Born of Illusion

by Teri Brown

  I start walking again, hoping I’m going in the right direction. There are fewer people on the street now and the wind picks up, scattering trash across the cracked sidewalk. I hear something behind me. Heart in my throat, I slow, and the sound stops. I begin walking and the noise resumes. Footfalls. My breath quickens as I struggle not to run. Kam Lee, an acrobat from San Francisco, once told me that criminals are attracted by fear and repelled by confidence. He refused to teach me kung fu, as it wasn’t proper for girls, but he did teach me how to walk aggressively.

  I stretch myself taller and square my shoulders. Lengthening my strides, I change my gait from uncertain to arrogant.

  Casually, I glance behind me. Is it my imagination or did something just disappear into the shadows? Am I being followed?

  I speed up and the footfalls behind me resume. Swallowing, I feel for the fan knife I’ve kept in my purse ever since my mother and I were mugged in Kansas City several years ago.

  I try to remain calm, but my senses switch to high alert. At first, I only get a general sense of menace, then malevolence, deep and smoky, oozes out in pulsing waves and surrounds me. My breath hitches and I jerk the knife out of my purse. Gripping it tight, I forget all of Kam Lee’s teaching and break into a dead run.

  The footsteps behind me keep pace, never coming closer but never falling behind, either. Tears leak from my eyes and soon I can’t hear anything over my own labored breathing. My heart pounds and dizziness overwhelms me. If I don’t do something soon, I’ll collapse with exhaustion and be overtaken.

  Instinctively, I skid to a stop and whirl around, knife in hand. Kam Lee told me it’s better to face off with an opponent than to run. If my pursuer thinks I’m an easy mark, he’s got another thing coming. Come and get me, I think, snapping the blade open.

  “Anna! Anna!”

  Suddenly, someone catches me up in their arms from behind and I scream. With a lightning flick of my wrist, I slash downward toward the arm that’s holding me. I hear a muffled curse just before I’m shoved away. My knife clatters to the ground.

  “Anna! It’s all right; it’s me!”

  Shocked, I stare up into Cole Archer’s alarmed brown eyes.

  Acting on instinct, I grab for the knife, but Cole is faster and kicks it away before I can reach it. I crouch on the ground, staring up at him, wild-eyed and panting.

  “Anna, it’s okay.” His voice is soothing, and I relax in spite of being disoriented.

  Why is he here? Could he be the one . . . but as soon as the thought pops into my mind, I discard it. Cole isn’t breathing hard and his clothes aren’t mussed. He holds out a hand. With one eye on me, he bends and picks up the knife. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  With a shuddering breath, I open my mouth to speak and instead burst into tears.

  Cole reaches for me and I allow myself to be gathered up, shaking, into his arms. His warmth and strength engulf me and I take another deep breath. I can feel concern emanating from him in waves. It’s the only time I have ever gotten a good read on him.

  “Someone was following me.”

  He looks behind me, his eyes scanning the street. “No one’s there.”

  I look, too, through eyes blurred with tears, but the street is nearly empty. “Someone was there,” I say positively.

  But strangely enough, I suddenly feel it again, more distant this time but with the same menace, lurking out there in the dark. I still, concentrating, and the pulsing feeling fades, bit by bit, as if the threat was moving away from me.

  “It’s leaving,” I murmur softly. I feel him nod, accepting my words, even though I hardly know what I mean. My abilities, as familiar to me as my own skin, seem to be changing, growing, and becoming something I hardly recognize.

  I remember my earlier revelation and wonder if these changes are indeed due to Cole’s presence in my life. Uneasy, I turn back, only to realize that his eyes are inches from mine, so close I can see little flecks of mahogany and gold amid the brown. Embarrassment heats my cheeks and I step awkwardly out of his arms. Cole clears his throat and hands me a handkerchief. I turn away and wipe my face, as mortified by my reaction to his proximity as I am by my tears. I hand the sodden handkerchief back without meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Are you okay? Did he . . . ?”

  I shake my head. “I never even saw who it was.”

  “Good.”

  I stare in horror at the rip in his sleeve. “Did I get you?”

  “No. You came close, though.” He looks at the open knife in his hand and raises an eyebrow. “What type of weapon is this?”

  I look down, embarrassed. “It’s a balisong—a fan knife.” Not something a real lady would carry in her purse.

  He frowns at it in his palm. The knife has swung open into three hinged pieces: the delicately etched bone covers and the blade itself. “And you have it, why?” His voice is slightly amused but also puzzled, no doubt wondering why a respectable young woman would need such a wicked weapon.

  Perhaps because I could never be classified as respectable?

  “For protection.” Sensing his curiosity, I take the knife and expertly swing it around in my hands, the ominous clicking of the blade as it hits the handles making Cole’s eyes widen. I give it another twirl before latching it and sticking it back in my purse.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Swineguard the Magnificent.” Disbelief creeps over his strong features and I’m suddenly annoyed. “A sword swallower. He gave it to me and taught me how to use it.”

  “A sword swallower?” His voice rises, incredulous.

  Shame and disappointment sink my stomach and I turn my face away. I remember Swineguard giving me his dessert at the food tent every night, how he worried when I roamed around strange towns by myself, and how he tried not to laugh at my knife-throwing attempts.

  I loved Swineguard. Why should I be ashamed of that? Because he wasn’t respectable? Because he worked in a circus and had tattoos covering both arms?

  “Shouldn’t we be getting home?” I ask, purposely sidestepping the topic. Someone as proper and formal as Cole wouldn’t understand my circus family.

  “Of course.” Cole offers his arm, and once again I find his emotions curiously blocked. Not a jumble like so many others I’ve felt, but simply not there.

  “What on earth are you doing out here anyway? This isn’t a safe neighborhood, especially at night.”

  Anger prickles across my skin at his words. “I took a walk and got lost,” I tell him.

  He frowns. “You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself at night. What was your mother thinking?”

  I stop walking and yank my arm out of his. “I was perfectly safe! Until I got lost,” I amended. “Besides, what are you doing here if it’s such a bad neighborhood?”

  “I had an appointment,” he says shortly.

  What kind of appointment could he possibly have in this neighborhood on a Sunday night? But I say nothing.

  I put my arm back in his and we resume walking.

  Cole clears his throat uncomfortably, and it occurs to me that perhaps I confuse him as much as he does me. “Do you have family in the city?” he asks as if we’re picking up the brief conversation we had in the movie theater.

  I shake my head. “I don’t have family, period. It’s just my mother and I.” I wait for the inevitable question and it comes almost immediately.

  “What about your father?”

  I shrug. “I never knew my father.” Let him think what he wants. I’m certainly not telling him I’m Harry Houdini’s bastard daughter.

  “When did you start performing?”

  Is he really interested or is he just being polite? I sneak a sideways glance at him. The moonlight softens the planes of his face, making him look younger, less guarded. Suddenly, I want him to understand that being the friend of a sword swallower doesn’t mean I’m a circus sideshow, and that some of those so-called freaks were the nicest people I have ever
met.

  “I guess I was eight or nine when I first started performing. Before that, I just helped my mother with her séances. In a traveling circus everybody helps out with everything.”

  “And how did you help out?” His voice is bemused, and I lift my chin.

  “I was the knife girl,” I answer with dignity.

  “The knife girl?”

  I bristle, annoyed by his amused skepticism. “Yes! The original one ran off with a cowboy in Kansas City, and Swineguard needed someone to throw knives at for the second part of his act.”

  “And what was the first part of the act?”

  “He swallowed swords for the first part. He was talented and wonderful and I adored him.” I throw this last part out defiantly.

  “Except when he was throwing knives at you.”

  I laugh in spite of my annoyance. “Even then,” I insist. For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him about the time I was shot out of a cannon but decide against it. He probably already thinks the worst of me. I’m used to being judged for my unorthodox life and I try not to let it bother me much, but somehow, the thought of Cole judging me rankles.

  We walk for a few moments in silence before he finally says, “Anna, you have lived a most exciting life.”

  My eyes widen. That’s definitely not the reaction I expected. Maybe it was exciting. But I’d give up all the excitement for one day of not worrying about bad managers, law-enforcement officials, and where our next meal was coming from.

  “What about you?” Perhaps I could get some answers straight from the horse’s mouth.

  “My family lives in Europe.”

  “What did they think about you moving here?”

  “They know I won’t be here permanently.”

  As interested as he was in my life, Cole gives answers about his own grudgingly, offering no extraneous information.

  “You know, Europe is a pretty big place. Think you could be more specific?” My nerves are jangling like coins in a tin cup. He now knows more about me than almost anyone besides my mother. He owes me at least the basics about himself. It’s only fair.

  To my surprise, he laughs out loud. “I guess that’s fair.”

  What is he, a mind reader? “I certainly think so.”

  “Very well then. My parents are British, but my father worked for the government, so we traveled a lot. Italy, France, Greece. When I was old enough to go to school, I was placed in a boarding school.”

  My mind conjures visions of Jane Eyre. “Was it horrible?”

  “Not really. At least not until the war. You see, the school was in a little town in western Germany. I heard very little from my parents for four years.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  He shrugs. “It wasn’t too bad. It was a small boarding school, in a tiny, unimportant town. The war missed us, really. The teachers’ greatest fear was that we older boys would be forced to fight for Germany. I was twelve by the time the war ended and big for my age. The staff would hide us whenever there were rumors of soldiers nearby. The worst part was not knowing how my parents were.”

  Something compels me to ask, “And how were they?”

  “My mother was fine. My father didn’t survive the war.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I glance at him sideways. While his voice is casual, tension firms the already Spartan planes of his face, making him look more reserved than ever. The laughing young man of a few minutes ago is completely gone.

  “Were you close?”

  He gives a half smile. “As close as you can be when you are sent off to boarding school at a young age. He was a good father. He had integrity and truly believed in his work. I hope to be half the man he was.”

  I want to tell him that he seems to be on the right track, but I don’t. Although it feels so intimate walking and talking in the dark, I barely know him. I decide a change of subject is in order. “How do you know Jacques? It wasn’t a coincidence that you were chosen for our show, was it?”

  I can see the flush of his cheeks by the light of the streetlamp.

  “Er, no. Mr. Darby introduced me to Jacques. After running you down in the hallway, I wanted to meet you properly and asked him to introduce us. I’d expected a formal meeting, not a part in your show. Then I was invited to the séance.”

  If not for his obvious discomfort, I might have laughed out loud.

  I want to ask about the two pins he deceived me with but don’t want to risk him asking how I usually do the trick, so I switch subjects again. “So what are you doing in America?”

  For a time, it seems as if he might not answer, but then he says quietly, as if speaking to himself, “I think I was supposed to find you.”

  We reach the bottom of our stoop and I stop. “What do you mean by that?”

  Cole’s licorice eyes are mysterious. Why could I read him so easily before and not at all now?

  “I wanted to tell you . . .” He clears his throat as if embarrassed. I wait. “You are bewitching onstage.”

  My breath catches and he looks down at the ground.

  “I mean, you’re really good.”

  Warmth spreads across my chest. “Thank you.”

  His head rises and he draws closer.

  “Your mother is a fraud, but you aren’t, are you, Anna?”

  Eleven

  I pull my arm out of his, alarm racing through my body. What am I supposed to say to that? The answer condemns both me and my mother. A thought strikes me. “That’s why you didn’t second-guess me earlier, isn’t it? When I said I could still feel someone there?”

  I take his silence for affirmation and my heart skips a beat. How much does he know? And more important, how does he know it?

  My breath catches in my throat and a long moment plays between us. There are so many things I want to ask, but I’m afraid anything I say will reveal more about me than I’ll learn in return.

  Just as I turn to open the door, Jacques’s car stops in front of us. My mother steps out. She’s dressed up, which means she stopped by the house while I was out.

  “Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”

  “I went for a walk and got lost.” No need to mention Houdini, though his book, tucked away in my purse, weighs on me like one of Houdini’s own mammoth chains.

  My mother’s perfectly painted lips purse. “Really, darling, how careless of you.” An eyebrow arches as she realizes I’m not alone. “Mr. Archer?”

  His name is a question and Cole hurries to explain. “I ran across Anna when she was lost and escorted her home.”

  I throw him a grateful glance, glad that he didn’t mention that I’d been running, terrified, through the slums when he found me.

  “How fortuitous for Anna,” my mother murmurs.

  Cole gives a courtly little nod. “I was glad to be of service.”

  The formality, which had dropped away during our walk, is back, and I wonder if my mother makes him uncomfortable.

  I try to see my mother as a stranger would. Her quilted lamé evening wrap is banded with black satin and encrusted with crystal beads. Her arms drip with costume jewelry, and she’s wearing more than her usual amount of makeup. She looks rich and intimidating.

  Or maybe Cole’s uncomfortable because he knows she’s a fraud and a cheat.

  The back door to the car opens and Owen gets out. I feel Cole stiffen beside me. Owen looks like a dashing man about town in his fashionably cuffed trousers and tightly fitted jacket. His sophistication is only slightly marred by the wide smile that lights up his face when he sees me. In contrast, Cole, glowering in his plain dark suit, looks like a grumpy undertaker. I have to hide a smile.

  “Your carriage awaits, milady!” Owen sweeps an arm toward Jacques’s dark red Packard Phaeton. “Willest thou goest?”

  I cross my arms and, aware of Cole’s disapproval next to me, try not to smile at Owen’s antics. “Depends on where we’re going.”

  “To the moon, sweets, to the moon!” Owen give
s me a wink and I laugh out loud.

  “Oh, stop your silliness,” Mother says. “We’re going to The Colony for a late supper.”

  She shoos me upstairs to change, but I pause to glance at Cole, who’s still frowning at Owen. “Good-bye, Cole, and thanks . . . for walking me home.”

  He nods curtly.

  I open the door and the last thing I hear is Owen introducing himself. “Hello there, old boy. I’m Owen.”

  I snort as I follow my mother upstairs, wondering what Cole thinks of being called an “old boy.”

  “Look what I bought for you today!” my mother says once we reach my bedroom.

  I’m about to chastise her for spending money when I see the peach georgette evening dress trimmed with silver seed beads and glittering rhinestones. It’s unbelievably stunning. Without a word, I let her help me change and then stare into the mirror, unable to believe the transformation. The filmy material clings subtly to my body before falling in graceful folds to just below my knees. The rich, glowing color complements my dark hair and warms my skin. For the very first time I feel almost as beautiful as my mother. I turn to her with shining eyes. “It’s lovely. Thank you so much.”

  She turns to the vanity table. “Just don’t spill anything on it at the restaurant. Now we need to hurry. We’ve kept the boys waiting long enough.”

  She helps me with my cosmetics—deepening my eyes with kohl and spit block and painting a bow shape onto my lips with rouge. Once she deems me ready, we rush down to the car in record time.

  I climb in beside Owen, delighted by the admiration in his eyes. He’s so handsome with his silky blond hair and dimples that it’s hard to believe I’m going out on the town with him. The feeling is only partially spoiled by the fact that my mother and manager are sitting in the front seat. In spite of Owen’s silliness, it’s clear that he’s far more sophisticated than I am. The male counterpart to the glamorous flappers I’ve seen attending some of our shows. I look down at my beautiful dress and the costume jewelry Mother slipped on my wrist and thrill at the thought that I could be mistaken for a flapper myself.

  “You look stunning,” Owen tells me, shifting a bit closer.