This Wicked Game

TEN

They were in a mudroom. The air was heavy and hot, the sound of water rushing in the washer and clothes tumbling in the dryer coming from the corner of the room. No wonder the window had been left open a crack. It was hotter than Hades, as Claire’s mother would say.

Xander crept to the door, leaning out just enough to see the rooms beyond. Claire stayed near his back, trying to restrain her own desire to look while she waited for the all clear.

He turned around, his eyes meeting hers. “Stay close.”

She followed him into a long hallway, the wooden floors partially covered by a long exotic-looking runner. It was quiet, with no sign that anyone was home. To the back of the house, Claire could make out a round table and what was probably a kitchen and dining area that opened onto the patio at the back of the house.

“Be right back,” Xander whispered, heading for the room at the back of the house. He returned a moment later. “All clear in there, too.”

They followed the hall toward the front of the house. There was a powder room on the left and a staircase leading to the second floor on the right. They continued past both to a small, high-ceilinged room that stood to one side of the entry. It had probably been a parlor at some point, but now it looked like a living room. A sofa stood in the middle of the room and was flanked by two chairs. A wooden coffee table punctuated the center of the sitting area.

Something about the room felt off to Claire. It took her a minute to figure it out. The house felt dead. It was like a hotel room, pleasant and clean but with no sign of life. Even the decor was bland and impersonal. She seriously doubted they would find anything incriminating.

She caught Xander’s eye and headed toward the stairs.

The made their way slowly up the staircase. Claire was used to living in an old house, and she tested each tread before taking a step, wanting to make sure it wouldn’t creak. They couldn’t know the house was empty until they’d checked all the rooms, and her heart beat a mile a minute, her body prepared to run as they ascended to a generous landing.

There were five rooms on the second floor, two of them with closed doors. Claire was willing to bet they were empty. The air was too still, the atmosphere devoid of life. She stepped toward the open doors first, peeking inside each before she lost her nerve.

No one was there, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she took in the two standard-issue bedrooms, each of them holding a bed, bureau, desk, and chair.

The third open door was a bathroom. She left it alone. No one hid anything important in the bathroom.

She looked at Xander, raising her eyebrows in silent question and pointing to one of the closed doors.

He nodded, and she stepped toward the first room.

She eased the door open carefully, wincing when it creaked. Despite her belief that no one was in the house, she was relieved when an empty room was revealed.

This was where Eugenia slept, Claire was sure of it. The ghost of a heavy, classical perfume hung in the air; a set of elegant luggage stood against the wall. An iron banister was visible through a pair of French doors. Claire guessed it was the balcony at the back of the house.

Just to be safe, she turned and pushed open the door to the final room. Empty.

“No one’s home,” she said to Xander, tipping her head to the room that had been behind the first closed door. “I’m going to check out this one. Want to take the first two?”

He nodded. “We’ll do the last one together since it fronts the street. That way, one of us can keep watch.”

He disappeared through one of the doorways and Claire stepped into Eugenia’s room, her eyes coming to rest on a desk near the glass doors.

Something was tacked to the wall in front of it.

Stepping toward it, she stopped when she saw what was on its surface. She leaned in to get a better look at the photograph staring back at her.

It was a picture of Xander, walking one of the city’s streets, his hands shoved carelessly in his pockets. Claire recognized the blur of storefronts behind him. Probably somewhere near her house, though she couldn’t be sure. Xander, obviously the target of the photograph, took up almost the whole frame.

Claire’s heart thudded in her chest as her eyes surveyed the wall around Xander’s picture.

His wasn’t the only one. There was a photo of Charlie and William Valcour, sitting side by side at an outdoor café.

But this one was different; a red X was drawn through it.

The next picture was of Allegra St. Martin. Even through the red X, Claire could tell Allegra was in her car. Her black hair was shiny and full, her arm resting on the open window frame as she sat in the driver’s seat, probably stopped at a red light or something.

She thought of Allegra at the ball, how unexpectedly nice she’d been, and a chill ran up Claire’s spine.

“What the . . .” Xander said behind her, leaning over her shoulder. “What is all this?”

Claire was both mesmerized and horrified by the images in front of her. “I don’t know.”

The next picture was of Laura, a lock of curly hair falling forward as she bent her head to a book. The photo was crossed through with a red X just like the others.

Next to Laura’s picture was a photograph of little Daniel, walking next to someone much taller as he ate a dripping ice-cream cone. His picture had an X, too.

There was only one more image, tacked next to Daniel’s. Claire’s heart almost stopped when she saw Sasha’s smile, brilliant even in the black-and-white photo, the strap of her yoga mat just visible on one shoulder. Claire didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared that Sasha’s photo, like Xander’s, lacked the red X.

Her eyes roved the photographs, trying to figure out why the woman named Eugenia would have photographs of all of the young Guild members.

No. Not all.

All of the oldest children of the Guild’s most prominent families were represented on the wall—except for Claire.

“I don’t know what this is,” Xander said, “but we should hurry if we’re going to check out the other room. We’ve been inside for almost half an hour, and we have no idea how long they’ve already been gone and when they’ll be back.”

Claire nodded, pulling out her phone and taking a quick picture. The sight of the wall covered with photos—photos of people she knew and loved—was undeniably disturbing.

She glanced around, wanting to make sure they weren’t missing anything obvious, as they headed for the hall.

As soon as they entered the final room, Claire guessed it was Max’s. The furnishings were just as generically antique as everywhere else in the house. A leather valise sat on top of the desk under the window and the heavy draperies were pulled shut as if to block out the modern world.

But it was more than that. The air was heavy with something bleak and dangerous. A palpable darkness, an ominous vibration she could feel under her skin. She had to fight the urge to run from the room. Fight the need to escape the feeling that something evil was wrapping its fingers around her heart and soul.

“One of us should keep watch while the other searches,” Xander suggested.

Claire forced herself to focus. “Want to take guard duty while I keep searching?”

“Sure.” Xander moved to the side of the desk and took up residence near the window.

The desk was the most obvious place to start. It was old, probably rented with the house. The wood was dark, its grain coarse and visible even under the papers, files, and valise that cluttered its top.

Claire started with the top drawer. She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t complete emptiness. It didn’t even hold a pen or a paper clip.

She moved onto the drawers on either side of the footwell. They were empty, too, except for a stack of printer paper on the left.

She looked up at Xander. “Anything?”

He shook his head, eyes still on the street, and Claire turned her attention back to the desk.

The first thing that caught her eye was the corner of a photograph, peeking out from behind the folders and papers that littered the top of the desk.

This one was different from the ones on the wall in Eugenia’s room. Older. It showed a group of people standing on a lawn somewhere. It looked like a party. The adults held glasses in their hands and the children were dressed for some kind of important occasion. There was something vaguely familiar about it, but Claire couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

She set it aside and moved on to the file folders on top of the desk.

The first one held travel information, including itineraries and flight plans from Romania to Paris and then to New York. It didn’t surprise her that Eugenia and her companions were foreign, though Claire hadn’t expected Romania. Her eyes ran down the list of names: Eugenia Comaneci, Maximilian Constantin, Jean-Philip Constantin, Herve Constantin.

Maximilian Constantin. Max. The silver-haired man Estelle Toussaint had been talking to near the carriage house. And who were Jean-Philip and Herve? Maximilian’s sons?

She filed the questions away in her mind. Whoever they were, there weren’t three of them as she and Xander had thought—there were four.

Which meant one more possibility of someone stumbling on them in the house.

She picked up her pace, moving the first file aside and opening the one underneath it to reveal a stack of paper.

She flipped through it, trying to get her head around what it was.

“Xander . . .” she said softly.

He looked over at her.

“It’s a list of all the Guild’s supply houses in the city.” She paged to the back of the stack, her hands slowing. “Scratch that. It’s a list of all the Guild’s supply houses.”

“All of them where?” Xander asked.

Claire shook her head. “Everywhere. Here, the rest of the United States; there are even addresses in London and Asia and . . . here’s one in Turkey.”

Xander thought about it. “Well, Eugenia does have a key. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that they have a list of our locations. They’re entitled to entry anywhere.”

“I guess,” she murmured, looking at all the names and addresses. She hadn’t realized the Guild was so far-reaching. “But why would they need a list in every country?”

“I don’t know, but I think we should hurry.” He turned back to the window and parted the draperies.

Claire closed the file. She shuffled through the rest of the papers on the desk, but there was nothing more of interest. Just some receipts for area restaurants, a streetcar ticket, and strangely, a movie stub.

Claire focused on the valise. It was substantial and masculine. She could almost see the man named Maximilian moving through the city, the leather case under his arm.

She undid the brass clasp and folded back the top, surprised at how thick and supple the leather was. The case had to be old. Really old.

She put her hand inside and felt around. Her fingers brushed against several objects and came to rest on some kind of booklet. She removed it from the case.

It was Maximilian’s passport, and it was loaded with stamps. Germany, France, Hungary, China, the Caribbean, even Cuba. He had been everywhere, the dates spread out over the last few years.

She set it aside and reached back into the valise, withdrawing a long, flat piece of leather, tied with cord. Something was inside it. She unlaced the cord, unrolling the leather case on top of the desk until it lay flat, revealing a stack of folded papers.

She lifted it out of the case, releasing an odd, almost unpleasant scent. Mildew, firewood, and a bitter tang that might have been a residue of the old leather.

Unfolding the stack, she skimmed over the first page. It was yellowing, dry and thin in her fingers, the edges uneven. Formatted like a letter, it appeared to have some kind of greeting at the top (Le Plus Chere Sorina . . .) and paragraphs underneath it.

There was just one problem; it was entirely in French.

She let out a frustrated sigh.

Xander looked up from the window. “What is it?”

She started paging through the stack. “They look like letters, but they’re in—” She stopped, her eyes skimming the rest of the pages. “Wait a minute . . .”

“What’s going on?”

“I thought they were in French, but some of them are in English.”

He held out a hand. “Let me see.”

She passed them to him.

His eyes roamed the pages. “The English pages are translations, I think.”

“How do you know?” she asked. “You don’t speak French.”

He glanced at the window before leaning toward her.

“I know, but look . . .” He held out the first page. “‘Le Plus Chere Sorina.’”

Then he pointed to the second page’s greeting.

“‘My dearest Sorina,’” Claire murmured, reading the small, slanted script.

Xander was right; they were the same. Someone had already translated the letters.

He looked back at the window. “We need to hurry.”

“I know. I’m trying.”

She skimmed the English version, words and phrases jumped out at her as she read.

. . . the darker parts of our art . . .

. . . your questions about black magic . . .

. . . possible to curse someone . . .

Turning the paper over, her eyes were pulled to the signature at the bottom of the page. “What the . . . ?” Her voice was a whisper.

“What now?” Xander asked.

She pointed to the looping scrawl. “Look.”

His eyes met hers. “Marie Laveau?”

Claire looked back at it, wanting to be sure. But she knew that signature. Had seen it in the family spell and ritual book.

“That’s what it says. And look.” She pointed to the date on the front. “Eighteen eighty. Which means they were probably from Marie the First, not her daughter.” Claire shook her head. “Why would these people have letters from my great-great-grandmother?”

Xander pulled his eyes reluctantly from the pages to look back at the street. “I don’t know, but we need to wrap it up.”

“Why? Is someone coming?”

“Not yet.” He checked his phone again. “But we’ve been here too long already. I don’t want to push our luck.”

He was putting his phone back in his jeans when Claire got an idea. She laid all the letters flat on the desk and took out her phone.

“What are you doing?” Xander asked.

“I’m taking pictures so we can get a better look at these later.”

He didn’t say anything, but she knew he was stressing. She saw it in the tense set of his shoulders and the way he rubbed his hand against the barely there whiskers on his chin as he looked at the street.

She tried to hurry, taking pictures of each letter and putting them back in place, careful to keep them in the order she’d found them. When she was done, she snapped a picture of the group photograph just for good measure.

She put the letters back inside the leather case and returned everything to the valise. Her fingers brushed against a small, cold object. Taking a hold of it, she removed it from the leather case.

It was a glass vial, full of red liquid. There was a paper label stuck to it, and Claire lifted it to her eyes, trying to read the script.

She read it three times, shaking her head in disbelief, before she was sure.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she murmured.

“We have to go,” Xander said suddenly. “Right now.”

Claire looked up. “Why?”

“A black Range Rover just pulled up outside.”