“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” she said, opening the door wider. “If I don’t like what I hear or if I don’t believe you or what I read in this file, you’ll leave.”
“Deal.”
He moved through the doorway before she could change her mind. She waved him to one of the chairs on either side of the table.
The room was larger than an ordinary hotel room. There was a comfortable sitting area and a gas fire that added warmth and atmosphere. He sat down but kept his jacket on. He didn’t think she was ready to see the gun.
She took the other chair, crossed her legs and rested both arms on the upholstered sides. She did not offer him tea, but then, there was only one cup on the tray.
“How much do you know about the Arcane Society?” he asked.
She raised one shoulder in a small shrug, dismissing the question as though it were of little importance to her. But his talent told him that she was faking it.
“Very little,” she said. “My aunt rarely talked about the organization. I tried to do some research online but I couldn’t find anything useful.”
“The Society is online but all of its sites are heavily encrypted.”
Her mouth curved in disdain. “Just another secret society.”
“Well, sure. Show me any group that can trace its origins back to the late sixteen hundreds that isn’t secretive. On top of that, the founder was an alchemist.”
“Sylvester Jones.”
“Right.” He smiled. “So you do know that much.”
“My aunt mentioned him.” She paused a beat. “One of your ancestors, I believe?” she added coolly.
“Right.” He grimaced. “Those old alchemists were notorious for being reclusive, secretive and obsessed. I have to tell you that the Society prides itself on following those traditions.”
“According to my aunt, Sylvester Jones’s descendants have run the Society ever since it was established.” She drummed her fingers on the arms of her chair. “The organization is not what anyone would call democratic.”
“It’s true that there has been a Jones in the Master’s Chair ever since the Society was established,” he admitted, “but as of the Victorian era there is an elected Governing Council that appoints the Master, who, in turn, answers to the Council, which can replace him. Or her.”
“If you’ve gone all modern and semi-democratic, why the secretiveness?”
“There are reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Think about it.” He angled his head toward the envelope. “You’re the real thing, a genuine psychic, but according to that file, you’re not exactly sending out weekly press releases and signing up for talk shows.”
She hesitated and then sank a little deeper into the depths of her chair. “Okay, I take your point.”
“The Society was established and continues to exist for two primary reasons: to conduct research into the paranormal and to provide a community and a refuge for people who possess paranormal talents.”
She stilled. “Refuge?”
“As a member of the Society you are automatically connected to other people like yourself, people with real psychic talents, not quacks and charlatans. You meet people who understand what it means to have additional senses.” He smiled again, just a little. “Within the Society, being psychic is, for the most part, considered normal.”
“What a concept,” she said without inflection.
“Over the centuries the public’s reaction to anything that smacks of the paranormal has varied from regarding it as witchcraft or magic to viewing the entire subject as sheer fantasy. In the middle you get all the gullible types who fall for fake gurus, mediums and fortune-tellers. Nowhere outside the Society is the paranormal considered a legitimate field of scientific study, and nowhere outside the Society are individuals with psychic talents considered normal.”
“Yes, I did sort of figure that out on my own,” she said drily.
“It’s true some police departments and desperate families hire psychics when they run out of leads on tough cases. But that doesn’t alter the fact that mainstream society thinks that folks who claim to have psychic talents are all gurus, frauds or sadly deluded.”
Her smile was too bright and too brittle. “In other words, we’re creepy.”
He’d touched a nerve.
“I’m guessing that’s how some people described your aunt?” he asked, probing gently.
“It’s how someone described me.”
“Someone you trusted?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “I’ll level with you. Even within the Society, people like you—people who hear voices—are considered to be pushing the envelope.”
“I see.”
“Try not to take it personally. Thing is, people with especially strong psychic abilities of any kind tend to make other people nervous.”
“Including other people who have similar talents?”
“Yes. But I can guarantee you it’s a hell of a lot better inside the Society than on the outside.” He looked at the envelope. “According to that file, you’ve been assisting a detective named Bradley Mitchell in the Oriana Police Department for the past year and a half. You’ve provided information that allowed him to solve a string of cold cases and a recent kidnapping.”
She tensed. “You know about my work with Bradley?”
“By all accounts, Detective Mitchell has become a rock star in the department, thanks to you. There is speculation that he will take over the department when the current chief steps down.”
“Your file is very complete.” She was clearly unhappy. “My name is never mentioned in any of Bradley’s reports.”
“I’m aware that you’ve taken great care to keep a low profile. Mitchell handles the media.”
She rallied, brisk and certain of herself again. “That’s the way I wanted it.”
“Because you didn’t care to be treated like some scam artist or a fraud or have people think that you were crazy like your aunt?”
For a couple of seconds she looked as if she might throw him out but then she gave him a brief, dazzling smile that did not touch her beautiful eyes.
“Those seemed like good reasons at the time,” she said.
“They were excellent reasons,” he agreed.
“You really do know a lot about me, don’t you?” She stopped smiling abruptly and glanced at the envelope on the table. “Has the Arcane Society been spying on me and my aunt all these years?”