Born of Illusion (25 page)

“You’re all right,” he murmurs, his lips against the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes closed and nod. I don’t want to think about anything right now. For the first time in a long time, I feel warm and safe. I press my face against his chest so hard that I feel the solid muscles underneath the coarseness of his wool jacket. For once, his feelings are coming through to me loud and clear: concern, worry, caring. The scent of soap and autumn cold tickle my nose and, for a minute, I allow myself just to breathe him in, wishing I could hold on to this moment forever.

But turning off thoughts is not that easy, and the moment Mrs. Lindsay pops into my head, I stiffen with doubt. As if sensing a difference, Cole slowly lets his arms fall away.

I step back, my face heating. What on earth possessed me to throw myself at him? A piercing whistle comes from the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?” I ask, not meeting his eyes.

He follows me down the hall and I wave at him to sit at the table.

“No, you rest,” he says, indicating my foot. “Where are the cups?”

I show him where everything is and then sit, watching him make me tea.

I accept the cup from him and he sits across from me. His dark eyes regard me steadily, his features solemn. He’s wearing his professor face.

“So,” I finally say, unable to take the silence.

“So.” He looks down at his cup and then back at me. “How are you really?”

“Sore. Confused.” I raise an eyebrow. “Disappointed.”

He nods. He knows I’m not just talking about the kidnapping. “You have every right to be.”

And I know he’s not just talking about the kidnapping either.

“So?” This time it’s a question.

“So what would you like to know? I’ll tell you what I can.”

I take a sip of tea, my mind whirling. What do I want to ask first? Should I just flat out ask him about Mrs. Lindsay? Or see if he tells me? I think about the way I hurled myself into his arms and my cheeks grow hot again. How can I be so drawn to someone I’m not even sure I trust? “You said you came to America to find other Sensitives. Why?”

I’m half expecting a dodge, but the answer comes immediately. “I was sent to find other Sensitives to help them in any way I can.”

“Why would they need help?”

Cole hesitates and I stiffen, but he holds up a hand. “It’s hard explaining this in a way that’s not offensive.”

I snort. “I’m not a wilting daisy.”

Cole’s lips twitch upward. “Anna, you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” His eyes catch mine and for a moment I can’t breathe. Then his face settles back into serious lines.

“Many Sensitives end up in an asylum. They don’t know what’s going on, and unless they somehow learn to control their power, it drives them mad. So, to be perfectly blunt, finding someone of your age with abilities as strong as yours is rare.”

I look down at my cup, remembering how many times I felt haunted by the emotions coming off other people, how many times I had visions I thought would drive me insane. I draw in a deep breath. “So who are the others?”

“Mrs. Gaylord already told you. I belong to a club called the Society for Psychical Research. We are a group of scientists and Sensitives. The scientists study us and the Sensitives help one another control their abilities.”

A chill runs through me. The Society for Psychical Research. The same society Dr. Bennett left because of their treatment of the people they were studying. The same one he said is hard on people like me. Why would Cole belong to an organization that treats Sensitives so badly? Then I remember what he told me the first time we talked about it—
that he was more like a conduit than a Sensitive,
he’d said. Whose side is he on? I want to ask him but decide to keep my mouth shut. Right now, all I want is information, and I need to get it before he clams up again. “Are all Sensitives’ abilities the same?” I ask.

Cole shakes his head. “No. Some can read people’s thoughts, while some pick up on people’s dreams. A few have visions of the future, but I’ve never met any who can feel the emotions of others or channel the dead.”

I shake my head. “This is so confusing. How is it that I can do things the others can’t? What makes me different?”

“No one knows. That’s one of the things the Society is trying to answer with their research. There are a bunch of different theories.”

“Such as?”

“Some people believe Sensitives are using more of their brain than most people do. Others think such abilities are passed from one generation to the next.”

So perhaps I did get my talents from my father. I file that away for later. Right now, there is a more pressing question I’ve got to ask.

“You said there is a way to control it. How?”

“With training.”

I swallow. “Can you teach me?”

Cole takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I’ve only sat in on a few sessions with other Sensitives. I’ve been trained, of course—what I can do is too valuable not to be able to control it—but I’m not sure I can do you much good. Some within the Society frown on such training.”

Interesting. I wonder if this is what Dr. Bennett was talking about. “Why is that?”

“They’re afraid that too much practice will somehow mess up the research. Give different findings than raw power would. The Sensitives, on the other hand, just want to be able to live as normal a life as possible. Most of them don’t mind helping with the research, but they want to be able to turn their powers off as well.”

Them. So he doesn’t think of himself as a Sensitive. “So the scientists don’t like that? Is there friction between the two groups?”

I watch him carefully and note his hesitation.

“There is, but that’s one of the things I really shouldn’t talk about.”

Disappointment almost chokes me. More than anything I want to be able to trust him. I take a deep breath. “So how do I control it? What kind of training can I do?”

“Pretty much just practice and concentration.”

I take a deep breath and make up my mind. “Let’s do it.”

Cole smiles, softening the stern edges of his face. “What? Right now?”

I shrug. “Why not?”

“Because being physically and emotionally exhausted isn’t a good way to start out. You should rest first.”

I look down at the table, struggling to put my thoughts into words. “I know who snatched me.” I give a quick shake of my head at the alarm on his face. “No, I mean, I was familiar with one of the three people involved in taking me. Just like I knew that Mrs. Lindsay was the person who’d been watching me.”

I watch his face carefully. All I see is concern.

“Do you think Mrs. Lindsay was behind the abduction?”

The feelings of helplessness I’d experienced in the milk truck wash over me again. Cole reaches across the table and lays his hand over mine. The moment our fingers touch, his worry transmits itself to me loud and clear. Whatever he was doing with Mrs. Lindsay, I don’t think it had anything to do with hurting me. At least I hope not. “I don’t know. But if I had better control of my abilities, I might have been able to figure out who it was.” And finding out who abducted me is the first step in protecting my mother.

Silence stretches between us until I finally look up to meet his dark eyes.

“We can start tomorrow,” he says.

My throat swells and I glance away. Can he feel my emotions right now? Can he tell how grateful I am?
How much I like him?
Heat rises in my face. I definitely need some lessons. I want to learn how to put up a wall like he does.

I pull my hand away and regain my composure. Something inside me, something that has been tied in knots for years, eases. “How old were you when you were trained? I mean, when did you know there was something different about you?”

“Because I’m just a conduit, I only experienced psychical incidents when I was near another Sensitive. It rarely happened when I was little, and because I didn’t have the words to describe the experience anyway, my parents had no idea. Then I was sent off to boarding school. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it”—his lips quirk up—“one of the teachers there happened to be a Sensitive. I was trained during the war and formally became a member of the Society last year.”

I frown, my mind skipping ahead. “I’d never thought of it before, but this ability could be really useful during wartime. If someone was so inclined, it could actually be quite dangerous.”

A muscle in Cole’s jaw jumps. “That’s one of the disputes within the Society and one of the reasons I’ve been so reluctant to tell you more about us.”

I catch his meaning. “So there are members . . .”

“We don’t trust. Yes. I told you I came to find Sensitives and that’s true, but there is another reason I was sent to the United States.”

I still. “Why is that?”

“Some of the leaders of the Society for Psychical Research felt I was in danger because of my ability to sense other Sensitives.” Cole’s mouth tightens. “They worried that if someone found out I’m a conduit, they could use me for their own ends.”

Alarm sends my pulse racing. “So you’re in danger?”

Cole shrugs. “Not that I know of, but there is some concern that my whereabouts is now public knowledge. I was sent a letter from a trusted friend within the Society, but I misplaced it before I had a chance to read it.”

My heart stops. The letter. After meeting Houdini in the magic shop, I had completely forgotten about it. It’s still in my coat. Shame heats my cheeks. What if Cole is in danger because of me? I have to tell him.

I swallow. “Cole, I . . .”

Before I can say anything else, the door opens and my mother and Jacques come into the kitchen.

“How about we meet tomorrow to start your training?” Cole asks.

I give a quick nod. Perfect. That would give me a chance to return the letter and apologize for stealing it.

“Oh, you’re up, darling. How are you feeling?”

Mother comes over and kisses my cheek. “I’m well, thank you for asking,” I say rather coolly. I’m still smarting over being left alone. A raised eyebrow tells me my mother notices my tone.

“Wonderful,” she says, handing me a bag. “I picked you up some sandwiches on my way home.” She glances at Cole. “Thank you so much for checking on her for me. I had no choice but to leave.” She gives me a pointed stare.

Cole rises to leave. “I need to be going, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Anna?” With a little bow of his head, he takes his leave.

I pull a sandwich out of the bag and unwrap the waxed paper. I take a deep, appreciative sniff and bite into it ravenously. God only knows how long it’s been since I last ate.

Jacques clears his throat. “Your mother and I were very worried about you.”

I want to laugh but am too busy eating. Chicken salad on rye never tasted so good.

“How did the show go?” I ask with my mouth full.

“Perfect, darling, absolutely perfect.”

Mother pours two glasses of gin and hands one to Jacques.

“I’ll admit, it turned out much better than I thought it would. It was touch and go there for a bit,” Jacques says.

“I knew he’d be fine.” The words drop out of Mother’s mouth like smug little pebbles.

I glance up, suspicious. Her eyes are bright. She’s dying to tell me something but doesn’t want to be too obvious about it. My heart sinks and I hobble over and toss the rest of my sandwich in the garbage. I’m not hungry anymore.

I turn to face Jacques and my mother. “Who would be fine?” I keep the tone of my voice even. Besides watch your back, the number one rule of living with my mother is don’t let her know she’s hurt you.

“Owen!” Mother bursts out, unable to hold back any longer.

“Owen?” I fumble for my chair and sit with a thud.

“Did someone say my name in vain?” The person in question calls and I hear the slam of the door behind him.

“There’s my girl!”

He falls down on his knees in front of me and holds out a rose. “I would have been here sooner, but I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. Not after I let them take you like that.”

He lays his head in my lap, still holding up the rose. “I will never be able to forgive myself, but I dare to hope that you will, one day, forgive me. . . .”

For a second, I’m speechless, but then I take the rose and rap him on the head with my knuckles. “There’s nothing to forgive, you goose. It happened so fast . . .” I swallow hard and shove the memory from my mind. “Now, get up. This is ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” he says, popping up like a jack-in-the-box. “My knees were killing me.”

I start to roll my eyes but then catch sight of the bruise he has along his jaw and cheekbone. “Oh, my God, are you okay?” I reach out to touch his face but then pull my hand back, embarrassed.

“I’m fine. It’s you I was worried about. I also brought your purse. You dropped it when you were taken.”

I take the purse gratefully. I would have hated to lose my knife. I need it more than ever.

“Shall we move this conversation into the sitting room?” Mother is still gloating.