Absynthe, page 15
“Morgan is important,” Grace replied evenly, “but if we’re right, in addition to a possible lab, there’s almost certainly a wealth of records in the sub-basement. We need that too. Things will be tricky, but the plan is sound. Concentrate on your objective and you’ll do fine.”
Liam wasn’t wholly comfortable with it, but he nodded anyway—as important as Morgan was to him, the simple truth was this was bigger than any one man.
Soon enough, the others were breaking away, leaving Liam with Grace so she could teach him more about casting illusions. They stood by the window, beyond which lay the impressive Chicago skyline. On their right, several blocks away, sunlight glinted off the shining metal sphere at the top of the Kovacs P&L building.
“Face me,” Grace said while lifting her arms, “and mirror my movements.”
Liam lifted his arms, palms facing forward, as hers were. Even after all he’d seen and done, he felt foolish, like a little boy playing at wizards, spinning a fantastical tale.
Grace smiled that smile of hers, the one that made it clear she saw right through him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re cute is all.” She went on, hardly skipping a beat. “The key to forming illusions is to simultaneously ground yourself in reality and detach yourself from it.”
Liam could only stare. “I’m sorry, Grace, but I have no idea what that means.”
“It’s hard to explain, I know, but you did it once already, the explosion outside Club Artemis.”
In recalling that, Liam also recalled the incident with the hopper near the Aysana estate. “It happened again while I was with Morgan in the Phaeton.” He told her about the chase and the strike of lightning he’d somehow called down.
“Good! Now try to remember how you felt.”
“I do,” he said. “Sort of. But I’m not sure how I managed to get there.”
“It’s similar to lucid dreaming, when your perceptions awaken to the point that the fabric of the dream tears but isn’t torn in two. That’s the feeling you need to recreate.” She motioned to his arm. “See if you can make me think your arm is waving.”
Despite the description she’d given him, Liam had no idea where to begin. He might have created illusions already, but they’d been spur-of-the-moment things, more reaction than action. He tried for long moments, but got nowhere, and the fact that he was getting nowhere made it feel all the more impossible.
“It helps if you can see someone else doing it.” She waved to him, and kept doing so. “My arm is completely stationary. It only looks like I’m moving it. Can you feel it?”
As had been true with Kohler outside Dr. Ramachandra’s brownstone, the illusion manifested as a twisting feeling in his gut, like a case of nerves. “I think so, yes.”
“Good. Now try again.”
Liam took a deep breath. Similar to lucid dreaming, she’d said. It was easy enough in theory, but getting there was a different matter altogether. He tried over and over again to do what Grace was doing, but ended up either moving his arm or standing there doing nothing. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“It’s okay.” She held a finger to her lips, thinking. “Let’s try this from another direction. The same state of mind can be used to sense the edges of an illusion, at which point you can alter it or dispel it altogether.” She waved to a nearby fern in a large glazed pot. The fronds were growing, lengthening, changing. The blades, ten feet long now, waved in the air and began to vibrate, creating a hornet-nest hum. “Look through the illusion. See if you can see the real plant.”
He concentrated hard. The feeling in his gut told him the illusion was there, but he couldn’t find the edges of it. When he reached out and touched one of the fronds, however, he felt a chill, like he got from Nana’s ghost stories from the old country. All of a sudden, it looked as if the plant were made of cloth, and if he could just tug on the threads. He did so, and just like that, the plant was as it had been—small, green, perfectly normal.
“Very good.” With a mischievous smile, Grace began pacing around him. “But it’s easy to break an illusion you know is false. I wonder if you can do it with something more deceptive.”
It was a test. She was daring him to find the illusion she’d just created. He stared hard at the nearby couch with its many pillows, he looked at the bold Deco paintings on the walls, at the lustrous grand piano beside the marble fireplace—all while Grace circled confidently, each circuit brightening her smile as he failed to identify the thing she’d hidden.
Then he realized it wasn’t the room that had changed. It was Grace.
It was her scent he noticed first, a faint but pleasant mix of lilac and juniper. Then he felt the warmth coming off her.
It was harder to banish the illusion this time. He resorted to waving his hands, much as Kohler had done when creating the wild, street-twisting illusions that caused Liam to miss his pistol shots. The Grace striding so smugly around him melted like fairy floss in the rain, and was replaced with another Grace, the real Grace, who stood directly in front of him. She was a hand’s-breadth away, close enough to dance with. Mixing with her perfume was the scent of her skin, her hair. It was intoxicating.
“Very good,” she said.
Liam swallowed hard. “Thanks.”
Her nostrils flared. Her cheeks were suddenly the color of pink peonies, as if she’d had to dare herself to do this. Again the feeling of familiarity returned. He had the urge to slip his arms around her, not to dance, but to see how their bodies might fit against one another. It would feel, he was certain, perfect.
He was suddenly acutely aware of the doorway to the bedroom, which stood open. He hadn’t meant to, but he glanced at it.
Grace caught his line of sight, then blinked and stared at the fine watch on her wrist. “We don’t have much time before the banquet.”
For a moment, he couldn’t tell if it was an invitation or a dismissal. He tried to compose a series of words that would let him know for certain without making him sound like a complete boor. How much time? Any thoughts on how to fill it?
He was saved from making a fool of himself by a knock on the door. Bailey’s muffled voice came a moment later. “We need to start getting ready.”
“Of course,” Grace called.
Liam might have heard a bit of disappointment in her voice, but a moment later he was sure it was just his imagination.
The spell was broken entirely when Grace opened the door and Bailey, wearing a formal black gown, stepped inside. In Bailey’s hands, pressed and folded, was what looked to be a matching tuxedo and a top hat. “You’re done with our boy?”
“For now.”
When Liam had changed into his tuxedo, Grace positioned him in front of a full-length mirror. She touched his shoulder, and he was transformed. He lost a bit of height. Grew rounder around the middle. His skin gained sunspots. His eyes altered, as did his nose and lips and chin until he had a rather more pudgy face.
“Maybe a mole,” Liam said, pointing to his cheek, near his left ear, “just there.”
Grace touched that spot, and a mole appeared. After putting on his top hat, it felt as if he were staring through a pane of glass at a completely different man.
Grace touched Bailey’s shoulder next. As had happened with Liam, an entirely new appearance cascaded down her frame until she was a more full-figured woman in her early fifties, roughly the same age as Liam’s illusion.
Bailey stepped closer to the mirror. “I’m so white.” She winked at Liam. “Going to need to dial down the charm so people will believe it.”
Liam couldn’t help it. He laughed. He’d only just met Bailey, but it felt like they’d known one another for years, which made him wonder how much Clay had talked about her during the war. His heart ached just thinking about the personal moments he’d lost, the close friendships. As Nana had said, those memories had been a piece of him, a part of what defined him. He felt poorer for having lost so many of them.
“Do I need to do anything to maintain it?” he asked Grace.
“No, now that it’s established, it will self-reinforce. Just don’t actively try to dispel it.” She turned to Bailey. “You and Clay know your assignments?”
Bailey nodded, and suddenly an old, familiar feeling grew inside of Liam—the sort he’d got during the war before heading out to battle. As he stared at Grace, he felt like he’d never see her again. “Good luck.”
“You too.” She opened the door for them. “We’ll continue your studies another time.”
Liam smiled sheepishly. “I look forward to it.”
Bailey’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them. A moment later, she said, “Come on, Prince Charming.” They headed down the carpeted hall toward the elevator. When the door closed behind them, Bailey laughed. “I look forward to it,” she said in a mocking tone, then laughed even louder.
Seventeen
Liam and Bailey were hardly questioned when they entered the Kovacs Power and Light building. A woman at reception checked their names against a list. “You’ll be at table twelve,” she said before waving them to a bank of elevators. “Enjoy your evening.”
“We will, dear,” Bailey replied.
When they took the elevators to the eightieth floor, the doors opened onto a ballroom, much of which was dominated by round dining tables draped in white linen. Each table had several pitchers of ice water, silverware, tented name tags, and, last but not least, a tasteful flower arrangement—Geraldine’s handiwork.
In the corners of the ballroom and near the elevators, men in black CIC uniforms stood still as statues, their gazes sweeping the crowd. Most ignored them, yet Liam found himself watching them a little too often.
“Breathe,” Bailey said under her breath.
Liam did and shifted his attention to the guests. As the steadily growing crowd milled, an orchestra played classical standards. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony circumnavigated the entire building. With the sun setting so vibrantly, many were out enjoying the warm evening air while sipping watermelon punch or non-alcoholic Mary Pickfords. Chicago being what it was, though, Liam saw no small number of men and women slip silver flasks out of their coats or purses. By the time canapés were served, it was as rowdy an affair as the busiest gin joint in town, which made it easier to move around. As they’d agreed, Bailey did most of the talking. While she engaged with this person or that, making small talk, she would ask Liam to fetch her a drink, or grab her a napkin, or send him to see if that really was Reggie van Buren on the far side of the room. It gave Liam all the excuses he needed to look for the stairwell.
He looked in the hallway near the lavatories, the place Stasa had identified as the prior location of the stairway to the uppermost floor, but found no hint of illusions there. He checked the bar area, the wall behind the bank of elevators. He hid the fact that he was looking for something as well as he could, but a woman in a silver gown and black, elbow-length gloves spotted him staring at the wall when she came out of the lavatories, then again near the kitchen entrance, forcing Liam to return to Bailey’s side lest the woman grow suspicious.
More people had arrived by that point, to the point that their table was three-quarters full. Bailey suddenly stood, held out her hand to Liam, and tipped her head toward the dance floor. “For my sake,” she said in a low voice, “for yours, for Morgan’s, you need to relax.”
The dance floor had grown more and more busy as the orchestra shifted to jazz and ragtime. Even so . . . “That’s the exact opposite of relaxing,” he said, watching the dancers.
“You say that now”—she beckoned him with a flick of her fingers—“but just you wait.”
After taking a deep, calming breath, Liam took her hand and stood. Bailey, sporting a smile wide as the Mississippi, led him to the parquet dance floor, where the orchestra had taken up a rendition of “Maple Leaf Rag.”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good,” Liam said as they eased into a shimmy.
“I don’t care if you trip this beautiful backside of mine right onto the floor. Clay hasn’t danced with me once since we were married.”
A vision suddenly popped into Liam’s head, of Clay making a complete fool of himself at a USO concert. “He was never exactly Vernon Castle, though, was he?”
Bailey glowered. “You’re as dumb as he is. I don’t care how you dance, just that you do. Now keep those puppies moving.” Her smile became a grin as Liam loosened up and his steps began to flow. She even laughed during a particularly fast rendition of “Muskrat Ramble.” “Someone’s been holding out on Bailey,” she said. “You’re not half bad!”
He shrugged. “My mom put me through lessons.”
“Well, keep it up.” She said it with a cute head waggle, a distinctly Bailey-like move. “And while you’re at it, work on that look on your face.”
Liam frowned. “I don’t have a look.”
The laugh she gave filled the room. “You look like a pig at a knife-maker’s convention.”
Bailey, it turned out, had been right. Dancing not only relieved the pressure, it helped ease him into the right frame of mind to look for illusions. Between songs, he checked the walls around the dance floor and the orchestra, but again found nothing. They were just heading back toward the bar when one of the elevators opened, and a dozen men and women wearing black CIC uniforms poured out. The applause for the orchestra suddenly ceased, replaced by the hum of excited conversation. Several of the CICs took positions beside the elevator doors, while the rest joined the detail already in place around the ballroom’s perimeter.
A moment later, the second elevator opened. To a round of applause, Leland De Pere stepped out wearing a stunning ivory suit. With the same savoir faire he’d shown at the flashtrain ceremony, he raised his hands and thanked everyone for coming to his farewell banquet. Now more than ever, Liam had to wonder about the startling transformation he’d undergone. De Pere had been a respected officer in the Army. He’d been brave and forthright. What could have led him to form the Cabal and to subject Americans to the poisons he’d been feeding them?
Power is the great revealer, Nana used to say. When those who have too much of it realize there are no consequences to their actions, they show their true selves. It was the sort of pithy saying that had the ring of truth to it, but felt wrong, or at least didn’t explain everything. There was more to the story. Liam just had to figure out what it was.
As hors d’oeuvres were being served, De Pere made his way to each table, eventually coming to Liam’s. “John and Viola Williams,” he said as he looked Liam and Bailey over. “A handsome couple.”
“Well, we certainly think so,” Bailey said with just the right mix of pride and shyness.
“We haven’t met,” De Pere said, “but anyone Geraldine Burgess recommends is certainly a friend of mine.”
Before Liam could reply, the elevator doors opened and Max Kohler, wearing his iron mask, stepped out. Those nearby, captivated, glanced at him with fearful expressions. The way Kohler ignored them—indeed, the way he strutted about the room—gave the impression of a man who reveled in making people wonder, making them quake.
“That’s Max Kohler,” De Pere said, having followed Liam’s gaze. “A retired Master Sergeant, one of the true heroes of the war. I’ll introduce you if you like.”
Liam’s heartbeat spiked. He was certain Kohler would see through their disguises the moment he came near. “I’m sure he has more important things to do.”
“Nonsense—”
He’d just raised a hand toward Kohler when Mayor Burgess, standing at the head table, began clinking his champagne glass with a fork. It was picked up by others, and soon the entire room was alive with the sound of chiming glasses. “Chicago welcomes you, Mr. President!”
The room erupted into another, louder round of applause. De Pere, turning away from Liam and Bailey, waved and gave his winning smile. “Thank you kindly, one and all.”
Whistles and applause accompanied his march toward the head table. Soon salads were being served. As the banquet progressed, Kohler stood in one corner and, like De Pere’s black-clad guard detail, merely observed.
Though the pressure had eased somewhat, Liam was starting to worry. He didn’t know how to reach the top floor, and the raid on the sub-basement was going to start in less than an hour. Between courses, he and Bailey left the table to mingle and search. But the pink walls and gold filigree showed no imperfections, nor did the marble facade around the elevators. Between the fourth and fifth courses, he went onto the balcony to examine the building’s exterior but was forced to stop when Kohler stepped into the evening air, seemingly for a stroll. At first, he seemed content to stare over the city, apparently admiring the towers or the lattice of gold that defined the Windy City’s streets, but then his masked, single-eyed gaze swung toward Liam.
Above them, the Kovacs sphere had begun its nightly light show—sparks of electricity crackled from the steel ball into the surrounding air. It was meant to be a celebration of science, a stake in the proverbial landscape that marked Chicago as a technological powerhouse, but just then, with the flickering light reflecting off Kohler’s brass-and-iron mask, his one visible eye stabbing into the darkness with each bright flash above, Liam felt as if Kohler, spark by burning spark, was ripping apart the illusion that was keeping Liam safe.
He headed back inside and Kohler did too, reclaiming his position in the corner behind De Pere. From that point forward, he seemed to scrutinize Liam’s table more, which made Liam too nervous to do anything except stare at his plate and eat. “Kohler’s suspicious,” he whispered to Bailey.
