The Illusionist's Apprentice

by Kristy Cambron

  “But did you see anything out of the ordinary? Broken glass? Door ajar? Anything like that?”

  “I looked, but no.”

  “If nothing’s amiss, she’s fine—which is a darn sight better than Amberley’s situation at present. If something had happened to Wren, there’d have been evidence. Like at the cottage. Was there . . . ?” Connor coughed for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Was there blood in Amberley’s room?”

  “No. Just in the hall where you were shot. But since she’s the only one we know for sure is missing, could you tell me what happened?” Elliot leaned forward and dropped his voice, more out of habit than fear that they’d be overheard. “Anything would help. It may lead us to them.”

  They sat in quiet for several seconds, the ringing of a telephone and muffled voices coloring activity out in the hall.

  “That’s how it started at the cottage—the sound of glass breaking.” Connor cut into the silence with his usually gruff fashion. “We doused the light and I made Amberley hide while I checked it out. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs, gunshots fired, and the lights went out after that—only they were mine this time. That’s how fast it happened. If anything happened to Wren, I guarantee you there’d be no time for tidying up a library or a carriage house.”

  “I have no proof she’s been taken, other than the fact that my gut keeps nagging me. We need to know more, so I’m headed to the Bureau now. I’ve had Josiah Charles brought in for questioning.”

  Connor gave a gentle nod. “Bold move. If she is missing, you think her father’s involved?”

  “He’s rumored to be a despicable character, and believe me—if what I’ve read in the old file is true, I’d like to gift him with a fist to the jaw for what he did to his family. I still might at some point. But we have no other option. If I’m to make any connection out of all this, I have to learn everything I can about the hidden parts of Wren’s past.”

  Connor sat back. He nodded again, his face looking too weary for the bit of youth that still clung to him. Half-moons shadowed the undersides of his eyes in purple as he stared across the room. “Then what you’re saying is, we’re in some serious trouble if we’re counting on that man to save our case.”

  “It’s not off base to say so, no.” Elliot braced his elbows on the knees, finding clarity in staring at the floor, of all things.

  Connor sighed, which was never a good sign. “Prettier than Clara Bow and gutsier than Lon Chaney . . . I think I should have asked that girl to marry me.” He turned back, locking gazes with Elliot.

  Elliot knew he was serious. Serious and stupid, over a woman who was sure to break his heart.

  “What, Amberley? Connor . . . They must have you on a slew of drugs to come up with a statement like that.” Elliot chalked it up to temporary insanity. He couldn’t think about Connor’s lovelorn sighs, not when he had to get back to the jail and question Wren’s father as quickly as possible.

  “I know what you think, but I’m not beating my gums here for nothing. I know I’m not a big shot like that Dover gent was. I’ve got nothing to offer her. But you didn’t see her when we were in that hallway at the cottage. She wanted to stand up to those lugs. A princess from a parlor wanted to take on a couple of hired guns with her bare hands. I finally got her to stay in that room. I stood on the other side of the door to block anybody coming in. That’s the first time I’ve ever met a dame with that kind of fire. You mean to tell me I should let those heels walk right out the door without even giving it a fair shot?” He shook his head. “I’m not that strong.”

  “Connor, you’re tired. And you’ve just been through a trauma. You’ll be thinking more clearly in a few days. We’ll make sure there’s a man posted outside the door. In the meantime, you just get some sleep, hmm? I’ll send word as soon as we hear anything.” Elliot patted Connor’s arm and stood to go.

  “Sleep isn’t going to fix this. Look, if anyone’s to blame, you are, for making me chase Amberley all over the city. Now I’ve got it for her. She’s clipped my heart like no other dame has, for better or worse. Although I think right now I’m feeling the worse,” he said with the hope of a smile, but it faded almost as quickly. “Wish I could go with you. I hate the thought of missing a potential shootout.”

  “I know you do. But we’ve got a bigger problem. You can’t race in for a rescue if you don’t know where the starting line is.”

  “Just think like they would. You’re smart, Elliot. Put it together and you’ll make the right connection. Remember what you told me at the cemetery when all this started? Our job is to notice what other people don’t. You do that and you’ll find Amberley for me.” Connor’s eyebrows tipped up, like he could read Elliot’s thoughts even while muddleheaded, and knew where they’d lead. “And find Wren for you, I think. But I’d never embarrass you by saying that last part out loud.”

  Connor’s affection for Amberley seemed impulsive, but there was a measure of authenticity rooted in what he’d said. Elliot’s own affections had turned toward Wren in a way he’d never bargained for, which made the stakes that much higher.

  Time was short. “I ought to go.”

  “Just promise me I won’t see you back here, unless of course it’s to drive me home. We can’t have our entire team out for the count.” Connor could be serious when he wanted, even if he added a slight half grin on to the end.

  “I promise” was all Elliot could manage to say before he left Connor’s room. It was one vow he hoped he could keep, for all their sakes.

  He wished he could promise that Wren and Amberley would be fine. That he wasn’t shaken by their absence. That this was far more to him than closing a case file. There were pasts. And pain. And if Elliot was honest with himself, the hope of a different kind of future than one he’d ever planned.

  If he was ever going to get around to telling Wren what any of that meant, he’d have to find her first. Only problem was, he had no idea where to start looking.

  CHAPTER 21

  APRIL 3, 1907

  256 W. NEWTON STREET

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Olivia woke from pain when she tried to move.

  Her cheek was on fire and her eye swollen so she could barely see, though the hardwood floor cooled the side of her face. She slid over to the wall, trying to push herself up to a sitting position, until a sharp pain cut through her chest. It stole her breath and she cried out before she could help it.

  She looked down the stairs. Please don’t let Josiah hear me.

  Olivia waited in the hall. Not a sound greeted her—no breath of wind to kiss the windows. No birds chirping outside on the balcony. Not even the creaking and settling of an old house. Just silence. Odd, uninviting silence.

  She looked up to the open window at the end of the hall.

  Dusk had fallen.

  The sky was gray and soon to welcome the night.

  Could it have been that long? She’d passed out or been knocked out. And had she lain here all day?

  Olivia’s thoughts turned to the girls. They’d have been locked in the nursery since morning. With no food. And no indication that she was ever coming back for them. Jenny was responsible—her trusted girl even at six years old. But Charlotte was a young three years old. So innocent. They must have been terrified. It would do no good to frighten them. She’d best clean up quickly, then slip into the nursery with a dinner tray.

  She fought to get up, clawing at the flowers on the wallpaper to help her climb. A shriek reverberated down the hall.

  “Momma?”

  Olivia turned her face toward the cry, tears immediately glazing over her eyes. Her little cherub, Charlotte, at the end of the hall with her auburn hair and tiny shoulders outlined by the dim glow of fading daylight cast behind her. Her bottom lip trembled, and she clung to her doll like a lifeline.

  “No, baby. Don’t look at me,” Olivia cried out, hiding her face.

  She didn’t know if she was covered in blood or her skin swollen beyond recognition
. Either way, Charlotte wouldn’t understand. She’d be terrified to see that her mother had turned into a monster.

  “Momma!” Charlotte dropped her doll, the china head shattering on the hardwood floor. She padded down the hall in her stockings, reaching for Olivia.

  “No! Go back to Jenny. Stay with her where you’re safe.” She pleaded with her sweet little girl.

  Olivia stared up at the ceiling, wishing the wooden vaults would open up, revealing the heavens above. God, protect my daughters. Shield their precious eyes so they don’t know. Don’t see . . . Help them not know who their father really is.

  Charlotte swept up to her, tiny fingers and thumbs shaking as they reached out for her face. “Momma,” she cried, tears falling unrestrained. She brushed her fingertips over the swollen part of Olivia’s eye, then pulled them back, her palms covered in red. “Hurt, Momma.”

  There was no choice now. Olivia called out, “Jenny? Jenny, come here.”

  Whether Josiah woke or not, she couldn’t stand for her younger daughter’s fragile view of the world to be broken. Jenny’s had been shattered years before, but at the very least, Olivia had hoped she’d have a new story.

  Maybe the book of fairy tales Franklin had given her could be their new start. They were supposed to read it together, to think on gentler things. Good, strong things. Of heroes who rode in on white steeds and slayed dragons. And together, they’d ensure Charlotte never had to know the truth.

  But now, all of that looked to have been broken too.

  Charlotte wiped her hands on her dress, smearing crimson palm prints on her smocked yellow. She held her trembling hands out, palms to the ceiling, unsure what to make of the mess on her hands.

  “Jenny?” she called again, trying to stand. Olivia wrapped an arm around her middle, stuffing down the pain in her ribs when she hoisted Charlotte up on her hip and began to shuffle her back down the hall. She braced a hand against the carved newel post to catch her breath.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Josiah appeared, slinking around the corner with fists braced at his sides. He stood in a swath of light at the bottom of the stairs, leering up at her.

  He was dressed in the best trousers he owned, shirt starched and tie perfectly straight. He’d cleaned up well. Maybe sobered up too. Though he’d smoothed himself out to see to the evening performances at the Castleton, Olivia saw nothing suave or gentile about him. Not when she remembered the way his fist had swung down on her, leaving her in ruins on the floor of the hall.

  Olivia straightened her stance as much as she could, though the pain tried to convince her she’d not be able to stand for long.

  “The girls are hungry, Josiah. I assume they’ve not had anything to eat.”

  “I’ll see to that. Go to bed. You look unwell.”

  Instincts kicked in, and Olivia released the newel post to grip Charlotte with both arms, cupping a palm at the back of her nape in a protective manner. “No.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Olivia.” He checked his pocket watch. “I won’t be late for the next show. Now do as I’ve said.”

  If she was ever going to stand firm, it had to be then. Her daughters deserved a better life. And if she had to stand up to the dragon to win it for them, so be it.

  Olivia took a careful step backward, ardently shaking her head.

  Something flashed in his eyes, though it wasn’t the same anger she saw in one of his alcohol-induced rages. No, this spoke of contempt—derision that could bite with a single glance. “Put her down.” Josiah took a marked step onto the bottom stair, as if to chase her defiance with merely the suggestion of brutality.

  Olivia wrapped her arms tighter around Charlotte’s little body. Her little heart was beating like a bird fluttering against her chest. Charlotte looped her arms around Olivia’s neck, lacing her fingers in the hair at her nape, and buried her head in the crook of her neck.

  “Go, Josiah. Go to your theater.” She tried to keep the pleading from her tone. She was shaky but needed to appear calm. Calm and strong enough to stand up to him.

  “But it’s not my theater, is it? Your family left it to you. And your broken heart left with my brother, didn’t it? When he sailed for London, there was nothing left for me.”

  “We won’t stop you. Please, just go.”

  Josiah slinked up two steps, straightening his waistcoat as if the effort to come after her was making him untidy. “I will not tell you again.” His steps surer, every measure of the climb made him more agitated.

  “Please.” She took a step back. “Just let her go. I’ll put Charlotte down if you promise to let her go.”

  He flitted his gaze to the cracked nursery door at the end of the hall, then returned it to her. “Where is Jenny?”

  Olivia didn’t know, but she could guess. “She’s asleep. She was tired today.”

  Another step. Another flash of anger at the climb.

  Charlotte began to cry, hiccupping quietly against Olivia’s ear. It broke Olivia’s heart, what was left unshattered up to that moment. She swept her fingertips over her shoulder, bracing Charlotte in a protective hold.

  “Hush, now,” she whispered, staring at Josiah as she pressed a kiss to her temple.

  “This is your last chance, Olivia.”

  He took another few steps.

  Faster.

  His footfalls pounded, his temper too far gone to back down.

  Emotion threatened to close off her throat. She couldn’t speak. Could barely see out of her swollen eye. And all she could feel were the cries of her daughter, racking her little chest.

  Olivia’s body refused to feel pain at the moment. Her entire body, from fingertips to feet, tremored as he walked closer. She backed up another step. And another. Until the wall was at her back. There was nowhere left to run.

  His strength was too much—it always had been. And there was no more time for words.

  Josiah reached out with rough hands, gripping Charlotte by the arm and ankle on one side, aimed at ripping her free.

  Her little hands tangled in Olivia’s hair, grasping as she cried out.

  “No!” Olivia screamed, tightening her arms around Charlotte’s middle, holding on as if they were about to tumble over the edge of a cliff.

  Dragons are all show . . . She battled with Josiah for Charlotte’s weightless little body. They posture and breathe bloody fire, but they can never stand up to a true hero.

  Olivia had given up her future to marry a man she might have loved but ultimately couldn’t, because he stamped out any spark of it before it caught aflame. She pledged to fight for her daughters, stepping in front of the dragon each time he roared, acting as a shield between them. But now, the moment had arrived. And her girls would hide away no more. Either she was going to stand up to Josiah or she never would.

  She swung her arm back and connected her bloodied fist with the underside of his chin with a primal cry, “No!”

  His head snapped back, the clip having hit its mark.

  Whether it hurt, she couldn’t guess. Her puny punches were nothing compared to his. But it was enough to make him stumble back a few steps, shock branding his face. And then, as if a storm cloud had swept over them, the hall darkened and rage like she’d never seen consumed him.

  The Josiah she’d known for the past six years was gone. In his place, the shell of a man with vengeance seething from his heart. His hands, rough and calloused, wrapped around Charlotte’s body and yanked.

  “Charlotte!” Olivia reared back, Charlotte falling from her grasp with such force that she reeled to the top of the stairway. And with one slip, Olivia’s foot catapulted her from the top step.

  Suddenly Jenny was there. Sleepy and rubbing her palms to her eyes. She screamed out for her momma as Olivia flew down the mountain of stairs without wings.

  Falling had never been the fear.

  Not even death.

  Olivia welcomed it then, the peace that came from closing her eyes and knowi
ng in an instant she’d be gone. The fairy-tale world she’d tried to create for her daughters would be broken.

  The dragon had won—the heroine was finally felled.

  Wren awoke to the odor of musty carpet pressed against the side of her face.

  Cool water dripped and ran down the bridge of her nose, stirring her. She licked her lips, dried blood cracking at the corners of her mouth.

  “Oh, thank the Almighty,” came a breathless voice hovering over her. “You’re alive.”

  Wren cracked her eyelids, silently praying that they wouldn’t show her what she feared. Amberley looked down on her with worried eyes, her stringy hair hanging lifeless about her shoulders. She held out a cloth that had been soaked in water.

  Wren tried to take it, but her wrists were bound behind her back, with rope so tight it burned into her skin.

  “I was trying to wipe some of that off for you.” Amberley reached out to bathe the side of Wren’s head. “They didn’t use handcuffs, I’m afraid. They thought you’d know how to get out of them. And there was no use in me trying to free you. The ropes are too tight.”

  Wren closed her eyes against the pounding in her head. “I cannot possibly look worse than I feel right now.”

  “When you didn’t wake, I started to worry. Thank God you’re alive.”

  She was right; they were alive. But this time it was a darn sight worse that sitting in a Bureau interrogation room battling with each other’s wits. Their present circumstances could prove far more deadly.

  Amberley looked terrified, but at least she was holding herself together. Her gaze kept flitting across the room to a closed wooden door, as if she were waiting for something evil to walk through it.

  Wren eased to a kneeling position and took in their surroundings. Tiny beams of sunlight cut through cracks in the plank ceiling overhead, indicating it was daytime somewhere beyond their room. But there were no windows, and a single door was tucked back in the shadows.

  Worn clapboard walls and threadbare carpet of red paisley surrounded them on all sides. Painted letters cried out from the wall above their heads, but the once-red paint faded to a shadow of broken words. A haphazard mound of dusty old chairs heaped high behind them, marking the only furnishings. Dirt, rodent excrement, and rolls of water-damaged paper were piled in the far corners of the room.