It took Virginia a few seconds to realize that the woman in the mirrors was herself. She was not alone in the bed. There was a man beside her. The front of his unfastened shirt was soaked in blood. His head was turned away, but she could see enough of his handsome face to recognize him. Lord Hollister.
She sat up slowly, unconsciously letting go of some unseen object that she had been gripping in one hand. A part of her insisted that she was living through a dreadful dream, but her other senses warned her that she was awake. It took everything she had to touch the side of the dead man's throat. There was no pulse. She had not expected to find one. The chill of death enveloped him.
A fresh surge of panic flared through her. Tiny icicles lanced the back of her neck and the palms of her hands. She scrambled frantically out of the bed. When she looked down she noticed that a portion of her chemise was stained crimson. She raised her eyes and saw the knife for the first time. It was half hidden by the rumpled sheets. The blade was covered in blood. The hilt lay very close to where her hand had been a moment earlier.
At the edge of her vision she saw disturbing shadows shift deep within the mirrors. Hurriedly she shuttered her psychical senses. She could not deal with a reading just now. Her intuition was flaring wildly. She had to get out of the mirrored room.
She turned quickly, searching for the new bronze-and-black gown that she had worn to the Hollister mansion that evening. She saw the dress and her petticoats. The garments were crumpled carelessly in the corner as if they had been hastily discarded in the throes of passion. The toes of her high-button walking boots were just visible beneath the folds of the cloak. For some incomprehensible reason, the thought that Hollister had partially undressed her before she had sunk a knife in his chest was more unnerving than awakening next to the body.
Dear heaven, how could one kill a man but have no memory of the violence? she wondered.
Dark energy seethed again in the mirrors. Fear and the need to escape were making it hard for her to control her senses. Once again she managed to suppress her talent. The shadows receded deeper into the looking glasses. She knew she could not banish those shadows entirely. It was no doubt still night outside. Glasslight energy trapped in mirrors was always strongest after dark. There were scenes lurking in the looking glasses surrounding her that she needed to confront, but she could not read the afterimages now. She had to get out of the room.
She looked around and realized that there was no obvious door. The walls of the small chamber appeared to be covered in mirrors. But that was not possible, she thought. The air in the room was fresh. The gas lamp burned steadily. There had to be some concealed means of ventilation, and somewhere there was a door. And where there was a door there would be a draft over the threshold.
Forcing herself to focus on one thing at a time, she crossed the chamber and picked up her gown. It took an enormous amount of effort to fasten the petticoats and pull the dress up around herself, because she was shivering so violently.
She was struggling with the bodice, trying to get the front hooked, when she heard the soft sigh of concealed hinges. Another wave of panic rattled her nerves. She looked up quickly. In the mirrored wall before her she watched a glass panel open behind her.
A man moved into the room, riding an invisible wave of dark power. She recognized him at once, even though they had met on only one occasion. But then, she would know him anywhere. A woman did not forget a man whose dark, shadowed eyes held the promise of heaven or hell. For an instant she could not move. She froze, the front of the gown clutched to her breasts.
"Mr. Sweetwater," she whispered.
He gave her a swift, head-to-toe assessment. His hard, implacable face was sculpted in light and shadow by the glary light of the lamp. His eyes narrowed faintly. In another man, the expression might have indicated concern. But this was Owen Sweetwater. She was certain that he did not possess anything resembling normal human emotions.
There were only two possible explanations for his presence in the death chamber tonight. He was there to kill her or to save her. With Sweetwater there would be no middle ground.
"Are you injured, Miss Dean?" he asked, as if merely inquiring after her health.
The cool formality in his tone triggered a flash of clarifying indignation.
"I'm unhurt, Mr. Sweetwater." She glanced at the bed. "But the same cannot be said for Lord Hollister."
He crossed to the bed and studied Hollister's body for a moment. Virginia sensed energy whisper through the room and knew that Owen had heightened his talent. She did not know the nature of the psychical ability he commanded, but she sensed that it was dangerous.
Owen turned around. "Excellent work, Miss Dean, although somewhat untidy."
"What?"
"It is clear that Hollister will no longer be a problem, but we must get you safely away from here before you are arrested for murder."
"No," she managed.
Owen's brows rose. "You do not wish to leave this chamber?"
She swallowed hard. "I meant I did not kill him."
At least I don't think I did. She realized she had no memory of anything after she had read the looking glass in the bedroom of the Hollister mansion. She had no choice but to claim that she was innocent. If she were arrested for the murder of Lord Hollister, she would surely hang.
He gave her another swift appraisal. "Yes, I can see that you did not plant that kitchen knife in his chest."
She was startled. "How can you know that I am innocent?"
"We can discuss the details somewhere else at a more convenient time," Owen said. He came toward her, moving with the purposeful stride of a beast of prey closing in for the kill. "Here, let me do that."
She did not comprehend what he intended until he was directly in front of her, fastening the small hooks that closed the front of her gown. He worked with swift, economical movements, his hands steady and sure. If the fine hair on the back of her neck was not already standing on end, Owen's touch would have electrified it. The energy around him charged the atmosphere and her senses. She was torn between an overpowering urge to run for her life and the equally strong desire to throw herself into his arms.
That settled it, she thought. The events of the night had unhinged her mind. She could no longer trust any of her obviously shattered senses. She sought refuge in the self-mastery she had spent most of her life perfecting. Mercifully it came to her aid.
"Mr. Sweetwater," she said coldly. She stepped back quickly.
His hands fell away. He gave the front of her gown a critical once-over. "That will do for now. It's after midnight and the fog is quite thick. No one will notice you once we are outside."
"Midnight?" She reached down to the small chatelaine watch pinned to the waist of her gown. When she saw that he was right about the time, she shuddered. "I arrived at eight, as instructed. Dear heaven, I have lost four hours."
"I apologize for the delay in my own arrival. I did not get word that you were missing until an hour ago."
"What are you talking about?"
"Later. Put your shoes on. We have an unpleasant walk ahead of us before we are free of this place."
She did not argue. She lifted her skirts and petticoats and shoved one stocking-clad foot into a boot. She did not bother with the laces.
Owen contemplated the body on the bed while he waited. "You're sure you are unhurt?"
She blinked, trying to comprehend the lethal edge on his words.
"He did not rape me, if that is what you are wondering," she said crisply. "You will have noticed that he is still fully clothed."
"Yes, of course," Owen said. He turned back to her, his odd eyes even colder than usual. "Sorry. It is just that for the past few hours I have been consumed with the sensation that something was wrong. When I came through the door a moment ago I discovered that I was right."
"You were too late to save his lordship, do you mean, sir?"
"No, Miss Dean, too late to save you. Fortunately, you were
able to save yourself."
She got her other foot into its boot. "I certainly do not mourn Hollister. I believe he was a monster. But I cannot take the credit for his current condition."
"Yes, I can see that now," Owen said with a chilling calmness.
"Do not pretend to humor me, sir." She leaned down to scoop up her heavy cloak. "I want to make it quite clear that I did not murder his lordship."
"Frankly, it does not matter to me. Hollister's death is a benefit to the world."
"I could not agree with you more. However--" The sound of sighing hinges stopped her.
"The door," she said. "It's closing."
"So it is."
They both rushed for the door. Owen reached it first, but the mirrored panel swung back into place just before he could get his booted foot into the opening. Virginia heard an ominous click.
"It's locked," she said.
"It's all of a piece," Owen said. "This entire affair has been a source of great annoyance to me from the start."
"My condolences," she murmured.
Ignoring the sarcasm, he went back to the bed and picked up the bloody knife. He crossed the room again and smashed the heavy hilt of the weapon against the door panel. There was a sharp, splintering crack. A large fissure appeared in the mirror. He struck again. This time several jagged shards fell to the floor, revealing a portion of a wooden door.
She studied the new lock that had been installed in the ancient door. "I don't suppose you're any good at picking locks, Mr. Sweetwater?"
"How do you think I got in here tonight?"
He took a thin length of metal from the pocket of his coat, crouched, and went to work. He got the door open in seconds.
"You amaze me, sir," Virginia said. "Since when do gentlemen learn the fine art of lock-picking?"
"The skill comes in quite handy in the course of my investigations."
"You mean in the course of your unfortunate campaign to destroy the careers of hardworking people such as myself who are guilty of nothing more than trying to make a living."
"I believe you refer to my efforts to expose those who earn their livings by deceiving the gullible. Yes, Miss Dean, that is precisely the sort of research that has intrigued me of late."
"Those of us who are practitioners of the paranormal can only hope that you will find a new hobby soon, before you destroy our business entirely."
"Come now, Miss Dean. Are you not at least somewhat relieved to see me tonight? If I hadn't arrived when I did, you would still be trapped in this room with the body."
"Your point is well taken," she admitted.
"You can thank me later."
"I'll try to remember to do that."
He tossed the knife aside, wrapped his gloved hand around her wrist, and drew her toward the door. She did not trust Owen Sweetwater. She could not afford to trust him. In the past few weeks it had become clear that he was engaged in a personal quest to expose practitioners of the paranormal as charlatans.
He was not the first so-called investigator to attempt to label all practitioners as frauds. But she had privately begun to wonder if, in his zeal, Sweetwater had decided to take matters a step further. Two glass-readers--women with talents similar to her own--had died under mysterious circumstances in the past two months. The authorities had declared the deaths accidental, but she had her doubts.
Perhaps Owen Sweetwater had taken it upon himself to do more than try to destroy careers. Perhaps, in addition to acting as judge and jury, he had assumed the role of executioner. There was something in his eyes, in the energy around him, that told her his nature was that of the hunter and that his chosen prey would be human.
Sweetwater was certainly no friend or ally, yet all indications were that he did not intend to kill her, at least not here and now. Going with him seemed a wiser choice than attempting to find a route to safety on her own. She did not even know where she was.
They went through the doorway. Owen paused long enough to light a lantern that he had evidently left on the other side of the entrance. The flaring light illuminated an ancient corridor fashioned of stone.
"Where are we?" she whispered.
"In a basement below the grounds of the Hollister mansion. The house was built on the ruins of a medieval abbey. There is a warren of tunnels and cells down here. The place is a maze."
"How did you find me?"
"You probably don't want to know the answer to that question."
"I insist on knowing how you found me, sir."
"I have had two people watching your house from an empty house across the street for the past few nights."
For a moment she was too stunned to speak.
"How dare you," she finally managed.
"I told you that you would not like the answer. When you set off tonight for a reading, my watchers thought nothing of it. You go out several nights a week to practice your art. But when you did not return in a reasonable length of time, the watchers sent word to me. I went to your townhouse and asked your housekeeper for the address of your client."
"Mrs. Crofton told you that I came here to do a reading?"
"She was concerned that you had not returned. When I arrived on the grounds of the Hollister estate I knew at once that something was very wrong."
"Your talent told you as much?" She was deeply wary.
"I'm afraid so."
"How?"
"Let's just say that you are not the first woman to disappear into these tunnels. The difference between you and the rest of Hollister's victims is that you are alive."
"Dear heaven." She took a moment to grasp the meaning of what he had said. "You detect violent death?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Explain yourself, sir."
"Trust me, you are better off not knowing."
"It's a bit late to concern yourself with my delicate sensibilities," she snapped. "I just woke up in a bed with a high-ranking gentleman who was recently stabbed to death."
"Your nerves are obviously quite sturdy. Nevertheless, this is not the time or the place to discuss the nature of my talent."
"And why is that?" she asked.
"We have more pressing priorities at the moment. I would remind you that if you did not stab Hollister to death, then it follows that someone else did. That individual may still be in the vicinity."
She swallowed hard. "Right, then. I'll save the questions for later."
"A wise decision."
Owen stopped so suddenly that Virginia stumbled against him. He did not seem to be aware of the impact. He raised the lantern and held it so that the yellow glare lit the passageway to the right.
"Do you feel some energy?" he asked in low tones.
A strange flicker of icy awareness brushed Virginia's senses.
"Yes," she said.
The sensation grew stronger. It was accompanied by a rhythmic clank-and-thud.
A miniature carriage rolled toward them out of the darkness. When it came into the light Virginia saw that it was drawn by two clockwork horses. The toy vehicle stood about a foot tall. The equipage was a work of art, not a child's plaything. Every detail was exquisitely rendered. The cab was finished in gleaming black enamel and elaborately gilded. Small windows glinted in the lantern light. The horses were realistically sculpted, complete with flowing black manes and tails. Their harness fittings were trimmed with gold.
"Why in heavens would someone leave such an expensive toy down here?" Virginia asked.
Owen took her arm again and drew her back a step. "That thing is no toy."
She could not take her eyes off the carriage. It fascinated her.
"What, then?" she asked.
"Damned if I know."
Another wave of chilling energy feathered her senses.
"I can sense the power in the device," she said. "It's glasslight, the same kind of energy that I read in mirrors. But only humans can generate psychical energy. How is that carriage doing it?"
"We are not going to inv
estigate." Owen hauled her around a corner, out of the direct path of the clockwork carriage. "We must keep the wall between us and that device, whatever it is. Stone blocks psychical currents."
A faint, frightened voice came out of the dark passageway behind the carriage.
"Is there someone out there? Please help me."
Owen stilled. "Damn," he said, very softly. "One complication after another."
Virginia turned back toward the intersection of the hallways.
"Who's there?" she called in a low voice.
"My name is Becky, ma'am. Help me, I beg you. I can't get out. It's very dark here. There are bars on the door."
"Another one of Hollister's victims," Owen said.
Virginia glanced at him. "We must do something."
"We can't get to her unless we can get past that clockwork mechanism."
"It is producing my kind of energy," she said. "I might be able to control it."
"Are you certain?"
"I must try. Let me take a look."
Owen's fingers closed like a manacle around her wrist. "Whatever you do, don't let go of my hand. Agreed?"
"Yes, yes, of course," she said, impatient now. "I need some light."
He held the lantern out and aloft so that it partially illuminated the intersecting corridor.
The clank-and-thud noise had ceased. Virginia risked a peek around the corner.
In the flaring light the windows of the miniature vehicle glinted ominously. As though sensing prey, the vehicle lurched forward again.
"Interesting," Owen said, listening. "It seems to be activated by movement. Since it is a psychical device of some sort, it is probably reacting to our auras."
"Yes, I think so." She pulled back out of range of the carriage and flattened herself against the stone wall. "The energy is infused into the windows. I cannot be absolutely positive until I try, but I believe I may be able to neutralize the currents, at least temporarily."
In the adjoining corridor the clank-and-thud noise ceased again.
"It definitely reacts to motion," Owen said. "If you can neutralize it long enough for me to get to it, I may be able to smash it or disable it. If it is a clockwork mechanism there will be a key."
In Too Deep Page 28
