by Risa Green
Copyright © 2013 by Soho Press, Inc. and Risa Green
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States in 2013 by Soho Teen
an imprint of
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Green, Risa.
Projection / Risa Green.
p. cm
eISBN: 978-1-61695-201-3
1. Secret societies—Fiction. 2. Astral projection—Fiction.
3. Murder—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories. I. Title.
PZ7.G82618Pr 2013
[Fic]—dc23 2013008768
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
ROME 249 A.D.
Amphiclea watched the awkward young slave girl. Her posture was perfect as she maneuvered through the garden, her expression blank, her arms loaded with a ceramic plate full of figs, olives, cheese, and flatbread. She could be beautiful if she weren’t unclean, Amphiclea thought. She looks like me. The girl placed the plate gently on the table in front of Gemina. In an instant almost too quick to catch, the slave’s eyes flickered to the warm loaves, and Gemina—who never missed a thing—caught the hungry glance. She ripped off a piece of the bread, wrapping a hunk of cheese and some olives inside of it.
“Here,” Gemina said. She held it toward the slave.
A test. Everything was a test with Gemina.
The girl masked her fear with a polite, “No.” She’d only recently been acquired by Gemina’s husband, the influential Senator Castricius. Amphiclea knew that the girl’s last owner would have beaten her just for looking at the bread.
Gemina nodded at the girl’s hesitation. “Take it,” she insisted, picking up the girl’s hand and placing the food into it. “I won’t tolerate hungry slaves in this household.”
Without a word, the girl curtsied, clutching the bread against her chest like it was a precious child. She ran back toward the house.
Amphiclea shuddered. “You shouldn’t touch the slaves. They’re …”
“Unclean?” Gemina finished impatiently, mocking her. “I know. Have you not been listening to Plotinus? To me? We are all the same. All of us—slaves, senators, philosophers, the entire universe—we are all one. We all come from The One.” Gemina flung open her slender arms to illustrate her point. Her expression quickly turned to disgust as the gold bracelets adorning her wrists clanged against each other. “Plotinus says that nothing material matters. Not this house, not this food, not this jewelry. Even our bodies are irrelevant. They are merely prisons for our souls.”
Amphiclea glanced around the garden to make sure no one had heard or approached. She lowered her voice. “Has he been successful?”
Gemina smiled conspiratorially, her high cheekbones revealing themselves like smooth rocks beneath her skin. “Twice now he has done it. He has projected his soul through the Oculus. He has passed through the highest part of the Pantheon, leaving his body behind while his soul floated among the stars!” She gripped Amphiclea’s arm, her bracelets jangling again. “And soon he will teach me to do the same.”
Amphiclea shook Gemina’s hands free. “Stop it. Don’t talk this way. You’re not permitted to eat in the same room as your husband, let alone study with a philosopher—”
“Enough,” Gemina interrupted. “It doesn’t matter. Plotinus has shown me the truth. All of creation emanates from The One. Men, women, slaves, animals, even these figs!” She leaned closer and whispered. “But you are right to be cautious. Castricius is no student of philosophy. He only tolerates Plotinus because he believes it raises his stature in the Senate to be viewed as a patron of a philosopher. The beneficent Castricius,” she said with mock grandiosity, “patron of a great philosophical mind.” She sat back, straightened the food on her plate.
“Of course, he’d never let it be known what he really thinks of Plotinus.”
Amphiclea leaned closer, unable to keep from taking the bait. “Why? What does he think of him?”
“He thinks he’s absolutely mad, Amphiclea!”
“Yes, of course he does.” She should have known, given how often she’d listened to Gemina complain about Castricius in the two years since their marriage. The senator was not an open-minded man, and though he was hailed for being a shrewd and ruthless politician, such qualities left much to be desired in a husband. To be fair, he had seemed fond of Gemina during their courtship and in the early days. But when she’d borne him a daughter—little Gaia—he’d been furious. More than a year later, he still hadn’t forgiven her for the transgression.
Gemina straightened herself in her chair. Both were seventeen, but today Amphiclea felt much younger than her friend.
“What my dear husband doesn’t know about Plotinus,” Gemina continued, “is that on Sunday last, he witnessed Castricius leaving the bedroom of the same woman who accused my poor father of forging Senate documents.”
“Lucretia Iusta?” Amphiclea exclaimed with a start. “She nearly had your family banished from Rome!” Amphiclea held a hand up to her mouth. “Is this …?” She couldn’t finish the thought, because it could only lead to one place—a place where Gemina would be taken from her forever to pay for the sins of her father.
The accusations against Gemina’s father had been the scandal last winter. All of Rome had gossiped about the charges—ultimately proved baseless—but Gemina’s family name nearly had been ruined. And the taint remained. Amphiclea knew that some still believed the claim to be valid, though most thought only that Lucretia Iusta was a wicked, vengeful woman. It was hardly a secret that Lucretia had wanted Castricius for herself and that she’d been furious when Gemina’s father had arranged for Gemina to be his bride instead.
“How could he?” Amphiclea whispered.
Gemina grimaced. “Oh, don’t be so naïve. What man could resist a woman who is so desperate to have him?” She waved away Castricius’s infidelity as if it were a bug. “I care not what he does in her bedroom. He only married me because of my father’s fortune.” She lowered her voice, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “But he appears to be taking money—money meant for me, and for Gaia, from the dowry given to him by my father—and giving it to that lying wench of a woman.”
Amphiclea swallowed. “You truly believe that he’s stealing from you?”
“I know it.”
“But can you prove it?”
“Not yet. The proof I need is in the Curia, where the Senate meets and where Castricius keeps his ledgers. It would be impossible for a woman to be seen sneaking around there. Of course, if I were a man, I could find what I needed without arousing suspicion …”
Amphiclea blinked, fighting back the fear and sadness. “And if I were a cat, I could lie around all day and do nothing but drink milk.”
&n
bsp; To her surprise, Gemina laughed. “Yes,” she conceded. “But you can’t become a cat, and I can become a man.”
Amphiclea searched her friend’s eyes for the hint of a prank, as was Gemina’s way. All she saw was icy resolve. “And how do you propose to do that, exactly?” she asked in a teasing tone, ignoring the shudder down her spine.
Gemina stared back. “I told you that Plotinus is going to teach me how to project my soul, but not through the Oculus. He’s going to teach me to project my soul into his body. My mind, my consciousness, will inhabit him like a crab in a shell, and his will inhabit me. We’re going to trade our souls, Amphiclea. But we can’t do it without your help.”
Amphiclea went pale. “Gemina, you are like a sister to me. I would help you with anything. But this … this sounds impossible. Not to mention dangerous if anyone were to find out.”
“It’s not impossible,” Gemina insisted. “It can be done if you believe in the idea of The One.”
Amphiclea held herself steady. Gemina’s face had tensed. A blue vein appeared by her temple. Gemina believes what she is saying. This is no prank.
“How could I help?”
“We need a witness. A mártyras. Plotinus says that without one, we can’t ensure that we’ll be able to return to our own bodies. Will you do it, Amphiclea?”
Amphiclea’s thoughts raced for reasons, excuses. Had Gemina ever refused her? She’d consoled Amphiclea when her mother had died; she’d helped prepare her for her wedding night; she’d taught her how to run a household. This was the first time Gemina had ever asked her for anything in return. Amphiclea couldn’t possibly say no, even though what Gemina was proposing was both risky and insane. She lowered her eyes.
“Of course. Anything for you, Gemina.”
Gemina smiled, seemingly more to herself than to Amphiclea. The strained look vanished from her face. The blue vein receded.
“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” She placed her hand on top of Amphiclea’s. With her other hand, she reached beneath the table and emerged with a small, leather pouch. She opened it, revealing a delicate gold strand adorned with a disc of nearly translucent amber.
Amphiclea gasped. “Gemina, it’s so beautiful.”
“It’s a gift to you. For your loyalty, trust and friendship.” She reached out for Amphiclea’s tiny wrist, frowning as she wrapped the chain around it. “Oh, it’s much too big. Amphiclea, you must eat more!”
In spite of herself, Amphiclea laughed. “I shall wear it on a thicker limb instead.” She lifted up the hem of her purple stola and fastened the chain around her right ankle. It fit perfectly. She held out her bare leg, and for a blissful fleeting moment, the two girls admired her new accessory, as if it were nothing more than another fancy gift bestowed upon a lady of the Roman Empire.
Gemina’s face darkened. “I know you doubt me, Amphiclea, but you will see that what I say is the truth. I will become Plotinus, and as him I will find the proof against my husband that I require.” She paused for a moment, lost in thought, and then squeezed Amphiclea’s fingers. “And when I do, Castricius will get the justice he deserves.”
CHAPTER TWO
DELPHI, CALIFORNIA
TWO YEARS AGO
Gretchen reached up with her right hand and carefully adjusted one of the bobby pins holding her graduation cap in place. She’d had her hair blown out that morning, and her long, shiny, dark layers fell perfectly around her face in a way that she could never achieve on her own, no matter how hard she tried or how many times she’d studied her hairdresser’s technique in the mirror.
“That’s the fiftieth time you’ve fixed that bobby pin,” whispered Jessica.
“It’s messing up my blow-out,” Gretchen complained. She snapped her compact shut and frowned at her best friend. It was bad enough having to sit in the sun in folding chairs, or for that matter, having to endure this ceremony in the first place. “I don’t even understand why we have to wear these stupid hats anyway. We’re only graduating from eighth grade. It’s not like we’re going out to save the world.”
The school chorus finally finished singing its medley of seriously patriotic songs, followed by a round of applause. Mr. Tobin, their soon-to-be former headmaster, approached the podium. Eleven o’clock in the morning, and Mr. Tobin was already sweaty. Gretchen couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He dabbed at the edge of his receding hairline with a white handkerchief.
“Thank you, boys and girls, that was beautiful.”
“That was lame,” said a too-loud voice behind Gretchen, setting off a round of snickering. Gretchen and Jessica rolled their eyes at each other. The voice belonged to Ariel Miller (of course), the girl who, despite everyone’s best efforts, still hadn’t figured out that “it’s best to shut up and let everyone think you’re an outsider than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.” The funny part? Ariel had actually said those words herself. After which she’d said that she was “paraphrasing Mark Twain.” Whatever the hell that meant.
Which, in a way, was the point: Ariel could have been friends with Gretchen and Jessica if she weren’t so freaking weird. When she’d first moved to Delphi in the fourth grade, Gretchen and Jessica had reached out. It should have been a no-brainer. Ariel was pretty and very smart (smarter than Gretchen, probably) and since they wore school uniforms, nobody knew if she had the right clothes or not. Gretchen wanted her to be popular; they all did. But there was just something off about her. Mostly, she had zero respect for the social hierarchy that had formed long before her arrival. And when everyone found out that her mom was a lunch lady … well, after that it was full-blown banishment.
Not that Gretchen had anything against lunch ladies. Or Ariel’s mom. But Ariel should have copped to her true identity the second she’d set foot in school. Gretchen would have in her shoes.
“And now,” continued Mr. Tobin, his voice stronger in an attempt both to quash and ignore the laughter, “I’ll ask you to welcome Mrs. Octavia Harris, Former President of the Oculus Society and its chief Ambassador. She is here to present the Plotinus Award to the female student who best embodies the ideals of a classical Greek scholar …”
“If my mom waves at me, I’ll kill her,” Gretchen whispered to Jessica.
Ariel snorted loudly. “God forbid the Oinkulus Society shouldn’t be the center of attention at a public event.”
Gretchen bit her tongue. She resisted the urge to spin around in her chair and tell Ariel to shut up. The girl was just jealous, obviously. That was where her weirdness and anger came from. It had nothing to do with her fired-lunch-lady mom. It had to do with the fact Ariel would never be part of the Oculus Society. And Gretchen knew that she was lucky; her mom was a two-time President. Their family could trace their lineage back to one of the founding members. But Gretchen’s mom was something special, too. She’d given the Oculus Society (a formerly stodgy Junior-League-type organization as far as Gretchen could tell) a glamorous makeover. With her flair for entertaining, Octavia Harris was responsible for some of Delphi’s most talked about parties. Gretchen clapped extra hard—as much in appreciation as to banish Ariel from her thoughts—as her mother rose from one of the white folding chairs on the stage and strode to the podium.
Octavia Harris smiled at her but didn’t wave.
Someday I’ll look like she does, Gretchen thought, smiling back.
Octavia Harris was raven-haired, petite, and beautiful. She wore a white linen suit, well-chosen both for the weather and to stand out against her olive complexion. Beige patent leather Jimmy Choo pumps complemented the ensemble. And the mysterious finishing touch: a thin gold anklet set around a yellowish-orange stone that always reminded Gretchen of honey in a jar. It seemed to glow as it caught the sunlight. Mom only wore it for special occasions. It was puzzling, though; it just didn’t seem to match her style, admittedly more nouveau-riche sparkle than bohemian glow. Gretchen had asked her once if it had sentimental value, but her response had been nonchalant. Oh, it’s nothing. Jus
t something I found at a vintage shop on vacation with your father before you were born. I thought it looked pretty.
It did look pretty. Gretchen made a mental note that in addition to the Jimmy Choo heels, she would borrow it when she was older.
“Hello, graduates!” Mom’s voice boomed over the lawn. “Congratulations to you all. The Oculus Society was founded in nineteen oh-seven by six women of Greek origin whose husbands had made their fortunes in the silver mines of the American West. Appalled by the curricula of most public schools at the time—notably the failure to teach the works of great Greek philosophers such as Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle—these women set out to improve education in the United States in the classical Greek tradition. Named after the eyelike, circular window built into the dome of the Roman Pantheon, the Oculus Society continues its mission today, not only to improve education, but also to raise money for various charitable causes.”
“Yeah, right!” Ariel blurted from behind Gretchen’s chair. “Because getting wasted on ouzo at a black-tie dinner counts as charity.”
Gretchen’s hands balled up into fists. Jessica gently laid a hand on her shoulder as if to say, not now, but enough was enough. Gretchen turned around in her seat, careful not to move her head so much that her cap fell off. Ariel’s dirty blonde hair had been blown out into a flip that grazed the tops of her shoulders. Her emerald eyes were rimmed in dark brown eyeliner. Gretchen hated to admit that the girl was beautiful.
“Will you just shut up?” she hissed. “You’re ruining my graduation.”
Ariel smirked. “Your graduation?”
“Give it up, Ariel,” Jessica chimed in, simultaneously trying to steer Gretchen back to face forward. “Nobody’s interested.”
“Really?” Ariel’s voice rose. “Then why are we having this conversation?”
Onstage, Gretchen’s mom fumbled with an envelope. “On behalf of the Oculus Society, I’m pleased to announce that the winner of this year’s Plotinus Award, which includes a five hundred dollar savings bond to be put toward college, is …” She held the paper at arm’s length so she could see it. It was something she’d been doing a lot lately. Reading glasses were out of the question, however. She was only forty-five. Her mother was not a big believer in succumbing to the aging process. As her eyes registered what was on the paper, she placed a hand over her mouth and then laughed. “Oh, my goodness. I swear, I had nothing to do with this, it’s the faculty and administration who make the decision … Gretchen Harris!”
