Chains of Ice (34 page)

He fastened his seat belt, braced himself, and called Jacqueline.

She picked up on the first ring. “John, thank God you called. Ask me the right questions and I’ll tell you everything.”

So he did. And she did.

Genny had been at the mansion. She had left to return to her father’s house. She had refused to allow anyone to accompany her, citing family issues. She extracted a promise from Jacqueline and Charisma that they wouldn’t tell John she had been there. Then she swore to return that night.

But now both Jacqueline and Charisma struggled with a growing unease.

“A vision?” he asked Jacqueline.

“No, just a feeling.”

Charisma got on the line. “This isn’t a premonition. It was the way Genny acted, like she didn’t trust her own father.”

“The guy stole from the Gypsy Travel Agency, got caught, took down his accomplices, and has been a bastard to his only child. Yeah, I don’t trust him, either.” He took a breath to ease the constriction in his chest. “Listen, I want Caleb, Samuel, and Isabelle to stay at the hospital to protect Irving. Is Aaron still in Australia?”

“The job was a success. He’s on his way back. But his plane doesn’t land for another hour.”

“Damn.”
John looked around. The cab was already crossing the Alexander Hamilton Bridge, which at this time of the day was a testament to the driver’s greed. “Where’s Aleksandr?”

“In class. Do you need backup?” Charisma sounded brisk.

“Yes.” He told her about Dina’s warning.

“It’s a trap,” Charisma said flatly.

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to walk in willingly.”

“Yes.”

Charisma didn’t try to talk him out of it. She was the most practical woman he knew. “Do you have any weapons on you?” she asked.

“The metal detector at the hospital makes that damned difficult.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yes.” He didn’t like the plan, but in a worst-case scenario, he had one. “I wouldn’t be adverse to some insurance.”

“I’ll grab McKenna and a couple of handguns and I’m on my way.”

“Be careful.” He grabbed the door as they jumped the curb. “Traffic is wicked.”

“Right.”

John hung up and watched grimly as the seconds ticked by. The sky was gray; the short winter day was fading. He didn’t know how many enemies he would face, what kind of gifts the Others would have. He had weapons coming, but not soon enough. He flexed his fingers. His nails glowed blue, a good sign that his powers were revving up under the influence of his grim determination.

But would the energy fail him at the crucial moment?

He jumped from the cab as it pulled up to the Valente brownstone.

What was the point of attempting to sneak up on the Others? They knew he was coming, and besides, he didn’t have time for guile. Genny had left Irving’s mansion over two hours ago.

He ran up the stairs, and stared at the front door.

It was slightly open.

Shit. Not a good sign.

Pushing open the door, he walked in. He was cautious, of course; he would just as soon not get knocked out as soon as he set foot inside. But if they had wanted to kill him, they would have done so already. And he knew what they knew: as long as they had Genny, they had him. He would go in regardless.

The house was cold.

He shut the door behind him.

The entry hall was empty, dim and narrow. A flight of stairs went straight up to the second floor. A light at the back of the house beckoned. He walked toward it and thought how very much this reminded him of the frozen cave in the Andes, another trap into which he had willingly walked. But then he had walked with friends. Now . . . Now he walked alone.

Toward the right, another stairway went down to the basement.

A woman’s long trench coat was flung over the banister.

Genny’s coat, and a lure to pull him in.

To the right, the light showed him a sitting room decorated sparingly in leather and hardwood furniture. The sound of voices drew him.

He stepped into the doorway.

A short, drugged-up troll of a guy squatted on the floor by the sofa, crying and wiping his tears on the hem of his T-shirt.

My God.
Was that Brandon?

John recognized the tall, young Indian woman, the one from Lubochka’s team. What was her name? She looked the same, yet she was thinner, with a cruel twist to her mouth and a bruise on her cheek. No wonder Brandon resembled a bag of bones. He was in thrall to her and whatever drug she was supplying him.

She stood by a bare wooden kitchen chair in the middle of the room.

There Genny sat, wrists tied behind, head hanging, her clothes tattered and smoking. Burn marks pocked the carpet around her.

For the first time since he’d left Russia, John felt the savage rise in him.

What had they been doing to her?

“Look who’s here, Genny.” Gary leaned against the back wall, pointing a Glock at John in ugly triumph. “I told you he would come.”

She lifted her head. She was thinner, tanned, as if she spent her life outdoors. Her body was no longer softly rounded, but street-fight ready. Her golden eyes were tough, intelligent, but when she gazed at him, her expression softened. “Did you . . . ?” She coughed, then continued hoarsely. “Did you bring the cavalry?”

The residue of tears and black soot smeared her face.

She had been screaming, he could tell.

“I am the cavalry.” He walked into the room.

The tall woman created a spark in her hand.

“No, Avni, don’t!” Genny strained at her bonds.

Avni tossed it at his feet.

He stomped it out.

No wonder Genny’s clothes were smoking. Avni was a fire-starter. And she had been torturing Genny.

The savage spoke in his head.
I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill them all.

But John carefully contained his ferocity. When wielded correctly, surprise was a weapon.

Showing them his empty hands, he said, “I can’t take you all out, not with Genny in the way, and I can’t use my power in so many different directions. Besides”—he looked right at Gary—“I think someone’s learned how to curb me. Haven’t you, Gary?”

Gary’s cocky grin made John want to punch him in the face. “You’re right. Avni, let him go to her.” He held the pistol negligently, because at this range, hitting John was no problem at all.

Avni stepped back, her eyes a glassy, dark brown.

John knelt beside the chair. He put one hand on Genny’s tightly bound hands, and used the other hand to pat out the last of the fires. She had marks on her face, her thighs, her chest: burn marks, as if someone had been extinguishing a cigarette on her skin.

“There’s only me. Will I do?” Staring into her battered face, he sent a small, warm pulse of power through her body.

“You’ll do very well.” She smiled at him, and whispered, “Thank you. I feel stronger.”

“Yes.” Although if he didn’t pull this out of the bag, they’d both be dead. “Where’s your father?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Good. One less problem.
He had feared Valente had betrayed his daughter and fled. Better for her peace of mind that he hadn’t, and easier for John that he had no one else to rescue.

John stood. “What do you want, Gary?”

“I want the same thing you want—a bag of bones.”

John carefully kept his face blank, his voice neutral. “A bag like the one we rescued from the cave in Chile?” The match to the one in Irving’s study?

“Exactly. I searched and found it listed as one of the items Valente stole from the Gypsy Travel Agency.”

“How interesting. Why do you want it?”

“For the same reason you want it.”

“I don’t want it. All I want is Genny.”

“You can have her . . . after she tells us where to find the bag.”

Genny turned toward Gary, so exasperated she shouted, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen my father in over two years. I haven’t lived here in more than eight! How would I know where he put the stuff he stole when I was fifteen?”

Avni lit a flame in her hand.

Genny froze.

The guy by the couch whimpered and twisted as if the fire was burning him.

“Shut up, Brandon.” Avni met John’s gaze, smiled, then tossed the flame toward Genny’s lap.

John unleashed enough power to bat it aside.

Avni turned and snarled at Gary. “You said you could control him.”

“He can,” John said. “If you let her go, I’ll give myself up and you can do what you want with me.”

Gary’s handsome face puckered as if the thought was too foreign for him to comprehend. “What?”

Genny shook her head. “No, John, don’t.”

“Let her go. Promise you’ll let her leave, and I’ll let you tie me to the chair. With my hands bound, you won’t even have to worry about containing my power.”

Just as John had hoped, Gary couldn’t resist the chance to hurt him. He surged forward. “Untie her,” he said to Avni.

“No,” she said. “It’s a lie. It’s a trap.”

“Don’t you know? John Powell isn’t like
us
. He’s one of the Chosen Ones,” Gary sneered. “He
can’t
break his word.”

“You’re one of the Chosen Ones, too, Gary,” John said.

Gary’s laughter turned to a snarl. “Not since the day you burned my team to death. Not since the day you put me into a coma.” To Avni, he said, “Untie her! Then sit down, John, and take the punishment that is your due.”

“No!” Avni said. “What good will that do us? We need that leather sack!”

Gary blinked at her.

Suddenly she was on the ground, flopping like a beached fish, a drop of blood oozing from her nose.

“Oh, my God!” Brandon leaped toward her, then away, jumping and flinging his arms up, then down and slapping his hands on the floor. He seemed to want to touch her, but he approached and retreated, approached and retreated. Whatever they had done to him was horrible; this was like watching the regression of man into ape.

Avni sat up slowly, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and stared at the crimson drop. She looked up at Gary. “What did you do to me?”

Gary grinned nastily. “The same thing I’m going to do to you again if you don’t untie Genny.”

John remembered that time in the cave when he thought Gary had flung a thought at him; what had Gary done with his gift? How had he twisted it to become a weapon?

Avni crawled to Genny’s side. With shaking hands, she untied her and pushed her out of the chair.

Genny collapsed onto her knees.

John helped her up, gave her another pulse of power, murmured in her ear, “Run.”

Avni used the support of the chair to get to her feet. “Stop fondling your girlfriend and
sit down
.”

John removed his coat.

The scratches on his shoulder had bloodied his shirt. They throbbed and burned, and he was glad. The Chosen Ones’ prophecy said that when they found their true love and dedicated themselves to that person, their marks expanded.

John hadn’t been born with a mark. He had earned it when he threw himself in front of Genny. Now the pain and blood gave him hope . . . hope that he was doing the right thing.

“Sit!” Avni said.

He did, and hoped Irving was telling the truth. He hoped a willing sacrifice, even one that wasn’t a life, counted for something on the eternal scales of weights and measures.