Teri Brown: Born of Deception

“What?” Cole’s eyebrows rise in alarm. “Our strength lies in sharing our knowledge.”

“They don’t want our knowledge shared, and they definitely don’t want us strong,” Leandra says flatly. “They proved that when they elected Darius Gamel to serve as president.”

“I don’t like Darius Gamel any more than you do, but he did make a break with Dr. Boyle before they kicked him out of the Society. They were never shown to have any connection other than simple friendship.”

I startle at the name, a shiver going down my spine. Dr. Franklin Boyle is the reason my mother was kidnapped and I almost drowned in the Hudson River. The new president of the board is a friend of his?

Cole gives me a quick sympathetic glance and I glare. He wants me to meet these people?

“Isn’t that enough?” Leandra snaps, then, as if sensing my mood, she reaches out and takes my hand. “I don’t mean to scare you. I’m just angry. The organization does have a worthy intent—it’s just gotten a bit sidetracked.”

Like before, her emotions are clear and open and I sense only concern. Everything she says is truth, but then, as if a dam has broken, I feel a roar of anger washing over me like a storm surge.

She’s not just angry, she’s furious.

Leandra snatches her hand away and looks abashed. “Cole hasn’t told me about your abilities, but I take it mind reading is one of them? That’s what that felt like, anyway.”

It feels strange to talk openly about my gifts. I’ve kept them hidden for so long, the sudden exposure is disturbing. “Actually, no. I can’t read minds. I sense emotions.”

“Oh,” Leandra says softly. For a moment her forehead wrinkles and her eyes look brooding. Then she brightens. “I bet that comes in very handy. I’ve never heard of anyone else with that ability. And the board members won’t be expecting that one at all. You would be able to get a good read on everyone.”

“You’re not asking her to spy?” Cole asks, his voice incredulous.

“Oh, don’t be such a goody-goody,” Leandra says, and I hide a smile. “I didn’t mean that exactly, only that it would be useful. You don’t know how much things have changed. You’ve been gone for months.”

She turns back to me. “It’s completely up to you, my dear. If you get any impressions and wish to share them, Harrison and I would be most appreciative. Harrison is my husband and a detective with Scotland Yard.”

Her voice is proud, and I glance at Cole. “Is that where you got the idea of being a detective?”

“Harrison is quite the fellow,” Cole admits. “I’d be proud to be like him.”

Does he want to be like him because Harrison is a wonderful guy or because Cole is trying to win Leandra’s approval?

Leandra flushes with pleasure at the compliment to her husband, and I’m suddenly ashamed of my jealous thoughts. What’s wrong with me? She’s obviously devoted to her family.

She turns to me. “What are your other abilities, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I try not to mind but I do. It still feels so personal. “Why don’t you tell me what yours are?” I counter.

Leandra flashes a wry grin. “Touché. I dream.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

Her lips curl upward, but I sense the shadows behind the smile. “I dream other people’s dreams. Or nightmares.”

I sit back, flabbergasted. What would that be like? Seeing visions of the future is bad enough, but to see the nightmares of others? “That must be awful,” I manage.

She shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

Cole stands. “I hate to cut this short, but we need to be at Claridge’s by four.”

Leandra walks us to the door and this time I don’t even have to touch her to feel her worry.

“Well, good luck. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.” Her voice is comforting, but I’m not in the least comforted.

What if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?

I stop Cole just outside the hotel, my heart pounding. “What are they going to want to know about me? How much do I have to tell them?” Talking about my life has never been easy. What if they ask who my father is?

Cole squeezes my hand, understanding my reticence. “Don’t be so worried. You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to. Sensitives are secretive people. Like you, they’ve learned there are things it isn’t wise to talk about. Besides, the board members aren’t really that interested in you or your background, just your abilities.”

I swallow. “Somehow I don’t find that reassuring,” I tell him as he holds the door open for me.

Claridge’s is prim, privileged, and pompous enough to make my tacky American self squirm in discomfort. Cole told me the owners just refurbished it, but somehow it looks as if it’s been exactly the same for the past one hundred years. Perhaps it’s the dignified, stiffly starched maître d’ who welcomes us, or the matching waiters serving tea to the dozens of well-heeled patrons sitting at tiny tables. The creamy plaster ceiling with its swirls and whorls is a work of art designed to intimidate, and the high arches and columns surrounding the room are awe inspiring. Everything serves to remind me that I’m a long, long way from New York, where most restaurants are designed to entertain as well as feed. I’m so daunted I almost forget to worry about meeting the board members.

Almost.

I feel the men’s eyes upon me as I approach the table on the heels of a waiter so disapproving he could be my mother in disguise. Why are there are only two board members? One, a large redheaded man, I quickly measure as friendly. It’s the other who sends a shiver of apprehension up my spine. His eyes are small and dark, like raisins that have sat in the sun too long, and his mouth is a thin flat line. The anxiety whirling in my stomach grows as I realize they sat Cole and me at opposite ends of the white linen-covered table.

Neither of the board members offers to shake my hand as we’re introduced, and I’m frustrated by my inability to get a read on what they’re feeling. Though Cole taught me how to sense people’s feelings without touching them, my control is still erratic and it is difficult to do with more than one person anyway. Is their reluctance to shake my hand intentional or just some odd British custom? I sit, feeling terribly underdressed in my simple yellow sheath. I wanted to wear something sunny to combat the gloomy London winter, but sitting among the other patrons all dressed in dark dignified colors, I feel as conspicuous as a canary among ravens.

“Thank you so much for meeting with us, Miss Van Housen,” the man with the raisin eyes says.

I redden. I had been so intimidated that I’d glossed right over the introductions and have no idea which board member is which. “Thank you,” I say. “I’m sorry, I’m hopeless with names?” I raise my voice at the end, hoping he will get the hint and he does, reintroducing everyone. This time I listen carefully.

“This is Julian Casperson,” he says, smoothly indicating the other man. “I am Darius Gamel, president of the board. My apologies for having such a small contingent to welcome you. Julian is a researcher as well as a board member and the two of us are the only ones employed by the Society full-time. The other board members and researchers had previous engagements.”

I smile, shooting him a look from under my lashes. Somehow I had envisioned Dr. Franklin Boyle’s friend having the same charm as he did, but whereas Dr. Boyle looked like an English squire, Mr. Gamel, with his pale skin and long face, looks more like a cadaver.

The image brings to mind Walter, the only dead person I’ve ever met. My mother and I had been doing fake séances for years, but all that changed when Cole attended one—because of his heightening effect on my abilities, the séance became very, very real. I was possessed by a young soldier who had been in the Great War. Walter had died of dysentery, yet he looked healthier than Mr. Gamel.