Deviance (The London Psychic Book 3)

by J. F. Penn

  "Exactly," Missinghall said. "His slogan is 'clean up the city,' so he's trying to make sure that starts now."

  "There might be more trouble coming," Jamie said. "I've spoken with Olivia, and she told me that the man who abducted her mentioned the Southbank masquerade ball."

  "That's tomorrow night at the Tate Modern," Missinghall said. "We can't shut it down at this stage, but it will be full of the city's finest, including the Mayoral candidates. Let me get the information to the security team and I'm sure they'll assign more security. We'll get this bastard, Jamie."

  Chapter 16

  Leaving O in Magda's care, Jamie walked back along the corridor into the waiting room. Blake stood as she entered.

  "How is she?" he asked.

  "Alive – and grateful." Jamie smiled and for a moment it seemed as if everything was right with the world. She walked into Blake's arms and hugged him, her arms wrapped around his strong back, the warmth of his body against hers. She inhaled his masculine scent and they stood together, just breathing. The seconds ticked past and what had started as a friendly hug between friends morphed into the edge of something more intimate.

  Jamie's heart beat faster as she felt an overwhelming desire to lift her mouth for his kiss. He was a beautiful man, and his scars and wounded soul only made him more desirable. She wondered what his bare hands would feel like on her skin. Would he be able to read the desire from her body as he read objects? She took a deep breath. This couldn't happen, not now. Perhaps not ever.

  She stepped back, exhaling slowly. Blake's eyes were cobalt blue and she saw her own desire reflected there.

  "I need to go," she said, too aware of his proximity. "It's late."

  Blake nodded. "It's been a long day."

  They walked together out of the hospital, the silence between them no longer comfortable but heavy with unsaid words. When they reached Jamie's bike, Blake refused the pillion helmet.

  "I'll get the Tube back," he said. "I know you prefer to ride alone."

  Jamie couldn't tell him how much she had relished his arms around her waist as they had zoomed around London together. How his heat against her back had made her feel again. How she longed for more.

  She put her helmet on, needing its protective shield to stop her words from escaping.

  "Thank you for coming today," she said. "You're the one who really found O."

  "We did it together," Blake said. "We make a good team." He reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Sleep well, Jamie."

  He turned to leave, but she called him back.

  "I'm … going to go to the masquerade ball tomorrow night," she said, her words hesitant. "O told me that the man mentioned it, so perhaps he'll be there. I need to find him, Blake, and Southwark won't sleep easy until he's caught."

  The corner of Blake's mouth twitched in a slight smile. "So it's more of a stakeout then," he said. "Definitely not a date."

  "Definitely not," Jamie said, but she couldn't help but smile back.

  Blake nodded. "I'd better sort out a costume then. I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

  As he walked away through the car park, Jamie roared off on her bike, back through East London towards the south. As she rode, she felt the crazy rise inside her. When she felt like this, she needed speed and escape.

  She wanted to drink and dance, to stamp her claim on life and shout to the world that she was alive.

  Finding O felt like a chink of light in the darkness, a triumph that she needed to celebrate. Life was so short and dark men could cut it shorter still. Or illnesses like the one that had taken her daughter from her. Death is inevitable, the only question is when and what can be done with this life as the seconds tick away. While blood still pumped in her veins, Jamie felt the need to snatch these moments of pleasure and revel in them.

  She rode back to her flat, grabbed her tango bag, and headed back out into the night.

  The tango milonga was a place of transformation. No one questioned anyone's identity outside, because only the dance mattered in here. It was the early hours of the morning now so only the hardcore remained, those with the stamina to dance for so long, those with the addiction to movement.

  Sebastian was there, dancing with a young woman whose body seemed molded to his. He saw Jamie come in and nodded at her. He was always the one she wanted, the chemistry when they danced together was as close to sex as she could get without taking her clothes off.

  Jamie put her tall heels on, letting her hair out of the clasp so it fell in dark waves down her back. She shook it out and stepped to the edge of the dance floor as the music faded and Sebastian left his partner to come to her.

  There was no need to speak. Their bodies were all the conversation necessary and as the bandoneon began to play, Jamie surrendered to the movement. This was the loss of control she craved. The male role was dominant in tango, he led and she followed, bending to his touch and spinning at the pressure of his fingers on her flesh.

  Sebastian had the perfect arrogance necessary in a tango partner, but with an edge of tragedy that filled every step with meaning. Jamie sublimated her desire into the steps, arching into him. She looked up into his eyes as he held her in close embrace, bending her backwards and pressing himself down upon her. She sensed that he would take this further if she gave assent. But dancing with Sebastian would change if they took it any further.

  The pleasure of tango was in frustrated desire held in check, not the release. The fantasy of how it might feel to be possessed by him was more erotic than the taking would surely be. But Jamie was glad of the spark, glad that she was not defined only by the loss of her daughter or her work. As a dancer, she was a desirable woman, and the darkness she faced outside didn't matter right now. Here was only life.

  Chapter 17

  The figure with the skinning knife took another step towards him, bending over his prone form. The blade flashed as it caught the light and then it descended, cutting into his flesh. The touch was gentle at first, a caress along his chest followed by a bead of dark blood. But then the pain began as the man pressed the knife deeper.

  Blake twisted, trying to get away from the blade, but he was trapped, tied down, unable to move. His breath came in ragged gasps.

  The man laughed and Blake saw the scar that marred his nose, the craggy features of the man he had seen in the museum.

  He woke with a start, pulling himself out of the twisted bedclothes. He sat up and deliberately calmed his breathing as the sounds of London waking came from the window. The light was dull, grey clouds scudded past and the wind whistled through the chimney pots in the roof above. Blake took a deep breath. These were the sounds of his flat. He was safe.

  He reached for the silver hip flask next to his bed, his hand hovering over it for a second. Just a little, he thought, taking a quick swig. Tequila was better for dulling the visions, but this early in the morning and before work, vodka was a better choice.

  Feeling calmer now, Blake turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching underneath it for the package wrapped in dirty ivory sailcloth. His bare fingertips brushed it and Blake pulled away, reaching instead for the gloves by his bedside. This was a book he dared not read again with bare hands, since the visions had been so bloody and violent on the day his father had died.

  Blake pulled the gloves on and then reached back under the bed, pulling out the tightly wrapped book. The Galdrabók. His father had used rites from the grimoire to summon powers of persuasion and charisma to lead his extremist Christian sect. In the last moments of his life, Blake had seen him consumed by demons come to claim what he had bargained for earthly power.

  Or at least he had seen a vision through his father's eyes of what he'd believed was there to claim him. The visions were so tightly bound to the people he saw through, Blake was never sure how much could be considered objectively real. He smiled, shaking his head. Could demons ever be considered truth?

  He pulled open the sailcloth to reveal the Galdrabók, its cover of d
eep burgundy leather inscribed with a circle bisected by four lines ending in prongs. Each line was cross-hatched with other markings, each a form of controlled chaos, like a deformed snowflake that had missed its natural perfection.

  Blake opened the book, gazing again at the pages of Icelandic spells, invocations to demons and Christian saints. There were symbols and images for calling on the Norse gods and instructions on how to use herbs for visions of the otherworld. There were runes and symbols of power, Icelandic magic sigils, Latin texts and sacred images within. It was a dense bible of pagan belief, but Blake didn't really know what to make of it.

  The museum researcher part of him wanted to take it in for study, to academically discern the meaning of the symbols and words within. The book could be a lifetime of research, perhaps a way for him to discover the Nordic half of his family tree and give his academic life some deeper meaning. His mind skipped forward to conferences in the icy north, tweed jackets with elbow patches, book signings with bearded colleagues.

  But the other part of him, perhaps the Nigerian half from his mother, perhaps the part that allowed him to see visions through time – that part wanted to read the book with bare hands laid upon it and speak the words within. His mind flashed to the vision of the ash grove, the human sacrifices to Odin, the power that hummed through those present. There was a world a long way from London, up in the dark forests of the Arctic Circle.

  Blake closed the book and traced the symbol on the front with gloved fingertips. He thought of the man he had seen in the museum, the man who now haunted his dreams. Had the book really belonged to his father, or had he stolen it? Blake placed his hand flat on the burgundy leather. Was the stranger here to take it back?

  An hour later, Blake walked up the steps into the British Museum, his close-cropped hair still wet from the shower. The Galdrabók was tucked safely beneath his bed again, the decision on what to do with it put off for now. Blake felt spring fever in the air, a sense that something was changing, and if he didn't move with it, he would be left behind.

  He walked into the Great Court, looking up at the glass panels above, the sun streaming through. He descended to the research area and waved at Margaret in her office as he sat at his desk to work on some of the text for the exhibit. To his consternation, she stood and walked towards him.

  "Morning," Blake said, his voice jolly as she approached.

  "You weren't here much yesterday," Margaret said. No small talk today. "Even after our discussion."

  "I was actually researching the sex trade in Southwark," Blake said. "To add some color to the exhibition."

  Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. Well, your research might come in handy, as the curator needs a hand constructing the exhibition space. I'm volunteering you for the job since you can't seem to sit still down here."

  "But –" Blake protested, but Margaret held a hand up.

  "I actually think you'll enjoy it," she said with a smile.

  Blake walked back upstairs towards the exhibition space, right in the middle of the Great Court. There was a security guard on the door to keep out the tourists. Blake showed his pass and then went into the central space. The walls were black and could be shifted around to bisect the space into various sizes, all the better to display the objects within. Spotlights lit the glass cases and Blake could see that the curator was aiming to entertain as well as educate.

  The first case contained an array of phalluses – from the stone carvings offered to the gods for fertility, to the wind chimes of winged penises from first-century Roman London used to ward away evil spirits. It was a comical display, setting the tone for a tongue-in-cheek ride through erotic London.

  A clanging noise came from further in.

  Blake followed the sound into a larger space, where a petite blonde woman struggled to maneuver a leather stool onto a stage area. Her long hair was tied back in a simple ponytail and her plain blue jeans and black t-shirt gave her the air of a graduate student.

  "Let me help with that," Blake said, helping her to lift the stool up. Once in place, he ran his gloved hand over the metal rivets at the edges. "Well made, isn't it."

  "Yes," the woman said, a cheeky smile on her face. "Britain makes some of the best spanking stools and bondage gear."

  Blake pulled his hand away quickly and the woman laughed.

  "I'm Catherine Agew," she said.

  "You're the guest curator for the exhibition," Blake said. He had assumed that the curator would be older … and not so good-looking.

  "You must be Blake. Margaret said she was sending someone up to help me with the lifting and shifting."

  Blake raised an eyebrow. "Lifter and shifter at your service." He turned to look at the stage area. "So what's this going to be?"

  "Flagellation was a popular sexual service, especially in Georgian London and particularly amongst the nobility," Catherine said. "Brits have always enjoyed a good spanking."

  She pointed at a wall filled with images of Victorian pornography, some of the more acceptable pictures from the museum's extensive collection. A black and white illustration showed a bewigged aristocrat bent over by a window, a woman beating his behind with birch twigs.

  Blake found his eyes lingering on one image where a young woman lay over the knees of an older man, her blonde hair hanging down as he raised his hand to spank her. He turned away to find Catherine looking at him, curiosity in her eyes. He swallowed. Suddenly it seemed stuffy in here.

  "So," he said. "What do you need me to do here?"

  Catherine smiled and pointed out some of the other items to be placed on the stage, creating a tableau of a boudoir in one of the high-end establishments. Blake began to move the furniture, trying to push the lewd images from his mind.

  Catherine's fingers lingered on his arm as he moved the final piece into position and Blake understood the possibility implied there. Before he had met Jamie, he had been living well in the promiscuous London singles scene, fueled by alcohol and a desire to forget. He had never had any trouble finding willing partners, but he struggled to take anything further than a one-night stand. Questions about his scars and doubts about his own demons had stopped him. But Jamie had given him hope that he could give more of himself, and tonight he would see her at the masquerade ball. Perhaps tonight they would be more than friends.

  He took a step back, away from Catherine's touch.

  "It looks great," he said. "I like that you've added humor to what could be a – difficult – exhibition."

  "I'm glad you think so, but I also wanted to portray the darker side," Catherine said. "Whores who got on the wrong side of the law were sent to Bridewell house of correction and whipped in public. There were many who enjoyed watching and who paid for the privilege. Who were the real sinners after all?"

  Catherine's eyes hardened and even with her small stature, Blake could see how much this exhibition meant to her.

  "It's good that you're the curator," he said. "It's almost a feminist take on the sex trade, something that many wouldn't have considered."

  Catherine's face softened and she sighed.

  "Thank you. It means a lot to me to reclaim some of the myths. Of course the sex trade had its horrific side, but there were also women who made a lot of money with it. If they didn't die of disease or violence, they could live more independently than ever. Profits from the sex industry actually financed the development of huge swathes of the city. It was one of the most valuable commercial activities in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, as important as even the London Docks."

  Blake shook his head. "It's one of the paradoxes of London. Some of its greatest achievements come from the shadow side."

  "Of course, it's difficult to know where to draw the line," Catherine said, the cheeky smile returning to her face. "The truth of London's past is often hidden for good reason." She pulled out some old street signs. "I want to put a couple of these up around the exhibit. What do you think?"

  She shuffled through them s
o Blake could read the texts: Maiden Lane, Love Lane, Codpiece Lane, Gropecunt Lane. He put a hand up to stop her, laughing a little.

  "I think that last one would bring in a raft of complaints," he said.

  "It became Grape Street and then Grub Street over time," Catherine said. "But I quite like the original name. At least you knew what you were going to get there."

  They worked with an easy camaraderie for the rest of the afternoon, the exhibition taking shape around them. Blake enjoyed watching Catherine work, her strong sense of what she wanted to portray commanding the space. Flirtation aside, she inspired him with the way she could use an exhibit to make people laugh and think, to make them feel. He understood why Margaret wanted him up here. He was reminded once more what a future in the museum might mean, what he could do with his gifts. He could bring the past alive and the thought enlivened him.

  Blake looked at his watch. He still needed to pick up the tuxedo from the rental shop before heading to the Tate Modern for the ball.

  "I've got to run," Blake said. "But I can help you tomorrow if you like?"

  "I'll look forward to it," Catherine said with a smile that promised far more.

  Blake emerged from the central exhibition space into the crowded Great Court. Tourists and families thronged the space and the noise of the crowd rose in waves. A lone figure caught Blake's eye. The man with the scar on his nose stood by the door of the Enlightenment Room, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Blake.

  Blake's heart thudded in his chest as he recognized aspects of his father in the man's face, and the promise of the north in his eyes.

  He took a step forward.

  The man ducked into the Enlightenment Room behind him. Blake followed, expecting to find him there, wanting to challenge him. The room swirled with people, but the man was gone. For now, at least.

  Chapter 18

  The vast expanse of the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern was transformed for the masquerade ball.