Born of Deception Read online

“Do you know where a library or a bookstore is?” I ask.

  My mother’s painted eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “You always were a reader. Do you need a book for the train back to London?”

  I shake my head. She and Jacques wait, and reluctantly, I show them the medallion. “A friend gave this to me,” I lie. “I want to find out what it means.”

  My mother turns it over in her hand, frowning. “It looks very old.”

  Jacques peers at it. “Oui. I know just the place. The Sainte-Geneviève Library inherited the entire collection of one of the oldest abbeys in Paris. Some of the documents date from the sixth century. The librarians there are some of the most learned men in France. I’m sure that you will be able to find one who is bilingual who would be able to point you in the right direction.” He sniffs in subtle disapproval that neither my mother nor I speak French, though I know it won’t take my mother long to pick it up. “I can arrange for the motorcar to pick you up in the morning before your first show. Would that be acceptable?”

  “That would be perfect, thank you.” I try not to get my hopes up. For all I know, someone accidentally dropped it outside my door and it has absolutely nothing to do with Pratik’s murder or the poppet.

  But I don’t really believe that.

  We drop Jacques off at his solicitor’s office so he can fill out some paperwork on the apartment before heading back to the theater. When my mother stops the car to walk the last few blocks to my hotel, I think she is going to scold me for something. I’m always suspicious when she makes a point to speak to me alone. Instead, she once again surprises me.

  “Are you happy?”

  Startled, I glance sideways at her but she isn’t looking at me. Am I happy? I think of the Society that I thought would bring me a sense of peace about my abilities but instead has only created havoc in my life. I think of Cole, who I love so much, but who struggles to express his feelings in return, and I wonder if I can live with the changes his presence might make to my abilities. I think of the tour, which is exhausting but ultimately satisfying, and which brought me Billy, who has turned into such a wonderful friend and whose presence brings me a levity my life has always lacked. My mother is waiting for an answer, but I am not even sure what to tell her, because I don’t know. Finally I say, “I think I am. What is happiness anyway?”

  She is silent for a moment, then says, “I used to wonder the same thing. Oh, I had moments of happiness, especially with you.”

  My eyes widen. It’s the closest to an admission of love that I’ve ever heard from her.

  “Oh, you didn’t think me capable?” She laughs. “Trust me, I doubted it myself. But Jacques has brought me happiness, which for me will always mean security. I have the security of a good man who loves me, work I find interesting, and enough money that I don’t have to worry about my daughter or myself ever going without again.”

  I’m speechless. My mother has never been one for introspection, nor has she ever been so forthright.

  She continues, “You know what I want. I want you to stop touring and live with Jacques and me until you find what happiness means to you.” I try to speak, but she raises a hand. “I know, I know, you think you’re doing what makes you happy, but I’m having a difficult time believing that the girl who always begged me to stay in one place will be truly happy being on the road nine to ten months out of the year.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, she has a point. “I’ll think about it,” I promise. “I can’t leave the tour midway, but I will think about what you said and let you know before it’s time to return to the States.”

  Her mouth purses and I know I haven’t heard the end of it, but all she does is nod. I change the subject. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Don’t forget dinner after.”

  Her driver, who followed us as we walked, pulls up just as we reach the entrance to the hotel. She embraces me and for a moment holds me close before turning away. Another lump forms in my throat at the gesture, but she says nothing and I have to wonder why the people in my life always seem to have such a hard time saying I love you.

  The library, now a part of the University of Paris, is the largest building I’ve ever been in and I’m filled with awe as I tiptoe past the iron columns and the long gleaming wood reading tables. Giant arched windows reach to the ceiling, which must be at least two stories tall. Never have I felt my knowledge to be so incredibly small and insignificant as I feel in that beautiful building full of ancient texts. I spot a thin young man sitting at an official-looking desk and head toward him. I don’t have much time before I have to be back at the theater.

  He raises an eyebrow at me and I clear my throat. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I am looking for someone to tell me where I can find out about an artifact.” I’m not sure it’s actually an artifact, but I don’t know what else to call it.

  Without a word, he scoots off his stool and saunters across the room. He disappears behind a closed door and is gone so long I begin to fidget, wondering if he’s coming back. When he reemerges, he’s followed by an elderly man whose round balding head has tufts of wispy gray hair sticking out over his ears.

  “Que voulez-vous?” he asks in a thin querulous voice.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French,” I’m forced to admit.

  The man heaves an impatient sigh. “What can I do for you? There is some question about an artifact?”

  The man’s English is as flawless as Jacques’s.

  “Yes.” I take out the medallion in a hurry before he changes his mind. “This is it.”

  I drop it into his outstretched hand and he frowns. “Merde,” he says under his breath, looking at it closely. Pulling out a desk drawer, he rummages about until he finds a magnifying glass. He peers through the glass, turning the medallion over and over. The young man watches the proceedings from behind his book.

  “Where did you get this?” the old man finally demands.

  I swallow at the threatening look on his face. “A friend gave it to me.”

  “You need some new friends, young lady.”

  I knew it was something bad. “What is it? What does it say?”

  The man shakes his head. “I can’t tell you what it says, but I know what it means.”

  I’m baffled. “Excuse me?”

  He shoves a finger at the crescent moon and arrows on the front. “This is an ancient occult symbol for death or, more precisely, a blood death.”

  My whole body goes cold at his words. He flips the medallion over. “This side is written in an alphabet called Enochian. It’s most often used to transcribe spells. Like Hebrew it is written right to left. I recognize the symbols, but not enough to translate. If you would like to leave it here . . .”

  I shake my head and hold out my hand. “No. I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”

  He reluctantly gives the medallion back to me. “I wouldn’t hold on to that for too long, young lady,” he warns. “Nothing good can come from keeping it.”

  I agree wholeheartedly and, after thanking him, take my leave.

  Suddenly I can’t wait to get back to London to turn the medallion over to Harrison and the others. I don’t want it in my possession any longer than necessary.

  Fifteen

  Our four days in Paris are a triumph for me and for the troupe. We’re now working together like a perfectly oiled machine—all the cogs are performing their best as everyone knows that anyone not doing so will be cut at the end of this leg of the tour. And I’ve decided top billing suits me. The iron maiden bit is such a success that reporters are starting to flock to the dressing rooms after the show to try to get an interview or a look at my arm. Billy has taken to heading them off in the hallway, the tension of our last conversation apparently forgotten. His protectiveness gives me a warm cozy feeling. Mother made me wash the blood off after the first night to make sure I really wasn’t hurt. I could have no better compliment, and I leave Paris with the sense that I’m act
ually going to miss my mother.

  Her words haunt me. A home in Paris is a tremendous temptation, but what would I do? Go to school? I’ve always loved books and loved to learn, but wouldn’t I miss performing? Why do having a stable home and performing seem to be mutually exclusive?

  The French countryside passes by, but only part of my mind notices. The other part has moved on to the next question. The medallion. Why would someone leave a clue to their murderous handiwork at my doorstep? Is it a threat? I am hoping that the list of people who study the occult is complete by the time I return to London. I’ve had no more episodes, but the threat of one has me jumpy and ill at ease in my own skin.

  I can’t help but feel that all this somehow leads back to Dr. Boyle. I remember his single-mindedness in putting together a stable of Sensitives for his own gain. I can’t believe he would give up so easily. Harrison said his contacts had yet to come up with any information on his location . . . I just wish there was some way I could check on his whereabouts . . . My heart stops beating in my chest. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  Cynthia.

  Well, not Cynthia exactly, but her uncle, the infamous Uncle Arnie, also known as Arnold Rothstein, the man rumored to be behind the 1919 World Series cheating scandal. He’d helped me when my mother had been kidnapped because apparently any friend of his niece was a friend of his. I was able to return the favor the night of the scavenger hunt and he told me to call him if I needed anything, but does his network of influence extend to England? My shoulders slump. Not likely.

  But it’s worth a shot.

  Of course, writing a letter is out of the question and would take too long. I decide to send a cable. Whoever is behind Pratik’s murder and Jonathon’s disappearance isn’t playing around. Both Leandra and Calypso have been physically attacked and I have been under almost constant psychic assault since I arrived. Who knows what could happen next. I’ve never met Jonathon, but I don’t want him to come to the same fate as Pratik. My stomach twists again as the image of Pratik’s body flickers in my mind.

  “Can we switch places for a few minutes?”

  I startle as Billy addresses these words to Jeanne, who’s sitting next to me. With a knowing glance, Jeanne nods and rises from the seat. Billy sits with a bashful smile. He’s only spoken to me when he’s had to the last few days, and I miss his lighthearted banter even though I’ve told myself that it is probably for the best.

  I swallow hard and return his smile.

  “So it occurred to me the last few days that I was angry with you for all the wrong reasons.”

  His voice is relaxed, conversational, but I can feel his nervousness.

  “You have every right to see whoever you like. I wasn’t angry with you for the lie, I was angry because you were with another man.” He takes a deep breath. “I like you, Anna. I like you a lot. I’ve never met a girl I like even half so much as I like you.”

  My pulse racing, I glance up to find his eyes, as blue as the sky above Paris, staring straight into mine. Their determination shows me he won’t be put off. He wants to have this conversation now. And why shouldn’t he? He deserves to know how I feel about him. “I like you, too,” I tell him, hoping that will suffice.

  It doesn’t.

  He shakes his head. “No, I mean I care about you deeply. There’s just something about you that I’ve never felt with anyone else. There’s a depth to you, like there is so much more that you’re not showing me. I guess I’m saying that I’d like to be your steady beau.”

  My head jerks up. “No! I mean, this is sudden.”

  He smiles easily, unfazed by my reaction. “I just wanted you to know my intentions. There’s no pressure. We’ve got a long tour ahead of us. But is this what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, turning to look out the window. “I don’t know what I want to do or who I want to do it with. And I wish everyone would quit asking me that.”

  He puts a finger up to his hat and stands. “Maybe everyone who cares about you wants you to be happy. I just wanted you to know that I’m on that list.” He ambles off and I watch him go. Why is everything so confusing?

  I didn’t have enough time to cable Cole and let him know what time I would be arriving home, so I ride back to the hotel in a taxi with the crew. I’m eager to talk to Cole, but right now I’m more eager to send the cable to Cynthia. I have it all composed in my head and don’t even unpack before writing it down.

  Dear Cynthia. I miss you! Need favor. Can dear uncle ascertain whereabouts of one Dr. Franklin Boyle aka Dr. Finneas Bennett? Urgent. Much love, Anna.

  I have the hotel clerk send the cable for me and return to my room. I wonder what Cynthia will think of the message. She knew Dr. Finneas Bennett as her mentor in spiritualism, a man who disappeared with her money under mysterious circumstances without ever building the American version of the Society. I know she’ll do what I ask but I’ll have a lot to answer for when she sees me.

  I’m suddenly filled with longing for my best friend. Cynthia is far more of a mob princess than the socialite she pretends to be for her husband’s sake, and is a good person to have by your side in times of trouble.

  Restlessly, I unpack a few things and then decide to walk down to the café to get something to eat. Breakfast was a long time ago and I hadn’t been hungry at lunch. I’m suddenly famished and snatch up a light tweed jacket. Knowing I shouldn’t go out by myself, I consider asking Billy if he’d like to join me, then decide against it. So instead I knock on Sandy’s door, hoping she isn’t asleep, which is a very real possibility. Most of the crew had expressed their intention to nap for at least two days once back in London.

  When she doesn’t answer, I decide to go ahead and get dinner alone. It’s not yet dark, and if I hurry I’ll be able to get there and back before the sun sets.

  Even though the sun is shining, I feel a sense of apprehension on my way to the café. It’s not really specific—not as if someone is watching me or anything like that, just a vague sense of uneasiness. Perhaps I’m more tired than I thought. I try to shake it off. After all, I’m in public, it’s still light, and I have my knife.

  But I’m still happy when I reach the safety of the café.

  Mary doesn’t work in the afternoons and I don’t recognize the woman scooting among the tables. It’s busier than it usually is during the early mornings and it seems as if the whole neighborhood decided to dine out tonight. I’m searching for a place to sit when my eyes spot a familiar hat at a small table in the back near the kitchen. As if sensing my presence, Billy turns and sends a slow smile across the room. He indicates the chair across from him and I make my way through the tables. To do anything else would be cruel.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, taking off my jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair. “I was going to try to sleep but then realized how hungry I am. I didn’t think there was going to be a place for me. Have you ever been here at night? Is it always this crowded?”

  He raises an eyebrow at my babbling. “Not usually,” he answers. “But the weather is getting dryer so maybe more people want to go out.”

  Well, that takes care of the weather and the crowded conditions. What else can we talk about?

  I shouldn’t have worried.

  “You know this place reminds me of a little café in New Mexico . . .”

  He puts me immediately at ease with stories of the Old West while we wait for the meat pies we ordered.

  It’s not until he gets to a story about a friend of his called Francisco that he stops talking.

  “Go on,” I urge. “Why did Francisco need all that rope?”

  Billy hesitates. “Some stories aren’t worth repeating.”

  His jaw tightens and I wonder what he means. I send out a pulse, and to my surprise he feels constricted and, underneath . . . shame?

  Oddly, the feelings I am sensing from him only make me like him more. I think of all the things I have done in my li
fe that I’m ashamed of. I bite my lip and offer, “Remember when I told you about how my mother and I cheated people out of money?”

  He nods.

  “I can’t even tell you what a relief it was to share that. Some stories may not bear repeating, but it sure makes you feel better when you share with someone you trust.”

  The waitress brings us our food and he looks down at the table. “I robbed a bank,” he says quietly. “I didn’t exactly mean to, but I knew Francisco was up to no good and I just went along with it. Hell, I actually helped. You know how good I am with a gun and a rope. We got away and I joined the circus two days later. I ended up sending the money back. Oh, I know, that part is more unbelievable than me robbing a bank, but I did. I’m not a thief.”

  My mouth opens. Of all the things Billy could have told me, that hadn’t even crossed my mind. His cheeks redden at my expression and he looks away. I need to say something, but what? A Billy-the-Kid comment is dancing on the tip of my tongue and I start to giggle.

  After a look of shock, the corners of his mouth start to twitch and I giggle harder.

  He finally grins. “Go ahead. I know you want to.”

  I shake my head and then give into the temptation. “Billy the Kid, you’re alive!” I say with a Southern accent.

  He shakes his head, smiling, and I try to get myself under control. The other patrons are starting to notice.

  “You do know that Billy the Kid operated in New Mexico and the Old West? Not the South?”

  I nod and take a drink of my tea. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He waggles his eyebrows at me. “It’s fine. Being laughed at by a pretty girl is what I dream of. I’ll have to trot out the old rob-the-bank story more often.”

  I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve laughed that hard. Surely Cole and I have laughed that way since I’ve come to London? But then, we haven’t had much to laugh about.

  A familiar scent comes to me over the smells of the food wafting through the kitchen door every time it opens and shuts. I frown, sniffing, wondering what it is and where I’ve smelled it before. The realization hits me just before painful red stars erupt in front of my eyes.