The Eternal Ones (26 page)

 

WHEN SHE WOKE, Haven could hear the oars of rowboats dipping into the water. A girl laughed in the distance, and Haven imagined Constance and Ethan skimming across the surface of the lake, their ghostly silhouettes glimmering in the moonlight. She sat up with a jolt when she felt something prodding her side. A beagle was sniffing at her.

“You okay?” its teenage owner inquired. “I was about to call an ambulance.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Haven said, making use of the kid’s outstretched hand to pull herself to her feet. She had to find a way to stop fainting in public. And yet she couldn’t have been happier that the last vision had come. Along with her meeting with Frances Whitman, it was the perfect antidote to the suspicions that had been eating away at her like poison. Frances was right. Ethan would never have murdered Constance. The boy on the boat had been crazy in love. Haven had felt it in the way he’d pulled Constance into his arms. That kind of passion was impossible to fake. When he had kissed her that night on the water, Constance had believed that nothing—least of all another woman—could ever come between them.

 

HAVEN HURRIED BACK to the mews house to find Iain lounging on the sofa, reading the
New York Times
. He peered over the paper at her, smiled, and didn’t ask any questions. He was trying hard to live up to his promise to give Haven her freedom. All of the feelings she’d had for him in Italy rushed back to her at once, and she knelt down on the floor beside the couch and kissed him.

“Don’t you want to know where I’ve been?” she asked playfully, hoping their argument had been forgotten.

“Only if you want to tell me,” Iain said. “Otherwise, your comings and goings are no longer my business.”

“I guess that must mean you’re having me followed?” Haven joked.

“Very amusing. But since you’re in a better mood, I’ll go ahead and ask. What
have
you been doing today?”

She was going to tell him everything. “I went up to Central Park Lake and watched people row boats like we used to.”

“Ah, I was so romantic back then.”

“You still are. Thanks for all the flowers this morning.” She thought of the rose she’d tossed from the window and felt a sharp pang of regret.

“My pleasure.” He kissed her. “I’m sorry I was so hard on you yesterday. I can only imagine how confused you must be. I have to remind myself that you don’t remember everything the way I do. I hope you’ll remember more someday, but in the meantime, will you please
try
to trust me?”

“I will,” Haven promised.

“Good. I just wish I could take you to dinner and seduce you with more stories of our past. But I have plans tonight that I can’t cancel.”

“Anything exciting?” she asked, closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest.

“If you call dinner with your nine-hundred-year-old attorney exciting.”

Haven’s eyes popped open. He was lying again. She didn’t know how, but she knew it.

“What time are you leaving?” she asked. “Maybe I’ll go see a movie.”

Haven slumped down in the back of the taxi and kept one eye on the red door. It was ten past eight. Iain was running late, and the cab’s meter was ticking away. The black Mercedes sat idling at the end of the cobblestone street, spewing a thick cloud of exhaust as it waited for its passenger. Haven was beginning to wonder if she’d missed him—if he’d decided to walk or catch a taxi—when the red door opened and Iain emerged, wearing jeans and a black jacket. Without so much as a glance at the taxi, he ducked into his Mercedes. When it pulled onto Fifth Avenue, Haven’s cab slipped out behind it.

With the sun sinking in the west and lamps across the city illuminating, countless scenes played out behind New York’s windows. People cried and fought and danced in their underwear, all unaware that the world could see them. Anticipating a long ride to the upper reaches of Manhattan, Haven settled back and watched them pass by. But the trip was surprisingly short. The Mercedes turned west on Twenty-first Street and came to a stop in front of a converted auto repair shop, its street front now a single sheet of glass. Haven’s heart plunged. Inside the building, hundreds of people had gathered for a party. They milled about behind the window like creatures in a bizarre zoo exhibition. And not one of them matched the description of a nine-hundred-year-old attorney.

Haven paid her cab driver and watched from the shadows on the other side of the street as Iain wove through the crowd. Each person he passed planted a kiss on his cheek, patted him on the back, or whispered in his ear. Haven realized, her heart hitting the ground with a thud, that this was
his
party. And she hadn’t been invited. With anger driving her on, Haven joined a group of girls flirting with the two men handling the guest list and followed them inside the party.

The building housed an art gallery, and its stark white walls were dotted with paintings. Haven stopped in front of one of the works. The brushstrokes were broad and wild and the colors so vivid they seemed alive. The image showed the ancient city of Rome ablaze. Temples crumbled in the background as tiny citizens fled for their lives. In the foreground, far from the action taking place elsewhere on the canvas, a shadowy figure in black rested casually on one of the hills overlooking the city, watching the chaos in the distance. The figure was no more in height than an inch or two—easy to miss among all the swirling colors.

Slightly shaken, Haven moved along to the next painting. The same man watched from a lifeboat as a passenger ship slipped beneath the ocean’s murky waves. A third showed a grief-stricken blonde eavesdropping on her husband and another woman. She, too, was being observed. There were dozens more paintings. Disasters and tragedies. Scenes of anarchy and upheaval. And hidden in each, somewhere in the foreground, the dark figure was setting it all in motion, like the conductor of a sinister symphony.

 

“WELCOME LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, critics and freeloaders.” Obscured by the crowd, Haven spotted Iain standing on a low stage in the center of the gallery. One of his arms was wrapped around a thin young woman in a black dress shaped like a belted garbage bag. Her eyes, ringed with black liner, peeked out from beneath long, dark bangs. Under the harsh gallery lights, her skin was whiter than the walls, and she looked like the victim of an old-fashioned wasting disease. Haven was surprised the girl was able to stand—and even more surprised to see her bright red mouth stretch into a Joker-like smile.

“Thank you for coming to the opening of Marta Vega’s new show, ‘Agent of Entropy,’” Iain continued. “As you all know, I’m a big fan of Marta’s work, and I’m honored to have the opportunity to give these remarkable paintings a temporary home in my late father’s gallery. Eventually, I hope that some of them will find a permanent place in my living room. That is, if my pockets prove deep enough.” The crowd tittered knowingly. “So enjoy yourselves, enjoy the art, and most of all, enjoy the free booze. Thank you.”

Iain left the stage with his arm around Marta Vega and made a beeline for the bar. Haven slipped out of their path and around a corner where she watched them ordering drinks and whispering to each other for all to see. Haven could imagine what the other guests were saying. Jeremy Johns’s body had been discovered only two days earlier. Now here they were—the suspect and the motive. The pair had no shame being seen together while Jeremy Johns was still lying on the coroner’s slab.

Haven glared at Iain’s hand as it brushed across the girl’s pale skin, left bare by a deep scoop in the back of her dress. It was hard to believe the same hand belonged to the person she’d known in Rome. But Haven knew the truth had a way of slithering out when it thought she wasn’t watching. Once again she was seeing the real Iain Morrow. And the real Iain Morrow—the one who graced the gossip columns and posed for paparazzi—was a liar and a womanizer.

 

“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Haven was startled by the sound of the woman’s voice. Just to her right, with little more than a column between them and Haven, a couple stood studying one of Marta Vega’s paintings. The photo on the OS Website hadn’t captured Padma Singh’s beauty. In person, the Society’s president was stunning, with violet eyes, thick black hair that cascaded around her shoulders, and the body of a succubus. While most of the males in the room ogled Padma, Haven’s eyes were drawn to the woman’s companion—a dapper young man in a perfectly cut suit. With a pair of chunky black glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, Adam Rosier was barely recognizable. Before the two had a chance to see her, Haven slid behind the column and out of view.

“The quality of her art has eroded,” she heard Adam confide in his newscaster voice. “The brushwork is sloppy, the colors are nauseating, and everything else is depressingly primitive.”

“And the subject matter?” Padma inquired with a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“The subject matter is the only interesting part of the whole mess,” Rosier stated. “But her choice makes it abundantly clear that the drugs are eating away at her mind.”

“Yes, Marta’s work has grown quite
provocative
, hasn’t it?” Padma agreed. “Perhaps we should ask her to explain her inspiration.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m not even certain she knows. But this show must close before it becomes an embarrassment. Whatever money is being spent on the gallery can be put to better use.”

Adam had the power to close down Marta Vega’s show? Haven’s heart raced. Her instincts had been right for once—Adam was someone important. Her curiosity craved another glimpse of his face, but Haven knew she shouldn’t take the risk.

“It’s Iain Morrow’s money,” Haven heard Padma inform Adam. “The Society didn’t pay for any of this.”

“Then perhaps we should consider cutting ties with Mr. Morrow as well,” Adam replied bluntly. “I’m afraid he’s made quite a mess of things.”

“He has—but do we need to be so hard on him, Adam?” Padma’s tone was suddenly sugary. “I still consider Iain an asset to the Society.”

Haven couldn’t resist any longer. She peeked around the column and saw Rosier turn on the woman with a smile that was almost cruel.

“You’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face, haven’t you, Padma?”

Padma flinched. “It’s not like that this time. I’d just rather not act too hastily where Iain is concerned. I know he’s responsible for sponsoring this show, but don’t you think we should give him a chance to clean up the mess he’s made?” She posed the question carefully, as if frightened of what the response might be. “He’s always asking for ways to earn more points.”

Rosier appeared to ponder the suggestion. “Do you really think Iain would go to such lengths to remain a part of the OS?”

“Yes,” Padma confirmed, looking relieved. “I’m sure that he would.”

“Then let’s not waste any time,” Rosier said.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Padma promised.

As the duo glided along to the next painting, Haven hung back. Iain had emerged from the crowd to greet Padma. Haven couldn’t hear what he was saying over the chatter of the other guests, but she saw him offer his arm to the president of the OS. Haven ducked behind the column just as the two began to saunter back in her direction. She looked around and found she was trapped in a corner of the gallery. The only possibility of escape was a fire exit with a high-tech alarm above the door. It would make a terrible racket, and perhaps even draw the fire department, but it was Haven’s only chance. She barged her way through the crowd and pushed at the door, bracing her ears for the alarm. It swung open silently and closed with a thump as Haven stumbled out into an alley.

“Hey, did you let that shut all the way?” The question came from a cloud of smoke to the left of the fire exit. A girl stepped out of it, her pale skin glowing unnaturally beneath the security lights. It was Marta Vega. “I had it propped open so I could get back inside.”

“Sorry.” Haven checked to see if the door had locked. The last thing she needed was to be stuck in an alley with Iain’s other girlfriend.

“It’s all right,” Marta told her when the door wouldn’t budge. “They’ll probably come find me. If not, I’ll just climb the fence. Do you need a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke,” Haven said.

“Then why are you out here?” Marta asked.

“I’m avoiding my boyfriend. He’s here with another girl.” Haven couldn’t summon the spite to say any more.

“Ah,” said Marta. “That sucks.”

“No joke,” Haven agreed. “Why are
you
outside? Isn’t this supposed to be your party?”

“Yep. Wasn’t my idea, though. I’d rather not be here at all. The whole show’s going to flop.”

“Why do you say that?
I
like your work,” Haven said.

“You do?” The girl looked up, curious. “Really?” She seemed so genuinely surprised that Haven felt a stab of pity.

“Sure
.
I’m a big fan of dark and disturbing. I noticed the man hidden in all of them. The one who’s making everything go down. Who is he supposed to be?”

“You noticed him?” Again, the ruby red mouth stretched into an unhinged smile. The sleeve of Marta’s dress fell past her elbow as she took a long puff from her cigarette. Beneath a silver armlet in the shape of a snake, the girl’s emaciated arm was covered with bruises and track marks.

“Of course.”

“You must be special. Most people don’t. They look right past him. Anyway, he’s not really a man. He’s more like a force of nature. Chaos. Entropy. It doesn’t matter what you call him, ’cause he doesn’t have a name. He’s the reason that things fall apart.”