“I feel whatever has imprinted itself on the object. Once I touched a helmet from the Second World War. Its owner had already perished, and yet I felt things, terrible things, as if the whole bloody battle had left its mark.”
“Gruesome,” I said, making a face. “And here I thought you talked to animals.”
He laughed, which had been the point. His emotions were starting to wear.
“Knew a man once who could do that,” Leslie said. “Worked at a zoo.”
“So it’s true then, a person’s gift is aligned with their life’s work?”
“It’s certainly true in my case,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure you can understand why I love antiques. They have the most interesting stories to tell.”
* * *
After a botched character analysis of Bill Shrader that had almost gotten me killed, I’d had my misgivings about following another Smith-related lead. I’d been arrogant in my empathy, relying too heavily upon it, and now my confidence was shaken. But despite my initial apprehension, I was glad to have met Leslie Hopper.
And despite his best attempts to bore the life out of me, he was interesting. When I’d asked for a demonstration of his psychometry, he’d gladly obliged, grabbing a snuff box. Even as he remained in his seat, I had watched him disappear, eyes falling shut, body going slack as his mind travelled elsewhere. And after a short time he came back, lurching forward in the chair, eyes popping open as he breathed in deep. He then told me of the snuff box and the elegant era of aristocrats that came with it. He described an assembly room in detail—men in stockings and knee-breeches, women wearing arm gloves, the white-wigged servants and candle chandeliers—he painted a picture and I felt like I was there. He enjoyed the regency life, many of his antiques from that period. He showed me a pair of bent spectacles, confiding that they’d belonged to a stuffy matron whose imprints he particularly enjoyed. He was amused at the recollection, calling her an entertaining fusspot.
I would have chatted with him longer, but I sensed that he was growing curious in turn, wanting me to reciprocate and share the details of my own gift. So after giving him Stephen’s contact information and extracting a promise that he not mention me or my visit to the Smiths, I left. He’d been both puzzled and disappointed, but expressed neither, a real gentleman as he waved me off. That was Tuesday, almost a whole week ago. What had I been doing since then?
Avoiding Lucas, and not much else.
It was Monday before something happened, stirring up the monotony. I went into the office, one o’clock sharp, and Ben was waiting behind the front desk. Being on time, I had to wonder why I was about to get yelled at. But all he said was, “Stephen’s off today.” And then I knew—the Smiths had learned the truth.
“I’ll clean rooms,” I said. “You watch the desk.”
He grunted and shrugged, but was secretly surprised to hear me offer; no doubt assuming the task would be put off until however long it took for Stephen to recover, believing he was merely sick. I knew that wasn’t the case. What I didn’t know was how long it took a boy to mourn the loss of his father, a father he never really knew. And how unfortunate for me that the bed sheets weren’t going to wash themselves in the meantime.
Only one wheel on the housekeeping cart actually rolled, the other three just squealed in protest. Stephen had made mention of this fact, too scared to confront Ben and hoping that I might plead his case and request that we order a new one. Well I never did, and for that I was being punished. The cart was a nightmare, and I more or less had to drag it from the shed out back. I suppose shouldering Stephen’s workload should have made me more appreciative of his efforts, but since my sympathy tended to be few and far between, all I felt was glad. Glad to have my job and not his.
After cleaning two rooms I found my rhythm, a nice routine of stripping sheets and scrubbing toilets. That was where he found me, room thirteen, the door propped open, reaching down a toilet’s gullet, white bristle brush in hand.
“And this is the job you find preferable to my employment?”
Don’t turn around, I chanted to myself, even as his voice made my stomach flip and clench. Don’t turn around.
“Yes, exactly,” I replied, my hand still scrubbing under the rim. “I’d rather clean shit than work for you.”
I could feel the gentle touch of his dissatisfaction, next would be frustration. The negative emotions kept me grounded, helping me battle his euphoric charm.
“I flew eight hundred miles to see you, so kindly turn around and let me look.” His voice was like a song, smooth and lovely, pulling me in. If not for the predictable irritation that flowed with them I wouldn’t have been able to resist his request.
“I’m not hiding the diary under my shirt, since I know that’s what you’re here for,” I said, scrubbing the porcelain harder. “You shouldn’t have come, I don’t have it.”
The plastic toilet brush clacked to the floor as I was hauled upright. Turned to face the mirror, I could see him, Reed Wallace, standing behind me, a hand planted on each of my shoulders, holding me in place. His face was more harsh and beautiful than I remembered, hawkish in its intensity. His blue eyes burned, staring into my reflection while his thumbs inched up, sketching circles on my neck.
“The diary is only one of my concerns,” Reed said. I could barely hear him, the reflection of his face hidden as he talked into my hair, the words spoken low. “And not nearly as troublesome as you.”
His fingertips traced along my collarbone, gently teasing the skin as his hands ringed my throat, a possessive necklace.
I let go. I let go of everything—my breath on a sigh, my body tipping into his, encouraging his touch. I wanted more, a consuming something, to be enveloped, wrapped over in Reed.
“Confide in me,” he urged, his lips skimming my neck, placing a trail of kisses behind my ear. “Your trust is all I want.”
“Yes,” I gasped, trying to talk over my own breathing. It had become loud and labored. “Whatever you want.”
He pivoted around my body, blocking the mirror as he twisted to stare down at me. “Tell me about Marks and Shrader. How are you involved with them?”
“I— I know them...” I swallowed, trying to clear my foggy brain so I could speak. “They killed—”
“Oh,” someone cut in, their surprise louder than words. “Sorry, mate.” I blinked, looking past Reed to see Tim standing outside the bathroom door. “Adelaide?” he asked, his surprise doubling when he saw me. “I was looking for Stephen, didn’t mean to interrupt you and your boyfriend.”
It was like suddenly seeing normal after a long bout of tunnel vision, my senses flooding back to life. I shoved Reed first thing, pushing him away before backing into the bathroom counter. “He’s not my boyfriend!” I called after Tim. I don’t think he even heard, having slipped away after catching us doing... whatever that was.
“How unfortunate,” Reed said, with an unrepentant half-shrug. “I was hoping to get more out of you.”
“More information?” I asked. “Or maybe you were just hoping to get laid,” I suggested, acid in my words.
“Ah,” he said, feeling bored. “Here comes the woman’s scorn. How conveniently you forget the part where you quite enjoyed it.”
I took two quick steps and slapped him. Hard. “About as much as you enjoyed that, the only difference is that you felt the sting straight away.”
He glared at me, all vestiges of civilized, good breeding wiped clean by my slap. “I’ve expended resources on your behalf, money, influence, just to keep you from being questioned by the police. That makes you an investment, Adelaide. So I suggest you start showing me profitable returns and tell me what the hell is going on. If not I’ll withdraw my efforts,” Reed threatened. “I can even save you a trip by taking you down to the station myself.”
I called, “Bullshit. I’m not an investment, my gift is. That’s what you want, my empathy at your disposal. And you want it more than I want your help.”
; “You need my help,” he clarified.
I just shrugged. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“Edward Marks mentioned you by name, admitting that the grave where they found the remains was meant to be yours. Now William Shrader is awake—”
“You said he was in a comma!”
“Yes, well, he woke up,” Reed said impatiently. “He’s still being treated at the hospital, currently handcuffed to his bed. But who knows what he’ll say. Adelaide, I’m trying to help, but I can’t protect you if I don’t know how you’re involved.”
I might’ve caved then, if not for his contempt. It slithered over me, partnered with aggression. He thought I was being foolish and unreasonable, and no matter how lovely he pleaded, that wouldn’t change. Reed Wallace was a condescending ass, and I wasn’t going to let him, or his charm, outmaneuver me.
“Is there anything else you flew eight hundred miles to discuss? Because I’m done with that subject,” I said, swooping down to pick up the toilet scrubber.
“One day you are going to be desperate for my help, Adelaide. And I want you to know,” he said, staring straight into my eyes, “that it’s going to be my pleasure watching you beg for it.”
Not the segue I’d been hoping for, but as we didn’t chat on the phone every other day I might not get another chance to ask for Nancy. “Speaking of favors,” I began, turning to fluff the towels in my effort to hide a wince. “Since you keep tabs about everything on St. Simons, I suppose you know all about that conference, the one in October?”
He made a soft noise, unmistakably derisive. “Yes, I know the one. A lot of New Age nonsense, or so I’m told.”
“You should come this year,” I said, still giving him my back. “In fact, you should host it at the country club.”
He laughed outright, his hilarity infectious. I almost laughed too, but quickly stifled it, appalled by how easily he could drag me in. “I’m serious,” I said while gathering up my cleaning supplies. “Gifted people go. I’m going.”
He followed me through room thirteen, the blistering heat of summer greeting us as we stepped outside. “You know,” he observed, watching me skeptically as I loaded the cart. “It’s hard for me to swallow that you would willingly participate in that type of thing, so I have to ask... is someone blackmailing you?”
I snorted. “You mean someone besides you?” He was actually worried. “You want to know my secrets? Well here’s one—I know the woman in charge. She’s nice. I’m going to support her. You should go too.”
“There’s an art to this,” Reed said, inattentively gesturing between us, “an art to asking, to begging and pleading. You need practice, Adelaide. My answer is no.”
“You’ll be there,” I said, sure it was somehow true.
He faintly grimaced, the subtle expression as captivating as it was false. He wasn’t the least bit put out, in fact, he was rather enjoying this. “You sound like my mother.”
It was a ploy he probably used with all his girlfriends—relating them to his mother when he wanted to shut the door on a conversation.
So I asked, “You have a mother? And here I thought you were spawned from Satan.”
“I suppose I should leave on a high note,” Reed joked, layering on the charm. It was a smarmy habit.
I noticed the car then, sleek and arrogantly parked curbside, hogging up two spaces. “Yours, I presume?”
He nodded.
“You drove?” He seemed too urbane for that.
“I could hardly travel incognito with a limo and driver.”
Well in that case... I grabbed the toilet brush from the cart, strode over to the driver’s door, opened it up and began to give the steering wheel a thorough cleaning.
“Did I or did I not promise to make you regret it if you ever took advantage of me again?” I gave him my meanest smile, our faces locked over the top of his shiny town car. “I think I did.”
Chapter 31
After Reed’s unceremonious visit/intrusion I wanted to finish reading Demidov’s diary more than ever. It was the first thing I did after getting home, and when I saw there was only one entry left, I kicked myself for not finishing it sooner. Then I would’ve been able to hand the damned thing over, gleefully watching as Reed Wallace left my life for good. Scratch that, I needed him to go to Nancy’s stupid event. In that case the book would serve a greater purpose, my little leverage over Reed. We’d see how he liked being blackmailed for a change. With that thought I cheerfully opened Demidov’s diary, quite unprepared for the last entry, which was, by far, the most shocking.
According to the deal I struck with Raulriechmydl, these words will never be seen. That was just one of his conditions—that I would never speak of demon secrets—and I won’t. So why fill a single page? I am not trying to circumvent my agreement, no, I am not that foolish. But as information has been the mistress of my life, it seems cruel to learn things, things only one in a billion could know, and remain silent. I keep this record because it pleases me. I find comfort in writing it all out, my experiences, the secrets. Because this is my legacy, though no one will ever know it, and perhaps that is for the best. My dear Agata, it is a blessing that she will not be burdened with this. It was for her that things progressed so far and I made that first, frightful agreement. She grew ill, wilting before my eyes, and if my brother and I were ever united in anything after my mother’s death, it was in our desire to spare Agata. He waited until I was desperate, when Agata was just a husk of herself, and then Raulriechmydl came, bearing promises and whispered words of hope. While the doctors remained perplexed and uncertain, the demon recognized her illness, having seen it a dozen times over. He swore there was a remedy, and so, after years of biding his time, the demon finally got what he wanted, each of us trading something priceless we possessed. He gave up the cure to save my niece, and me—my body. I proceeded with caution during our negotiation, and although I would’ve done anything to save Agata, something Raulriechmydl knew well, it was also no secret that he would do more for access to a body, my body. The restrictions I laid out were obvious: my body would be returned in the same condition, no harm done to it or anyone else. In addition I specified what I considered harmful, making plain that drugs and sex were prohibited. I thought the demon would argue, as such experiences would rouse the senses, but he did not. The only thing we disagreed upon was the duration of his stay in my body. He wanted long-term access, but Agata took a turn for the worse, and being the first to sense it, Raulriechmydl agreed to my terms before his hold on me was lost. My niece was saved, his end of the deal done, and for me there was no going back. I cannot describe the feeling of disappearing into one’s own self. My mind suppressed, closed shut by another. I remember Raulriechmydl’s expression, those disgusting and unnatural features twisted in satisfaction as he ghosted forward, and then that moment when he pushed inside, slipping into my body and taking possession. I came back hours later, every muscle strained and aching, vomit on my chin, sour in my mouth. My house was a wreck, every drawer and cupboard open. It looked much like I felt, well used and thoroughly violated. I liked to think that he ate himself sick, and after that he went for a run, jumping, twisting and skipping, experiencing motion in all its forms. But I’ll never know and I’ll always wonder, because every time I ask the demon he only smiles and laughs. That should have been the only time I gave my body over, and if I was a stronger man it would’ve been. But I am weak to curiosity, to knowledge and facts. It was for his deepest secret that we made our next exchange. It agitated Raulriechmydl to speak of the black covenant, and he appeared almost afraid, even more so than I, who was terrified to, again, give up my skin. He said it was a ritual that all demons knew, but none spoke of. I’d seen it written in myth, but Luitger Fuerst, whose experience I trusted, had never made mention of demon slaves. Raulriechmydl whispered the secret to me, speaking with quiet gravity. I learned there was only one thing every demon wanted and none could resist—flesh and blood. Summoning a demon to make the
sacrifice would bind you intrinsically together. The demon would take on a semihuman state, gaining senses to a certain extent, but would be nothing more than an extension of their master, unable to resist direction or command. But servitude didn’t suit demons well, compulsory obedience went against their nature. So it became the taboo of demonkind, sharing the secret of blood rites with man. For knowledge once shared could not be ungiven, and for the demons the flesh and blood sacrifice, once offered, could not be denied. I would later hear of an Albanian cult that called to the demon Hezahrue by offering up a beautiful young woman in sacrifice. In one tale the creature had vampire-like aspects, drinking her blood with long fangs. In another she was impregnated, spawning a demonic child. There were other such stories, but they no longer seemed far-fetched. Raulriechmydl’s secret was a heavy weight, coloring my thoughts with frightful possibilities. For the first time in my life I found myself in possession of information that I did not want, a secret men would kill for, demons too, a secret I would give anything to forget.
That was it. That was the end of Demidov’s diary. It suddenly occurred to me that I should never have read it, any of it. If demons could crown kings and grow empires, then the secret to their captivity should be just that... a secret. Theodore Dunn had read the journal, and he was dead. If I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps then I had to pretend I’d never so much as glanced at the accursed thing.
I stuffed it back in the fuse box, absently thinking up a plan to call Reed first thing tomorrow as I let myself out of the closet. It took a moment to realize I wasn’t alone, the figure of a man hunched over my kitchen table.
“Lucas!” I yelped, jumping in place and suddenly breathless. “How long have you been there?”
“A few minutes,” he answered, leaning back in the chair, “figured I’d just wait for you to come out.”
Adelaide Upset Page 20