The Eternal Ones (23 page)

“I don’t have much of a choice right now, Beau. I have to figure out why I’m here. Maybe I’m not supposed to ride off into the sunset with Iain Morrow. But Constance wanted me in New York for some reason. And she wanted me to find Ethan. I can’t just go running back to Snope City when things get a little weird.”

“Spoken like someone who’s been driven insane by good sex.”

“Beau! Shut
up
!”

“Sorry,” the boy said, trying to control his laughter. “I can’t help myself. But seriously . . . did you find out anything from the people at the Ouroboros Society?”

“I haven’t been there yet.”

“
What
?” Beau practically yelled. “That’s one of the reasons you went to New York in the first place. Why haven’t you gone to see them?”

“I
told you
I just got back from Rome.”

“Well, get your butt over there right now. Maybe they can help you figure out whether lover boy is really dangerous.”

“You’re right,” Haven said.

“Of
course
I’m right. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help. And promise me you’ll try to be careful, okay?”

“I promise.” She was about to put the phone away when she heard a tiny voice shouting back at her.

“Hey, Haven!”

“What?”

“I almost forgot. Leah Frizzell stopped by the house yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“She said to tell you that there’s someone like you up there. Someone else who has visions. Leah wants you to keep an eye out for her. She says the girl will show you the truth.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Who the hell knows?” Beau said. “I never said I spoke crazy. Look, my dad’s hollering for me. I gotta go. Call me when you get back from the OS.”

“Hey Beau!” Haven yelled before he could hang up.

“What now?”

“I really wish you were here,” Haven told him.

Haven found herself in a quiet, leafy square a block away from bustling Park Avenue South. In the center of the square, a tall, wrought-iron fence enclosed a lush and lovely park. The statue of a melancholy man with his head bowed in thought seemed to hover above the greenery. Two people strolled the gravel paths beneath the statue, speaking in hushed tones. Haven watched as a small boy tried to push the park’s gate open, only to find it locked. He stood for a moment with his fingers wrapped around iron bars, gazing into the secret world in the center of Manhattan.

Among the mansions that lined the south side of the square stood an old brownstone with a wide balcony that faced the park. Thick green vines crawled up the front of the building, clinging to the balcony, creeping across windowsills and dangling over the front door. The house seemed abandoned—like the scene of a grisly crime, now inhabited only by ghosts. Haven knew at once that it was the mansion from her visions—formerly the Strickland family home and currently the headquarters of the Ouroboros Society. As she climbed the stoop to the entrance, memories of meetings, celebrations—even funerals—flashed like a slide show in her head. The images stopped as soon as she opened the door. The interior of the building had been completely renovated. It was now airy and modern—nothing at all like the wood-paneled mansion she remembered. Haven instantly felt cold. She would have sworn that she’d never been there before. The mansion was as sterile and lifeless as a computer-chip factory, and a voice in Haven’s head was begging her to leave.

A few yards from the door, a receptionist sat at a steel and glass desk. The beige leather chairs in the waiting area were crammed with little children and their parents. The adults were filling out questionnaires as the children read books or played video games. Haven noticed one small girl with a copy of Dante’s
Divine Comedy
lying open on her lap.

“May I help you?” the young man at the front desk asked politely. With his perfectly combed hair, black glasses, and white shirt, he looked as though he’d been sculpted out of plastic.

“Hi there.” Haven couldn’t pull her eyes away from the crowd of visitors in the lobby. “Are
all
of these people members of the Society?” she asked softly.

“Certainly not,” the receptionist replied with all the emotion of an automated recording. “Parents bring their offspring in for past-life analysis. But most of these children merely watch too much television. Only a tiny percentage will ever be offered a membership. Now. May I help you?”

“Yes,” Haven said, recalling her task. “I’d like to make an appointment with Ms. Singh, the president of your Society.”

The receptionist looked caught off guard, as if Haven had asked for an audience with the queen. “And you are?”

“My name is Haven Moore.”

The receptionist blinked twice. “Ms. Singh is out of the office,” he informed her. “But I expect her back at any minute. If you would like to take a seat, she may be able to see you when she returns.”

“That’s okay,” Haven said, eager to make her escape. “I’ll come back later.”

“Oh no, I
insist
,” the young man said, pointing to the one empty seat in the reception area.

 

AN OS EMPLOYEE called out a pair of names, and two identical little boys hopped out of their seats next to Haven in the waiting room. The boys’ mother was too engrossed in her book to notice that her sons had disappeared or that they’d left three empty juice boxes behind on the floor.

“Is this seat taken?” A young man in jeans and a crisp blue shirt pointed at one of the newly empty chairs. He was older than Haven, though by how much she couldn’t say. And he was handsome—like a catalog model or an actor in a TV ad. Still, his features left little impression. If she had closed her eyes, she might have remembered his dark hair and eyes, but she doubted she’d be able to conjure his face.

“No.” She smiled. “It’s all yours.”

He sat down and she offered him her hand, which he held for perhaps a beat too long. “I’m Adam Rosier.” The young man had the deep, resonant voice of a newscaster. She suspected his accent wasn’t American, but Haven could detect no actual trace of its origins.

“Haven Moore.”

“Haven.” It was as if he were committing the name to memory. “Would this be your first visit to the OS?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Is it yours?”

Adam’s smile was slow and indulgent. “No, I’ve been a member for quite a while. It’s a wonderful organization. Are you here for an evaluation?”

“Actually, I’m waiting to speak with Ms. Singh,” Haven explained. “The receptionist said she might have time to meet with me today.”

“I see. Then I assume you’ve remembered a previous existence.” He made a brief show of looking her over. “You were someone quite interesting,” he concluded. “I can always tell.”

Haven leaned toward him and dropped her voice a little. “I think I may have been a member of the Ouroboros Society in its early days. I was hoping Ms. Singh might be able to help me fill in some of the gaps in my memory.”

“How fascinating. I’ve always been interested in the history of the Society. Do you remember any of the people you might have known back then?”

“A few,” she said.

“So is that what brought you all the way from Tennessee? Are you searching for someone special from your past?”

Haven leaned back, and her fingers dug into the arms of her chair. “Did I mention I’m from Tennessee?”

Adam laughed, and Haven’s anxiety vanished. “No, I’m just good at placing accents. It’s a talent. Everyone around here has an unusual gift or two. You grew up in the mountains, am I correct?”

“You’re right,” Haven marveled. “I’m impressed!”

“Have you been in the city for long?”

“No, I just got here.”

“You just got here,” Adam repeated, as though trying to make sense of the phrase. “And where are you staying—if you don’t mind my asking?”

“With a friend.” Haven didn’t feel comfortable revealing much more.

“I see.” Adam smiled again. “Well, if you wear out your welcome, the Society has rooms for rent. They’re quite tasteful and remarkably affordable.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that—”

“Miss Moore?” The receptionist was hovering above her. “I’m afraid Ms. Singh just called in. She won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Would you care to make an appointment?”

Haven was relieved she wouldn’t need to stay any longer. The building’s frigid atmosphere was already beginning to seep into her bones, and she longed to be back outside beneath the summer sun. “I guess so.”

“How about Monday at eleven? Unfortunately, that’s the earliest time I have. As you can see, we’re rather busy.”

“Monday’s perfect.”

“Thank you, Miss Moore.” The receptionist closed his old-fashioned appointment book and offered a patronizing smile. “We’ll see you next week.”

Haven stood up, and Adam Rosier rose with her. “It was nice to meet you,” she told him.

“A pleasure,” he confirmed. “You know, Haven, if you’re interested in doing a little research on your own, the Gramercy Park Historical Society is only two buildings away. They have quite a few documents from the early days of the OS. You might be able find some of the information you’re looking for there.”

“Thank you. I’ll check it out,” Haven said, unsettled by the way his eyes never moved from her face. It was both flattering and frightening to be the object of such scrutiny.

“I hope to see you on your next visit to the Society,” Adam told her. “I’m often here. Perhaps we can have a cup of coffee? I could tell you more about us. I might even be able to convince you to join the OS.”

He had the cool confidence of someone whom others rarely refused. There was an unexpected air of power about him as if he were a prince disguised as a commoner or a god masquerading as a mortal.

“Sure,” Haven was surprised to hear herself say. “Next time.”

Outside the Ouroboros Society, the sidewalks were empty. A bright glint of light directed Haven’s eyes toward the windows of an apartment across the park. She thought she detected the outline of a figure standing in a dark room, surveying the square below. Haven quickened her stride, and within seconds she was bounding up the stairs of a redbrick mansion just steps from the OS. Inside the building’s front parlor was the office of the Gramercy Park Historical Society. Haven approached a tiny woman with horn-rimmed glasses who was attacking the room’s surfaces with a feather duster, stirring up clouds of motes that settled as soon as her back was turned. All around her the walls were crowded with nineteenth-century photos of the buildings that surrounded the park. Blurry figures swept along the sidewalks—the ghosts of pedestrians moving too quickly to be captured by the cameras of the day.

The woman in the office froze when she spied her guest, her duster poised inches from a bust of Stanford White. “Are you Haven Moore?” the woman inquired.

“I am.”

“I’m the librarian. The OS just called and asked me to set that aside for you.” The woman pointed to a large box on a nearby chair. “It’s everything we have on the early years of the organization.”

“But I only left there a minute ago.” Haven was taken aback. “How did you find it all so quickly?”

“You’re not the first person sent over by the OS,” the woman noted, setting down her duster. Her movements were precise, economical. “I keep all the materials together so they’re ready when needed. The reading room is on the second floor. Come along, I’ll show you.”

Haven followed the woman up a single set of stairs. A red velvet rope on the landing blocked access to the mansion’s upper floors while a door opened into an enormous reading room. Inside, the shades were pulled and the space was dimly lit by four small lamps clustered in the center of a long, ornate table. The air was cool and smelled of dust and decay. Shelves of books circled the room, and several small statues stood atop them. The faces of men long dead and forgotten stared down at the girl who had invaded their domain. If the building wasn’t haunted, it was missing a good opportunity, Haven thought.

“Is it usually so empty this time of day?” she asked the woman as she slid the box onto a table in a corner.

“Empty?” The woman glanced around the room. “Yes, I suppose it is, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll have company soon enough. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you,” she added as she bustled toward the stairs.

Haven opened the box to find a few books and a half-dozen document cases. But the first item she pulled out was an old scrapbook, its black cover brittle and crumbling. Yellowing newspaper articles had been affixed to the book’s pages. Most appeared to be from either the
New York Daily News
or the
New York Daily Mirror.
To Haven’s astonishment, the articles focused on Ethan Evans, and all the photos that accompanied them had managed to capture him scowling or sneering. Haven skimmed the headlines.

 

AUGUST STRICKLAND DEAD AT 65, PROTÉGÉ NAMED HEIR

EVIDENCE POINTS TO MURDER IN STRICKLAND CASE

EVANS QUESTIONED IN PHILANTHROPIST’S DEATH

EVANS LOVE TRIANGLE MAY HAVE LED TO MURDER

SUSPECT IN STRICKLAND MURDER PERISHES IN FIRE

NEW LEADERSHIP AT STRICKLAND’S OS

EVANS’S MISTRESS COLLAPSES AT FUNERAL

 

She paused at the last article. The grainy picture beneath the headline showed a young woman with dark hair being supported by a figure whose head had been severed when the photo was cropped. Though the girl wore a veil, Haven could see her tear-soaked face well enough to identify her. It was Rebecca. The surge of hatred and jealousy that coursed through Haven’s system came as a complete surprise.