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Authors: Heather Lyons

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The Collectors' Society 01 (9 page)

BOOK: The Collectors' Society 01
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He’s a peacock. And, thankfully, there isn’t one ounce of attraction toward him to worry about.

“Yes,” I tell him. “We had doctors in both England and Wonderland. Is it an uncommon occurrence?”

Victor’s eyes light up. “No, no, doctors or their ilk are fairly common pretty much everywhere. I was just curious—oh, hell. I’d love to know more about the ones in Wonderland. Did they use magic in their practice? Or were they more akin to those in your England? I—”

“Are you forgetting that this is Alice’s first day?” Mary pats his face. “Or that, just this morning, she was blissfully unaware of the Society or Timelines or nosy doctors who want to grill her when I’m sure she wants nothing more than to sit down and catch her breath?”

He has grace enough to appear sheepishly admonished. A hand rakes through his dark hair, leaving it askew. “Of course. Sorry, Alice. Maybe we can chat about this later.”

“Perhaps,” I allow.

“Did you hear about the security malfunction?” Mary asks.

Victor’s startled. “What security malfunction? As soon as we finished eating, I popped up here for a nap and then got straight to work.”

Mary crosses the hallway to stand next to me. “Wendy insists her system registered an unauthorized passkey attempt at the back elevator, but a review of the footage shows nobody there.”

“What about the alarms?” Victor asks. “I heard nothing.”

“Neither did I. Apparently, only the first floor suffered.”

He scratches his forehead, his dark eyebrows veeing. “Did Brom shit a brick?”

“Brom,” Mary says wryly, “wasn’t informed of the incident until well after Finn investigated.”

“That was probably wise.” Victor shoves his door open wider. “After what happened last time, I’m surprised Finn told him at all. I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

“Finn didn’t. The A.D. did, the little punk.”

Victor glowers. “Fan-fucking-tastic. Tonight, they’ll be cleaning up all the bricks that both Brom and Finn have shit, won’t they?” He ends up shutting the door rather than going farther inside. “I ought to go downstairs and see what’s going on. I’ll let you know what I hear.”

And then he comes over and presses a quick kiss against Mary’s cheek. A hand briefly skirts across my shoulder. “See you around, Alice.”

Once he’s gone, I slide the blue key into the keyhole and turn the ordinary knob.

The flat I’ve been assigned is, well, extremely girlish. I’m talking
little
girlish—to the point its femininity is sickening. The walls are pastel pink, the floors hardwood and peppered with floral rugs. All of the art hanging on the walls is also floral and romantic, and porcelain dolls are found on nearly every surface.

Mary shuts the door behind us. “Don’t mind Victor. Despite his lack of tact, he’s got a good heart. And he’s quite good at what he does.”

My fingers trail across the shining, polished arm of a chair. Even the print on the furniture fabrics is floral. “You mean stealing catalysts?”

I can’t tell if she’s insulted or amused. “Well, that too, but he’s a damn fine doctor. God forbid something goes wrong on an assignment, he’s quite handy to have around.”

I pick up one of the heavily embroidered pillows on a velvet couch. It’s hideous. “Have things gone horribly awry on theses assignments before?”

The pillow says in cursive lettering centered above a tiara:
All Girls Are Princesses
.

“Not everybody appreciates having their belongings stolen,” Mary is saying, “even if it’s done under the noblest of circumstances.”

How true that is. “Some thieves in Wonderland often found themselves without heads.” I toss the pillow back onto the cushions. “At least, those who were caught.”

She drops her purse down onto a small table. “The Queen of Hearts, right?” She pretends to shudder. “How macabre.” And then, more cheerfully, “The housekeepers came in earlier today, so everything is clean.” An arm sweeps in an arc before her, toward a hallway. “There are two bedrooms, one-and-a-half bathrooms, a good-sized kitchen—not that you’ll need it much. Most of us tend to eat in the restaurant on the second floor during dinnertime. Which is six-thirty p.m. sharp, in case you’re wondering.” She smiles. “The chef here at the Society is divine. Communal dining, as weird as it sounds, seems to give us all a chance to catch up, especially if we’ve been gone on assignments or liaisons are in town.”

We wander into a kitchen that looks drastically unlike any I’ve ever seen before. Everything gleams, all sleek metals and white-marble counters, and it makes me think back to my last kitchen and of the smoking stove that was left better unused. “How long do catalyst retrievals typically take?”

She lifts a silver lever and water pours from the faucet. “It depends, really. Some go incredibly fast. Others can take days, weeks. Very rarely, they can take months.” The water is turned off before Mary turns toward an icebox. “They stocked the fridge with some basics. And I believe there’s some tea in one of the cupboards.” Her smile is wistful. “No matter how many years I am out of my Timeline, or work for the Society, the English in me refuses to let go of tea.”

I want to talk about the Society; Mary wants to talk about tea. “How long have you worked here?”

“I’m one of the newer recruits, so . . . Officially ten years. Goodness. Has it really been that long?”

Which must mean there’s precious little turnover.

Minutes later, I’ve toured the entire flat. Mary points out a stack of magazines on a dining table. While there are what she calls basics in the closet in my new bedroom, I’m encouraged to sift through the periodicals and select a new wardrobe to be ordered. Furniture can also be selected, if I do so choose to change what’s already here. “After Sara retired,” she tells me, “her apartment was left pretty much alone so there’d be a furnished place for the next recruit—barring it was a female, of course. But obviously not everybody has Sara’s,” Mary pretends to gag, “personal style preferences. Feel free to change what you want. If you desire the walls painted, just let Brom know and he’ll have a team in here to change things for you.” She picks up a small porcelain doll off of a vanity and grimaces. “I never got why she loved these so much. Or, for that matter, didn’t take them when she left.”

That doll, and all the others littering the apartment, will definitely be the first things to go. “Is the hope that I’ll take this Sara’s place?”

“Haven’t you already?”

“Why did she . . .” I think back to the peculiar word Mary used, the one that indicated she must have been Finn’s old partner. “Retire?”

“Sara is an incredibly sweet girl, the sort that always has a kind word for everyone that she meets. But . . .” she trails off meaningfully.

I’m blunt. “But sweet doesn’t always cut it, not when lives are on the line.”

She’s pleased I’ve caught her drift. “No, it doesn’t.”

The room we’re standing in is soft. A soft decor, as I’ve learned, does not represent a soft personality, though. Sometimes, it can be the delicate lure into insidiousness.

“The Society must not view me as sweet, do they?” I keep my words light, but I’m most keen to see how she responds. “Or is it they just see me as the only in they have to Wonderland?”

“If it’s any consolation,” she says matter-of-factly, “they don’t see me as sweet, either.”

Ah. She chooses to ignore my second question. “Why Mary,” I ask, “were you not a good girl in your book?”

“I was a wretched bitch when I was younger,” she says cheerfully. “And I can still be so as an adult. My filter is close to none. But, let us not be fully defined by what some people scribbled down centuries before, right? Books don’t tell every detail, nor can they fully represent us as living, breathing individuals.”

She doesn’t sound the least bit bitter about her representation, and I respect her for that. “Do you know my story well?”

“I think everyone knows your story well.”

“How was I portrayed?”

Her shrewd eyes study for me a long moment, but I do not cower under their weight. “Does it really matter? Would it change how you see yourself or your experiences? It’s not as if you could go back and alter those words or memories, you know.”

I tell her the truth, one I’d heard enough times that I’ve committed it to memory. “Knowledge is always one of the fiercest of advantages, and can be the difference between failure and achievement of purposes.”

A slim finger taps against her lips as she considers this. And then, finally, plainly, “You pursued the truth, no matter how absurd it may have been.”

I can live with that.

A knock sounds on the door, and for a moment, neither of us do anything. But then Mary says, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

Right. Of course. It’s now my door, after all.

When I turn the knob and open it, I find the beautiful man I’d talked to hours before, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His hair is just a bit wet, his shirt and pants different from earlier. I’m given a smile that very nearly knocks the wind right out of my chest. “I wasn’t sure if you were here or not.”

I’m thrown by this reaction, unnerved that it could even be possible. “And yet you knocked anyway.”

I watch how his lower lip is tugged between his teeth for the briefest of moments, like he’s surprised I’ve said this. Goodness, he’s got a beautiful mouth. “I’m reckless like that. I wanted to see how you were doing, especially after talking to Brom.”

If I’m not mistaken, there’s genuine curiosity and concern in his blue-gray eyes.

“Finn!” Mary calls out from inside the apartment. “Come in and see all the crap Sara left behind.”

When he doesn’t move, it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s waiting for my permission to enter, not hers. And that leaves my stomach lurching, even if by just a tiny bit.

I step to the side. “Please, come in.”

When he passes me, I get a faint whiff of his delicious scent. It’s now tempered with a hint of stronger soap, and if I thought he’d smelled wonderful before, it’s nothing like now.

They want me to work with this man? Oh, God. My determination to keep promises so freshly made to myself quadruples.

All work and no play makes Alice a good girl. Do you want to be a good girl, Alice?

I trail Finn into the sitting room. Mary has the couch filled with porcelain dolls in dresses. “I don’t think I’ve scratched the surface on Sara’s collection.” Her hands fall to her hips. “For all I know, we’ll hear poor Alice screaming in the middle of the night when she trips over one on her way to the kitchen. Or, god forbid, open a cupboard and have it fall out without warning. Christ, just thinking about these things popping up out of nowhere has given me the heebie jeebies. I may have to sleep with the light on tonight.”

Finn peers down at the offending toys. “And to think you grew up in a place that was most likely haunted.”

The sound that comes from Mary is almost audible sunshine. “Not by dolls, it wasn’t.”

“Maybe Alice likes dolls?”

I start at Finn’s use of my name. But then, under the weight of both sets of eyes, I say smoothly, “I’m afraid I’m not much into such things.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re an adult,” Mary says. “Finn, call the A.D. and have him send some boxes up so we can pack away these nightmares-in-waiting.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “And anything else you want gone. I’ll be happy to help, unless you’d prefer to purge solo?”

When Finn tugs out what I think is a cell phone, I ask instead, “Who or what is the A.D.?”

“Oh, sorry. Brom’s assistant—Jack Dawkins? People have called him the Artful Dodger because of his pickpocketing skills. I’d never say it to his face, as his ego is massive, but he’s probably the best thief around. Every so often, one of us has to break into his apartment just to reclaim items he’s nicked from fellow members. Just be warned—he likes booby traps, so there is that. And he’s a bit of a skeevy perv, so you’ll want to watch for that, too.”

“Boxes are on their way up,” Finn tells us.

Mary picks up one of the dolls and shakes it before him. “Why didn’t Sara take these hideous things?”

“I’m positive she took a few.” He takes it from her and stares down at the white face with heavily rouged cheeks. Something passes over his own face, fleeting emotions I can’t quite decode.

“Seriously, though,” Mary is saying. “I don’t get why Sara never quite grew up.”

Finn’s sigh is filled with irritation. “We’re not doing this again, especially as Sara’s not here to defend herself.”

Mary’s a dog with a bone, though. “You’ve always had too many excuses for her. She—”

“Was adequate at her job,” he says. “Not to mention, a genuinely nice person.” And it’s like he’s daring her to say something further, because his eyes harden as he tosses the doll back onto the couch.

This makes Mary laugh. “See?” She nudges my shoulder. “I told you people think I’m a bitch.”

I’m not touching that one. “Could we possibly deliver them to her? Perhaps she’d like them now.” I glance around the flat. “Perhaps she’d like a lot of these things.” All of them, if I’m being honest with myself.

Several seconds of silence pass by before Finn answers me. “Sara’s dead.”

I feel like a fool with her foot in her mouth, even though there was no way for me to know ahead of time. “I’m sorry to hear this. I’d thought she merely retired?”

“What he means is, technically, if you look at the time period she returned to and the one we currently inhabit, yes, Sara has been dead for quite some time now.” Mary plops down in one of the velvet Queen Anne chairs and crosses her legs. “Around a hundred years, give or take.”

I stare down at the dolls, loathing that confusion has been my constant state of mind for nearly the entirety of the day. “I thought you all could time travel?”

Thankfully, this doesn’t amuse her. “We can edit into Timelines at different periods of time—although typically, it’s only for member recruiting. It’s Society policy to stick to the present as we don’t like to mess around with possibly altering events and setting off the Butterfly Effect. Time moves differently in different Timelines, though.”

Frustration over so many unfamiliar phrases and words being uttered is a bitter taste in my mouth. Butterfly Effect? “But surely, if she is a member of the Society, and these were hers in the first place, you could just pop in and give them to her. That couldn’t possibly change the future, would it?”

BOOK: The Collectors' Society 01
13.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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