Her heart sank. So much for taking a quick look around and retreating back up the staircase. She would have to leave her perch at the foot of the stairs and tour the maze of boxes and crates if she wanted to be certain that there were no terrible secrets buried down here.
She really did not need this. She had problems enough at the moment. Settling Aunt Vella’s small estate had proved remarkably time-consuming, not to mention depressing. In the middle of that sad process she had been forced to face the fact that the one man she thought could accept her, voices and all, found her a complete turn-off in the bedroom. On top of everything else, she had a business to run. Late October was a busy time of year for her costume design shop, Incognito. No, she did not need any more trouble, but she knew all too well that if she ignored the whispers, she would walk the floor until dawn for days or even weeks. For some reason she could never understand, finding the truth was the only antidote for the voices.
Stomach clenching, she stepped down onto the concrete floor and put out a hand to touch the nearest object, a dusty cardboard box. There was no help for it now. She had to follow the trail of psychic whispers left by the freak.
“What are you doing?” Doug called anxiously from the top of the staircase. “I thought you said you were just going to have a quick look around down there.”
“There’s a lot of stuff here. Sooner or later I’m going to have to clear it out. I need to get an idea of how big a job it will be.”
“Please be careful, Miss Tallentyre.”
She pretended not to hear him. If he couldn’t be bothered to accompany her into the darkness, she was not interested in his platitudes.
There was nothing on the cardboard box but when her fingertips skated across the laminated surface of the old table she got another vicious jolt.
The demon is stronger than the witch.
Gasping, she jerked her fingers away from the table and took a quick step back. No matter how she tried to prepare herself, she would never get used to the unnerving sensation that accompanied a brush with the really bad whispers.
She looked down at the floor, searching for footprints. If there were any, they were undetectable. In the poor light the gray dust that covered everything appeared to be the same color as the concrete. In addition, the deep shadows between the valleys of stacked boxes left much of the surface of the floor in pitch darkness.
She inched forward, touching the objects in her path in the same tentative way she would have tested the surface of a hot stove. Psychic static clinging to the dusty armoire mirror made her flinch.
She looked around and realized that she was following a narrow path that snaked through the jungle of crates and boxes. The trail led to the closed door of the old wooden storage locker. A heavy padlock secured the sturdy door.
A very shiny new padlock.
She knew before she even touched it that it would reek of the freak’s spore.
She came to a halt a step away from the locker, held her breath, and put out her hand. The edge of her finger barely grazed the padlock but the shock was nerve-shattering all the same.
Burn, witch, burn.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, damn.”
“Miss Tallentyre?” Doug sounded genuinely alarmed now. “What’s wrong? Are you all right down there?”
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. Evidently her small yelp of pained surprise had activated some latent manly impulse to ride to the rescue. Better late than never.
“I’m all right but there is something very wrong down here.” She fished her cell phone out of her purse. “I’m going to call nine-one-one.”
“I don’t understand.” Doug halted on the last step, clutching his briefcase. He peered around and finally spotted her near the storage locker. “Why in the world do you want the police?”
“Because I think this basement is about to become a crime scene.”
The 911 operator came on the line before Doug could recover from the shock.
“Fire or police?” the woman said crisply.
“Police,” she responded, putting all the assurance she could muster into her voice in an effort to make certain the operator took her seriously. “I’m at fourteen Crescent Lane, the Tallentyre house. Tell whoever responds to bring a tool that can cut through a padlock. Hurry.”
The woman refused to be rushed. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”
“I just found a dead body.”
She hung up before the operator could ask any more questions. When she closed the phone she realized that Doug was still standing at the foot of the stairs. His features were partially obscured by the shadows but she was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. The poor man was obviously starting to realize that there were reasons why the other local real estate agents hadn’t jumped on the Tallentyre listing. He must have heard the rumors about Aunt Vella. Maybe he was starting to wonder if the crazy streak ran in the family. It was a legitimate question.
Doug cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re okay, Miss Tallentyre?”
She gave him the smile she saved for situations like this, the special smile her assistant, Pandora, had labeled her screw you smile.
“No, but what else is new?” she said politely.
. . .
The officer’s name was Bob Fulton. He was the hard-faced, no-nonsense, ex-military type. He came down the basement stairs with a large flashlight and a wicked looking bolt cutter.
“Where’s the body?” he asked, in a voice that said he had seen a number of them.
“I’m not certain there is one,” Raine admitted. “But I think you’d better check that storage locker.”
He looked at her with an expression she recognized immediately. It was the everyone-here-is-a-suspect-until-proven-otherwise expression that Bradley got when he was working a case.
“Who are you?” Fulton asked.
“Raine Tallentyre.”
“Related to the crazy lady, uh, I mean to Vella Tallentyre?”
“Her niece.”
“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here today?”
“I inherited this house,” she said coldly. He’d called Aunt Vella a crazy lady out loud. That meant she no longer had to be polite.
Clearly sensing the mounting tension in the atmosphere, Doug stepped forward. “Doug Spicer, Officer. Spicer Properties. I don’t believe we’ve met. I came here with Miss Tallentyre today to take a listing on the place.”
Fulton nodded. “Heard Vella Tallentyre had passed on. Sorry, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Raine said stiffly. “About that storage locker…”
He studied the padlocked door and then glanced suspiciously at Raine. “What makes you think there’s a body in there?”
She crossed her arms and went into full defense mode. She had known this was going to be difficult. It was so much simpler when Bradley handled this part, shielding her from derision and disbelief.
“Just a feeling,” she said evenly.
Fulton exhaled slowly. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You think you’re psychic, just like your aunt, right?”
She flashed him her special smile.
“My aunt was psychic,” she said.
Fulton’s bushy brows shot up. “Heard she ended up in a psychiatric hospital in Oriana.”
“She did, mostly because no one believed her. Please open the locker, Officer. If it’s empty I will apologize for wasting your time.”
“You understand that if I do find a body in that locker you’re going to have to answer a lot of questions down at the station.”
“Trust me, I am well aware of that.”
He searched her face. For a few seconds she thought he was going to argue further but whatever he saw in her expression silenced him. Without a word he turned to the storage locker and hoisted the bolt cutter.
There was a sharp, metallic crunch when the hasp of the padlock severed. Fulton put down the tool and gripped the flashlight in his left hand. He reached for the latch with gloved fi
ngers.
The door opened on a groan of rusty hinges. Raine stopped breathing, afraid to look and equally afraid not to. She made herself look.
A naked woman lay on the cold concrete floor. The one item of clothing in the vicinity was a heavy leather belt coiled like a snake beside her.
The woman was bound hand and foot. Duct tape sealed her mouth. She appeared to be young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, and painfully thin. Tangled dark hair partially obscured her features.
The only real surprise was that she was still alive.
KEEP READING FOR A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF
The Third Circle
A NOVEL OF THE ARCANE SOCIETY
BY AMANDA QUICK
COMING SOON FROM G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Late in the reign of Queen Victoria…
The heavily shadowed gallery of the museum was filled with many strange and disturbing artifacts. None of the antiquities, however, was as shocking as the woman lying in a dark pool of blood on the cold marble floor.
The ominous figure looming over the body was that of a man. The wall sconces were turned down very low but there was enough light to reveal the silhouette of his boot-length overcoat. The high collar was turned up around his neck, partially concealing his profile.
Leona Hewitt had only a split second to register the frightening scene. She had just rounded a massive stone statue of a mythical winged monster. Dressed as a male servant, her hair pinned beneath a masculine wig, she was moving swiftly, almost running in her frenzied effort to locate the crystal. Momentum carried her straight toward the man who stood over the body of the woman.
He turned toward her, his coat sweeping out like a great black wing.
She tried frantically to alter her course but it was too late. He caught her effortlessly, as though she were a lover who had deliberately flown into his arms; a lover he had anticipated with great eagerness.
“Silence,” he said, very softly, into her ear. “Do not move.”
It was not the command that stilled her utterly, rather the sound of his voice. Energy pulsed through every word, inundating her senses like a great ocean wave. It was as if some mad doctor had forced an exotic drug straight into her veins, a potion that had the power to paralyze her. Yet the fear that had sluiced through her a moment ago vanished as if by magic.
“You will remain silent and motionless until I give you further instructions.”
Her captor’s voice was a chilling, oddly thrilling force of nature that swept her away into a strange dimension. The muffled sounds of drunken laughter and the music from the party taking place two floors below faded into the night. She was now in another place, a realm where nothing mattered but the voice.
The voice. It had forced her into this bizarre dream state. She knew all about dreams.
Comprehension flashed through her, disrupting the trance. Her captor was using some sort of paranormal power to control her. Why was she standing so still and passive? She should be fighting for her life. She would fight.
She summoned her will and her own senses the way she did when she channeled energy through a dream crystal. The wavering sense of unreality shattered into a million glittering fragments. She was suddenly free of the strange spell, but she was not free of the man who had her pinned against him. It was a lot like being chained to a rock.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “You’re a woman.”
Reality, together with fear and the muted sounds of the party, returned in a startling rush. She started to struggle wildly. The wig slid forward over one eye, partially blinding her.
The man clamped his hand across her mouth and tightened his grip on her. “I don’t know how you slipped out of the trance but you had best keep silent if you want to survive this night.”
His voice was different now. It was still infused with a deep and compelling quality, but his words no longer resonated with the electrifying energy that had briefly turned her into a statue. Evidently he had abandoned the attempt to employ his mental powers to control her. Instead, he was doing it the more traditional way—using the naturally superior strength nature had bestowed on the male of the species.
She tried to kick his shin but her shoe skidded on some slick substance. Oh, heavens, blood. She missed her target and her toe struck a small object on the floor beside the body. She heard the item skitter lightly across the stone tiles.
“Damnation, there is someone coming up the stairs,” he whispered urgently into her ear. “Can’t you hear the footsteps? If we are discovered neither one of us will get out of here alive.”
The grim certainty of his words made her suddenly uncertain.
“I’m not the one who killed the woman,” he added very softly, as though he had read her thoughts. “The murderer, however, is likely still in this house. That may be him returning to clean up after his crime.”
She realized that she believed him, and not because he had put her back into a trance. It came down to cold logic. If he were the killer, he would no doubt have slit Leona’s throat by now. She would be on the floor beside the dead woman, blood pooling around her. She stopped struggling.
“At last, signs of intelligence,” he muttered.
She heard the footsteps then. Someone was, indeed, coming up the stairs into the shadowed gallery; if not the killer, one of the guests perhaps. Whoever he was, there was an excellent chance that he was quite drunk. Lord Delbridge was entertaining a large number of his male acquaintances this evening. His parties were notorious, not only for the unlimited quantities of fine wine and excellent food, but for the bevy of elegantly dressed prostitutes who were always invited to attend.
Cautiously, her captor removed his hand from her mouth. When she made no attempt to scream, he released her. She pushed the wig back into place so that she could see.
His fingers closed around her wrist like a manacle. The next thing she knew he was drawing her away from the body and into the deep shadows cast by what appeared to be a large stone table set on a massive pedestal.
Halfway toward his goal, he leaned down just long enough to scoop up the small object she had kicked across the floor a moment earlier. He dropped whatever it was into his pocket before pushing her into the space between the heavy table and the wall.
When she brushed against one corner of the table, a tingle of unpleasant energy crackled through her. Reflexively, she pulled back, flinching a little. In the dim light she could see strange carvings in the stone. It was no ordinary table, she realized with a shudder, but rather an ancient altar, one used for some unholy purposes. She had felt similar splashes of acid-dark energy from several of the other relics housed here in Lord Delbridge’s private museum. The entire gallery reeked of troubling emanations that made her skin crawl.
The footsteps were closer now, moving from the top of the main staircase into the hushed and shadowed gallery.
“Molly?” A man’s voice, slurred with drink. “Where are you, my dear? Sorry I’m a bit late. Got delayed in the card room. But I haven’t forgotten you.”
Leona felt her companion’s arm tighten around her. She realized that he had sensed her involuntary shudder. Unceremoniously, he pushed her down behind the shelter of the stone table.
Crouching beside her, he drew an object out of the pocket of his coat. She sincerely hoped that it was a pistol.
The footsteps came closer. In another moment the newcomer would surely see the dead woman.
“Molly?” The man’s voice sharpened with annoyance. “Where the devil are you, you silly girl? I’m not in the mood for games tonight.”
The dead woman had come up to the gallery to keep a tryst. Her lover was late and now he was about to find her.
The footsteps halted.
“Molly?” The man sounded bewildered. “What are you doing on the floor? I’m sure we can find a more comfortable bed. I really don’t… Bloody hell!”
Leona heard a choked, horrified gasp followed by a flurry of footsteps. The would-be lover was running, fleei
ng back toward the main staircase. When he passed in front of one of the sconces Leona saw his silhouette flicker on the wall like an image in a magic lantern show.
The man in the black coat was suddenly on his feet. For an instant Leona was dumbfounded. What on earth did he think he was doing? She tried to grab his hand to pull him back down beside her. But he was already moving, gliding out from behind the shelter of the dreadful altar. She realized that he meant to step directly into the path of the fleeing man.
He was mad, she thought. The fleeing lover would no doubt conclude that he was being confronted by the killer. He would scream, bringing Delbridge and the guests and the staff up into the gallery. She readied herself for a desperate flight to the servants’ staircase. Belatedly, another plan occurred to her. Maybe it would be better to wait and try to blend in with the crowd when it arrived.
She was still trying to decide on the best course of action when she heard the man in the black coat speak. He employed the same strange voice that had temporarily frozen her into complete immobility.
“Halt,” he ordered in a deep, rolling tone that resonated with invisible energy. “Do not move.”
The command had an immediate effect on the running figure. The man scrambled to a stop and stood motionless.
Hypnosis, Leona thought, comprehending at last. The man in the black coat was a powerful mesmerist who somehow augmented his commands with energy.
Until now, she had not paid much attention to the art of hypnosis. It was, generally speaking, the province of stage performers and quacks who claimed to be able to treat hysteria and other nervous disorders with their skills. Mesmerism was also a subject of much lurid speculation and anxious public concern. Dire warnings of the many fiendish ways in which hypnotists could employ their mysterious talents for criminal purposes appeared regularly in the press.