The Dark Glamour

by Gabriella Pierce

  André moved fractionally lower, and a shiver that was neither entirely pleasure nor entirely danger shot up her spine. She didn’t know the specifics of the Dalcascus’ negotiations with Lynne, but she could only assume that discovering that one of Lynne’s top-two most-wanted fugitives was in their possession would astronomically improve the siblings’ bargaining position.

  If he finds out who I really am, I’ll be even more trapped than I am right now. Between the top around her arms, André blocking her into the seat, the sealed doors of the airplane, and the fact that the only nerve-endings of hers that seemed to be working at all were the ones directly under his tongue, a sudden escape would be pretty much out of the question. The fear began to coil around her arousal like a pair of snakes, but both somehow grew stronger by being locked together.

  “More,” she heard herself whisper, her voice rasping in the dry, thin air. “I need more.”

  She felt rather than saw André’s smile. I’m in so much trouble here, was her last coherent thought before he pulled her out of her chair entirely, setting her down with unexpected gentleness on a velvet-covered couch. She saw him in fragments: dark hair falling over his eyes, the decisive cut of the muscles just above his hips, dark stubble just below the strong planes of his cheekbones, a mole on his rib cage that looked a bit like a heart. It was still, but hers was racing, racing, as he bore down on her and gave her exactly what she had asked him for.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A black cab rumbled by, and Jane hugged her plaid Burberry trench coat closer to her body. Patches of warm light spilled onto the sidewalk every few yards from crowded pubs and elegant shops, but their inviting glow just made Jane feel colder.

  I thought London was supposed to be foggy, she griped to herself. I didn’t realize I was in for constant drizzle. Having finally managed to get a few hours away from her extremely attentive traveling companion, though, she supposed that she couldn’t really afford to be picky about the weather.

  Since they had landed, André had been so cagey about where he was going after London, and why, that Jane was starting to wonder if he had made the whole trip up as an excuse to stalk her. He had begun by expressing extravagant concern for her train-wreck of a younger cousin, and insisted that he had nothing but time to be supportive of Jane while she searched for the fictional party girl. Jane, who had no idea where she was going but certainly didn’t want André accompanying her there, had invented excuse after excuse. They had spent a day and a half in a stalemate, and instead of looking for Annette, Jane had accomplished nothing but dining, sightseeing, and sleeping with André.

  Over beet salad at Texture, he had finally, if reluctantly, told her that they would have to spend the afternoon apart, and Jane’s heart leaped. He must actually have had business to attend to here, she smiled to herself, spearing a leaf of frisée cheerfully. Then it had occurred to her that this might just be a new kind of ploy on his part, and she felt a little sad that it actually made sense now for her to be so paranoid.

  In spite of herself, Jane glanced over her shoulder. From the thin crowd behind her, a dark-haired man in a brown leather jacket ducked into a used bookstore. Jane clenched her fists and hurried on. She had already seen him twice since she had left their Kensington hotel. He was wearing something different each time and never paid the slightest bit of attention to her, but her heart still thundered in her rib cage.

  She lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and waiting for the smoke to calm her down. But her jitteriness remained, and her hand was even colder than it had been before. She stamped out the barely smoked cigarette on the sidewalk and stuffed both hands back into her pockets.

  If André was leaping from rooftop to rooftop and following her every move, she admitted ruefully, at least her movements were both boring and unintelligible. She’d spent nearly an hour wandering along Hyde Park until it emptied into Green Park, and then St. James’s Park, and if it weren’t for the occasional massive monument or statue, she might almost have forgotten that she was in a majorly crowded city at all. But the impressive stretch along the Thames was livelier, and she wandered aimlessly up the bank. She felt an urgent need to look seriously and systematically for the building she had seen in her vision of Annette, but it was more difficult than she had allowed herself to expect.

  There’s so much here, she thought anxiously, clenching her jaw tightly. She had visited London three times, all with Elodie. The Dessaixes had a spectacular house, whose top floors overlooked the river, and a suite of its rooms had remained exclusively Elodie’s for years after she had moved to Paris. If I’d had to find something belonging to her in her parents’ house, it would have taken, like, two seconds, Jane realized ruefully. But now that Jane was in this supposedly familiar city alone, with nothing but a glimpsed shape to go on, she realized how dramatically she had managed to oversimplify the task ahead of her. I could wander for weeks. I might even pass it and not notice.

  Jane had both an innate and a well-trained eye for architecture, but there were an awful lot of buildings in London. It was a bit like looking for a needle in an oversize haystack. She knew what the roof she was hunting for looked like, but she didn’t know which side of the street it would be on, or how high it would be. She had to swivel her head back and forth and up and down constantly, and she was starting to get seasick after covering less than 1 percent of the city. And if she’s in some other city . . . some other country, working in an expat pub that gets The Times for its nostalgic clientele . . . She couldn’t bear to think about it.

  All the evidence had pointed her here; the newspaper had only been one piece of it. Annette had been watching a sitcom on the BBC, and Jane was almost sure she had noticed an electrical outlet beside the girl’s bathroom mirror with the serious, flat-footed triangle of UK sockets. And the double-decker buses that occasionally rolled past her on the street really did resemble the blur of red that had rushed by the pub’s window in her vision. While none of this was conclusive, Jane’s instincts had all told her the same thing. And shouldn’t a witch’s instincts count for something? Maybe if I start walking with my eyes closed, my magic will just . . . walk me there. She blinked a few times experimentally, took half a step forward, and then jumped back as a white-striped Mini thundered past where she had just been standing. Not such a good idea with this traffic, she decided, flipping her collar up against the damp chill.

  “I hope you are watching, André,” she whispered petulantly as she passed a towering, four-sided obelisk. It was covered in columns of large hieroglyphs so old that some of them almost seemed to be melting into the stone. “I hope you’re just as confused by what I’m doing as I am.”

  Just then, something looked familiar, and she spun around to look more carefully. It wasn’t the cylinder-and-steeple roof that she was looking for—not even close—but she had definitely seen it before. I was here, she realized after a moment. Elodie and I had tea right across from here, and I saw those gables and thought about what it would be like to live there. I wondered if I could get a work visa, or be licensed as an architect in England with my French degree. She and Elodie had giggled and evaluated each handsome man who passed by for his potential as a lover, or possibly a husband. Jane had wondered aloud what Gran would think of her living so far away: moving to Paris had already enraged her cautious guardian as it was. With her usual buoyant confidence, Elodie had insisted that Celine Boyle would be happy as long as Jane was, and, for an afternoon, Jane had let herself believe it.

  She threaded a path through some cobblestoned streets, still following the course of the river but no longer in sight of it. This time, it wasn’t her magic she was trusting to guide her: it was her memory. She knew she had never seen the mysterious roof from her spell before, but she felt lost and alone and she suddenly desperately needed to be somewhere familiar. Gran was gone, Malcolm was missing, Dee and Harris were an ocean away together, and Jane’s friendship had already cost Maeve far too much to ask for more. I have no one, she s
ighed, biting her lip. She longed to feel sure and in control of her steps, and to belong somewhere without having to feel like she was walking a tightrope with an inner-ear infection.

  Her feet moved faster as she started to recognize more and more of her surroundings. The buildings were set farther back from the street now, behind walls and gates, and at least half of the women on the wider sidewalks reminded her of Elodie’s excruciatingly well-dressed mother. Occasionally, a colorful flag hung from over a gated doorway, signaling an embassy or consulate of some distant nation. She knew the area was popular with diplomats, and although she couldn’t remember the exact order of streets, she guessed that she was getting close.

  Two cross-streets later, she noticed an extremely familiar flowering cherry tree, turned instinctively back toward the river, and found herself half a block from the Dessaixes’ house. She drifted toward it almost involuntarily. Elodie’s parents had always invited Jane to visit the house whenever she wanted, and she felt a bone-deep longing to be inside, nursing a cup of orange tea in their sun room. She could see the corners of a couple of its glass panels from where she stood. A gust of wind blew some cold drizzle down the back of her neck, and she felt tears well up in her eyes.

  No time for that, she told herself sternly, squeezing them shut until the feeling subsided. A nondescript black sedan raced past her and then skidded to a stop in the middle of the block. The driver hopped nimbly out of the car and held one of its back doors open, and a long pair of legs in immaculate camel-colored trousers emerged. They were followed by a pretty, paint-brushed-looking blouse and a wide fuchsia straw hat. It covered its wearer’s eyes, but Jane would recognize Elodie’s mother’s style anywhere. A quick glance confirmed that the woman’s husband had reached the street on the other side of the car, and Jane froze indecisively.

  From the still-open door behind Mrs. Dessaix, another long pair of legs appeared, thigh-high boots first. They could have been an aggressive look for the middle of the afternoon, but their somber color and the floaty, demure top paired with them made the look edgy but still appropriate. The girl had espresso-colored eyes and a springy black bob.

  “El!” Jane shouted, her feet flying across the damp pavement, oblivious to traffic, so happy that her voice broke in a sob. “Elodie, oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here!”

  She crushed her old friend in an overjoyed hug, but Elodie shrank back, her entire body rigid and unwelcoming. Jane stepped back, too, confused. If anything, Elodie looked even more confused: there was nothing friendly in her usually warm brown eyes. “Excuse me,” she said coldly, in the same British-Haitian-Swedish accent Jane had borrowed for her new identity.

  It hit her in a split second: Elodie had just encountered Ella.

  “I’m from Jane,” she whispered desperately in her friend’s ear. “I’m a friend of Jane’s, and we need your help, and I can explain if you just cover for me now, please?”

  Elodie stepped back and Jane held her breath, uncertain for a moment whether her Hail Mary would work. But after a fractional pause, Elodie smiled brightly and turned to her curious-looking parents. “Mom, Dad, you remember me telling you about Marjorie, right?”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Jane mumbled awkwardly, shaking their offered hands. “I’m so sorry to just show up here, but I’m having a bit of a crisis, and I need to borrow your daughter for a couple of hours. If that’s okay.” Mr. and Mrs. Dessaix, can your twenty-four-year-old daughter come out and play?

  Mrs. Dessaix’s head was inclined toward Elodie’s face, her clear brown eyes scrutinizing her daughter’s. “Go on, dear,” she ordered, and although outwardly her husband maintained what Jane assumed was his professional unreadability, she suspected that if she read his mind, he would be as surprised as his wife was. “It sounds important, Daniel,” Mrs. Dessaix added with a gently reproving note in her voice, confirming Jane’s guess.

  “I don’t know how long this will take,” Elodie admitted cautiously, her eyes flickering from her mother to Jane and back again. “I can try to meet you at the Finnish consulate later on, though—”

  “Nonsense,” Daniel Dessaix rumbled in his rolling Haitian accent. “You didn’t come here to spend all your time doing my job, chérie. Enjoy yourself, help your friend, and don’t worry about the Finns—just do try to make it to the garden party on Wednesday; that one will be more fun for you anyway. It was a pleasure to meet you, Marjorie.”

  With that pronouncement, Jane and Elodie were clearly dismissed, and the Dessaixes made a prompt retreat into the gated compound. As soon as they were out of sight, all the fake friendliness ran off of Elodie’s face like a bad batch of dye.

  “I haven’t heard from Jane in months,” she pointed out flatly, and Jane felt a pang of guilt. She had never intended to drop her old friends so completely, but her new life had turned out to be unexpectedly confusing at first, and then downright perilous. “I read the gossip columns, though,” Elodie went on, “and I have a lot of questions.”

  Jane nodded, swallowing a few times to try to clear the lump from her throat. “Not here,” she croaked finally. “Let’s get over to the water, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “You’ll have to,” Elodie replied fiercely, and Jane winced.

  She felt almost more alone than before she had spotted her old friend. Now Elodie was right beside her, their shoulders nearly brushing, but they were strangers. Another thing Lynne Doran has taken from me, she thought viciously, kicking at a bit of gravel. But although Elodie’s presence couldn’t give her much comfort, it did give her some hope: the life that Jane had lost was still out there, waiting for her.

  I just need to get back to it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “My name is Ella,” Jane began, but Elodie apparently wanted to get all of her questions out before she would even consider listening to answers.

  “Where the hell is Jane?” she demanded, kicking the heel of one of her boots against the stone bench they had commandeered for their talk. “She’s supposed to be missing, which is ludicrous. Because she does not do drugs, and although I was mad as hell that that Prince Charming playboy dragged her off to the other side of the world, I don’t believe that he does, either. And that leaves me with this absurd ‘amnesia’ story, which I don’t think I even need to dignify with a— I mean, how do two people get amnesia at once and then both manage to disappear off the face of the Earth? But then why is that mother-in-law pushing such crazy nonsense? And since when does Jane—my Jane, who shared a tandem desk with me for two years and couldn’t even pick out a first-date dress without me—get married with five hundred people there and I find out about it in People?”

  Jane started to speak, but Elodie waved her off. “Look, I don’t know what kind of ‘help’ you came to me for, but you’re not getting a thing from me until I’m satisfied that Jane actually wants me to help you. She’s clearly gotten mixed up with some shady people, to say the least, and I refuse to go along with anything that isn’t in her best interests.”

  “You’re a good friend,” Jane managed to choke out finally, when Elodie had spent a few seconds glaring but not speaking. “You’re— I’m— She’s really lucky.”

  “She’s missing,” Elodie hissed furiously, her dark eyes huge with emphasis. “She’s married and missing and apparently suspected of murder. Who the hell are you and why are you here?”

  “I’m here because I need your help,” Jane told her truthfully. “I’m here because you’re such a good friend.” She felt perilously close to crying, but her mind kept doggedly turning possible stories over and over, testing them for holes. It was hard to tell what sort of lie Elodie might find convincing, and she had obviously spent enough time following Jane’s adventures in the tabloids that Jane wouldn’t be able to just make up a whole story from scratch. She probably couldn’t have even if she’d wanted to, she realized, because suddenly she was feeling deeply, draggingly exhausted. There had been so much lying and so much subterfuge, and now that
she was sitting with a true friend and gearing her brain up to do more of it, she found that she was just too tired.

  I can be tired, but not stupid, she decided finally, and pulled in a few slippery shoots of her magic. She felt terrible doing it—invading someone’s mind was unfair and distasteful—but she had to be as careful as humanly possible. She pushed the magic reluctantly toward Elodie, who was tapping her foot impatiently again.

  It was difficult at first to make much headway, because Elodie had a whole lot on her mind, and nearly all of it was about Jane. Nearly every moment when their paths had crossed in Paris spun by in a disorientingly nonsequential cascade, and it was thickened and complicated by all the gossip items Elodie had pored over to try to keep track of her after she had moved to New York and fallen out of contact. Elodie had timelines and suspect lists and all kinds of wild theories, but what she didn’t have, as far as Jane could find, was any contact with the Dorans. Or the Dalcascus, or any witchy associate that Jane could recognize, or anyone who seemed to be the slightest bit sinister.

  Jane pulled her magic back in, studying her friend for a moment with her regular vision. When she looked closely, she could see the powdery texture of extra concealer underneath Elodie’s eyes. In spite of it, the skin looked a little puffier than usual, and Jane felt touched. Not only was she not in league with Jane’s enemies, but Elodie had been losing sleep worrying about her.

  “I’m Jane,” Jane blurted out, and then snapped her mouth shut in surprise.

  Elodie looked quite surprised herself. She stayed frozen on the bench for a long moment, then crossed her boots at the ankle and leaned back on her hands. “Go on,” she prompted evenly.

  Jane sucked in a breath of drizzly air. “I’m Jane. I’m a witch. Gran was, too, and it turns out that Malcolm’s mother and her cousins are also witches. Except they’re evil and I’m not, and they were trying to get me to have a daughter with Malcolm so they could kill me off and have another baby witch to raise as their own. It’s this whole pride-and-legacy thing, apparently. Malcolm felt guilty and tried to help me escape, but it went wrong and now we’re both on the run. But I didn’t want to do that forever, so I started poking around, and it turns out that Malcolm’s supposedly dead sister isn’t dead at all; she lives here. And if his family gets her back, then they won’t need me, and I can go back to being me. Oh, and I’m in disguise, in case you hadn’t noticed. And Malcolm killed Gran.”