His image strengthened in the air. Still sheer enough for her to look through if she chose, he became more opaque, and Topaz could see details of his appearance like the slight wave in the fair hair that, over-long, tangled on his brow and spilled down his neck, and the clothes he wore.
He wore clothing—damn shame.
He smiled, and she wondered in alarm if he could hear her thoughts. She hoped not.
“Well,” he said, “that was—phenomenal.”
His lips moved, but his voice sounded only inside her head. It too had strengthened so she could better catch its timbre and tell that he had an accent.
“You’re English.”
“Indeed. I’ve been holding very hard to a few facts about myself since I was chased from my flesh. That, with my name, is one of them. And I’m on some sort of mission. Damned if I can remember what.”
And damned if Topaz cared; she merely wanted the sound of his voice echoing through her—forever, if possible.
She knew quite well a lot of men inhabited this city, men from many different places in the world. A border town and a gateway of sorts, Buffalo welcomed traders and immigrants from Britain, French Canada, and various parts of Europe. Topaz had even had encounters with some of them during wild, rebellious nights when she visited the waterfront with her stiletto in her pocket.
None had ever made her feel like this.
“Yes,” he said, more or less confirming her feeling, “phenomenal and intimate. Perhaps you’d better tell me your name.”
She licked her lips and, though she rarely backed down from anything, retreated till her thighs hit the bed. She could feel him, his energy streaming across connections like spiritual threads that had formed between them. Desperately, she fought for control.
“My name’s Topaz Hathor. What do you know of my father?”
“Only what you’ve told me, that he’s a spiritualist.”
“A very powerful one.” She added deliberately, “Powerful and corrupt.”
“Ah. Then I don’t want anything to do with him, do I? I want you.”
Yes, she thought, the desire ran rampant in the room. But he didn’t mean that. He wanted her help.
Yet she knew had he possessed an actual body she’d have fallen on him like a ravenous woman at a feast, and devil take the consequences.
“How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure, only that I was called here—and not to that room downstairs. I think I need you to help reunite me with my body. But not where it lies. You need to get it out of the asylum.”
“An asylum, is it? Not the new psychiatric facility Dr. Kirkbride designed on Forest Avenue? I’ve heard that’s state of the art.”
“I don’t think so. Is that east of here? The place I escaped was a private building where I was held against my will.”
“Because you’re mad.” He didn’t feel insane. His energy seemed rational, if stirred. And anyway, what defined madness? People called her father—her whole family—mad. That didn’t make it so.
Again he rippled in the air. Topaz realized it denoted distress. “I don’t believe I’m mad. I think I was confined there for some other reason, though I can’t grasp it now.”
“Where is this asylum, besides east of here? Do you know the address?”
“No, but I think I could lead you there.”
Topaz shivered. She didn’t fear much, but the idea of following a disembodied spirit to an insane asylum failed to appeal, even if she went armed with ten stilettos.
He said, “I know you’ve no reason to help me, and I must be the last sort of complication you need in your life.”
“I’m not sure I can help you, Mr. Marsh. You say you’re more or less being held prisoner in this place?”
“Yes.”
“Then how am I to get you out?”
“I don’t know. But it’s important. As I say, I believe I have a mission—”
He stopped speaking abruptly; Topaz sensed his helplessness and frustration. She fought back her corresponding emotions and crossed her arms on her breast.
“Look, Mr. Marsh, you’d be much better off searching out help elsewhere. I’m not the right person to assist you. For one thing, I’m not particularly sympathetic, and I’m certainly no do-good rescuer interested in saving strayed souls.”
“Yet we’ve already bonded.”
So he felt that too, did he? And did it mean she was doomed to have him following her around like a large, extremely attractive see-through puppy, continually stirring her libido?
Or would that last only till his body perished and his spirit moved on to where all good souls should go? She perched on the edge of her bed and thought about it.
“What shape is your body in? How was it when you left?”
He writhed and rippled in the air. “Not good. This place… The so-called doctors engage in experiments supposed to cure the patients. More like torture, really. I don’t remember all of it, but…”
Topaz frowned. The pretense of healing might lend terrifying scope for abuse. Somebody must know the location of such a house in the city. But did she want to get involved?
“Mr. Marsh, while I grasp your plight—”
“Don’t say no. You can’t refuse.”
She could. She should.
He moved closer. Topaz’s awareness—and arousal—spiked. “You might make a report to the police, tell them someone is being held against his will.”
“And they would believe this—why?”
“Because of who you are, the daughter of a spiritualist.”
“Mr. Marsh, half the people in Buffalo despise my father and denounce him as a charlatan. The rest either worship him or call him a minion of Satan. It would scarcely further your cause to invoke his name.”
“Well then, just report that I’ve been abducted.”
“And how will I explain having this information? I can hardly tell Buffalo’s finest you appeared in my room and introduced yourself.”
“Then lie. Miss Hathor, this is of the utmost importance.”
“Though you don’t remember why.”
“Not at the moment. It will come back to me, I’m sure of it.”
“Mr. Marsh—”
Again he cut her off, his facility for communication seeming to increase with his agitation. “Lie to them, Miss Hathor.”
“To the police?”
“Have you never told a lie? Make something up if you have to, a fantasy.”
“Such as?”
He moved closer. Caught somewhere between alarm and delight, Topaz stared into his eyes, wishing again she could tell their color. When he was near enough for her to count his eyelashes, he said, “There’s only one thing to do. You will have to tell them we’re lovers.”
Chapter Five
“I’m looking for the Grayson Asylum. Do you know where it is?”
The man Topaz addressed looked like a respectable shopkeeper out sweeping his sidewalk of new-fallen snow, decided Romney, who floated at her shoulder. The fellow wore a jacket tossed on over trousers, shirt and apron, and sported large mutton-chop whiskers.
Romney had come up with the name—Grayson Asylum—after spending the remainder of the night hovering in the corner of Miss Hathor’s chamber, something she had protested vociferously before falling asleep. She’d wanted him to leave, citing her right to privacy which, even in his view, had some legitimacy.
He’d left only to reappear as soon as she relaxed in slumber. Time held little meaning where he was, but he’d enjoyed watching her sleep for the next few hours, her black hair shining on the pillow and her breasts rising and falling with her breaths.
Funny, he could recall the name of the place where his body lay but not its exact location. He’d been able to lead Miss Hathor toward the general vicinity, eastward into the cold dawn. She’d taken a steamcab part way—he’d floated—before decamping to search on foot, the theory being that he, Romney, would be able to sense the place when they got close.
As well he might, though he found himself distracted by his companion’s appearance—distracted and a bit shocked and titillated. What woman went about clad in such a manner and armed with not only a stiletto but a tiny steam cannon sidearm as well?
He had watched her dress before they left her father’s house, while pretending to be elsewhere—saw how the ruffled chemise caressed her creamy skin, followed by the bright patchwork skirt, peasant blouse, and corset. He was all too aware that beneath that chemise her generous breasts lay bare.
She’d donned a coat, as well, an incredible garment that looked like it should belong to a highwayman, with patch pockets, into one of which she fit the sidearm. On her glossy head she’d set a stylized top hat at a rakish angle, the hat and coat both a deep shade of rust that reflected color into her exotic eyes.
She looked like a gypsy on her way to a ball—a wealthy gypsy. And Romney found her utterly arousing. Wherever his body lay, he knew it must have wood between its legs.
The shopkeeper shook his head. “Never heard of it.” His gaze moved over her, hat to boots, and he added doubtfully, “Miss.”
Topaz Hathor raised her chin a notch, and her hair slid over her back. Nearly as tall as the shopkeeper, she possessed twice his poise.
“What do you sell here?” She switched her gaze to his shop. “I might patronize you.”
No time for shopping, Romney whispered into her mind.
Shut up, she replied. I’m working.
“Books and German-language newspapers. Will you step in?” The shopkeeper abandoned his broom and opened the door for her. The shop, small but immaculately clean, felt considerably warmer than the chilly morning outside. Shelves occupied every conceivable space, meticulously organized.
Miss Hathor strutted between them, the heels of her boots clicking on the wooden floor. The shopkeeper, still wearing his jacket, watched her a bit nervously.
“Now then.” She leaned on the counter and regarded him. “You, being a tradesman, must speak with a lot of people during the course of an ordinary day.”
“Yes, miss.”
“And people tend to gossip.”
“Sometimes. Me, I do not listen to gossip.”
“That’s a shame.” She drew a bill from the leather purse at her belt, the denomination of which caught even Romney’s attention. She laid it on top of the counter as the shopkeeper stared. “Because I thought perhaps you may have heard of some place in this particular neighborhood where people ailing in their minds might be squirreled away—perhaps even against their will.”
The shopkeeper’s gaze flew to hers. “Oh,” he said. “But it was not that name, what you said—”
“Grayson Asylum.”
“There is a private house two blocks from here where such things might take place.”
Topaz Hathor smiled. Romney felt that smile ripple through him, but it appeared to have a completely different effect on the shopkeeper, who took a careful step backward.
“Could you tell me the exact location of this house?”
“On Woodlawn, near the corner of Fillmore. Big gray building with a tower.”
Romney rippled again as an image came to him. He whispered to his companion, I remember.
She gave a barely perceptible nod, straightened, and selected a book at random. “I will buy this. Keep the change.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged. “Thank you, miss.”
She laid her finger against her lips. “And not a word of this. You never spoke with me, should anyone come asking.”
He shook his head. Miss Hathor went out, with Romney trailing her like invisible smoke.
“Well,” she said when her boots hit the sidewalk. “That was interesting. Why did you call it Grayson Asylum?”
“Because that was the name that came to mind. Only I no longer have a mind, do I?” He rippled in distress. “Or if I do, it’s shut away in that place. Most perplexing.”
“Umm-hmm. Makes me wonder what else you’ve got wrong.”
It made Romney wonder too, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “Perhaps the name—like what goes on there—is kept private.”
“Perhaps.”
“Lets go get my body back.”
“Mr. Marsh, there’s nothing I’d like better. I am more than anxious to get you out of my head. But don’t be too impetuous. This is but a reconnaissance mission.”
“Best get moving,” he advised. “People are beginning to stare.”
“Are they?”
Truly, the people on the street going about their business—women and tradesmen, servants bent on errands—all turned curious looks on her. Romney supposed she would attract attention anywhere, tall as she was and clad as she was. She looked like an exotic bird touched down on the cold sidewalk.
“It’s this way, I think,” she murmured and started off. “Straight up Fillmore for several blocks.”
“Since this is, as you put it, a reconnaissance mission, perhaps you might have dressed more inconspicuously.”
“This is my inconspicuous coat.”
“And the hat?”
“You think it draws too much attention?”
“I do. Not to say it doesn’t enhance your beauty.”
Her step faltered. “Careful, Mr. Marsh, or I will begin to believe you belong in this asylum. Surely you know I’m not beautiful.”
“I know nothing of the kind, Miss Hathor.”
“Ah, but Mr. Marsh, the fashion is for women to be dainty and delicate, with fragile faces and narrow waists. Whereas I have it on the very best authority I am a ‘strapping wench.’ ”
“Damn the fashion. You must know how gorgeous you are.”
He felt surprise ripple through her, accompanied by another emotion he couldn’t identify. “I do believe that word has never before been applied to me.” She quickened her steps and gestured as they reached a corner. “Ah—down that street, is that the place?”
Romney stopped as abruptly as if he’d been kicked in his nonexistent gut. All other thoughts dissolved as he writhed in extreme distress.
An immediate onslaught of images flooded him, none of which he wanted to recall. “Get me out of there.”
“Easy, Mr. Marsh. That’s the general idea.”
“You have to get me out. Now.”
She narrowed her eyes and regarded the building in question. Built of gray stone—was that why he’d called it Grayson Asylum?—it stood a full three stories high and had a turret at the northwest corner. Broad steps, flanked by stone lions, led up to a wide doorway. The building stood dark and quiet at this early hour, buttoned down tight.
“From the look of the place, that might not be so simple.”
“I don’t care. I want out.”
“So I imagine. It’s a grim edifice, isn’t it? But what would you suggest? Should I ring the bell and request the return of your body?”
“Perhaps.”
“I have no authority. No, this will require some thought. We’ve located the place; I suggest we retreat.”
Romney wavered. Now that he was here, he felt a strong pull back to his flesh. He wanted very badly to stream inside, assure himself of his body’s existence, and even reenter it. But if he did, would he be able to escape the torment again?
“You could inquire about me, let them know someone is aware I’m there. Make up some story.”
“And tip our hand? No, Mr. Marsh, this has been a good morning’s work. We need to retire and think.”
“I disagree.”
“If you want my help, you are going to have to trust me.”
“If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have approached you in the first place.” Only when he thought the words into her mind did he realize how true they were. Curious that; for he didn’t suppose he trusted readily. And on the face of it this exotic bird didn’t inspire confidence. Yet trust her he did, implicitly.
Her dark brows lifted. “I assure you, Mr. Marsh, I am more anxious to see your body in the flesh than you can imagi
ne. But I think it behooves us to withdraw from the field now. And don’t grumble in my mind—it’s beginning to give me a headache.”
Chapter Six
“You look pale, my dear. Are you unwell?”
Topaz looked up when her father spoke. He must be in one of his solicitous moods, almost harder to bear than his customary distraction.
“Just a bit of a headache, Father.” Topaz loathed these family meals, yet Frederick Hathor insisted on attendance by every family member in residence, save himself, of course, when busy or consulting.
Today all four of them had gathered for luncheon—Topaz, her father, Sapphire, and Topaz’s mother, who sat at the end of the table opposite her husband, dressed with elaborate perfection and, as usual, dithering.
A greater number of servants than actual family members filled the room—if one counted the steam units. One steamie stood as server at each of their elbows. Topaz’s mother, Dahlia, waffled at hers, not sure whether or not she wanted her soup.
“Perhaps a ladleful, Doreen. But no, is that the beef compote? Made with marrow? I won’t have any after all.”
The poor steamie hesitated, ladle extended. The units, though created to be accommodating, didn’t cope well with prevarication. Now Doreen began to leak steam from the joint at its neck.
“No soup for your mistress, Doreen,” Frederick told it. He had often, and in the units’ hearing, declared them soulless husks, but he now ended Doreen’s indecision before turning his attention back to his daughter.
“You should take a powder for the headache. I hope you have not been keeping too many late hours.”
Sapphire, who sat opposite Topaz, made a rude sound but said nothing.
Topaz directed a glare at him before turning her eyes back to her father.
What an arresting man he was, she thought involuntarily, with his still-black hair sweeping back from his brow, his regal features, and dark, glittering eyes. Not for the first time she wondered how many of his female clients actually came to spend time with him rather than the spirits of their dearly departed.
“I do not like to take powders,” she retorted, sounding surly to her own ears. Funny how frequently her father brought out the worst in her.
Sheer Madness Page 3
