Threshold of Destiny (The Mysterium Secret Book 1)

by Linn Chapel

  A little shock came over her when a dark figure moved with cat-like grace to the edge of the water and stood there, poised and alert. With his black hair and black clothing, she knew it had to be Holt.

  Then a pair of figures detached themselves from the tropical forest only a short distance away from him. She flinched when she saw the glint of the long silver barrels in their hands.

  As the pair of men crept down the embankment, Holt whirled around to face them. Gasping, Tressa lost her footing and landed hard on the beach below. Filled with dread, she raised herself up quickly to a sitting position.

  There were no more figures to be seen; no more white sand or blue sea. She was sitting stiffly up in bed, looking wildly about at the familiar furnishings of her bedroom.

  Forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly, she tried to push the episode from her mind. Attempting a mission for Operation M must have rattled her more than she had thought. Well, she was done with active missions, and once Holt had left for England, these strange intrusions would probably fade.

  A glance at the clock near her bed told her that it was time to dress. Rising from bed, she sorted through the outfits in her closet, choosing a pale peach dress with a pleated skirt. It had an old-fashioned, retro look, and she knew she had picked it because she thought it would please Holt.

  Next, she brushed her hair and pinned a portion of it up, leaving the rest to fall around her shoulders. As her hands were busy working, her thoughts grew pensive and troubled. There was little chance that Holt would come back to the United States when his work for the publisher was done. As he came to understand his new circumstances, he’d probably decide to remain in England. After all, he loved his native land.

  Setting down the brush, she stared at her reflection in the mirror above her dresser.

  Would he remember her? Would he even want to remember her? She knew that he felt guilty about his deeds... about what he’d done to her not just once, but twice. It wouldn’t be surprising if he tried to forget her.

  A feeling of despair descended upon her as she slipped on a pair of evening shoes that matched the retro look of the dress.

  Brrrinng... psst... psst...

  The sputtering ring made her freeze for an instant as she remembered her fears of the previous night. Giving herself a little shake, she walked quickly to the intercom by the door.

  “Who is it?” she called into the speaker.

  “Mr. Langley has arrived,” replied a voice with a familiar English accent. “He wishes to know if Miss Newman is receiving visitors.”

  She smiled. Holt must have decided to ring rather than use his spare key. “Yes, she is. Please come up, Mr. Langley.” She pressed the button that unlocked the downstairs entrance.

  Soon there was a knock at her door. Opening it, she ushered Holt inside. “Won’t you come in, sir?”

  Holt was dressed all in black, as usual, but his jacket was more formal tonight. His gaze roamed over her pleated evening dress as he stepped inside. “Tressa,” he murmured in a satisfied voice. “You will come with me to the concert, then?”

  “Yes, I’ll come. But I thought I was Miss Newman.”

  “Miss Newman has expressed a liking for the civilities of the past. Can she blame me for using them from time to time?” Holt closed the door behind him and walked up closer, inspecting her dress with a smile. “You look as if you’ve just stepped away from a tea party in that dress. Or perhaps you were driven away by the other ladies, who knew they could never match your fairness.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, sir,” said Tressa, feeling her stomach flutter. “You look very dashing yourself.”

  Her stomach continued its fluttering, for even though Holt’s inspection of her dress was over, he was now eyeing her hair with just as much interest. It was impossible to feel at ease with the way he was looking at her. Trying to laugh, she said, “Tell me, Holt, do you ever say words like ‘Hi’ and ‘Bye’?”

  “Yes, but for some reason they do not come easily to me.”

  “You’re very old-fashioned. Maybe you’d be more comfortable with a chaperone tonight. I could ask my brother Peter to come along.”

  His eyes finally left her hair and he gave her a glinting look. “Peter? But that would be too unkind. I can assure you that Peter would not be at all comfortable with such an arrangement. I would make sure of that.”

  Becoming more serious, Tressa added, “I’m so glad you were the one ringing my bell just now. Last night, someone else came by and was ringing it over and over. I was afraid it was Stix.”

  Holt’s jaw firmed. “You were right, Tressa. It was Stix. I found him at the entrance to your building, but I convinced him to leave,” he said with a hard look in his eyes. Then he gazed thoughtfully at Tressa. “For some reason, I knew that you were in trouble. I happened to be taking a walk at the time, and I came quickly.”

  Wonderingly, she gazed back at Holt. How could he have known she was in danger?

  That he had been walking about the city streets in the dead of night didn’t surprise her one bit, although she was careful to make no comment. But having a premonition about her was different, especially since she remembered calling to him silently in her mind, wishing desperately that he could help her.

  She wondered if Holt’s mesmeric power could have reached out and touched her own psychic ability, even when she wasn’t using it. Could a channel of awareness have opened up between them?

  If so, none of her secrets were safe. None of them, including her role in the Operation – and the way she felt about his departure to London.

  But Holt couldn’t know what was in her mind. Even when he had used his hypnotic power to the fullest, he had been completely unaware of her immunity. Twice he had believed her to be mesmerized, when each time she had been fully conscious.

  Holt glanced at the vintage clock on the shelf nearby and murmured a reminder about the theater performance. Turning, Tressa went to retrieve her evening bag from the desk, where a reminder message from Peter was blinking on her computer. Bending over the desk, she quickly typed him a reply, noting the time she’d be arriving at his studio on the following evening.

  There’d been nothing in Peter’s short message about the Operation, no hint of warning for Tressa to watch her step. He was obviously worried about their messages being intercepted. She wondered if Peter was worried enough to be outside her apartment tonight, keeping an eye on her. If so, he’d find her in the company of Holt once again.

  No, Peter was working at his studio with his friend Gerry tonight, she reminded herself. But she wondered uneasily if one of the operatives could be watching her apartment, looking for Holt, ready to drug him.

  Preoccupied with her worries, she turned blindly away from the desk. Suddenly she realized that Holt had crossed the room and was standing just behind her.

  It was too late – she had already blundered into his chest. A little gasp escaped her and she was swamped by some emotion that her mind skittered away from naming. Backing up quickly, she bumped the edge of the desk and lost her balance in her evening shoes.

  Holt’s arms shot out to steady her. His hands felt rock-hard on her shoulders, and for an instant she saw a pained look sweep over his face – then it was gone. He removed his hands and stepped carefully back.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said in a cool, clipped voice.

  “It’s alright.” She drew in a hasty breath, and then another. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

  Tressa turned and busied herself with finding an evening jacket, and soon they were leaving her apartment to make their way downstairs. As they exited the building and entered Holt’s car, hardly a word was spoken between them.

  A light rain began to fall as they drove to the theater, and as the minutes passed, the awkward mood disappeared and their conversation began to flow more easily. When they came to the Willoughby Theater, Holt dropped her off at the curb so that she could wait for him out of the rain wh
ile he parked the car.

  Finding shelter under a balcony, she brushed the raindrops from her cheeks. Several concert-goers passed by, making a quick dash for the theater’s entrance through the rain. Another figure wearing a raincoat appeared from around the corner, walking at a slower pace. The figure drew even with Tressa and stopped.

  “Well, well, pretty girl,” murmured Stix. “You’re all alone, this time.”

  Tressa recoiled from him. “Go away, Stix! Holt’s with me tonight. He’ll be here any minute.” Tressa’s eyes darted up and down the rain-wet street.

  “Holt!” The name was spat out with scorn. Edging closer, Stix murmured, “But he’s not here right now. Come with me.”

  A thick cloud of hypnotic power surged around Tressa’s mind, besieging it. She felt a set of cold fingers curl around her wrist and tug.

  “No!” Tressa fought back the cloud. With a shudder, she twisted her arm back and forth, trying to free herself.

  Stix held her fast, looking deep into her eyes. He murmured again, “Come with me.”

  She was able to resist the mental cloud, but Stix was so strong that she couldn’t prevent him from pulling her around the corner. But they weren’t alone, for a tall, dark figure was striding up the side street.

  Stix froze, and Tressa’s fears suddenly evaporated.

  “Holt!” she cried out with relief.

  Moving swiftly, Holt tore the icy hand away from her wrist and flung the thin vampire against the wall of a nearby building. Tressa gasped when she heard the body hit the wall with an impact like a crack.

  “Don’t worry. He’s not hurt,” said Holt in a low voice.

  “I was just talking to her, Holt,” whined Stix, recovering slowly. He stood up from the wall and slunk down the street. “See, I’m leaving.”

  Holt called out in an ominous voice, “You’ll be leaving town for good. I’ll find you later tonight, Stix. We’ll arrange the details then.” He turned to Tressa. “I’m sorry he bothered you.”

  She gave him a shaky smile. “I’m alright. Let’s go inside.”

  As they entered the Willoughby Theater, Tressa cast a sideways glance at Holt. His anger with Stix had disappeared and he seemed perfectly composed, but she wondered how he really felt amid the throng of humans who circulated within the elegant lobby of the theater.

  She knew that his need for blood had already been met, at least for the time being. Wondering if he might be struggling with a surge of predatory instincts anyway, she glanced a second time his way, but he seemed to feel at ease among the human patrons.

  In fact, the other patrons seemed more aware of Holt than he was of them... at least, the women were. Heads were turning in his direction, which didn’t surprise her. With his dark good looks and supple movements, Holt was clearly the most attractive man in the hall. And as she knew, he had a way of seeming polished, poised, and mysterious, all at once.

  She noticed that men were glancing her way as well, but for once it didn’t bother her. No one would approach her, not with Holt at her side.

  As they made their way through the grand lobby, they passed by one of the glittering, gilt-edged mirrors that hung on the walls. On its shining surface she could see a reflection of herself in the long-skirted peach dress, looking a little pale – her recent run-in with Stix was probably to blame for that. Beside her walked Holt, tall and lean and dressed in midnight black.

  They made a striking couple. But they weren’t really a couple, she reminded herself. They were just two wandering souls, both of them lonely and beset by their own, secret cares. They’d been thrown together by circumstances, and their short acquaintance would soon be over.

  Tressa had never been inside the Willoughby Theater before, although she had driven past the entrance many times. She was just about to give Holt her impressions, when he spoke up first.

  “You came here recently with friends, didn’t you?” he said. At Tressa’s startled response, a slight frown appeared on his brow. “The night you were lost, and I drove you home,” he prompted.

  “That’s right,” she answered brightly. To her relief, the lights in the lobby began to dim in preparation for the performance.

  With a light touch on her arm, Holt guided her down an aisle to their seats, and soon the famous tenor came on stage. Once he had begun the first selection, the rich, full sound of his voice swept away Tressa’s scattered mood.

  Holt leaned close and whispered, “Are you enjoying the music?” Tressa caught the scent of wood smoke again.

  “Yes, it’s wonderful.”

  The second aria was more sorrowful. The tenor’s voice rose and fell as he sang in Italian, and before long, an ominous drumbeat had joined the sad music. Curious about the story behind the aria, Tressa leafed through her program booklet, but the theater was too dim for reading.

  “What would you like to know?” Holt whispered, leaning close again. “I’ll translate the Italian verses for you, if you wish.”

  She nodded.

  After listening to several phrases, Holt spoke quietly, next to her ear. “The hero is lamenting his fate, for he is to be executed at dawn. His heart weeps for his true love, even though it was she who betrayed him to his enemies.”

  A shaft of dismay raced through her, turning her limbs to ice.

  Betrayed him to his enemies...

  For the first time, Tressa wondered if an operative would follow Holt all the way to London. What if Ted or Margot were determined to find him?

  The ominous drumbeat suddenly ceased. The tenor sang the final, anguished notes of the aria.

  Mercifully, the selections that followed were not as sorrowful. By the time the tenor was taking his final bow, Tressa’s fears had receded enough for her to clap and smile as enthusiastically as the rest of the audience.

  “You enjoyed everything,” commented Holt, “except for the second aria.”

  Not for the first time, she wished that Holt were less observant. “It just made me feel sad for a little while, that’s all.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I listened to some of your music the other night. The Mozart was good. But what was that strange music?” Holt asked.

  She laughed. “Those are the tracks that Peter uses in his video productions. I help him out at his studio by volunteering when I can,” she explained. “Peter’s projects can be exciting, but he has so much energy that I can barely keep up,” she said ruefully. “The arias we heard tonight were exciting too, but in a different way.”

  Holt seemed curious about Peter’s work, and Tressa answered his questions as they waited for the crowds to thin. She described the lights and props of Peter’s studio and the kind of videos he made afterhours when he was done with his day job.

  “Has he placed his studio in his apartment?” Holt asked as he led the way up the aisle.

  “No, he rents a space downtown by the wharves, next to some shops and offices,” she explained as they returned to the lobby. They threaded their way through the remaining patrons to the entrance, and leaving the theater, they emerged outside.

  Holt glanced at drizzly street. “Even though it’s still raining, Tressa, I don’t want to leave you alone. Walk with me to the car.”

  After her recent fright, Tressa was happy to comply. As they made their way through the light rain, no slinking figure appeared in the shadows along their route. When they reached Holt’s car, Tressa slid into the passenger seat with a sense of relief.

  As they drove through the rainy streets, the satisfaction that had warmed Holt’s voice after the performance seemed to fade away. In a much more distant mood, he made plans to pick her up from the hospital at midnight on Wednesday. She knew that it would be the last time she’d see him.

  An odd, almost suffocating silence fell between them after that. All that could be heard was the occasional swish from the tires of a passing car and the steady beat of the windshield wipers.

  The rhythmic sound of the wipers seemed to change as Tressa listened to it, morphing
into the ominous drumbeat from the concert. She began to worry about Holt’s safety again.

  What if one of the operatives had orders to follow him to England with a supply of the psychoactive drugs? It was only a matter of time before Peter uncovered the reason for the new drugs, but by then, it might be too late for Holt.

  Her hands were nervously twisting and untwisting the strap of her evening bag. With an effort she made them lie still. Holt was so alert that he’d notice her troubled mood if she didn’t take pains to hide it.

  Between her fears for Holt and the knowledge that he’d soon leave the country, Tressa felt trapped by her own emotions, with no means to keep them at bay. When Holt parked in front of her apartment building and she stepped up onto the curb, she was dismayed to feel little tremors running down her legs.

  “Stix has been wise enough not to follow us.” Holt made one last survey of the street. “I’ll bring you upstairs to your door, anyway.”

  Tressa didn’t trust herself to speak as she unlocked the entrance door to her building. Earlier that evening, she had planned to invite Holt inside her apartment and offer him a glass of ale. But with her emotions rising and falling in such an alarming way, she couldn’t follow through with even such a simple plan.

  Very soon, tears could put in an appearance, lots of them. Too many to explain away with any excuse she could think of. And words! What she might say worried her even more than the prospect of uncontrollable tears.

  She couldn’t invite him inside of her apartment. They had to part at her door – and quickly, too.

  As they made their way up the first set of stairs, she steadied her resolve. By the time they had climbed the second set, she had decided to claim a headache. It’d be the easiest and surest way to part with him outside her door.

  Holt spoke up quietly as they neared the end of the corridor. “You’re looking very pale, Tressa. Don’t worry about Stix,” he went on. “He’s too much of a coward to risk displeasing me.”