Wilder (19 page)

Chapter 35

G
uardian turned from Charisma to Davidov, listening, trying to understand. “The earth is calling you to a specific place?”

Charisma took a shaky breath. “It’s not so much a place as a goal. Or a destination. Sort of the holy grail of caves.”

Guardian tried to understand. “It’s a cave?”

“I don’t know. But, yes, I think so. A sacred cave. Or rather—
the
sacred cave.” She faced Davidov again. “Right?”

He shrugged and wiped the bar.

“Vidar, will the summons ever stop?” she asked.

“The stones at your wrist are dying. So yes, when the earth is tired of treating you as a favored daughter, when you have killed your gift with neglect, the summons will stop.”

She groaned and covered her eyes.

Davidov pushed her mug toward her. “Finish. Taurean is waiting outside the door to take you to Irving’s. It’s time to go.”

How did Davidov know that? Why had Taurean come? Why not Amber?

Why did Charisma have to leave at all?

Davidov answered as if he heard Guardian’s rebellious questions tumbling through his mind. “Taurean knows the way to Irving’s better than the others, and even the gangs hesitate to mess with a six-foot-tall madwoman. Charisma will be safe with her.”

“I can take care of myself.” But when Charisma lifted the mug to her mouth, her hand was shaking.

Guardian couldn’t stand it.

The minutes were ticking away. Their time together was fading. Charisma wore despair like a too-heavy cloak.

Somebody had to be strong—did he really have to be the one?

Yes. At this moment, he was the one. In a steady voice, he said, “I trust Taurean with my life. And, more important, Charisma’s life.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them. “Listen. I can’t go yet. We have to find out whether you’re Aleksandr Wilder. It’s important. I told you why.”

“I can’t force my memory,” he told her.

“He had blue eyes,” she said.

“So do I.” Guardian widened his eyes at her. “So I must be him.”

“You’re so sarcastic. He wasn’t sarcastic. He had humor, but it was . . . gentler.” She searched his face again. “The middle fingers on his right hand were fused.”

He opened his hand like a starfish and showed her all five fingers.

“But you said there were operations.” Taking his hand, with her touch she explored the pale, lined skin on his palm, and slid her fingers through the fur on the back. And held his hand.

“Underneath my fur there are scars. Lots of them. Some from fighting. Some of them . . . I don’t remember getting. My hand . . . yes. Maybe Bernhard fixed it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Aleksandr was shorter than you,” she said.

“Maybe I grew.”

“He was even-tempered.”

“I’m not.”

“He drank Coke.”

“I love Coke. Even warm and shaken up, which is the way they usually arrive in the Guardian cave.” He tried to make her laugh. “My delivery system is flawed, but it’s the only one I’ve got.”

She smiled absently, intent on one thing. “He was good with computers.”

“I’m good with computers.”

“A lot of guys are.” She took a drink of her beer and contemplated him.

He took a drink of his and contemplated back. “I thought you were trying to convince me that I’m Aleksandr?”

“Not trying. I would like you to be. I would
love
you to be. We need our seventh Chosen.”

Davidov made a humming sound.

She turned on him. “I know. You told us. We need seven. Always seven. And we believe you. We seven were totally unprepared when we started, but the enemy was less powerful then. Now, every time we bring in someone gifted and unseasoned, the enemy kills him. Or her. They’ve lasted only months. Then weeks. We can’t keep doing that to people. It’s virtual murder.” She turned back to Guardian. “I told you: We think Aleksandr Wilder is
the
one. The one fate has decreed as our seventh. If I bring the Chosen Ones down to meet you, we have a way of knowing when we have the right person. See, when we join hands, this kind of electrical shock goes through us—”

“All right,” Guardian said.

“Really?” Her eyes brightened. “I can bring them to see you?”

“Yes.” He half laughed, although he was not amused. “I’ll hate it. I don’t want to face them, to observe as those humans react to the sight of me. But I’ll do it.”

“We remember Aleksandr,” she said. “We loved Aleksandr.”

“And the shock of expecting to see something of Aleksandr in this carcass will be horrifying to them.” When she would have objected, he held up a hand. “But I’ll do it. Send word to Davidov. He’ll send word to me. We’ll set up a meeting. Maybe, in the meantime, I’ll remember more.” He stood and offered his hand. “Now, Charisma . . . you really have to go.”

She slid off the stool, breathing heavily. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“A wolf and a bird might fall in love, but where would they make their home?” Davidov asked.

For that bit of philosophical wisdom, Guardian wanted to smack him.

But then, right now, frustration made him want to put his fist through the wall.

Sliding her arms around him, Charisma hugged him.

He hugged her back, holding her too tightly, never wanting this moment to end.

Davidov rattled the mugs as he cleared them away, like a bartender announcing last call.

The man was a pain in the ass.

Charisma stood on tiptoe and kissed Guardian’s lips. Gently, she disengaged herself from his embrace. She went to the door, opened it, turned, and looked at him in desperate longing. “I will always love you.” She walked out into the dark tunnel.

He heard Taurean speak to her.

The door shut firmly behind her.

Guardian stood frozen in place, his hands heavy at his sides.

He had never been so alone.

Davidov got out a new pewter tankard. “You two remind me of Romeo and Juliet.”

“The play?”

“No, the actual kids.” Davidov chose a different keg, one at the far end of the bar.

“Sure.” Guardian lifted one foot, then the other, and moved himself back to his seat. “I need to get drunk.”

The liquid that streamed from Davidov’s tap was dark amber, unfiltered, almost without foam. When the tankard was full to the brim, Davidov placed it on the bar. “This will get you more than drunk. Trust me. I always serve my patrons exactly the right brew at exactly the right time.” With a flick of the wrist, he shot it down the bar to Guardian.

Guardian caught the mug, pulled the brew toward him, and took a sip. Hearty. Toasty. Almost beefy. “This is fabulous.” He didn’t know why, but he was surprised. “What is it?”

“It’s an ale originally brewed in the Ukraine as far back as the Middle Ages.”

Guardian tipped the tankard back and drained half in a single long swallow. “In the Ukraine?”

“The Wilders are from the Ukraine.”

Guardian put the tankard on the bar. “Yeah. Why that brew for me?”

“Quaff up.”

“Quaff up?” Guardian guffawed, and drank once more.

“Charisma forgot to tell you one thing about Aleksandr Wilder.” Standing in the shadows at the end of the bar, Davidov looked almost sinister.

“What is that?” The percentage of alcohol in this ale must be over the moon, because Guardian felt the kick already.

“One of the reasons Aleksandr was picked to join the Chosen Ones was because the Chosen Ones frequently sport a mark or a tattoo somewhere on their bodies that gives hints at their gifts.”

“She told me something about that. The marks expand when they fall in love.” The room spun once, and tilted.

“Aleksandr Wilder had no gift.” Davidov wandered closer. He still looked sinister. “But he had a mark.”

That helped Guardian focus. “What mark? Where?”

“On his chest. It starts on his left shoulder.”

Guardian slid his hand under his tunic and groped his own shoulder.

“It extends across his chest.”

Guardian dug under the fur on his body, followed the raised pattern across his chest.

Davidov’s voice was soothing, but his words burst like fireworks in Guardian’s mind. “The colors are the same as the ones sported by the Wilder family. But according to Aleksandr’s grandfather, the grand old man, Konstantine Wilder, the pattern has never been seen before.”

Guardian put his chin down on his chest, parted the hair, and looked.

A beautiful decoration of reds, blacks, and blues was hidden beneath the fur. “Shit,” Guardian said in a daze. “It’s true. I’m Aleksandr Wilder.”

The room listed like the
Titanic
when it struck the iceberg.

In slow motion, Guardian looked up at Davidov. “What did you put in this ale?”

“Vitamins. Minerals. A hallucinogenic.” Davidov observed Guardian’s eyeballs roll back in his head, his knees collapse. Watched him crumple to the floor. “We can’t wait for you to remember in your own time,” he said to Aleksandr’s unconscious body. “So that brew will open the floodgates.”

Turning, Davidov went into the back room, collected a pillow and blanket out of the closet, went back. He lifted Guardian’s big, hairy head and slipped the pillow under it, threw the blanket over the long body.

Going to his computer, he reflected on how incredibly handy these gadgets were, and wondered why it had taken people so long to figure them out.

Flipping through his contacts, he found the one he wanted and made the call.

It took five rings, but at last a face filled his screen.

Konstantine Wilder. The old man looked older, but still hearty, annoyed at being interrupted from whatever he’d been doing, and then . . . astonished. “Vidar Davidov? Is that you?”

“It is indeed. Greetings, Konstantine.”

“You don’t look any different than you did the last time I saw you . . .
sixty years ago
.” At the last three words, Konstantine’s genial voice boomed out.

“I don’t change. That doesn’t matter. I have news. Important news.” Davidov pushed the subject of his eternal youth aside. “Konstantine, I’ve found your grandson. I have Aleksandr Wilder.”

Chapter 36

“I
n the nineteenth century, mansions abounded on the Lower East Side of New York City, packed onto the city lots with very little green space. But no luxury was spared when designing the impressive exteriors and opulent interiors, and many of those homes remain today. Of course, a lot of the mansions have been turned into museums and high-end restaurants.” Taurean led Charisma south on Third Avenue, sounding like the city’s most informative tour guide.

It was late afternoon, yet the sun was dim in the sky. The smell of smoke wafted through the smoggy air. Toward the East River, a fire lit the sky. Sirens shrieked. People hurried along the streets, glancing behind them, too aware, too frightened.

The city was dying.

Charisma felt like dying, too. At least that would relieve the pain of leaving Guardian behind. It was worse than anything she’d ever felt.

Yes, she would be glad to see her friends. She missed the Chosen Ones. They were warriors, comrades who had together faced battle time and again. They had one another’s backs, always, and that built a closeness that went beyond friendship.

She was bringing them great news. Because of her adventures in the tunnels below New York, she had possibly found their long-lost comrade. They would be so excited. They’d go to Davidov’s. They’d set eyes on Guardian. . . .

And he was right.

No matter how much she told them about what had happened to him, no matter how much she prepared them for his appearance, they’d be shocked and incredulous. They’d watch him surreptitiously. They’d avoid his gaze.

Because it was one thing to have seen the inhuman creatures crawling out of the gutters, to know that monsters existed. It was another to see a friend who had been so altered as to be unrecognizable. Men who returned from war, scarred and mutilated, had suffered such travails: society’s embarrassment and the discomfort of their friends.

Cheerfully oblivious to Charisma’s turmoil, Taurean continued with her travelogue. “Also, as you can see, with the current warfare on the streets, the entire area is in danger of imploding. Rival gangs are confiscating homes and using them as bases, destroying the priceless antiques and works of art within. Frequently the mansions are private homes that are occupied when they move in. Needless to say, the families are tossed out or murdered. The police are helpless—or, in the case of those whom Osgood owns, they look the other way. Demons are appearing, mostly at night, and catching lone people on the streets and devouring them. They always leave faces. . . .”

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you,” Charisma muttered.

Taurean proved she had good hearing. “They are after
you
. All of you. If the Chosen Ones don’t save the world, you’re all going to die a horrible and painful death. And that will be better than living in the world left behind.”

“You’re cheerful,” Charisma said.

Taurean pondered that. “I’m crazy. I see things as they are, not as I want them to be.”

“That’s important for me to remember.”

“That I’m crazy?”

“No. That I should see things as they are, too.” Because no matter how awkward the meeting between Guardian and the Chosen Ones would be, something wonderful could come out of it. They would join hands. And if that searing approval zipped through them, if confirmation occurred that Guardian was indeed Aleksandr Wilder, and if in addition he was indeed Charisma’s true mate . . . the fire would strengthen them for this last, great battle.

It was their only chance.

But no matter how Charisma twisted and turned things in her mind, even when she visualized victory for the Chosen Ones, she couldn’t imagine a life afterward for her and Guardian.

He was a beast, hairy and abnormal.

She didn’t care; she loved him.

But even at the best of times, in the real world he would be treated with horror. At the best he would be an object of scorn, a headline on the scandal sheets beside the checkout counter in every grocery store. At worst, he would be a thing to be imprisoned, observed, dissected.

No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t live forever belowground. Sooner or later she’d go mad from the darkness and the stifling air, from longing for a life in the sunshine.

Guardian couldn’t live above.

As Davidov said, a wolf might love a bird, but where would they make their home?

“I don’t even know why I’m worried about the future,” Charisma told Taurean. “From the way things look up here, the Chosen Ones don’t stand a chance of surviving.”

“The monsters have always been out there. Human monsters. But now even the monsters are afraid.” Taurean pointed at one of the mansions. “Like in there.”

“The Becker mansion?”

“I worked in there. The monsters hurt me. Human monsters. I hope the demons eat them. All of them. I don’t want the demons to leave even their bones.”

Charisma had never imagined the shy, gentle, awkward Taurean could be so rancorous. But Charisma said, “I’ve met Mr. Ambrose Becker. He’s a vicious, disgusting pig.”

“So is his brother. And his cousin. I want their names, their bodies, their memories wiped from the face of the earth.” Taurean’s tone went from ominous to bright. “Here we are! Irving’s mansion!”

“Yes. And my home for almost seven years.” Charisma sagged with relief to be here. “The place looks the same.” Unlike the rest of the mansions defaced with graffiti and with boarded-up windows.

“Tall, grand, a home built for display,” Taurean said. “It’s the last fort that will fall.”

“There’s some comfort in that.” Charisma started up the front steps.

“No!” Taurean sprang after her and stopped her with a hand on her arm. “We go around by the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“That’s where the food is.”

“Of course.” Because someone who lived on the streets and in the tunnels knew her priorities.

At the corner, Taurean cautiously peered around, then sidled down the wall toward the kitchen.

Charisma followed, not sidling but staying close to the mansion.

The city had a claustrophobic feel to it, as if no one here should show themselves as a target, as if everyone here were trapped and no amount of struggle could free them.

Dropping to the ground, Taurean struggled in a low crawl to the basement kitchen window. She plastered herself against the glass and knocked hard. “It’s Taurean!” she shouted. “Remember me?” She must have gotten a positive response, because she pointed to Charisma, then at the door, and crawled in that direction.

Charisma walked around, and when McKenna opened the door, she cried, “McKenna!”

When she had first come to live at the mansion, she and the stuffy butler had often butted heads.

In the intervening years, either she had grown more straitlaced or he had loosened up, because she tried to rush forward, into the familiar safety of the house McKenna ruled with an iron hand so she could hug him, kiss his shaven cheeks.

Taurean strong-armed her back. “No! It’s a dangerous passage. We have to stay low.” Seating herself on the stairs, she inched her way down on her bottom. Turning back to Charisma, she said, “Come on. Don’t be afraid. You’ll be okay.”

Sometimes Taurean seemed so normal that Charisma couldn’t help but wonder whether she was messing with her now.

Then she remembered Taurean’s revealing words about the Beckers, and she sat on the stairs and bumped her way down.

At the bottom, McKenna helped Taurean to her feet, and then Charisma to hers, and when Charisma flung her arms around his neck, he beamed. “I am so glad to see you, Miss Charisma. So glad. The Chosen will be thrilled.”

“They really are all back?” At the thought of seeing her friends, a little of the burden Charisma carried lifted from her heart.

“Just back.” McKenna’s voice, with his hint of a Scottish burr, was as comforting as hot chocolate on a cold day. “What good timing you have!”

“I came as soon as I got the message you sent.”

“Message?” McKenna frowned. “What message?”

“The one about returning to see Isabelle.”

“I didn’t send a message.”

“Somebody did. Taurean told me. Taurean, who . . . ?” Charisma turned to face Taurean.

But Taurean was gone, fleeing without a word.