Chains of Ice (32 page)

But she had no choice. She owed the Gypsy Travel Agency, had no other way to pay them back, so she hefted her backpack onto her shoulder, climbed the stairs, and rang the doorbell.

At once, the tall door swung open.

A young woman stood there, dyed black hair cut short on one side, long on the other, pale skin and red lips.

She smelled like the earth; her aura glittered like diamonds.

She drew her talent from the earth, from the stones.

Genny tried not to draw in her scent, not to see her gift. But that was impossible. Ever since her sojourn in the
rasputye
, she had seen, smelled, felt the truth of the people she met. It was almost as if she had been given a gift . . . a gift she didn’t want.

The young woman’s black, kohl-lined eyes were red rimmed; she had been crying. “What do you know?” she asked. No, not asked . . .
demanded
.

“I know I’m looking for Irving Shea,” Genny said cautiously.

Those vulnerable eyes filled with tears, and they freely ran down the girl’s cheeks. “He’s not here.”

“Maybe I should come back at a better time . . .” Genny started to back away.

The girl wiped at her face, smearing her makeup. “He’s in the hospital.”

Genny halted. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“He fell down the stairs. His hip is broken and maybe his back. He’s in surgery now, but . . .” The girl bit her lips to contain their trembling.

Genny was not the same woman who had gone to Russia over two years before. The time she had spent in Asia, the Philippines, Australia and the Pacific Islands had changed her. She had survived a blinding snowstorm, learned to fight in a revolution, used her business skills to start a wildlife rescue organization. She had looked back on her life in New York and Russia, at the relationships she had formed, and resolved never to be taken in again.

But this woman made her heart melt. Genny stepped inside the great entry hall, dropped her backpack, and put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry. I’ve met Irving Shea, and this is a grievous blow.”

“He’s always been there for us, you know? Lately he’s been sort of shaky, but sharp as a tack. We never thought he’d take a tumble.” Charisma pulled half a dozen tissues out of her pocket and noisily blew her nose.

“I’ll get out of your way as soon as I can, then.” Genny unzipped her backpack and fumbled inside. “I’m Geneva Bianchi, and I came to—”

The girl stopped crying and stared. “You’re . . . Geneva? You’re Genesis? You’re
Genny
?”

Genny
knew
she had introduced herself with her new name, Geneva Bianchi, the name on her passport, the name she’d paid for in Hong Kong.

Yet this person had immediately leaped to the right conclusions.

The girl flung her arms around Genny’s neck. “Of course you are! Why didn’t I realize it at once?” Her bracelets jingled in Genny’s ears, and it seemed they spoke a language.

“I’m sorry. Do we
know
each other?” Nothing about this girl was familiar, but then, business school was two and a half years ago, and since then, Genny had done almost nothing to remind herself of that time.

“No. No! I’m Charisma Fangorn. I’m one of the Chosen.” Charisma jingled her bracelets in Genny’s face. “I listen to the stones. I hear the earth sing.”

“Yeah. I know.” Genny hated knowing that the girl was gifted, and how.

She wanted to return the inner sense that the
rasputye
had given her . . . but it seemed customer service was closed. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I know you.” Charisma jumped up and down, her short pleated skirt jumping, her strappy sandals doing a jig. “I know you! You’re John’s true love!”

A middle-aged butler hurried toward them and shut the door. “Miss Charisma, this isn’t appropriate. Please take your guest into the library.”

Genny reached into her backpack again. “No. Wait. Really, I can’t stay. I simply wanted to give you—”

“McKenna, do you know who this is?” Miss Charisma kept one arm tightly around Genny’s shoulders. “This is Genesis Valente!”

“Ah. Mr. John’s young lady.” A smile broke across McKenna’s austere face.

Mr. John’s young lady?
Genny was not that. She had never been that.

McKenna continued. “A most propitious arrival, Miss Genesis. Welcome, indeed. May I take your coat and backpack?” He placed a hand on her collar.

She shrugged him off. “No, I’m not staying. I just dropped by to give you something.”

“To Mr. John, no doubt. But I fear he’s not here right now.” McKenna’s voice grew scratchy, as if he fought unwanted emotion.

John’s not here.
The tension in Genny’s shoulders relaxed.

“He’s at the hospital awaiting word of the surgery.” McKenna glanced at the old-fashioned dial phone on the entry table as if willing it to ring.

“McKenna got to Irving’s side first.” Charisma patted his chest.

“What Mr. Irving was doing moving around without his walker, I do not know. When he recovers, I shall give him a stern talking-to.” McKenna’s dour appearance was belied by the moisture in his eyes. But he recovered immediately. “You two will want to make your introductions in the library. Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll let the other Chosen know. Well, there’s only Miss Jacqueline. Mr. Caleb, Miss Isabelle, and Mr. Samuel are away on a mission; and of course, young Aleksandr is in class. Nevertheless, Miss Genny, you’ll meet them all soon enough.”

“No,” Genny said, “after I give you this artifact, I’ve got to be on my way.”

The same deafness that afflicted Charisma also apparently afflicted McKenna. “Martha will bring refreshments.”

“Good,” Charisma said. “Genny’s probably hungry. Aren’t you, Genny?”

Genny surrendered. “All right. I can stay a little while.” Especially since she didn’t want to wrestle herself free from Charisma’s hold on her arm.

Charisma dragged her toward the big open arch off the entry. “McKenna hates when we have a scene in the foyer. It offends his sense of propriety.” She grinned at McKenna.

He did not grin back.

Charisma’s face and voice softened. “McKenna, would you ask Jacqueline to come down? Genny needs to talk to her.”

“Of course, Miss Charisma.” He walked toward the wide, smooth sweep of steps that led upstairs, and nothing about his proper demeanor changed.

But Genny thought he might be hurrying.

This place was odd. Off kilter. A lunacy seemed to be alive in the air.

Genny tugged Charisma to a halt just inside the library, a gracious room of immense proportions. “Who is Jacqueline? Why do you say I need to talk to her?”

“Jacqueline is our seer. And my stones said that what you have is for her. Lately, they’ve been speaking to me very loudly.” Charisma cocked her head and studied Genny. “I think maybe you’re the reason. John’s been having so many problems lately and we’re worried—”

“John . . . is sick?” Genny didn’t want to be concerned. But she was.

“Yes. Well, no. He’s the head of our team.”

In a way, Genny was glad to hear that. She was glad to know he’d come back to the real world and was doing what he was born to do. At the same time, she didn’t care how mature she’d become in the last two and a half years. She didn’t want to see him—which didn’t keep her from asking about him. “What kind of problems is he having?”

“Problems with his powers.” Charisma pushed Genny into a chair in front of the fireplace.

Books filled the shelves, oriental carpets covered the hardwood floors, and if Genny wasn’t in a hurry, she would have wanted to sink down on the couch and take a nap.

Kicking off her shoes, Charisma paced in her stocking feet. “His powers aren’t working right. We were pretty worried about him, thinking it was all about the fact his true love was dead and he was going to lose it—you know,
it
—altogether. We didn’t know how to handle it because we’re used to having someone who can, you know, knock a bullet aside if we need it.”

“Very useful,” Genny agreed.

“But now you’re here, so he’s going to be okay.”

Genny had no idea what Charisma was talking about, and told herself she didn’t care. She only cared about one thing. Handing over what she owed and getting out of here. “If you would take this off my hands—”

“I can’t take it. It’s for Jacqueline,” Charisma said with absolute assurance, then twirled like a ballerina toward the door. “It’s Martha with the tea cart!”

A dour woman in her seventies pushed the cart to the sidebar. “I brought drinks and snacks. Baked brie encased in pastry with cranberry jelly. Cherry tomatoes stuffed with yogurt and rice. Green tomato spread and sourdough bread.” Every word she spoke sounded as if it had been chipped from ice.

But for Genny, she sang a siren’s song. Genny rose, drawn to the cart, and gazed in awe at the delicacies. “I could stay for tea, I suppose.”

Charisma seemed to know exactly what Genny felt. “Yeah, we eat like this all . . . the . . . time. Martha is the best.”

“McKenna would have you believe he’s the best.” Martha handed Genny an icy can of Coke.

“We let him think that because he’s a man.” Charisma popped one of the tomatoes in her mouth.

As Genny filled her plate, she became aware of Martha’s scrutiny. She scrutinized in return.

Martha’s gray hair was braided and wrapped around her head like an Austrian yodeler, and dark eyes shone in her brown, wrinkled face. She was Romany, the kind of strong woman who frightened the hell out of men everywhere. Genny could see no gift in her soul, yet splashes of others’ gifts clung to her as if she’d been exposed to the mystic for a very long time. One gift in particular had been imprinted on her being—a dark gift, one Martha resented . . .

“Thank you, Martha, for this feast,” Genny said. “Never will you have a more grateful recipient.”

Martha nodded, still watching Genny as if something about Genny puzzled her. “You are Kevin Valente’s daughter?”

“You know my father?”

“I used to work at the Gypsy Travel Agency. You aren’t like him.” Martha nodded. “Good. You may have John.” Turning on her heel, she left the room.

Genny stared after her. “I don’t want John.”

Charisma paid no attention to the exchange. “Have I smeared my mascara?” Going to the gold-framed mirror, she took one look at herself and burst into tears again.

“Are you okay, Charisma?” A tall, Nordic blond female stepped into the doorway.

Genny could see an eye in the middle of Jacqueline’s forehead. It wasn’t freaky. Nothing big and bulging. The eye didn’t look around or anything; it was nothing but a dark outline.

And it seemed no one else could see it.

But Genny could. Genny knew. This was Jacqueline, the clairvoyant.

“No.” Charisma’s voice wobbled and she used another round of tissues. “I won’t be until we hear from the hospital. But I do have good news.” She gestured at Genny. “Guess who this is.”

As Genny rose to her feet, Jacqueline examined her. “Someone who made you cry?”

“No!” Charisma said indignantly. “Some seer you are! This is Genesis Valente.”

Somehow, Genny didn’t think Jacqueline was nearly as surprised as she pretended to be.

Jacqueline also looked as if she’d been crying, but she was more restrained in her welcome. “John will be pleased to discover you’re alive—and very surprised. It’s been . . . what? More than two years since you disappeared?”

“Jacqueline!” Charisma was shocked. “She just got here. We’ll yell at her when we get to know her better!”

“Actually, I can’t stay. I came by because I believe I have something that belongs to the Gypsy Travel Agency.” Genny dug to the bottom of her backpack and brought up a small crushed cardboard box. “I think it’s valuable, or at least it’s . . . influential.” She unwrapped the leather purse she had found at the bottom of the pond in the
rasputye
and held it out.