Storm of Visions (6 page)

I
f Aaron Eagle had had any doubt about the insanity of the people who ran the Gypsy Travel Agency, being brought into the lowest level of the New York subways and being told to stand inside a carefully drawn chalk circle pretty well settled the matter. The board of directors was certifiable, every last one of them, and if he didn’t have his own reasons for giving in to their stupid attempt at blackmail, he would be out of here.

Unfortunately, his reasons were good. Better than good.

So he stood here and watched while some weird old woman directed the other five suckers to take care as they stepped in, and not smudge the chalk. Yeah, because if they smudged the chalk, something awful might happen, like all the New Yorkers who hurried past on their way home from work would stare at the odd mix of people high-stepping into a chalk circle underneath a subway stair. Hell, as long as no one got in the way, New Yorkers didn’t give a damn if Aaron and his new-found compatriots gathered to perform Riverdance. Which Aaron truly hoped wasn’t the next order of business, because he had to draw the line somewhere.

His gaze landed on the pristine, just-swept concrete floor enclosed by red and blue chalk, and he laughed, brief and bitter.

No, he wasn’t going to draw any line. As long as this kept him safe, he was their man.

He was Aaron Eagle. He had given his word, and he always kept it. He only hoped to hell they would keep theirs.

One of the two females stepped up, offered her hand, and shook his enthusiastically. “Hi, I’m Charisma Fangorn from Oregon. Isn’t this great? I can’t wait for the party tonight.”

“The party?” Remembering what he’d been told, he said, “At the Gypsy Travel Agency headquarters, you mean.”

“Everyone associated with the organization comes in for it. All the old Chosen and all the old directors. There is a huge feast—think Hogwarts at Halloween—and lots of drinking and dancing, and then there’s a ceremony where we’re formally presented to the group.” Her eyes shone with excitement.

“Sounds like a lot of silliness to me,” he said, then felt a pang when her face fell. This was why he made it a policy not to hang with young women like this one. The Heidi outfit, studded dog collar and long black hair streaked with purple made him feel old—or at least older than his thirty-two years.

“But they have to present us, or the Chosen Ones from former years might mistake us for, you know”—she glanced around and whispered—“one of the
Others
.”

“They could simply send our pictures around in an e-mail.” Then he wouldn’t have to be there for what sounded like a fraternity hazing.

“What if the e-mail is intercepted and the Others discover our identities?”

“Aren’t they going to figure us out eventually?”

“Yes, but this gives us time to train under experienced Chosen.” Which did make sense. Then her dimples peeked out. “Besides, the presenting is a tradition.”

Yielding to her gusto, he said, “As long as it’s tradition, then it must be done.”

“Yes. In an organization like this, it’s tradition that binds the company together. I read that in
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones
.”

“Right.” The board of directors had presented him with a leather-bound copy, too. It had just never occurred to him to read it.

“Once my mother realized I had a gift, she held a few séances, but of course, I don’t have
that
kind of a gift.” She took a place next to him and surveyed the others with enthusiasm. “I do stones.”

She said it like he was supposed to know what she was talking about. “Stones.”

“Crystals, mostly.” She jangled the gold and silver bracelets that wrapped her wrists. “I can hear them sing.”

“Sing.” He noted the different-colored rocks attached to each bangle, and beneath them, the tattoos. Only he would be willing to bet that they hadn’t been put there deliberately. Maybe they had spontaneously sprung up during adolescence. Or maybe she’d been born with them.

He only knew the manner in which the mark had appeared on him. Who knew how it worked with the others?

“I hear the earth song.” She almost bounced with enthusiasm. “What’s your gift?”

“Hm?”

“We are the Chosen Ones. We have gifts. What’s your gift?”

“I don’t talk about my gift.” He had, they’d assured him, a lot in common with these people. Right now, he doubted that.

Unfazed, she asked, “You’re American Indian, aren’t you?”

Points for using the politically correct term for his people.

“That’s why you’re so silent and inscrutable.”

Deduct points for heading right for the clichés. “Right you are.” If Charisma could see him in his tux, holding a drink, talking finance to all the right men, charming all the right women, while none of them suspected . . . well. Almost none of them. If none of them had suspected, he wouldn’t be here.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked.

“I’m a thief.”

“Of course you are.”

She accepted his statement so blithely, he couldn’t tell if she believed him or not.

But it didn’t matter because she lowered her voice and nodded her head toward the Blond Surfer Guy. “What do you think his gift is?”

Silent and inscrutable.
She had decided Aaron was, and it suited his convenience, so he crossed his arms across his chest like Sitting Bull and shut the hell up.

Charisma sort of jangled her rock bracelets at the guy, and announced, “He’s a weird jumble.”

Surfer Guy turned. He fixed his mesmerizing blue eyes on her.

She looked back, searching his face, and in relief said, “Oh. Of course. He’s Tyler Settles. He’s a faith healer and a psychic. Just not a very good psychic.”

The way she pronounced that, her certainty, took Aaron off guard, and he dropped the inscrutability. “How can you tell?”

“The stones told me.”

That was just stupid, to think stones could gather information and hand it out at her whim.

But no one believed what he could do, either. Thank God, because he’d made a fortune off his specialty.

“Okay, what about him?” He indicated the other guy, swarthy, handsome, and with an indefinable air of authority.

She laughed. “He’s Samuel Faa. He’s a lawyer. He’ll do anything to win a case.”

“Being a lawyer is hardly a gift.” Aaron had good reason to dislike lawyers. Half the Gypsy Travel Agency’s board of directors was lawyers.

“It is when you can control minds.”

“Ouch.”

“Don’t worry. He can’t control yours. He doesn’t even want to. He doesn’t want to be here. They had to blackmail him to get him here at all.”

There was a lot of
that
going around. “You got all that from shaking your stones at him?”

“No, from listening at the door.”

Aaron viewed her with new respect.

She had emerald green, charcoal-rimmed eyes to go with that black and purple hair, a sweetly rounded face with dimples pressed into her delicately pale cheeks, and he realized she was laughing at him for his caution. This was a woman who embraced life and all its quirks. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty.”

“I would have said sixteen.”

“Great! I’ve found people underestimate me when they think I’m young.”

His respect notched up another degree. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“So are you.”

The two grinned at each other, and a fast friendship was forged.

Not far away, a woman in her early twenties stood inside the circle. She had just the right hair, just the right makeup, and expensive designer clothes. Aaron’s expert eye identified a conservative black Chanel suit offset by a trendy leopard-print Betsey Johnson bag and shoes, platinum-set one-carat diamond studs, and a three-carat platinum-set diamond ring on her right hand. Perfect Boston Brahmin, if her accent was anything to go by, but not so perfect after all. She had an exotic look; her bones were as delicate as porcelain and her eyes were faintly slanted. Somewhere in her unknown bloodlines, she boasted an Asian ancestor. She stood apart from the others, glancing at her watch, a vintage Cartier worth more than the rest of the outfit put together, with a smooth patience that would have done credit to a politician’s wife.

“That’s Isabelle Mason,” Charisma told him.

“Of the Boston Masons.” He knew the family, had attended parties at their home, but he had never met Isabelle. Probably she’d been at finishing school, or touring Europe, or doing something high-class and preppy.

Charisma continued to smile brightly, but her voice was subdued and a little depressed as she said, “I can’t quite get a fix on her gift. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t acknowledge it, keeps it restrained.”

Isabelle caught Aaron watching her and smiled politely. Caught the lawyer watching her and her expression became Botox smooth.

“Whoa. She doesn’t like him,” Charisma observed.

“No . . .” Aaron wasn’t so sure. There was something between those two. He nodded at the young guy in frayed jeans, dirty running shoes, and a denim jacket. “Who’s the kid?”

Charisma goggled at Aaron. “Don’t you
know
? That’s Aleksandr Wilder.”

Aaron shrugged. He’d already figured out if he kept his mouth shut, she’d spill everything she knew.

She did. “Nineteen years ago, the Wilders broke their family’s covenant with the devil. It was a big deal in the world of the Chosen Ones, and I imagine in the world of the Others, too.”

“That would do it.” The board of directors, a group of sharp-eyed, middle-aged men in suits, had given Aaron the barest outlines of the organization. They called themselves the Gypsy Travel Agency, located in a historic cast-iron building in SoHo. They were widely famous for leading treks into the wildest parts of the world, had been doing it since the late nineteenth century and apparently collecting a wad of money from satisfied customers. According to them, the agency had started because of their gypsy background and their dedication to combating evil.

None of the directors looked Romany to Aaron; more like a bunch of middle-aged white guys in suits with one politically correct clean-cut black guy. And none of them looked like they’d ever been in combat with more than a New York investment broker.

But then, he didn’t really care who they were or what they did, because while they made it clear they would use him as a tour guide if needed, his real job for them related to his special talent—and they owned him and his talent for the next seven years.

“So, did the Wilders work for the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

“The Wilders raise grapes in Washington and sell wines in California.”

Aaron blinked at Charisma. “Is that a cover like the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

“No. They really raise grapes and sell wines. They’re completely out of the paranormal business now. None of them can shape-shift anymore.”

Seeking a way out of his confusion, Aaron said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right—the Wilders broke a covenant with the devil that let them shape-shift.”

“That’s it.”

“So what’s the Wilder kid doing here? What’s his special gift?”

The Wilder kid stepped close. “For starters, I’ve got really good hearing.”

Aaron had to admire him for his poise, had to admire both the kids, because Charisma grinned and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Charisma Fangorn. I’m
so
glad to meet you, Aleksandr.”

Aleksandr shook her hand, then Aaron’s.

“So what’s your gift?” Charisma asked.

Aleksandr stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have one.”

Charisma looked affronted. “Of course you do. You walked through the fire with your mother.”

“Yeah.” Aleksandr paused to scuff his feet on the tile floor. “There’s speculation, probably justified, that my mother’s gift protected me.”

Aaron’s head swiveled between them. He had no idea what they were talking about, but he had to admit it was fascinating.

“Why justified?” Charisma asked.

“When I was thirteen, I decided maybe it was me, so I tried grabbing a burning stick. Man, did I get in trouble. My father and grandfather aren’t exactly keen on teenagers who do dumb stuff.” Aleksandr shook back his shaggy blond hair. “While we were in the emergency room, I thought my mother and grandmother were going to rip me a new one.”

“So it was bad?” Charisma prompted.

Aaron figured the kid was exaggerating the extent of his injuries to impress Charisma.

Then Aleksandr held up his hand.

Burn scars rippled the skin, and two of the fingers were fused together.

Charisma winced.

“What the hell made you do that?” Snapping at Aleksandr made Aaron feel as old as the kid’s grandfather, but . . . good God. That looked like hell, and he bet it had hurt forever. Maybe still did.

“We were out in the woods. My cousins were there. The Wilder cousins are younger, and I didn’t care what they thought. But my grandmother’s family is Rom, and they’re all so wild and tough.” Aleksandr hunched his shoulders and mumbled, “I wanted to impress them.”

“Okay. I get that.” Aaron did. He’d been a dumb kid himself once.

Charisma shook her bracelets at Aleksandr. Shook them again, and frowned. “You really don’t have a gift?”

“Not that anybody can figure out,” Aleksandr said.

“And you’ve got family? You weren’t abandoned?” Aaron stared at the old woman standing on the outside of the circle, the one who had led them here, the one who was apparently some sort of dedicated servant of the Gypsy Travel Agency. “Hey! You! Martha!”

The woman turned to face him. Her brown face was creased with age. Her gray hair was long, braided, and wrapped around her head like some Austrian yodeler. Chalk dusted her gnarled fingers.

“The board of directors said there’d be seven Chosen,” Aaron called.