Chains of Ice (27 page)

Samuel still held the chair. “What do you mean, no?”

She looked up at him, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. “I mean no. He broke the engagement, not me.”

Grinning was out. Punching the air with his fist was out. Leaping around the room and crowing like a rooster was out.

Gentlemanly calm reaction was in. “Well, good. I imagine that will make it a little easier to visit your parents’ home in Boston. Not so many expectations.” He congratulated himself on sounding disinterested.

“Yeah, like we all give a crap about expectations.” The vulgarity, combined with the prissy gentility of Isabelle’s voice, made him flinch.

Vidar Davidov came out from behind the bar and placed a cold glass of what looked like pink beer in front of her. “Here. A pint of your favorite.”

She looked up at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Vidar. You always know exactly what I need.”

Meaning Samuel didn’t.

He felt bad for her. He really did. No one liked to be dumped, especially when you intended to do it first.

But oh!
That big-ass diamond was off her hand and that jerk from the U.S. Congress was out of the picture. Finally, she was available for Samuel to pursue with all the intensity of his Gypsy soul.

Beside him, Aaron Eagle jammed his elbow into Samuel’s thigh. “Sit down,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “You look like the freaking Statue of Liberty up there.”

“Right.” Samuel reseated himself and pretended not to see the smirk Davidov sent in his direction.

Samuel didn’t like Vidar Davidov, hadn’t since the first time they’d come through the New York tunnels to his underground brewpub. For one thing, the guy was too good-looking. Six and a half feet tall, probably thirty years old, electric blue eyes, tough, chiseled face. His wavy, white blond hair brushed his wide shoulders. Muscled chest, muscled arms, muscled wrists, long legs. Even Samuel, a dedicated heterosexual, knew the guy was built like a brick shithouse. Worse, Davidov had this arrogant, kingly attitude that set Samuel’s teeth on edge and made the women get all soft and gushy.

Added to that, Davidov had created this pub where the Chosen gathered.

The guys felt at home amid the oak-paneled walls and huge, round tapped kegs set into the wall behind the granite bar. There were worn wood tables with deep, cushioned chairs gathered around them. And the smell of yeast and fermentation permeated the big room.

But the women loved it, too, because Davidov had commissioned one of those artsy decorations with a fifteen-foot ceiling covered with leaves and branches to resemble a forest canopy, and the lighting was just right: not too bright, not too dark, and dappled like a sunny day beneath an oak tree in the European woods a thousand years ago.

Samuel didn’t know if Davidov made sure the pub was available to them when they needed to be alone, or he just didn’t have any other customers—because when they met here, the Chosen Ones were always alone.

Good thing, because this meeting was due to be a stinker.

The problem wasn’t between the Chosen. The circumstances surrounding their initiation into the group had been so dark, so horrendous, so dangerous, they’d formed bonds that could never be severed.

Every single one of them was normally pretty pleasant to be around. If Samuel had to point out one asshole in the group, he guessed it would have to be . . . himself. He wasn’t proud of it. When a guy like him is told from the time he was born that he was an orphan, that he ought to be grateful for a roof over his head, that he ought to be pleased to be able to settle for becoming a servant . . . well, that gave him an attitude.

So, instead, he became a lawyer—the kind who won every case, the kind who collected enemies. The kind who, if he deemed it necessary, used his gift to influence the judge and the jury.

Hey, he wasn’t proud of it, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, either.

Now he was paying. He’d been caught, and if he hadn’t signed up for the Chosen Ones team, he’d be in prison right now.

At least if he were in prison he’d be safe.

But he would also be scared to death for Isabelle, so he guessed everything had worked out for the best.

Charisma and Jacqueline moved their chairs so close to Isabelle, their shoulders were touching. Rosamund took Isabelle’s hand and held it.

Samuel was glad the women on this team were so empathetic. They supported and talked to each other, helped each other pick out clothes and put on cosmetics. They watched chick flicks together. And it was weird, because other than the fact that they had the same kinds of sexual organs, they had nothing in common.

Isabelle was twenty-six, a woman with a proper Boston accent, a classic Chanel watch, and the most beautiful face Samuel had ever seen . . . although as the son of her family’s butler, he might be slightly prejudiced. She didn’t look at all like her family—of course not, she was adopted—but it was certain that somewhere in her unknown bloodlines, she boasted an Asian ancestor, for her bones were as delicate as porcelain and her dark blue eyes were almond shaped. It was that indefatigable air of always knowing the right thing to wear and the right thing to do that made her a leader. And in recognition of her skill with people and her dedication to the cause, the Chosen Ones had voted her in as their director.

On the other end of the spectrum, there was Charisma Fangorn, flake extraordinaire. He’d known her—what? Seven months? And in that time her hair had changed color four times, not always colors found in nature, either. His least favorite had been the screaming orange with streaks of pomegranate red, but there had been black and purple, black and blue, and now platinum blond. Her makeup was a disaster—charcoal black outlining vivid green eyes and, all the time, red-red lips.

But then, her gift was weird, too. She said she heard the earth song in stones, and so she wore jingling bracelets all the time. She’d convinced the other women to wear them, too, for protection, although she’d redesigned Isabelle’s so it didn’t jingle. Thank God. He could only imagine what Isabelle’s mother would say about
that
fashion faux pas.

Rosamund was a fairly new addition to the team, and the mate of Aaron Eagle, their gifted cat burglar. She had calico cat-colored hair, all natural; big glasses that slipped down her nose, and appalling fashion sense. She was also an antiquities librarian. If there was a piece of information in a library that they needed, she could find it. Well, except for the damned prophecy that had so far escaped her search. But Samuel had seen her work, and he had faith she would somehow discover the truth.

Jacqueline Vargha D’Angelo was their seer, a tall blonde with her own personal bodyguard whom she just happened to have as a husband. Caleb D’Angelo watched over her like a hawk—and made their expeditions out to save the world a lot safer.

Caleb was the one who had called the meeting. He stood now, slowly, painfully. “I don’t need to tell you, we’ve got problems. Gary White has assumed his return means he’s in charge. And I admit—sorry, Isabelle—at first I thought it was a good idea to have an experienced Chosen leading our team.”

She waved a forgiving hand. “I can study the past case histories all I want, but I can’t be prepared for everything. I looked at Gary’s credentials. I thought . . . well, I thought the same thing you did, Caleb. He was the one.”

“I don’t know what the hell kept us from actually crowning the son-of-a-bitch king, but thank God we never made it official,” Aleksandr said.

“Don’t swear,” Isabelle, Jacqueline, and Rosamund said in unison.

Aleksandr thumped his forehead on the table.

Charisma laughed. “You can’t win, Aleksandr.”

He really couldn’t. Aleksandr Wilder was the youngest member of their team, a college student, big and gangly. He’d been brought in because he was one of the famous Wilder shape-shifters who had eighteen years ago broken their family’s thousand-year-old pact with the devil. Breaking a pact with the devil was no small accomplishment, but the kid . . . he had no gift. How could he? He’d been born into a loving family; gifts such as the Chosen Ones possessed weren’t given to infants who were welcomed and loved.

Yet for all his lack of woo-woo, he had proved a valuable member of the team. He majored in mathematics and knew his way around a computer. He could find anything on the Internet, hack into any system, and beat the snot out of Samuel playing Dead Zone.

Caleb didn’t allow this exchange to distract him from the subject at hand. “We can’t continue with this situation. Gary’s got a god complex a mile wide, and he’s almost gotten Jacqueline killed twice.” He looked them over. “And you guys with her.”

“Yeah, thanks for noticing, Caleb.” But Samuel was actually joking this time.

Caleb had been badly hurt on the last mission. The guy wasn’t Chosen. He didn’t have any supernatural healing abilities. And although Isabelle had done her best to help him, his battered face bore testament to the recent troubles.

“Gary came out of that coma and came straight to us, right?” Caleb looked around the table. “We’re sure he’s not a ringer for the other side?”

“He’s always been this way.
Mission Impossible
is just a movie to me, but to Gary, it’s a way of life.” Jacqueline would know. Until she was killed, Jacqueline’s foster mother, Zusane, had been the seer for the Gypsy Travel Agency. Jacqueline had known Gary for years before the last mission with his last team had gone sour. If she said he had always been a glory seeker, no one was likely to dispute it with her.

“Every time I see him, I can almost hear the theme music playing.” Charisma did not seem amused.

“These missions he brings to our attention—they’re not to protect or rescue the children. They’re flashy. They’re to rescue jewelry and artifacts. Don’t get me wrong. They’re good jewelry and artifacts”—Aaron knew his way around such things—“but right now, with the Others holding all the advantages, we can’t afford to lose those children!”

“Let’s be blunt with him. Tell him we’re not going on these missions anymore.” Aleksandr had a young man’s tact.

“And lose the information he picks up from his mind reading? Most of the time, the missions he suggests are valuable for us and each child we save.” Isabelle twirled the chilly glass of beer on the table. “I’m sorry. I should have done something sooner. I’ll talk to him and make it clear that I’m the elected leader of this group, and that we’re only going on missions I have thoroughly vetted.”

“The problem is—how can you thoroughly vet them when most of them need to be made quickly, before a child dies from exposure or is taken by the Others?” Samuel asked.

Isabelle shot him a bitter glance. “I
know
what the problem is, Samuel.”

Davidov spoke from behind the bar. “I have an idea. Why not bring in a new leader?”

“That’s brilliant. Why didn’t we think of that?” Samuel could barely contain his impatience. “Who?”

From the shadows in the far corner, a man’s deep, calm voice said, “I believe Davidov is talking about me.”