Storm of Visions (12 page)

Samuel was a lawyer. He exuded power in the way he dressed, the way he talked, and in his person. He did
not
appreciate their amusement, or having the matter spelled out by a ninety-three-year-old man. His dark eyes flashed with resentment, and Caleb made a note to keep an eye on him, too.

In this room, the only people he trusted were Jacqueline and himself, and he knew given the chance, Jacqueline would put a knife through his heart.

But at least she had good reasons. Personal reasons.

Aleksandr cleared his throat twice before he managed to croak out, “Are you saying the Chosen Ones can switch sides?”

“Yes, indeed.” As if pained, Irving placed his hand on his chest. He looked down toward the table, and whispered, “Any of you can break your word and betray us.”

“Has it happened before?” Jacqueline asked softly.

He looked up as if surprised to see her there. “Not often.” His voice was slow and soft. “Not often, but it does happen, and whenever it does . . . it is a failure for which I pay, and pay, and pay.”

A chill crawled over Caleb’s skin. For the first time in Caleb’s memory, Irving’s mind seemed to be wandering. He was old, but he had always seemed so sharp, so intelligent. Had he been fooling them all?

Or . . . had Caleb been seeing what he wanted, an infallible leader of the Chosen Ones?

In fact, was the old man in the early stages of dementia? Of Alzheimer ’s?

Was he the one who had somehow given up the security of the Gypsy Travel Agency to the enemy? Had he caused the murder of so many gifted men and women?

I
n all the time Jacqueline had known Irving, she’d never thought of him as old. But right now, his voice was low and shaky, his hands had a tremor, and the skin under his eyes drooped as if he was sad and weary. “Irving, you can’t assume that responsibility for all time. You can’t protect everyone. Besides . . . that means the Others can come to
our
side, also.”

“Yes. It has happened. But seldom, so seldom, and we don’t ever really trust them, do we?” Irving stared into Jacqueline’s face, pleading for something. For insight or kindness or . . . understanding.

She glanced at Caleb, at McKenna, at Martha, not comprehending this sorrow that seemed to weigh so heavily on Irving.

Caleb shook his head slightly. He didn’t know, either, and for all that she wore her dislike of Caleb and his methods like a badge of honor, she believed him.

But McKenna stepped forward. “Sir, I hate to interrupt so lively a discourse, but should I serve the after-dinner refreshments here? Or would you prefer to take them in the comfort of the library? The library is warm and cheerful; I’ve lit a fire, and there’s the pool table should the young people wish to play, and of course, there is a table for poker and other gaming indulgences.”

Jacqueline fought the tug of amusement. McKenna was ever the stern Celt, disapproving of gambling in any form. Yet tonight, he was willing to suggest “gaming indulgences” to lift Irving’s spirits. Grasping Irving’s hand, she said, “McKenna is right. Let’s go to the library. On such a night, this room is too large and gloomy.”

Irving tottered to his feet. “Those of you who work out on a regular basis should know that I have a thoroughly equipped gym down in the basement. I keep towels and workout garments. Just ask McKenna should you wish to indulge.”

“Thank God,” Samuel pronounced. “I’m going to go nuts stuck in here if I don’t do something.”

Jacqueline tucked her hand through Irving’s arm and allowed him to lead her into the foyer.

With a scraping of chairs, the Chosen Ones stood and followed.

The library was as warm and cheerful as McKenna had promised, with walls painted the color of mustard, mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound books, and wide sweeps of antique Aubusson rugs on the floor. A massive fireplace, with an opening as tall as Caleb and as wide as his outstretched arms, blazed merrily. Comfortable seating clustered around it, the gaming and pool tables dominated the center of the room, and heavy blue velvet curtains kept out night’s menace.

Aleksandr spoke for them all when he picked up a pool cue, weighed it in his hand, and said, “Very . . . cool.”

Even the dour McKenna looked pleased at the approbation. He and Martha hustled around, filling their drink orders, and when that was done, the two servants disappeared.

The group quickly divided into the players and the watchers. Isabelle selected a cue and Tyler as her partner. Aleksandr waited for someone to partner him, and when Samuel took up a cue, the teams were formed.

The others settled down to watch, drinks in hand, and Jacqueline surveyed them all.

Charisma sat on the floor beside the fire, brandy snifter hanging carelessly from her fingers.

Aaron stretched out on a love seat, a mug of coffee clasped between his palms.

Irving sank into his worn leather easy chair and accepted a small Waterford glass of tawny port.

Caleb . . . had vanished on his way to the library. Potty break, Jacquelilne supposed.

So these people were all that were left of the Chosen Ones.

Was that good? Was that bad? Jacqueline didn’t know. She had visited the Gypsy Travel Agency many times in her life. The company had been a constant in her life. The board of directors employed her mother, sent her on trips, encouraged her romances, all in the name of keeping the world safe from the devil’s machinations. Except for Irving, Jacqueline had never liked any of them . . . and occasionally, she suspected that if she’d known Irving during his heyday, she would have disliked him, too. To her, the directors seemed to be cold, self-absorbed men who directed the mon eymaking part of the business with enthusiasm while maintaining their saintly reputation for protecting the Chosen Ones.

She sank down on the cushions thrown in careful disarray against the window seat and sipped from a glass of Grand Marnier.

She knew the traditions of the Chosen Ones. Ideally they would first struggle and argue, then find a natural leader, then settle down to the job at hand. Usually that job was finding and rescuing others like themselves . . . the Abandoned Ones. If they found the babies in time, the children would be adopted into families and disappear into the real world to live out their lives in obscurity. If they failed to retrieve the babies, the Others would take them. Sometimes they sacrificed them. Sometimes they raised them to be steeped in evil. Always they reminded the children that the Chosen Ones had not cared to rescue them. Always they cultivated resentment against the Chosen Ones.

Sometimes the mix of the Chosen was less than ideal. Sometimes there were two leaders, or three, or four, and the group fought fruitlessly, never establishing a rapport. Sometimes the Chosen were born into a time that required physical strength and acts of heroics, and they had become bulwarks in the struggle against evil.

Right now, with the strife and the arguments, it seemed this group would be one of the insignificant Chosen.

Yet . . . they needed to be so much more.

The pool players racked up the balls. Isabelle broke, and ran five balls before giving over to the other team. She watched and chalked as Aleksandr placed three balls in three pockets, then turned to face Irving. “I need to call my mother, let her know where I am, what I’m doing,” she said.

“This is a delicate situation. You can’t call her,” Irving said.

Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the table. “God forbid your mother should worry.”

For all the attention Isabelle paid to Samuel, he might not have existed. “I can’t not call her. If she doesn’t hear from me sometime tomorrow, she’ll call the FBI. And the FBI will listen to her.”

Samuel sighed loudly.

Isabelle continued. “My fiancé works in DC as a lobbyist.” Samuel snorted so loudly, Isabelle snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it over his mouth. Pressed it hard, like she wanted to cut off his air. “After that snort, you’re unattractively moist. And don’t tell me you don’t have someone
you
want to know that you’re alive.”

With his dark eyes focused on her, he pushed her hand away. “My secretary.”

“You’re sleeping with your secretary?” Isabelle’s voice rose. “Again?”

Jacqueline squeezed her spine against the window seat and wished she could turn away from the scene. But they were both so passionate, so angry, sparks flew between them, riveting the attention of every person in the room.

“I am not sleeping with anybody. And I resigned from my law firm to take this job.”

“Then you don’t need to talk to anybody, do you?” Isabelle asked.

Samuel drew a breath. “I have to notify my parole officer.”

Isabelle looked as if he’d struck her in the face.

She stared at him, her eyes so wide and horrified, he taunted, “You always knew I would come to this. Or at least—your mother did.”

She turned her back to him and thumped her cue to the rug hard enough to create a vibration through the hardwood floor. “What did you do?”

“Another attorney claimed I used coercion to extract a confession from his client. The judge agreed.”

“Because you did.”

“No one could prove that, but it was enough. . . . It doesn’t matter. They convicted me.”

Isabelle stood with her head bent, breathing hard.

“Ma belle . . .”
Samuel used a voice deep and warm, so reassuring that Jacqueline put her hand over her heart.

But when he would have cupped Isabelle’s shoulders, her hand slashed out in a gesture that clearly said
Halt
. “
Don’t
touch me.”

His usual cynical sneer snapped back in place. “Of course not, Miss Mason. I wouldn’t dream of dirtying your noble self.”

To Jacqueline’s surprise, Aleksandr stepped into the breach with the assurance of a man twice his age. “Mr. Shea, I have to call my mother, too. If I don’t, there will be a very large and angry clan of former shape-shifters descending on your house.”

“If my mother heard about the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, then she’s having a fit right now,” Charisma said.

Irving nodded. “In that case, you’re right, Miss Mason, Mr. Wilder, Miss Fangorn. Not calling your contacts would create a greater danger than calling. We’ll arrange for everyone to contact family or . . . whomever they need to tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Isabelle turned back to the table in time to see Samuel finish the game. Without a word, she walked over, handed her cue to Aaron, and said, “Your turn.”

He wasn’t fool enough to say he preferred to remain stretched out on the love seat. Instead, he took the cue, headed for the pool table, and warned Aleksandr, “You’re going to be sorry. Pool is not my game.”

Jacqueline noticed Caleb even before he stepped into the room. He moved without sound, but sometime in the last few days she’d picked up an awareness of his vibration, his scent, his presence.

Irritating.

He swooped over, snatched a pillow from under her arm, seated himself close against her side, and braced his shoulder against hers.

She moved away.

He moved close.

She glared at him.

He smiled at her.

She contemplated kicking him, but she’d tried that before, unsuccessfully, and she didn’t intend to face that kind of humiliation here and now.

Irving watched the two of them jockey for position; then with more cheer, he said, “Do you know, the last time a disaster of this magnitude occurred, the Dark Ages followed.”

“Great.” Tyler chalked his cue and proved the players were listening. “We’ve got something to look forward to.”

Irving continued. “But you, dear Jacqueline, you have given me hope.”

“Hope? Me?” She didn’t mind giving him hope. She simply didn’t enjoy the attention that went with it.

“At last . . . at last, you’ve agreed to become the seer of the Chosen Ones.”

She shrugged carelessly, dismissing her gesture as inconsequential. “For this group of the Chosen Ones.”

“My dear.” Irving smiled so warmly, all shadow of sorrow was banished from his face. “All your life, you’ve heard that there is only one seer.”

Tension crept over Jacqueline. “Every
cycle
. There’s one seer every seven years.”

The players stalled; everyone grew still and silent.

Charisma covered her head with both hands; clearly, she knew what was coming.

“No,” Irving said gently. “Our seer is our most precious commodity, and we are blessed with only one at a time.”

He didn’t mean what she thought he meant. He
couldn’t
. “But my mother is still psychic. She proved that without a doubt.”

“When you stepped into the circle, the transfer of power began. When she stepped out, she was no longer our oracle. She was Zusane Vargha, a lovely lady to whom we are grateful.” Irving’s adoration for Zusane couldn’t have been more clear.