The Eternal Ones (36 page)

On the other side of the street, a hunched-up woman disappeared through the doors of a Catholic church. After a quick search for men in suits or gray sedans with tinted windows, Haven scampered in behind her.

Lit only by the weak evening sunlight that filtered through the stained-glass windows and the candles that flickered in the nave, the church was cool and dark. Five bodies peopled the pews, each of them female and all of them old. Haven chose a seat in the deepest shadows and lowered her head in prayer. Haven’s grandmother never missed a chance to bad-mouth a Catholic, and had she seen the girl praying among the ancient Italian ladies, she would have disowned her in a heartbeat. But Haven doubted God shared many of Imogene’s opinions. As far as Haven was concerned, there was too much evil in the world to take issue with anyone who was trying to do the right thing.

When Haven lifted her head again, her eyes landed on a stained-glass window that showed Saint Michael battling a winged Satan. She recalled Leah Frizzell’s first warning, and she knew the girl had been right. The devil
was
in New York. August Strickland’s Society had been transformed into a den of drug dealers and murderers. And there was no longer any doubt that Iain was involved. Haven wished it weren’t true. Deep down, she still wanted nothing more than to wake up one morning in the little apartment overlooking the Piazza Navona. But now there was no more hope of that happening. After what she’d heard at the Café Marat, returning to Iain would not only be wrong, it would probably cost her her life.

But Haven knew her heartbreak was nothing compared to what Marta Vega had suffered. The poor girl—murdered by someone she had once considered her friend. Now only the paparazzi seemed interested in finding the killer. How many other disappearances had gone uninvestigated? How many murders had Padma Singh ordered? Dozens? Hundreds? There seemed to be no one able to stop her. Except—

A tall, dark figure emerged from the back of Haven’s mind as if he’d been waiting there all along. Adam Rosier. He’d told her to find him if she needed help. Haven had never expected to take him up on the offer, but now she knew that she must. Adam was the only person with the power to stop the killings—and the only person in New York that Haven had no reason to mistrust. If Adam promised to clean up the OS, Haven could give him all the evidence he needed to finally get rid of Padma Singh and send Iain Morrow to prison for good. Adam would do whatever she asked, Haven thought. She knew that he cared, even if she couldn’t remember why.

Relieved to have finally arrived at a plan, Haven slid out of her pew and hurried through the church’s doors and into the darkness.

 

HAVEN FOUND THE Ouroboros Society headquarters lit up like a Chinese lantern. Slim silhouettes clutching wineglasses and champagne flutes posed in the windows. She had forgotten the Society was hosting a party. On the top step of the mansion’s stoop stood a worker in one of the Society’s black-and-white uniforms. As Haven watched from the shadows, the drone opened the doors for a succession of elegant guests, many of whom looked uncannily familiar. They were all too perfectly polished or undoubtedly distinguished to be ordinary mortals. When one of the women stopped on the stairs to greet an acquaintance, Haven recognized her as the peppy host of Mae Moore’s favorite afternoon talk show. The woman’s acquaintance looked a great deal like a former secretary of state.

Haven decided to stay in the shadows. She couldn’t search for Adam while the party was on. Padma was certain to be there. Haven would have to wait in the park until it was over. It wasn’t the most appealing prospect. In the dark, it was impossible to tell what the trees might be hiding in between their branches, and the statue in the center of the park seemed more plotting than pensive. The sky rumbled, and Haven prayed that the weather would continue to hold.

As soon as the street was quiet once more, Haven studied the fence around Gramercy Park, searching for the best place to climb in. She settled on a spot next to a low-hanging tree, grasped one of the metal bars, and began to pull herself up.

“Haven Moore? Is that you?”

Haven lost her grip and tumbled to the sidewalk. She looked up to find a tall silver-haired man peering down at her through wire-framed glasses.

“Dr. Tidmore? What are you doing here?”

“Your mother asked me to come. She said the Ouroboros Society might be the best place to find you.”

A fat drop of rain hit Haven on the nose. When she glanced up at the sky, a second drop landed in the middle of her forehead. The trees in Gramercy Park swayed and shook as the wind rushed into the square from every direction. A bolt of lightning illuminated the preacher’s pale face, and the thunder that followed closely behind told Haven the storm was quickly approaching.

Two elegant ladies dressed in full-length gowns glided past at top speed, their silk garments already speckled with raindrops. Haven knew both of their faces from her mother’s gossip magazines, and she wished Beau were there to supply the names.

“What do you say? This looks like a good enough place for a chat,” Dr. Tidmore remarked, pointing up at the brightly lit windows of the Gramercy Park Historical Society. “It’s probably nice and quiet this time of night.”

Haven’s eyes passed from the preacher to the building and back again. “It’s open?”

Dr. Tidmore climbed the stairs and twisted the knob on the front door. “The sign here says it’s open till ten.” He stopped with his body half in and half out of the building. Haven hadn’t budged. “Are you coming or not?” he inquired impatiently.

As the rain began to fall harder and faster, Haven charged up the stoop. As little as she fancied Dr. Tidmore’s company, she needed a place to take shelter from the storm.

 

INSIDE THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY, the same woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses was dusting again, and Haven wondered why she would choose to do chores in such an expensive-looking dress. She greeted her guests with a curt nod as they walked past her and took the stairs to the second floor. When Haven reached the reading room, she was glad to find it lit by a raging fire. It might have been a warm summer night outside, but the atmosphere in the room felt chilly and damp.

“Why don’t we sit here for a moment?” Dr. Tidmore suggested, pointing toward the pair of chairs planted a few feet from the fireplace. Haven gazed into the flames. “The fire won’t bring back bad memories, will it?” Dr. Tidmore asked.

“No,” Haven told him. She settled into the chair and felt the fatigue wash over her.

Dr. Tidmore sat and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, trying to make the chat seem informal. Instead it felt even more awkward. “Your grandmother is very upset that you’ve run away.”

Haven shook her head wearily. “You know how Imogene exaggerates. If I’d really run away, I wouldn’t have been so easy to find.”

“Point taken.” The preacher exposed too many teeth when he smiled. “She and your mother say they saw a picture of you in a magazine. With a boy.”

Haven stared at Dr. Tidmore as her scalp started to tingle.

“So you think you’ve found him?” the man asked a little too eagerly.

“Found who?”

“Ethan. Isn’t he the young man in the photograph? I believe his new name is Iain Morrow? Isn’t that what the magazine said?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in reincarnation, Dr. Tidmore.” Haven tried to keep her temper in check but didn’t succeed. Her voice rose with each word. “I thought the whole idea was the devil’s work. Isn’t that what you preached in your sermon?”

The force of Haven’s fury pushed Tidmore back in his chair. “There’s no need to be hostile, Haven. Can’t you see that I’m trying to help you?”

“The way you helped me back in Tennessee? By turning the whole town against me? Why
are
you here, anyway?”

“I was visiting some friends outside the city.” A log in the fireplace collapsed, drawing Dr. Tidmore’s eye with a shower of embers. “Your grandmother called and asked me to bring you home. She’s afraid that your virtue might no longer be intact.”

“My virtue is none of her damn business, and it’s
certainly
none of yours!” Haven spit. “And I’m not going back with you. Beau Decker is coming to get me. He’ll be here by tomorrow morning.”

“And then you’ll be leaving?”

“Yes, and then I’ll be leaving.”

Dr. Tidmore faked another smile and tried a different approach. “So have you spent much time with the folks at the Ouroboros Society while you’ve been in New York?”

“Not really.”

“No? I read up on it a little after I heard about it. Sounds like a fascinating organization. They might be the perfect people to help a young girl get settled in the city. I could talk to your grandmother, if you’d like.”

Haven didn’t know what to make of the offer. “No offense, Dr. Tidmore, but I’ve already made up my mind. And I’d rather not have you doing me any more favors.”

Tidmore laughed. “I can’t say that I blame you. But I’m afraid I won’t let you go back to Tennessee with Beau. Now that you’re finally here, Adam would like you to stay in New York.”

“Adam?” Haven asked. The heat from the fire had grown far too intense. It was as if her feet had been set directly on the coals.

“Adam Rosier,” Tidmore said. “I believe you two have met.”

 

 

HAVEN EMERGED FROM the vision with her heart pounding. She knew the man Constance had been speaking to on the terrace. Adam Rosier hadn’t aged a day in ninety years. She pulled herself up and discovered she was on a couch in a deserted room. Her feet were bare, and she searched for her shoes. They were missing, along with her handbag. As the panic set in, she rushed for the door. The knob wouldn’t turn. She yanked open the curtains to find the windows sealed shut. The sky was dark, and the moon hadn’t risen. Black clouds loomed overhead, rumbling as they pelted the city with rain. She recognized the park below. She was on the top floor of the Gramercy Park Historical Society.

She needed to find a way to call for help. With panic building inside of her, Haven grabbed a silver picture frame from a nearby desk and hurled it, hoping to break a window. Instead, the frame bounced off the shatterproof glass and landed faceup on the floor. The photo inside showed Constance sitting on a bench inside Gramercy Park, an uneasy smile on her face. The features of the man beside her were a blur.

Spinning around, Haven searched for something—anything—that might help set her free. Then she stopped. What she saw made it perfectly clear that there would be no way out. Two of the room’s walls were decorated with ancient, hand-painted frescoes of flowering meadows. Three wooden wardrobes showcased rows of beautiful gowns. Some were Constance’s dresses—most likely the ones stolen from Frances Whitman. Others appeared to belong to earlier eras. To her horror, Haven realized she knew all of them. She’d sewn each gown with her very own fingers, and she had worn them in lives she had yet to remember. Haven reached out to touch the sleeve of a green velvet dress that had to be at least five hundred years old, but it crumbled the moment her fingers brushed against it. A fine powder drifted down to the floor.

Much of Adam Rosier’s bizarre museum appeared to be suffering a similar fate. Little piles of dust had gathered wherever Haven looked, and on the shelves of a large cabinet at the far end of the room, half-burned items from Constance’s home were displayed like treasure. Upon closer inspection, nothing in the room had made it to the twenty-first century in pristine condition. Everything was falling apart.