Teri Brown - Born of Deception

“Do you want me to practice the whole routine?” I ask after I’m done.

He shakes his head, looking calmer. At least his face isn’t as red. “No, you can take a break until dress rehearsal on Thursday. You’re happy with third billing, aren’t you?” he asks before I exit the stage.

I nod. Second billing is a throwaway spot. Usually, the audience is restless by then and just wants to see the main attraction. Third spot from the end and top billing are the best spots in the lineup. I’ve been at the top of the bill before, but that was when I was with my mother, not just Anna the Magician.

“Good.” He waves a hand, his quick mind already leaping to the next problem at hand.

I give my assistant a thumbs-up, and she waves and disappears through the door. The stagehand is taking away the iron maiden as I leave. “Thanks!” I mouth as the comedian, Bruce Horner, starts his routine.

I hurry to my hotel room to get ready for my appointment. Doubt niggles in my stomach as I change into a plain skirt and blouse and run a brush through my hair. I know I should wait for Cole, but curiosity and my determination to be independent win out.

Before heading to my appointment at the Society, I order fish and chips from a stall. The man behind the counter fries them in a vat of bubbling oil and shakes salt over the whole thing before serving them to me in a cone of newspaper. Like a Londoner, I eat them right in the street under a store awning, giggling as vinegar and oil run out down my hands. The man kindly gives me a damp towel to clean myself up with and after doing so, I hail a cab.

I stare out the window, watching drizzle saturate the city. London feels different from New York. It’s not really less busy and the clothing is similar, though you’re much more likely to run into a woman still clinging to the longer skirts of another era here. But the city is older than anything we have in America, and it’s not unusual to find entire blocks filled with buildings constructed during the medieval era. In New York, most Gothic architecture is simply a clever reproduction. Another difference is in the inhabitants. People on the streets of London tend to be far more polite than in New York, but much less friendly, if that makes any sense.

I rest my forehead against the cool window, trying to calm myself. My decision to attend the meeting without Cole seems more and more foolhardy the closer I get to the Society. After all, there are people here who neither Cole nor Leandra trust. But then I get angry with myself. It’s not as though anyone in the Society can force me to do anything against my will. I’m seventeen now and working and living on my own. Surely I’m old enough to make my own decisions.

My attention is caught by a familiar-looking man crossing the street in front of me. I stare puzzled for a moment before recognition comes with heart-stopping realization.

Dr. Boyle.

Dr. Boyle wanted Cole to join his demented plan to attain wealth and power so badly he was willing to do anything—including extortion, blackmail, and kidnapping—to accomplish it. The scar from the gunshot wound I obtained last fall in that evil man’s quest still aches.

Frantically, I slide to the other side of the seat, trying to see if that is indeed who it was. I didn’t get a good look at him, but the man did have the same ruddy English squire looks that Dr. Boyle has. I stare at the man’s retreating back as my taxicab drives in the opposite direction. My heart slows. I might have been mistaken. I probably was. I am, after all, in England. There are probably lots of men who look like country squires here.

The motorcar stops in front of a tall, nondescript brick building and I hand the driver some pound notes, hoping I’m not being taken advantage of. I can’t seem to figure out the money exchange to save my life and I’m going through much more money than I thought I would.

I hesitate in front of the building. If I wanted to change my mind, now is the time. I look up, and for a moment I think I see a pale face staring down at me but then it disappears. I shiver. I take a deep breath, firm my chin, and march to the front door. There’s no sign hanging out front to indicate if this is the right place or not, but the number matches, so this must be it. I’m just wondering whether I should knock or go on in when the door is flung open.

A young woman about my age stands in the doorway and I stare as if mesmerized. I’ve worked in theaters all my life, so beautiful women are nothing new to me, but I’ve never seen anyone as arresting as the girl before me. Her hair is caught back with a silver ribbon and hangs in glossy black ringlets down her back. For the first time I regret my own bobbed locks. Her skin glows like a pink rose dusted with cinnamon and the fringe of her lashes cast shadows on her cheekbones. But it’s her eyes that grab my attention and hold it: They’re large and so dark you can barely tell the pupil from the iris.

“You must be Anna! Come in. The powers that be are expecting you.”

I hesitate in the doorway and lift my lips in a tentative smile. The girl’s own smile is friendly and open.

She stands aside to let me in and I find myself in a formally appointed reception room with a matched set of overstuffed red chairs and several large potted palms. A small French desk sits next to a door ornately carved with symbols. “My name is Calypso Ruiz. Mr. Gamel and the others are occupied, but I can take you upstairs.”

I shift uncomfortably. “Oh. Perhaps now isn’t a good time? I can come back later, if that would be better.”

She shakes her head, causing her curls to riot. “Don’t be silly. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you! Would you like the grand tour?”

She gives me an enchanting smile and I shake off my jitters. My bad experiences in New York left me jumpy and suspicious.

Actually, that’s not true. My whole life has left me jumpy and suspicious.

Returning the smile, I nod.

She waves her arm at the door. “After you.”

I walk ahead and my eyes widen. The wood on the door is dark, probably mahogany, and covered with exquisitely detailed carvings. They almost look like cryptograms interlaced with grape vines and ivy. “This is beautiful. Do you know what the symbols mean?”

She shrugs. “Not sure. I know it’s old. Maybe Gamel would know. He knows everything.”

She gives me a wink and I grin, liking her more and more.

“Actually, Mr. Price would be the one to ask. He had the door installed.”

“I haven’t met Mr. Price yet.”

Calypso makes a face. “You will. He’s one of the researchers and he’s said to be brilliant, though he’s a bit terrifying if you ask me.”

I want to ask her why he’s scary, but can feel her impatience, so I turn the knob and walk through. She follows me and I’m surprised when she leaves the inner door open. Surely they wouldn’t want just anyone off the street to come in, would they?

I shut it myself and then follow her down a long hall. She’s wearing a plain cotton blouse and a red-and-yellow flowered skirt that swirls around her calves as she walks. She chatters away in a musical accent I can’t place. It’s definitely not English, nor is it European like Cole’s. It’s more exotic and makes me think of tropical breezes and white sandy beaches.

“The Society has been in this building for about a year. This floor is mainly offices, where the scientists compile their data and Sensitives are vetted. Some of the experiments are down here, too.” She turns to me, a frown marring her lovely features. “Have you been tested yet?” I shake my head and her frown deepens. “That’s odd. Usually Sensitives are tested before they’re given the tour. They must be very sure about your abilities.”