The Angel of Eden Read Online Free Page B

front walk. Bennet tapped the old-fashioned knocker on the imposing front door.
    A tall woman with dusty blond hair opened the door. Her eyes were puffy and swollen and had the distant, strained look of bereavement. Bennet introduced us.
    The woman, Gina, said, “Welcome. Mr. Strauss said to expect you.” She showed us where to stow our coats and then led us into a luxuriously appointed salon. Three damask couches had beenplaced around a gleaming mahogany coffee table. I was surprised to find three other people already seated when we entered the room. “Isn’t this Lucas Strauss’s house?” I whispered to Bennet. “I thought it was supposed to be a private meeting.”
    â€œShush.” Bennet put her finger to her lips. “He isn’t here yet. And no, it’s Gina’s house.” She smiled brightly at the other guests, one young man and a couple around my age. The young guy resembled Gina so much I figured he must be her son. He didn’t bother to hide the bored expression on his face, clearly wishing he wasn’t here. I sympathized. After we took a seat on the vacant couch, Gina made the introductions. The younger man was indeed her son, the other two her daughter and son-in-law. She offered each of us a glass of claret from a silver tray. I swirled the wine in my glass, gave Bennet a dark look, then lowered my voice. “Tell me what the hell’s going on or I’m leaving.”
    â€œGina lost her husband a few months ago. Lucas will conduct a spiritualist demonstration. He wanted you to see it before you talk.”
    â€œAre you saying this is some kind of séance ?”
    Bennet smiled sweetly at the couple across from us before turning and whispering fiercely in my ear, “They’re not called that anymore. It’s termed channeling. Wait and see.”
    I considered making my excuses but Gina already seemed close to tears. Disrupting the event by leaving might upset her even more.
    I glanced around the room for want of anything better to do. Two floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a back garden; the bare tree branches outside still glistened from yesterday’s rain. An elaborate cornice of pale gray–painted wood ran around the perimeter of the twelve-foot ceiling. A stately Italianate chandelier hung from a decorative plaster base. Facing us and set against the east wall was a piece of furniture oddly out of keeping with the elegant room: a coffin-shaped box of finished pine, about six feet high and threefeet wide, standing upright on its base, completely open in front. Inside, someone had placed a chair. As I wondered what purpose this would serve, Gina dimmed the chandelier. She turned on a floor lamp beside the coffin that cast a reddish glow and sat down beside her son.
    The salon doors opened. Lucas Strauss towered in the entrance. The couple who’d been quietly chatting clammed up the minute they saw him. “Good evening,” he said, without a smile cracking his lips. He wore a white shirt and black tux for the performance— for surely that was what we were about to witness. He looked around at the assembled mourners until his eyes rested on Gina and he gave her a sympathetic nod.
    As he walked past us his gaze fastened on me, so intensely it made me want to avert my eyes. Surprisingly, he took the seat inside the box. He pulled out a small white towel, reached into his pocket again, and withdrew a short knife with a cruel hooked blade. He spoke in a low baritone. A voice that commanded attention. “As you may know, I like to start my sessions with a feat of magic. It sets the tone, if you will, for what is to come. Let us begin.”
    Strauss removed his tuxedo jacket, hung it carefully on a peg inside the coffin, then rolled up his left sleeve to expose the pale skin of his forearm, roped with blue veins. He beckoned to Gina. She stood up and walked over to him, rather haltingly. He grasped her forearm and slashed