Born of Illusion

  Dedication

  This book is fully and completely dedicated to my husband,

  Alan L. Brown.

  No one could possibly take care of me better.

  Love you forever.

  Contents

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles even before I spot him rounding the corner ahead. He saunters toward me, swinging his billy stick, tipping his blue cap here and there to passersby. My spine stiffens automatically and my pulse races. My fear of policemen is as much a part of me as the deep brown color of my hair, and for good reason.

  Fortune-telling laws are getting stricter and stricter, so all it takes is one disgruntled client ratting us out to the authorities and we’re in deep trouble. They allow us to hold our magic and mentalist shows because they’re considered harmless entertainment. It’s the private séances the authorities object to, but the amount of money we get is worth the risk.

  The officer nods at me and I return his gesture casually, my eyes sliding away from his as he passes. Sometimes I forget how respectable I look now. My green Chanel-style suit, with its boxy jacket and calf-length pleated skirt, doesn’t raise suspicion (or eyebrows) like the gaudier costumes I used to have to wear when money was tight. After several moments, I take a deep breath of relief and slow my pace, enjoying the bustling activity around me.

  I’ve only been in New York for a month but have already noticed that everyone acts as if they’re frantically busy. Even the little girls and boys in their bloomer dresses and sailor suits look harried. Office girls, with their modern bobs and tight cloche hats, hurry off to work, and the sidewalk newsstand vendors scream out headlines as if they’re going to change at any moment. I stop and buy a paper for my mother, who has become obsessed with the new crossword-puzzle craze. I’m briefly tempted by the mouthwatering scent of meat pies coming from a nearby pushcart.

  But before I can decide, I spot a young man striding toward me. He too must have just bought a newspaper because he’s studying the front page, a studious frown across his solemn features. But it’s the way he walks that captures my interest: confident and self-assured, each foot firmly and properly placed in front of the other. I’m so caught up in watching him that I don’t notice we’re on a collision course until it’s almost too late. I swerve to avoid him at the last moment, the sleeves of our coats brushing as we pass.

  “Excuse me,” he says without looking up.

  My face reddens. At least he didn’t catch me staring. What’s wrong with me, gawking at a stranger in the street like that! At sixteen, you’d think I’d be more experienced, especially considering how much time I spend around theaters. But most of the men I’ve known have hardly been the marrying type. I snort, thinking of Swineguard the Magnificent, One-Eyed Billy, and Lionel the Lobster Boy. Not the marrying type is an understatement.

  A tingling in my stomach distracts me from my thoughts. It grows more and more insistent, spreading to my chest and legs, and that’s when I know.

  It’s happening again.

  In public.

  Painful red stars erupt in front of my eyes and the world around me dims. I reach for a lamppost to steady myself, hoping no one on the busy street notices. The strong aroma of burned sugar plays around my nostrils. As always, the horror of my visions is served up with the sweet smell of a candy shop.

  My heart pounds in terrified expectation of what’s to come. The visions are never pretty images of happy endings. When I’m asleep, I can brush these episodes off as nightmares, even though I know better. When awake, I’m treated to the full, excruciating experience.

  I clutch at the lamppost as electric flashes, like a distant lightning storm, illuminate a series of pictures. Some are clear; others are obscured behind an impenetrable mist. A burst of light reveals a picture of me running down a dark street. I see empty warehouses flashing by as I run past. It’s so real; I feel the rasp of my breath and the sticky, crawly sensation of blood trickling down my cheek. The next image is of my mother’s face, her eyes wide with fear, her bow-shaped lips pinched with an effort not to scream. . . .

  “Excuse me, miss. Do you know you have a nickel sticking out of your ear?”

  The words break through the hammering in my head, and the darkness in my sight recedes as I whirl around. The vision is interrupted, but the horror at what I saw still swirls in my stomach. Then again, fear has been a part of my life as long as I can remember. Visions of the future aren’t the only psychical ability I’ve been “gifted” with.

  Nausea rises up in my throat. It takes several blinks before my eyesight returns to normal. My oblivious savior is a short, round man with a handlebar mustache and dark bowler hat. He is patiently awaiting my response. I swallow a couple of times before I can speak. “Pardon?” I tighten my grip on my shopping basket full of the produce and groceries I bought this morning. You can never be too careful.

  Around us, pedestrians go about their day with barely a glance. It takes something special to capture their attention, especially in this aspiring working class neighborhood of brownstone apartments and shops.

  Flashing a nubby-toothed smile, my companion reaches up and pulls a nickel out of my ear. A few steps away, a small boy in frayed knee pants, holding a sheaf of flyers, hoots with laughter.

  Understanding dawns, and the tension along my neck and shoulders loosens—I’ve been around stage promoters my whole life, and though they’re a shifty lot, they generally pose no immediate threat. Whatever the vision was about, it had nothing to do with this stubby bit of a man.

  “Thank you!” I tell him, taking the coin with my left hand. I make a show of switching my basket to the other hand and, with one fluid motion, reach my empty right hand up to the side of his head. “And do you realize you have an onion in yours?”

  I smile at the boy, whose mouth forms an O as I pull a long, thin green onion out of the man’s ear.

  The man’s eyes widen, then he grins in appreciation. I relax. Most male magicians resent girls who practice magic. Obviously, this little man isn’t one of them.

  “Wait! There’s more!” Not to be outdone, he reaches up and begins pulling brightly colored scarves out of my other ear. Around us, a small crowd forms, and excitement kicks my pulse up a notch. My mother says I’m a show-off, but I prefer to think of myself as a performer. Plus, it’s been weeks since I’ve done any street magic. It doesn’t go with the shiny new image of respectability we’re trying to cultivate.

  “Wonderful,” I tell him, taking the scarves and crumpling them into a tight ball. I wink at the people gathering around us. “I was looking for those.”

  They laugh appreciatively. With a snap of my wrist, I flick my fingers open toward the man’s face. There’s a small gasp and scattered applause as they realize that the scarves have disappeared.

  “Hey!” the man protests good-naturedly. “Those were
mine.”

  “I’m sorry.” I set the basket by my feet to free up both hands. Now I am showing off, but performing in front of an audience is so much fun, I can’t resist. “Perhaps you would take these in trade?” I whisk three silver bangles off my left wrist. They were made especially for me by a silversmith in Boston, and, along with my deck of cards and the balisong in my handbag, I never leave home without them. Working them expertly between my fingers, I juggle them a bit to show everyone they’re three separate circlets. Then I catch them one at a time with the same hand and clutch them together. Moments later, I hold them up and the onlookers gasp. The bracelets are now connected like a chain.

  The man throws up his hands, laughing. “I give up; you win!”

  The boy adroitly maneuvers through the dispersing crowd, passing out flyers.

  I replace my bangles and pull the ball of scarves out of the basket where I’d secreted them. “Looking for these?” I ask.

  He takes the scarves and shoves them into the pocket of his baggy trousers. “You’re quite good—for a girl.”

  “Thank you,” I tell him, ignoring the girl remark. If I argued with every male magician who made a snide comment about my gender, I’d never have time to do magic. I prefer to outperform them onstage, where it really matters. “My mother and I are opening tomorrow night at the Newmark Theater.”

  “Swanky! A magic show, I take it?”

  My stomach sinks a bit. I wish it were just a magic show. “I do a bit of magic in the show, but Mother’s a mentalist. I mostly assist her. If you’d like to come, I’ll leave you tickets at the box office. Just tell them Anna Van Housen sent you.” I nod toward the boy. “I’ll leave one for him, too.”

  “That would be grand! My name is Ezio Trieste.” He holds out a grubby hand and I shake it firmly. “You and your mother might be interested in this show Sunday night. Dante!” he yells at the little boy still handing out flyers to anyone who will take one. “Give the lady one of those.”

  I take the proffered paper with a smile, then hand the man back his coin.

  I glance down at the flyer and everything around me dims as I read the headline.

  DO SPIRITS EXIST?

  HOUDINI SAYS NO AND PROVES IT!

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and turn away, forcing my heavy limbs to move. The ringing in my ears drowns out the sound of the automobiles on the street as I hurry down the sidewalk. After half a block, I slow and crumple the paper in my hand. Tossing it into the gutter, I stop and take a measured breath. My mother’s sharp eyes see everything, and the last thing I need is for her to find out that Houdini’s in town.

  Two

  I stare at the paper in the gutter and bite my lip. Glancing around, I retrieve the flyer from the street and smooth it out as best I can with my hands. Then I fold it up and slip it into the bottom of my basket, where Mother won’t see it.

  Why am I so shocked? I wonder as I head toward home. Though he tours most of the year, New York is his home. I should have known our paths would cross at some point.

  I shake my head as I reach the steps to my building, resolving not to give Houdini another thought. At least until my mother catches wind of his arrival.

  Taking a deep breath to clear my mind, I stare up at my new home. Once a private residence, it was recently remodeled into two apartments. Our new talent manager was courteous enough to find the apartment for us and make all the arrangements. I’m still waiting to find out what price this “courtesy” will entail. I trust managers almost as much as I trust lawmen, perhaps less. At least with lawmen you know where you stand. But managers say one thing and do another. Every one we’ve ever had has either cheated us out of money or used the contract to take advantage of my mother’s obvious charms.

  But I do love this home. The sandy-colored exterior and wrought-iron railings gleam in the sun, and the wide stoop welcomes me. It doesn’t matter that there are a dozen other identical buildings lining my street; this one is special, the first real house I’ve ever lived in. I used to dream of living in a house like this instead of traveling all the time.

  Though living on the top floor of this beautiful old home instead of in a shoddy hotel thrills me to no end, I’m also left with a nagging sense of unworthiness. This house is all sedate respectability. As the friend of pickpockets and circus freaks, the same cannot be said of me. My only hope is that with our first steady job, I can put the past behind me and be worthy of such a home. My face heats with shame remembering the street performance I just gave. Respectable girls don’t do magic on the street. Normal girls also don’t have horrifying visions of the future. My stomach clenches as an image of my mother’s face swims before my eyes.

  I have a sudden need to see for myself that she is fine. I rush up the stone steps two at a time and fling the door open.

  “Oof!”

  Just inside, a young man dressed in a black suit and derby hat clutches his arm.

  “I’m so sorry! Are you all right?” He’s so tall I have to crane my neck to see his face, and his shoulders seem to fill the room. His brows rise over eyes so rich and dark they’re almost black, like the innermost heart of a licorice drop. My breath catches and my cheeks heat when I recognize who it is. The young man from the street.

  To my surprise, his cheeks redden as well, showing his discomfort. “I should be asking if you’re all right. You ran inside as if the hounds of hell were chasing you.”

  I cock my head at the odd words, as well as at the crisp way he said them. It’s not an accent, exactly. More like he relishes the English language and takes care to pronounce each word fully.

  I shake my head, unsettled. “I’m fine. You’re the one I slammed into.” I glance behind him at the empty hallway. “Were you looking for me?” If possible, my face burns even brighter. “I mean, were you looking for someone?”

  The stranger shakes his head. His dark eyes regard me steadily for a moment but then slide away as if embarrassed before returning to meet mine once again.

  I’m used to being stared at, but the men at the theater leer at me in a knowing way that makes my skin crawl. The appreciative gaze of this young man, with his straight mouth and intelligent features, sends a pleasing tingle across my skin. Embarrassed, I look away.

  The door next to us opens, causing us both to jump. Mr. Darby, our crotchety neighbor, sticks his head out. “What’s the ruckus about?” He sees me and his mouth creases downward, but then he spots the young man and his face softens. He steps into the hall, his arms crossed. “I might have known you’d find a way to meet the pretty young lady upstairs. In my day, we didn’t even speak to a girl without a proper introduction.”

  The young man pushes the derby back on his head and a dark curl escapes. My fingers suddenly itch to nudge it back into place.

  “Then please introduce us,” he says, and I notice how young he actually is. Maybe seventeen or eighteen—just a bit older than I am. He’s clean shaven and doesn’t yet sport a mustache, as most men these days do. I like it. Men with mustaches always look like they’re hiding a harelip.

  The old man harrumphs. “Miss Van Housen, Colin Emerson Archer the third.” He shakes his head as if perplexed by such a fancy name. “Colin is a friend of my second cousin and came to stay with me just after you and your mother moved in upstairs. No doubt a spy sent by meddling relatives worried about an old man living by himself. Colin, this is Miss Van Housen. She and her mother live in the apartment above us.”

  Colin Emerson Archer the third whisks off his hat and bows with excessive courtesy. “Miss Van Housen.”

  I incline my head. “Mr. Archer.”

  He clears his throat. “Please, call me Cole.”

  There’s an awkward moment of silence as they wait for me to offer my first name. I don’t. In our business, all strangers are to be regarded with suspicion.

  Mr. Darby clears his throat. “Next time you go out, missy, you might want to stop and ask if I need anything. A cup of that tea would be good in the morning.
”

  He nods toward my basket, which is still full in spite of the collision. My mouth drops open. Is this the same neighbor who has done little more than grunt at me these past few weeks? He’s a strange old bird. I hear all sorts of odd banging noises coming out of his apartment day and night, but I have no idea what they could be. He stares back at me fiercely.

  Cole gives an unexpected laugh that fills the hallway and breaks the tension. He may look like an English school-master, but his laugh is wonderful.

  “And you just reproached me for my etiquette!” he says to Mr. Darby.

  “I’m an old man. I can get away with it.”

  “I’ll bring you a package the very next time I go out,” I promise, moving toward the stairs. It suddenly dawns on me that respectable girls probably don’t hang about in hallways with strange young men. Of course, because of my work, there have been many strange men in my life, but my new neighbors don’t need to know that.

  “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Van Housen.” Cole holds out his hand.

  I swallow. I usually try to avoid touching people—it’s the easiest way to avoid being bombarded with someone else’s emotions. And unlike my visions, this is a “gift” I can actually control, though occasionally, like now, it’s unavoidable. “Likewise,” I say in my most proper voice.

  The moment our fingers meet, a spark flashes between us, so powerful I feel my heart stutter. We stand frozen as the first shock subsides into frothy, electrical pulses that travel between our palms and tickle my flesh like effervescent bubbles. I yank my hand from his.

  Surprise widens his eyes, but he recovers quickly and nods his head in that same overly polite way.

  Mr. Darby looks at us, puzzlement written across his wrinkled features.

  I nod back. Usually when I touch someone, I just get a sense of how they’re feeling, not an electrical shock, but if he can pretend nothing happened, then I can too. Still trembling, I make my way up the stairs to my apartment.