Cusp of night, p.9
Cusp of Night, page 9
The room remained shuttered in darkness.
Puzzled, she tried again. Still nothing.
“What’s going on?” Maya swung her feet to the floor, then stood and grabbed her robe from the end of the bed. As she shrugged into the garment, she was overcome by the sudden sensation she was no longer alone. The slow creak of the rocker drew her attention to the corner.
Her breath caught in her throat. “Who’s there?”
The empty chair ambled forward and back, forward and back.
Maya took a cautious step closer, one hand clutching her robe at her throat. Chills travelled up her spine. Torn between running and standing her ground, she tried to calm the rapid flutter of her heart. There was no question something lingered in the room, an invisible presence that blasted the air with ice.
“Please go,” she whispered.
The rocking stopped, the sudden cessation so abrupt, she hitched in her breath. Seconds passed as she stood staring at the empty seat. Eventually, she found the courage to move, warily extending a hand to graze the arm of the vintage chair.
Rap. Rap.
The sound that had coaxed her down the hall the previous night returned. She froze, fighting the urge to crawl back in bed and pull the blankets over her head. Ignoring the sound would not make it go away.
In the hallway, she tried the light switch, only to have the electric fail. At least her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Steeling herself, she walked briskly, determined to face the source of the noise head on. She no longer believed the cause was a water pipe, or even that it was physical in nature. Specters and past lives existed in the Aether. What if something had crossed the boundaries, fixating on her because of her time there?
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Maya stood in the empty front bedroom, focused on the wall by the stairwell. The tapping grew louder, faster. Spots of cold bloomed around her.
“What do you want?” she demanded of the empty room.
The rapping stopped. A bell chimed somewhere behind the wall. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glowing ring of light. The manifestation burst from the corner and shot toward her. Screaming, she bolted for the door. The barrier swung shut before she could reach it, sealing her in the room. A cacophony of sound exploded—chimes, bells, whistles. Choking on fear, she wrenched on the doorknob.
“Stop! Whatever you are, let me out!”
The door burst open, and she stumbled into the hallway. Terrified, she raced for her bedroom, the discordant dirge growing louder. Never pausing, she snatched her keys and purse from the dresser. She was halfway down the stairs when the musical dissonance abruptly ceased. Her breath made a harsh rasp in the sudden silence, the frantic thud of her heart a drum in her ears.
Too frightened to return upstairs or even remain in the house, she ran barefoot through the night-blackened brownstone and out the back door. She couldn’t slip into her car or turn the key in the ignition fast enough. It took a half hour of driving aimlessly before she found the courage to return.
Maya pulled into the parking space behind her house. Silvered with moonlight, the brownstone loomed against a star-strewn sky, brooding in the darkness. She flashed back to the creaking rocker, icy cold spots, the discordant shrieks of noise.
Huddling down in the driver’s seat, she prepared for a long night.
She would not set foot inside the property until dawn. Then she would call Hode Development and tell them her house was haunted.
Chapter 6
January 18, 1898
Winter in Philadelphia was gray and cold with snow mounded in the streets and chimneys piping black smoke into the air. With the dawning of the New Year behind them, and the frivolity of Christmas already forgotten, people once again turned to home circles and Spiritualism for entertainment. Despite some initial reservations, Lucinda found she liked the attention lauded on her as “The Blue Lady of Spirits.” Her reputation grew quickly, and she sometimes did as many as three or four sittings a week.
As her skill grew, she fell under increased scrutiny from the Society of Psychical Research. During the most recent test, Dr. Hollander of the SPR had insisted her wrists and ankles be bound before she retreated to her spirit cabinet. Simon had warned her of the possibility, saying the confinement grew more common as the Society worked to expose frauds.
Lucinda had submitted to the request, then once inside the cabinet quietly slipped the bindings with the dexterity of an escape artist—a skill learned from Simon. Once free, she was able to sound bells in the darkened room, and send her spirit trumpet soaring through the air on invisible wire. Before the séance ended, she quickly retied herself, leaving sitters with the impression she’d been bound the entire time.
During sessions, Simon passed her objects through a trick door in the back of the cabinet. Their props included spirit hands crafted from paraffin and brushed with luminous paint for a ghostly glow. Occasionally, draped head to toe in black, Simon moved about the room, invisible to the sitters in the heavy darkness. When he pulled a spirit hand from under his inky clothing, the luminous fingers appeared to float in the air. Sometimes, he’d touch one of the sitters on the shoulder or the back of the neck, a physical manifestation of a lost loved one.
Lucinda’s favorite trick was summoning her Spirit Control, changing voices or feigning accents as necessary to suit the different personalities of her guides. It was easy to slip into the backwoods dialect of her upbringing, and she often used a girl named Nellie Jones, murdered by her drunken father at the age of fifteen. Other favorites were Baroness Elizabeth Crenshaw, a titled lady of the sixteenth century, and Captain Francis Vane, hanged for piracy in 1712.
On the night that Dr. Hollander visited, she chose a new Spirit Control, naming the girl Josette. If Simon was bothered by her choice, it never showed in his performance. Afterward, when the sitters left, he said little, his posture stiff, his mouth drawn with tightness. He did not take tea as usual, but retreated to their bedroom, complaining of a headache.
Lucinda waited half an hour before joining him. She found him seated in a chair by the window, drapes drawn over the snowy darkness outside. He’d changed into evening attire—pajamas and a tailored, belted robe. A book lay closed in his lap. Unaware of her presence, he stared toward the window, apparently lost in reflection.
“I brought you a tonic for your headache.” Balancing a small tray with a cup and saucer in one hand, Lucinda closed the door behind her.
Simon jerked, routed from his thoughts. “Pardon?”
“For your headache.” She smiled as she set the tray on a table beside him. “It’s a tea made with willow bark and a few other herbs I keep on hand. A concoction I learned in the circus.”
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“Then your headache is gone?”
“Mostly.”
She sat in the chair across from him. “My grandmother used to say that if you sleep with scissors under your pillow, your headache will be gone in the morning.”
He smiled wanly. “I think I’d rather have the tea.” Picking up the cup, he inhaled the vapor, then took a cautious sip. “Interesting.”
He sounded bland. Tired. At least his cough had not returned.
“We have laudanum, if you prefer.”
“No, this is fine.” Simon set the cup back on the tray. “My headache is almost gone.”
She twisted her wedding ring. “Did you find tonight’s performance tiring? I thought it went well.” She stood before he could answer, then crossed to her dressing table. Fearful of what she might see in his eyes, she eased onto the cushioned bench and removed her earrings—a pair of beautiful emerald droplets Simon had given her for Christmas. “Dr. Hollander appeared impressed.”
“Indeed.”
He was not usually so quiet. Why had she chosen the name Josette for a Spirit Control, creating a story about the girl being a waif in 1830s London? She mimicked an English accent well, but it was the memory of that night in bed which had prompted her to gamble. She’d never questioned Simon about Josette, but the name haunted her daily, an unspoken wall between them. He still treated her with kindness and affection. Lavished her with gifts, and joined his flesh to hers as his mood seemed to dictate he should. But through it all, she sensed distance in his heart, as if he performed yet another role.
Silence lengthened and grew between them. Simon sipped his tea as she changed into her nightgown. When she was through, she covered the ivory garment with a lacy robe of the same color, then sat at the vanity and unbound her hair. It unnerved her that he remained so quiet.
“What did you think of my new Spirit Control, Josette?” Lucinda removed her rings, all save her wedding band, and placed them in her jewelry box beside the emerald earrings. She reached for her hairbrush.
“You should have told me you were going to make a change.”
“I think it’s a pretty name.” Ignoring the gentle rebuke, she stroked the brush through her hair and tried to catch his expression in the mirror. “Do you think it’s pretty?”
He stared toward the window, but there was no mistaking the clench of his jaw. “I suppose.”
“I’m positive I’ve heard it before.” Another stroke of the brush, harder when he didn’t comment. Unable to keep up the pretense, she tossed the brush on the table and swiveled to face him. “Simon.”
He jerked sharply, glancing in her direction.
“I want to know who Josette is.”
A gamut of emotion ran through his eyes—surprise, fear, guilt—smothered quickly by blankness. “I thought she was your new Spirit Control.”
Anger stiffened her spine. “She is also the one you call out to at night, professing to love forever. I’m tired of lies. Of the secrets you keep in your past.”
He blanched, his usually impeccable control falling by the wayside. “Lucinda.” Clearly off guard, he gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She couldn’t bear it any longer. Standing, she clenched her fists at her sides. “I know I forced you into marriage, but I thought you cared for me.”
“I do care for you.”
“Then why do you whisper to Josette when it is me you hold at night?” Tears stung her eyes. She pressed her hands to her face, hating when the tears spilled over her lashes, anger giving way to misery. “If all I am to you is a tool to be used for money and fame, I deserve to know.”
“Oh, dear child, you are so much more.” He closed the distance between them. Gathering her close, he folded her to his chest.
Undone by the comfort, she sobbed in his embrace. “Why is it so hard for someone to love me?” The single emotion she’d been denied all her life. From her parents, to her brothers and the kin that claimed her bloodline in the backwoods of Kentucky, she’d been treated to nothing but ridicule and coldness.
“Hush, Lucinda. I do love you.” Simon pressed a kiss to her temple. He wiped her tears with the pad of his thumb, tenderness in his eyes. “Do not cry. I should have been honest from the start and told you of my background.”
She blinked at him through watery vision. “Then there is a Josette in your past?”
“Yes.” He folded her hand into his. “Come sit with me, and I will tell you what you want to know.”
Cold sliced through her. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn the truth. Hearing that Simon loved someone else would surely break her heart.
Rather than guide her to the chairs by the window, he led her to the bed, then pulled back the silky quilts so she could slide inside. When she was settled, propped up by plush pillows, he removed his robe and climbed in beside her.
“Come.” He looped an arm around her shoulders, inviting her to nestle closer. He stroked her hair when she huddled against his chest. “Are you comfortable?”
She nodded, though fresh tears stung her eyes and her heart fluttered like a caged bird. “I’m not sure I want to know,” she said in a small voice.
“No. You should.” He passed her a handkerchief. “There is nothing for you to fear in what I have to say. Josette is not a threat to you, my lovely wife. She died a long time ago, when I was a young man of title and wealth in the Old Country.”
Sniffling delicately, Lucinda pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “Was she your wife?”
“Only for a brief time. An accident claimed her life and that of our unborn child.”
“I’m so sorry, Simon.” She was a wretched creature for making him dredge up such painful memories.
“It was a long time ago. I love and treasure the memory of Josette. I can’t change that, Lucinda.”
“I don’t want you to.” She tilted her head to gaze into his eyes. “I am such a foolish woman, fearing I had a rival for your affections. You are so cultured. So handsome. And the women of Philadelphia society—”
“Cannot hold a candle to you.” He smiled gently. “Never fear where my heart belongs. I know I am not the most demonstrative when it comes to affection, but age takes a toll on a man’s physical abilities.”
Lucinda’s cheeks warmed at the veiled reference to their time in bed. “I have no complaints in that regard.”
“I fear I cannot give you a child.”
“I do not want a child.” The possibility hadn’t entered her mind. As an aerialist, she’d feared dying with only her carnival family to witness her passing. In her mind, that death always came with the advancement of age. When her reactions eventually slowed and she one day failed to catch the trapeze bar. Few survived plummeting to the hard-packed earth below. She certainly hadn’t wanted to leave a child behind, especially one cursed with blue skin.
Lucinda dabbed the handkerchief under her eyes. “You have not told me why you left the Old Country.” His title and wealth explained how he never seemed to want for anything, though he appeared to have lived frugally before settling in Philadelphia.
He twined a black strand of her hair around a forefinger. “After losing Josette, I could no longer find pleasure in my home. My lands.” His voice was soft, carrying a reflective quality. “I travelled for many years. During that time, I met a woman in France who claimed she could speak with the dead. I sat with her and asked her to contact Josette. Within minutes, it was clear she was a charlatan, and a bad one at that. Her tricks were pitiful. She tried to pass off a doll dressed in white muslin as the ghost of Josette.”
Lucinda’s tears had dried. “You must have been angry.”
“At first. But then I became intrigued by the possibility of contact with those in Summerland. After that, I visited numerous mediums and psychics, hoping to find someone authentic. Sadly, that was not to be. But I learned from my exposure to Spiritualists. I even presented myself as a medium for a time, until realizing I would be better suited behind the scenes. Eventually, I found myself in the vicinity of your circus. I knew the moment I saw you, you were destined to be what I could not—a medium who would make all others pale in comparison.”
Lucinda sat up, propping herself against the pillows. “I still don’t understand why you want to trick people.”
He drew a breath, quiet for a moment, then met her gaze with a candid shrug of his shoulders. “Because I can.”
* * * *
Present Day
Collin jogged along the riverbank, the early morning air still layered with the cooler taint of night. It wasn’t unusual for him to start his day with a run, but this morning he’d left the house shortly after sunup. At this hour, the grounds around Amethyst Hall were peaceful, wedges of purple shadows slanted among the trees. Birds called to one another from the top branches as he pounded down a footpath that corkscrewed along the Chinkwe.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he threaded between clusters of sycamore and pine. He probably should have stuck to his normal trail, but every now and then he liked to push himself with unfamiliar terrain. There was enough acreage attached to Amethyst Hall, half of it wooded, that finding a trail which looped to the river and back usually wasn’t difficult. His legs burned as he dug into an uphill climb. Far better than any treadmill or paved road. By the time the angle pitched back to the Chinkwe, he welcomed the respite.
There was still no word on when his father would be released from the hospital, but Collin suspected it would be later that morning, especially if Leland had anything to say. A lot of planning remained on the Pin Oaks project—blueprints, zoning options, permits. It was time to finalize matters, make their plans known, and get Dante DeLuca off their backs.
Breathing easier, he took a moment to consider Salvador DeLuca. What had Collin’s father been doing with the scientist at Wickham all those years ago? The place was as much a mystery to Collin as everyone else in town. Hode Development had never been involved with the facility, so what was his father’s connection? With careful planning, he might be able to edge around the subject and bring it up to his dad—at least his association with Salvador. He couldn’t remember when the man died but knew it had been several years after the date in the photograph.
Collin slowed as his path led him closer to the river. The end of the bank was rife with reeds and cattails, knots of vegetation that sprouted in untamed clumps. Normally, he would turn back, but there was something lumped among the snarl of weeds that looked like a blue tarp. He could ignore it and let the current carry it down river, but the conscientious thing would be to haul it out and toss it. Every now and then his mother got on a kick about saving the planet. Recently, she’d joined a committee for environmental beautification. Collin suspected she was secretly more interested in the attention she’d reap as a result.
Deciding he couldn’t leave the thing snagged in the water and weeds, he clambered down the bank. Up close, he realized it was a large piece of fabric, not plastic. His foot sank into the muck, and he knotted his fingers in the waterlogged material. It resisted when he pulled, far heavier than he’d thought. Another, stronger tug and it rolled like a fish, bobbing belly upright.
