality, and my whole body trembles at the sound. It takes every bit of self-control I have to follow Calypso down those rickety steps. As we descend, the dank smell of an ancient basement assaults my nostrils. Fear and a strange sense of suppressed excitement ripple through the air, though I can’t tell if the emotions belong to Calypso or the terrified woman we find still screaming at the bottom. It’s a young woman with dark blond hair. Her face is dead white and her blue eyes are wide with horror. An upturned basket of laundry lies at her feet. I follow her terrified gaze and my stomach lurches at the sight that greets me.

Pratik.

Calypso skids to a stop and her hand goes over her mouth. The woman jumps when she sees us and then, as if released, turns and races up the stairs. I stand frozen, staring.

Pratik is sitting up against an old-fashioned washing machine with his hands lying in his lap, palms upward. Something round and dark like a beetle gleams against one palm, but I can’t tell what it is. His vacant eyes are staring at something horrifying that only he can see and his dark skin is sallow and sunken, as if his essence has been drained. Even from a distance I can tell that his clothes are mussed, as if they had been thrown on hastily. His white turban is nowhere in evidence.

“Is he dead?” Calypso whispers.

I try to speak but no sound comes out. I swallow hard and try again. “Yes.” I know he’s dead without even taking a closer look.

She turns to me then, her eyes glowing coals in a face so white I can see the tracings of veins under her skin. “Can you feel him?” she asks suddenly. “Is his ghost here?”

A thread of curiosity runs through the horror in her voice. I shake my head, suddenly sick to my stomach. “No. It doesn’t work like that.”

She nods as if confirming a suspicion, then turns back to the body. “We need to call Mr. Gamel right away.”

“What?” I can’t keep the incredulousness from my voice. “Don’t we need to call the police?”

She shakes her head. “No. Mr. Gamel first.”

She brushes past me and goes back up the stairs.

I swallow convulsively and grip the stair rail for support. Just a few days ago, that young man was talking to me. I remember the sadness of his smile and wonder if I’ll ever forget the vulnerable look in his eyes.

I can’t help but take one more glance at his body before I follow Calypso up the steps. His eyes aren’t vulnerable now.

Only haunted.

Seven

T
here’s no place left to sit at the table, so people line the walls of the small room of the Society’s headquarters. Cole stands next to me, his hand firmly in mine, as if he wants everyone to know I am under his protection. The connection between us is so tangible and heartfelt; I can feel the depth of his emotions for me. They’re as warm and comforting as a soft blanket wrapped about my shoulders. Is it love? Sometimes I know it is. Other times I’m unsure. Cole isn’t comfortable talking about his feelings and I’m too self-conscious to bring it up on my own.

We’re standing with the other Sensitives—Rose, the young woman who found Pratik’s body; Jared; and Jenny. Calypso hasn’t arrived yet. The board members are at the table, while the rest of the scientists stand at the other side of the table. The tension in the room is so strong my stomach is roiling. Rose is tense and pale after her ordeal. She had gone down to the basement to do her washing and had instead found Pratik. She told me in no uncertain terms that she would tell her story before the Society and then she was done.

After the inquisition by the police yesterday, not to mention having to sleep in the same house where she had found her friend’s body, I don’t blame her.

Leandra sweeps into the room in a chic black afternoon dress with gold embroidery at the neckline and a layered skirt. She’s wearing a black felt helmet hat and her shining blond hair is worn with dashing spit curls on her cheeks. The murmuring in the room pauses for a moment before resuming. She gives me a warm hug. Her concern washes over me, but I still feel that sense of buried darkness. It’s very close to the surface today, like molten lava moving just beneath the earth’s crust. I wonder what would happen if it blew?

“How are you doing?” she asks. “We wanted to come with you last night, but with the bobbies already there, we had to wait until the Yard was informed officially. There would have been too many questions had Harrison just arrived out of the blue. He was there all night.”

I nod. The landlady had called the law before Calypso could call Mr. Gamel. It’s not as if anyone could stop her without raising suspicion. I had been there for several hours, answering questions as well.

Leandra turns to the man who had followed her in. “This is my husband, Harrison. Harrison, this is Cole’s Anna.”

I flush at that and as we shake hands he gives me a smile. He doesn’t look like a detective, but then I’ve never met anyone from Scotland Yard before. He’s not as tall as Cole but almost, with light brown hair and eyes that are as blue as mine. His face glows with a quiet kindness and upon seeing the obvious affection between him and Leandra, I’m a bit abashed by my jealousy of Leandra and Cole. “It’s nice to meet you,” I murmur.

“I see the room is as divided as usual,” Leandra says, looking around.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Harrison says.

“So do you know why the meeting has been called other than the obvious?” Cole asks.

“There are certain details which make this impossible to sweep under the rug,” Harrison says under his breath as Mr. Gamel calls the meeting to order.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors so I wanted to gather everyone together in order to set the story straight and answer any questions you might have.”

“Any questions?” Leandra challenges.

Mr. Gamel smiles in her direction, but I notice he doesn’t meet her eyes. “So nice to see you, Leandra. Your fine wit has been missed.” He turns back to the other board members without answering her. “I am very sorry to have to tell you that a former member of our Society has indeed been found dead under suspicious circumstances. While this is unfortunate, we still do not have enough facts to say with impunity that this has anything to do with us.”

“I beg to differ,” Harrison says before stepping forward, but Mr. Gamel holds up a finger.

“Please let me finish and then we will open the meeting up for comments.”

“Why don’t you let him speak?” Jenny says. “Isn’t he our investigator on the case?”

“I will let him speak. I simply wish to finish my statement, so our official position is clear.”

“How can you have an official position without even consulting us?” Leandra demands.

Mr. Gamel produces a gavel out of nowhere and pounds on the table. “This is exactly what I had hoped to avoid. Our official position is that we will continue with business as usual, but while we are certain Pratik wasn’t killed because of his Sensitivity, we would like to assure our Sensitives of their value by having them all move here. We have a large, fully equipped flat on the upper floor and we would like to open it up to all of you, for your own safety, of course.”

There is an immediate uproar among the Sensitives, and Mr. Gamel pounds on the table to no avail. Suddenly the door slams and most of us jump.

Calypso looks around, her dark eyes alight. “What did I miss?”

No one speaks for a moment. She’s wearing a simple beige dress made of lace with a handkerchief hemline. Silver hoops glisten in her ears and her hair is piled in a messy knot on top of her head. She stands like a Gypsy princess, gazing upon the rest of us as if we were her subjects. I have to hand it to her: She knows how to make an entrance. Her presence is arresting.

“They want to lock us up in the attic,” Jared says.

Bedlam breaks out again, and Calypso shrugs and comes over to where I’m standing. “This is crazy! Don’t you think this is crazy?” she demands, leaning in to kiss my cheek. She notices Leandra and Harrison. “Oh, hello.”

I can tell by the tone of her voice she doesn’t much like Leandra, though the glance she gives Harrison says she doesn’t mind him at all. I almost smile. Even in the middle of a crisis, Calypso finds time to flirt with a handsome man right under his wife’s nose. I can see Cynthia doing the same thing.

Leandra quivers and gives Calypso a contemptuous once-over before turning back to the argument.

If Calypso notices Leandra’s dismissal of her, she gives no sign because her eyes have locked onto Cole next to me. “Cole! Thank you so much for coming over last night. Your presence was such a comfort.” She puts out her hand not to shake but in a way that strongly suggests that he kiss it. To my surprise he lets go of my hand and does exactly that.

“So glad I could be of service,” he says, his cheeks flushing.

My urge to smile fades as Calypso gazes up at him, looking like an exotic rose. Cole stares back at her as if entranced. I feel no power coming off her as I did in the hat shop, but then, as beautiful as she is, she probably doesn’t have to use her powers of suggestion to attract men. Besides, didn’t she tell me she couldn’t influence Sensitives?

I press my lips together in annoyance.

“Anna and I were so grateful for your presence.”

The sound of my name seems to startle him and he drops her hand.

“Order! Order!” More gavel pounding. Once the room is quiet, Mr. Gamel stands. “Of course, we’re not holding anyone prisoner. I just wanted to offer our protection to anyone who doesn’t feel safe.”

“If Jonathon’s disappearance and Pratik’s death aren’t linked and you think it has nothing to do with us, why are you offering your protection?” Jenny asks.

Mr. Gamel shuts his eyes for a minute and I note the dark circles under them. He probably didn’t get much sleep last night either. “I have said it before and I will say it again. Jonathon left of his own accord. Pratik’s death is a tragedy and I have every confidence that Scotland Yard will soon find the perpetrator of that horrible crime.”

“How can you say that Pratik’s Sensitivity or his affiliation with the Society was not a factor in his murder?” Cole asks. His tone is reasonable, but I can sense his suppressed anger. I take his hand again, remembering that he and Pratik were friends.

Mr. Gamel clears his throat. “I’m just saying that a connection has not been established—”

“What would it take for a connection to be established?” Leandra asks, her voice incredulous. “He was taken from your home under suspicious circumstances and found in the basement of a boardinghouse where several Sensitives live. It’s foolhardy to think there isn’t a connection.”

“I am offering protection to anyone who wishes to take advantage of it.” Mr. Gamel is losing his patience and I wonder why he is fighting so hard against a connection between Pratik’s murder and the Society. Like Leandra, I think this is obvious.

“And why should we trust you to protect us?” Leandra continues. “You don’t even allow us the privilege of sitting in on board meetings that concern us.”

“The main thing is that you are all valuable and the work shouldn’t be interrupted,” Mr. Price says. “We should keep to as normal a routine as possible.”

“God forbid the work be interrupted,” Jared says.

Jenny agrees. “It’s not their lives that are in danger.”

Julian Casperson rises. “At this point, I think it would be imprudent to jump to conclusions. We have offered the apartment only for those who don’t feel safe. Harrison? What is your opinion on all this?”

The room quiets and I note that even the board members and the scientist look at Harrison with respect.

“The details of the murder, which I’ll not repeat here, are disturbing. This looks to be a ritualistic murder of some sort of religious cult, either satanic or otherwise.”

I close my eyes for a moment, light-headed, and Cole squeezes my hand. My mind goes back to the afternoon before and I remember the dark, round item in Pratik’s hand.

“Blimey, are you saying poor Pratik was sacrificed?” Mr. Casperson asks.

Harrison shakes his head. “There simply isn’t enough evidence to know.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Price drums his fingers lightly on the table, but his sharp dark eyes are everywhere.

“I can’t comment on that. Cole and I will be looking into this on our own, but as a detective with Scotland Yard, I am unable to comment on the actual investigation. However I can say that under these circumstances, everyone here should be careful. We have no proof the two incidents are linked, but I think it would be foolish to assume they aren’t until we can track Jonathon down.”

Jared frowns. “So you think we should move in here?”

“It’s not up to me to decide that. It’s up to each individual. But I’m moving Leandra and the children out of town until we can find out more.”

I glance at Leandra. From the flat set of her mouth she is none too happy about this news.

Mr. Gamel takes advantage of the lull in conversation to reassert his authority. “So you see, it is up to each of you, but if you do not choose to move to the safety of the apartment, please do not move around the city by yourself too much. Even though I am sure this will be cleared up very soon, I want you all to be vigilant.”

Mr. Price frowns. “I have all the faith in our friend here,” he interjects with a nod toward Harrison, “but perhaps we should bring in an expert in satanic cults to assess the situation?”

“Who did you have in mind?” Mr. Casperson asks.

“Aleister Crowley?” Harrison asks.

“Aleister Crowley’s brand of black magic is not welcome here,” Mr. Price thunders, and I startle.

Calypso jumps at the tone of Mr. Price’s voice and she hugs herself nervously, watching the interchange.

Mr. Gamel waves a hand. “I agree that Mr. Crowley’s presence would only further complicate matters. Surely we have enough people with that sort of expertise that we don’t need to bring in anyone else. And, like I said, I believe this whole matter will be cleared up very soon.”

How could a ritualistic murder be cleared up?
I wonder as people break into tense groups. I glance at my fellow Sensitives. Their concern is palpable.

I turn to Leandra, whose green eyes are flashing. “I wouldn’t move in here,” she tells the others. “Honestly, do you trust these people? And, moreover, if someone is targeting Sensitives, do you really all want to be in the same place?”

She has a point.

Rose shakes her head, a nervous tic in her cheek working. “I’m done,” she announces. “I don’t want any part of this. I’m better at controlling my ability now and I’d rather take my chances on the outside. My fiancé has always wanted me to leave and now seems like the perfect time. I just came to tell the board my story. I don’t owe anyone, even poor Pratik, anything more than that.”

Leandra gives her a hug. “I would leave too, except I want to be here for new people like Anna.” She nods at me and I smile, though if truth be told, I’m not even sure I want to be here.

I look again to where Cole, Jared, and Harrison are being held in thrall by Calypso and I wonder why I hadn’t noticed Cole letting go of my hand again. My stomach clenching, I say good-bye and join him.

He startles and blushes scarlet when I put my hand on his arm. I know how reserved he is around women and I can tell Calypso makes him uncomfortable.

The question is, is it because she’s a woman or is it because he finds her attractive?

Calypso watches us, a smile on her lips. Is she trying to capture Cole’s attention or is this just a part of her nature? I open myself up and am immediately assaulted by so many emotions my mind spins.

I clutch Cole’s arm. The fear in the room is tangible, and I feel white-hot anger as well as dread and panic. I turn my head this way and that, my gorge rising. It’s too much. I try to close myself off, shut myself down, but the waves of emotion are relentless. Cole keeps talking to Calypso and doesn’t seem to notice my distress. The room dims and a red curtain rises behind my eyes.

Why doesn’t Cole notice?

“Anna!”

I hear Leandra’s voice as if it were coming from far away and my knees buckle. Cole catches me before I fall and a chair appears from out of nowhere. I sink into it, grateful for the support. Suddenly someone is touching my face. The fingertips, cool, comforting, move gently across my cheeks and eyelids, and linger on my temples. My heart rate slows and the curtain recedes.

I open my eyes and find myself staring into Jenny’s pale, freckled face. Her eyes are only inches away from mine and it’s her cool hands against my forehead. “Are you all right now?” she asks, her voice as refreshing and soothing as a mountain stream.