Sensation

by Thea Devine

  Help me ... Good God—the last goddamned thing he needed— a needy, edible virgin. Shit. He stood staring after the slowly moving line, not able now to even pick her out of the crowd.

  Who was she?

  No. No—this wasn't the time to get caught up in someone else's story. But then, what was she doing at these public events

  memorializing Tony Venable? And those two men with her... looked as though they meant business—whose business?

  It wasn't bis business.

  For certain. Which was why he couldn't leave it alone. If there was one thing he'd discovered about himself in the time he'd been away from England, it was his well-submerged need to be a knight-errant. To the rescue, that was him, first his undeserving father, then his reprobate brother, then the innocent and too se­ductive Jancie who hadn't wanted rescuing at all, and now ...

  Her ... the unknown delectable her whose body he had pene­trated, and whose life he had to leave alone.

  That her, the one stiff with resentment and resistance and needing help, possible rescue—needing him.

  The one other irresistible thing in his life besides his mission to save England . ..

  Jesus ...

  Where did he go to escape his conscience? He didn't know how he could leave her there, imprisoned between those two men. But the line had moved forward appreciably, and none of them were visible, and for all he knew, the three were already in the flat wandering around and poking among the pristine frag­ments of Tony Venable's life.

  Likely the crowds would grow less respectful as time wore on, too, and as their insatiable curiosity prodded them to be the one who discovered the secret of the enigma that was Venable.

  Except Kyger fully intended to be that one.

  A seemingly insurmountable task still, and he was no closer to any idea as to how to accomplish it. Venable was a thing unto himself, and, like a top, the idea of him kept spinning, his vortex drawing the unwary and the worshipful into his orbit.

  But what was he really? A witch doctor with a sorcerer's tongue, weaving words and wizardry, wishes and schemes, mir­roring back his constituents' needs and dreams and couching them in a smoky autocratic doctrine that seemed to speak to every man, rich or poor.

  Except when you examined his ideas and his philosophy word by word, line by line under a microscope, because otherwise, the overall effect of his speeches was mesmerizing. .

  Utterly Machiavellian. So he had to neutralize the ghost of

  Tony Venable as well. It was like trying to put out a conflagration with a cup of water.

  And on top of everything, on a personal level, Tony Venable seemed too good to be true. Not a blemish to be found. Not a salacious or questionable misstep anywhere. No mistresses, lovers, public sexual escapades. Nothing except for Wyland's covert in­formation that he had been at Bullhead Manor the night before his death.

  That, and the whispers about a death mark. And the inexplic­able cut on his chest. And the mystery of the recurring sevens.

  Sevens everywhere. Seven Park Lane. Sacred Seven.

  Seven Cups Tavern and Divan. He saw the sign out of the cor­ner of his eye and stopped dead. Seven again.

  Nonsense. The whole of London was not in some conspiracy of sevens.

  Nevertheless, he turned from his course and traced his steps back to the tavern. There was nothing unusual about the tavern. He saw that instantly.

  There was a bar to the one side when he entered, already crowded with habitual drinkers. There was a bank of divans al­ready occupied by smokers and chess players deep into their games. There was a scattering of empty tables and luncheon available for the nominal amount of sixpence, your choice—steak and kidney pudding or a cut of roast mutton with Yorkshire pud­ding.

  He took a table and chose the steak. The smoke was thick and sweet, reminding him of the thick, sweet scent that night at the Bullhead.

  The talk rumbled around politics, jobs, the cost of living, Venable's death. Nothing that wasn't discussed in every coffee­house and tavern on a daily basis. He stoically ate his steak, along with a pewter of stout, listening to the strands of conversa­tion.

  "... a man can't make a living these days ..."

  "... what are they going to do about replacing Venable? We need someone like Venable—someone strong, take-charge ... knew what was best..."

  ".. .appoint.,."

  "—no, not yet, not until there's something definite about—"

  "—meeting in Kensington Park today—"

  "-right-"

  ". .. no rabble-rousing this time—"

  "No—I'll pass the word ..."

  "—deliver a message—"

  "—it's the seventh day ..."

  "... in the park, I told you.... At the Seven Sisters—spread the word—"

  "... they killed him, certain as stones ..."

  "—who they? It's the Bolshies .. . it's always the socialists—"

  "No, it's government—he was getting too powerful, too many people listening to him .. . make changes ... no more queen and country—"

  "... right, Tony Venable and country—"

  Kyger's head jerked up. ... Wait—He'd almost missed some­thing in the rumble of typical talk you'd fully expect to hear from a luncheon crowd at a working-class tavern. Nothing new. Just what Wyland had told him: everyone wanted answers, and there were no answers.

  Just sevens, floating around in the least likely places.

  What had they said?

  He couldn't pin it down in his mind. Wait. Something seven. Something about sisters. Shit. And now people were paying for their food and drifting out the door and away. Who had said that?

  He grabbed a waiter, paid for his lunch and bolted out the door. The sun glared so brightly in his eyes after the dense dark­ness of the restaurant that it was almost painful. He dove into the usual crowds heading this way and that, the busy street, disori­ented by the normalcy of everything around him, so stunning when there were sevens in the air.

  This was what Wyland had warned him about—the elusive-ness of the thing he was chasing. A reputation, an ideology—as intangible as the wind, and just as destructive.

  Seven. Something about a park and sisters.

  What park? What sisters?

  He felt a moment of confusion—it was the smoke, it was in his head, in the air, the foggy density of the air in the tavern ... which was seven. Cups. Seven Cups.

  He felt dizzy, everything spun, and suddenly he was on the ground, pinned by a body, someone's fists punching him, pum-meling him, more than one person, and fierce, hard guttural whis­pers in his ear, in his head, in the fog: don't come around again, you fucking lob-cock, you sack of shit—stay away—don't come back .. . kill you if we ever see you here again—

  Blackness. Fog. Cotton. Aching. Dark—Cold.

  Awake? Awake. Not dead. And aware, suddenly, of sounds and cold and ... time. Time ... He bolted into full conscious­ness, his heart pounding erratically.

  No. Still daylight. It was him, tumbled over and curled up in a dark doorway, not unlike the one where his unknown informant had whispered the profane words, sacred seven, in his ear.

  He moved, painfully unwinding himself from the urine-soaked stoop of the doorway, and crawled into the piercing sunlight.

  Everything ached—his ribs, hips, belly, arms. His eyes. He could barely get himself upright. He didn't know where he was either—far from Seven Cups, that was certain.

  He limped down the odd, filthy, little back street. Seventh Lane.

  Jesus.

  He had no idea where he was. And his money was gone as well. They'd rifled his pockets, taken everything. Nothing made sense. He didn't know anyone there. There was no connection to anything he was involved in except the random fact of the num­ber seven.

  It had to be random. It just couldn't be a conspiracy of that magnitude that every seven in the whole of London was con­nected to ...

  Connected to what? Sacred seven ... ?

  Nothing is ex
empt from consideration.

  Where was he?

  He was getting dizzy again. Passersby eyed him warily, think­ing him drunk. He sagged against a nearby building and took some deep breaths. This would pass. Give him a minute. Give him—

  Someone touched him. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm not drunk." His voice was as thick as if he had downed a half dozen quarts of bitters.

  "Oh, all right, then." Rank skepticism, and then a closer look. "Can I help?"

  "I don't know where I am."

  "Cheapside."

  He swallowed hard, righting for air. They'd gotten him in the lungs, too. "I have to get to Cauldwell Gardens."

  "That'd cost a bit, mate."

  "I'd pay you back."

  "Sure you would." The man pulled out a handful of notes and thrust them at him.

  "Tell me where." He could barely speak.

  "Come find me at the Seven Sisters, mate. See if you're good as your word."

  What? The words stunned him. He pulled himself up to try to get a look at his Good Samaritan, but the man had vanished.

  A moment later, a hansom came rumbling down the narrow street.

  What?

  Kyger waved him down, just barely, and crawled into the backseat.

  Seven Sisters, he'd said?

  Holy shit.

  "Cauldwell Gardens," he managed to whisper, and then he passed out.

  Chapter four

  Meekness did not become her. Angilee was restless with the need to take action. To move, to seek, to find. Because even if the hired man hadn't seen her plea, the possibility still remained that their paths would cross somewhere else sometime again.

  But she would never see him at this rate if she was kept cooped up in this hotel room chained to the bed.

  Zabel, however, was very content with the arrangement. It meant he didn't have to worry about her, where she was, what she was doing.

  What she had done.

  He still had yet to deal with what she had done, but until Wroth obtained a license, he did not wish to think about it at all.

  Meantime, he had thoughtfully provided Angilee with all manner of novels and fashion magazines for when he went on his nightly forays with Wroth, and he did his duty and kept her com­pany during the day as much as he could stand. So he really thought she ought to be reasonably content and spending her time seriously contemplating the changes she must make in her nature to accommodate herself to the needs of her future hus­band.

  It was the second day after their visit to Tony Venable's flat.

  They were at breakfast, Zabel immersed in the morning paper, and the table drawn up to the bed so that Angilee could easily take her tea and toast.

  Angilee felt fidgety and irritable, she was tearing her toast to crumbs, and she had to clamp down on her impatience to broach Zabel about getting out of the hotel. But she knew very well, in this new order of obedience, the suggestion must come from her father, who had no compelling reason to want to do anything for her right now.

  On the other hand, she had been deliberately less combative the last few days as part of her plan to convince him she was coming to accept the terms of the marriage.

  You would think he'd notice, she thought wrathfully. You'd think he'd show some appreciation of the effort. Instead, he was complacent, smug, and certain that the punishment was working, and he ought just to keep on doing it.

  Her plan just wasn't working. At least as fast as she had hoped. And time was running out.

  "Oh, my God—look at this—there are going to be simultane­ous seances all over the city tomorrow to try to contact Tony Venable."

  "What? Where? I want to go—" Angilee caught herself. "I mean—rny goodness ... how—where?"

  "All over the city. How astonishing. There's a list of places, dozens, where a seance can be attended." He scanned the news­paper story and began reading the details: "Each of the mediums has agreed to use one method, which will be spirit writing. Each of the sessions is limited to a dozen attendees around the table, and as many as the room will accommodate, to bear witness. Each medium has agreed to begin the seance at the dot of seven. Each room will be prepared exactly the same, with every extrane­ous piece of furniture and all decorative objects removed, and all drawers emptied of contents. All windows are to be sealed. And some substance like flour or cornstarch sifted around the table and the threshold of the door and windowsills so there can be no question that someone is manipulating the seance in any way."

  Zabel stared at Angilee. "By God, this is extraordinary."

  "Oh, we must attend one of the seances," Angilee said in her most coaxing manner. "Isn't there one being held near the hotel?"

  "By heaven—" He looked down at the list. "There will be three sessions in each of the hotels in Town. You wouldn't think there were that many psychics in the whole of London."

  "I wouldn't suppose the medium would need to be psychic— just receptive," Angilee said. "We must attend one. It would be something to tell my children—don't you think?"

  Her children? Hers and Wroth's, Zabel thought with some complacency. She was coming to accept the idea of marrying Wroth. She was thinking about children. Grandchildren. The fu­ture. He was very pleased with her. "I expect we can try."

  He looked back down at the announcement in the paper. "Hmm. Yes, well, it appears to be highly organized. This won't be a random thing. There are actually specifications as to where interested parties in different sections of the city should go."

  "And we would be ... ?"

  "In the hotel here, and there will be someone coordinating things at each location," Zabel paraphrased as he read. "Gathering will begin two hours before so that everyone is as­sured of being accommodated in one of the locations. We have four choices within the hotel: Rooms seven, seventeen, twenty-seven or thirty-seven. How odd. Every location has the number seven. Seven Cups, Seven Regents Park, Seven Swans . .. Well, we don't have to leave the hotel, of course: we're closest to room thirty-seven, and I'm just intrigued enough that I think we'll go."

  Kyger was in consultation with Wyland. He was back to him­self now, after that vicious attack, but the events of the previous day had sounded him a warning. Someone was suspicious of what he was about. Someone connected to Venable, possibly.

  And now this mass seance on the heels of the huge positive re­sponse to the public admission to Tony Venable's flat, and the large attendance at that private memorial.

  "A bold stroke," Wyland said. "Impressive. Hit them, hit them, hit them. Never let awareness of him out of the news, out of the public consciousness. There's genius behind this, my boy, and that makes everything that much harder."

  "Which of the locations should I try to get in?"

  "Not the likely one. If they indeed have some suspicion of you, then cross off the taverns and the flat. I'd choose one of the

  hotels. Someplace where Venable's contributors might come to­gether over this. It might be interesting to watch them during the thing. It's pure hokum, of course, but they've been primed to want it, and they are raw with grief and ripe to want to believe in it."

  Kyger chose Claridge's, giving the proper address to the Venable acolyte that would gain him admittance to the hotel. Everything was orderly, everyone quiet, prayerful, respectful, hoping that some­thing extraordinary would occur that night.

  It was astonishing to watch it. But everything concerning Tony Venable was astonishing. And impenetrable.

  The devotion. The adoration.

  The sevens. More sevens. All the room numbers, sevens. The participants didn't have a choice of which room to go to. Kyger was sent to room seventeen, located on the first floor.

  There, everything was in readiness, probably since the morn­ing. The medium was already at the table, there was a blank writ­ing tablet, as large as a sketch pad, before her, and she sat with her eyes closed, while the awed audience entered quietly and those who were to sit around the table were randomly picked from among them.

&
nbsp; To his surprise, Kyger was one of those chosen, and he warily took his seat across from the medium so he could watch every­thing closely.

  The excitement was palpable but subdued. There was no sense of impatience, no move to hurry things along. Everything was precise and deliberate as if it were being executed according to a plan.

  It was eerie.

  The lights were low in the room, and it was empty of any fur­niture, as the news stories reporting the event had detailed. Those who would be in the audience had to stand because, practically, the room would accommodate many more if they weren't seated.

  No one complained.

  The windows were tightly closed, and at five minutes before the hour, the door would be locked and flour shaken around the room at the specified points.

  At seven, the acolyte told them, those who had been chosen to

  sit at the table would join hands, and he would initiate the sum­moning. All around London, the presiding acolyte would per­form the same ritual, would say the same words. Everything was synchronized; everything would be happening simultaneously.

  He then locked the door and walked around the room with a sifter, shaking flour around the door, the windows, the table. At his signal, the medium displayed a planchette with a pencil at­tached to everyone in the room.

  "This is the method by which Tony Venable will speak with us," the acolyte explained. "It slips onto her hand with that rub­ber band you see stretched across the upper side. She will now put on the implement. It wants but two minutes to the hour. Let us say a silent prayer, and when Big Ben strikes ..."

  Time never moved so slowly. It thickened around them as if it had a life of its own. The silence was like a dense cloud, rolling around them, enfolding them like fog.

  The tolling of the hour sounded. Bong, bong, bong...

  "Join hands," the acolyte whispered, taking his place three persons to the right of the medium.

  They joined hands. Hot hands, heated breaths, a jumpiness, a nervousness as if they could sense something there, something—a throbbing, an anticipating. Someone ...