Wilder (21 page)

Chapter 39

G
uardian opened his eyes.

He remembered where he was: in Davidov’s brew pub.

He remembered what had happened: Davidov had spiked his ale.

While he was unconscious, his whole life had paraded across his brain, playing like a bad drama on the big screen.

He remembered growing up in Washington, surrounded by his boisterous, funny, devoted family.

He remembered coming to New York to go to school.

He remembered meeting Iskra, tutoring her . . . falling in love. That first, bright burst of ecstasy when every moment smelled like springtime and every touch of her hand was cherished.

Then . . . there was the uneasiness.

Why didn’t she want to meet his friends? His family? Why did she urge him to abandon them?

But every time he returned to her arms, every time he looked into her sparkling brown eyes, he forgot his disquiet and basked in his luck at winning her.

In disgust, he flung off the blanket, staggered up off the wooden floor. He stood, swaying, trying to get his balance, and he forced himself to remember it all: going to the courthouse to get married, realizing the courtroom was a trap, screaming at her to run, hearing her laughter like a knife to his heart.

He remembered being in the back of a van for three days, bumping along back roads. He remembered arriving at the facility, being shot with a tranquilizer gun before they removed him from the vehicle, and waking up on the operating table with Smith Bernhard leaning over him. Bernhard had explained that he demanded perfect specimens for his experiments, and then they performed the first operation: his hand, to separate his fingers, without anesthesia.

He remembered . . . everything.

Most of all, he remembered giving up Charisma to the world above. It was what pained him the most.

He looked down at himself, still hairy, still misshapen, still a beast.

His past didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. He had no freedom from the dark tunnels beneath the city, no chance to reunite with his family, no possibility of taking Charisma as his wife, of watching her swell with his children, of growing old and dying with her.

Davidov came out of the back room, and the handsome bastard had the guts to look concerned. “You okay?”

“I am the Guardian.”

“Yes.”

“I am also Aleksandr Wilder.”

“Yes.”

“I have no future.”

“Not true!”

“Face facts, Davidov. This is the end of days. If I don’t do my job,
no one’s
going to have a future.” He walked to the door. “Call me when the Chosen Ones arrive, and I’ll go with them into battle. Until then, I feel the urge to indulge my wild side. I’m going to go battle some demons.”

At the sound of a door closing, Charisma woke.

Where was she? What time was it?

Where was Guardian?

She was in Irving’s mansion. It was the middle of the night. And someone had placed a tray beside her bed with a flute of champagne, a yellow rose in a black glass vase—and a pair of red patent-leather stiletto heels by Lanvin.

Picking them up, Charisma stroked them, held them, put them on . . . and cried herself back to sleep.

The next time Charisma woke, sunshine streamed through her bedroom windows, and she pressed her hands against her eyes and groaned.

She had that
I’ve been crying too hard
hangover, complete with headache and a dragged-down depression, and the earth’s call hummed in her ears like a bad case of tinnitus. She needed distraction, something to improve her mood. . . .

Turning on her side, she gazed at her stiletto heels on her nightstand where she had posed them. Reaching out a worshipful hand, she stroked her shoes as if they were her pets.

Guardian had sent her shoes back to her.

What kind of guy recognized her obsession with glorious shoes? What kind of guy, in the middle of a war, after a heartbreaking separation, arranged to somehow present her with supershiny, fire engine red, absurdly high heels? And then, after they separated, what kind of a guy fixed it so she woke to the sight of those heels after they had separated?

She rubbed the tickle in her nose.

Guardian . . . It was something only he would do.

Someone knocked firmly on the door.

As she sat up, Charisma groaned again. She flung her feet over the edge of the mattress and mumbled, “Shit!”

Taking her precious shoes, she slid them out of sight under the bed.

Another knock.

“I’m coming!” she yelled, went to the door in her scruffy pajamas, and opened it a crack.

She expected to see one of the Chosen Ones telling her it was time to go down to Davidov’s brew pub to meet Aleksandr.

Instead, there was Martha holding a breakfast tray and looking grim. “Miss Fangorn, Mother Catherine at St. Madeleine’s Orphanage sent word.”

Charisma wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “Sent word?”

“Their phone and Internet appear to be out, and the convent is being attacked by creatures they don’t . . . they don’t recognize.”

“Demons.” The scarred remains of the bite on Charisma’s shoulder gave a throb.

Martha nodded. “Sister Mary Louise said they looked like living gargoyles.”

“Sister Mary Louise came here . . . ?”

“And asked for help. Yes.”

Charisma didn’t cherish a lot of fond thoughts about demons.

Unfortunately, she also didn’t cherish a lot of fond thoughts about orphanages. She pretty much figured they were all lumpy oatmeal and cold baths. But Mother Superior Catherine Mary St. Ignacious had been running the orphanage at St. Maddie’s since Charisma had come to the city, and, as old as she was, probably since the orphanage had been founded about a hundred and fifty years ago. Under Mother Catherine’s guidance, the nuns really cared for their kids, and protected the ones who had gifts. Charisma had become a fan.

Charisma opened the door al
l the way. She didn’t want to; Martha was a neat freak, and when she saw the plethora of books, stones, weapons, paintbrushes, and canvases Charisma had stacked around, she would do her patented icy-housekeeper routine. Martha always made Charisma feel like a chastised child. But Charisma wanted the breakfast, so she braved Martha’s irritated glare to take the tray. “Thank you. Please, would you tell the other Chosen?”

“The Chosen Ones were called earlier to an attack on a subway station on Broadway. You were still sleeping. They’re gone.”

Charisma stared at Martha in dismay while chaotic thoughts tumbled through her brain. “They’re gone? I’m alone?” Left to fight demons alone?

“I called Mr. John’s cell phone,” Martha continued. “No one answered, so the battle must be heated.”

“I’ll bet.” Charisma had fought demons alone before. She’d done it successfully, too. It was just that last time, things hadn’t gone so well.

She’d feel more confident if she were prepared. If only she’d had the stamina to work out a little more, train a little harder. If only . . . if only she could go back to bed and sleep for twenty-four more hours. “Okay. I’ll get dressed and go down to the orphanage. I can do some damage. At least I can keep the demons away until the other Chosen Ones return.”

“I told that to Sister Mary Louise.” Martha nodded emphatically. “I told her you would save them.”

At least, Charisma thought, she wouldn’t have time to brood over her lost love.

And wow! That was looking on the bright side. With an eye to preserving her strength, Charisma said, “Ask McKenna if he’ll drive me to St. Maddie’s.”

Martha slowly shook her head.

“Oh. I suppose he drove the Chosen Ones to their battle?”

“I’m afraid so,” Martha said. “You can take one of the bicycles.”

“That’ll work.” Much to Martha’s disgust, the Chosen Ones kept a couple of sweet Cyfac racing bikes in the foyer. “St. Maddie’s is only a few blocks.”

Charisma snatched bites of oatmeal and fruit while she dressed in her jeans and leather jacket and gathered her weapons: two Glocks, fully loaded, knives and daggers stashed up her sleeve and down her boot, and her favorite weapon for fighting at close quarters—a medieval flail with a wooden handle attached to a chain and, at the end of the chain, a heavy iron ball with spikes.

She was good with the flail. The wildly swinging iron morning star blew through the squishy-bodied demons with marvelous efficiency.

When she was ready, she headed for Irving’s room.

Martha caught her before she got to his room. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to report to Irving.” Because the Chosen Ones always reported to Irving. John was their leader. Irving was their mentor—and their heart.

“He’s asleep!” Martha said sharply.

“Oh. But he likes to know. . . . Is he having a bad day?”

“He’s old,” Martha snapped. “Of course he’s having a bad day.”

“Okay.” Apparently
Martha
was having a bad day, too.

Turning the opposite direction, Charisma descended the stairs and moved toward the basement.

From the landing above, Martha asked, “Now where are you going?”

“We always gather in the kitchen after a battle. I want to leave them a note so they’ll see it right away and come to help—”

“I left a message on John’s cell.”

“Sometimes after a successful battle, they don’t remember to check their mes—”

“I’ll text for you. And I’ll tell them
as soon as
they get home.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your duties.” Because Martha was known to be sharp and cranky when she couldn’t keep to her schedule. Not like she wasn’t anyway.

“I’ll take care of the matter,” Martha said.

“Okay. Okay. Thanks.”

Charisma grabbed her bike and headed for the front door; she realized that seven years of work and worry—and hopelessness—were grinding at Martha, and probably at McKenna, too, and all too often the Chosen Ones took their services for granted.

On her way back, she would stop and grab Martha some flowers and a card. Then, when Charisma had time, she would clean her room.

Remembering the layer of dust on her nightstand, she planned for a
big
bouquet of flowers.

Flowers were like a promise of a better day.

Chapter 40

I
rving tapped his fingers on the library table. He looked around his beloved personal library, at the stacks of books and research material the Chosen Ones had flung hither and yon in their search for the key to open the still stubbornly closed metal box.

In their search for an answer, the Chosen Ones really believed that with enough investigation, they could find the answer to the question,
How do we break the spell that holds the box in thrall and free the feather?

It never occurred to them there might not
be
an answer.

These Chosen Ones were young. So young. And earnest. In all his years as director of the Gypsy Travel Agency, he had never seen such dedication, such perception, such maturity gained in so short a time. They made him proud to be their mentor . . . although at the beginning, he had never intended to last the whole seven years.

He thought perhaps he had survived because the Chosen Ones had dragged him along in their energy wake.

Of course, in his business, it behooved him to consider that fate had been only waiting for the proper moment to take him.

For a moment in his mind he felt a brief flutter of protest.

He frowned. Interesting, that. He had considered himself to be resigned to the idea of dying. Although he would like to serve some higher purpose with his death . . .

Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the box again.

When Martha moved into his line of vision, he jumped and gasped. “Martha!”

Inside his head, he clearly heard a woman’s voice.
Oh, it’s that bitch.

He subdued an inner leap of excitement . . . and a smile.

At last. Dina had returned to him.

Martha waved and pointed at her ear.

He dug his hearing aids out of his pocket and put them on. “There,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to ask if you or the Chosen made any advances on freeing the feather from the box.”

“Here you see it.” He indicated the box with his cupped hand. “Still locked tightly.”

You finally got the box out of the safety-deposit box?
It was Dina’s voice in his head again, stronger this time.

He knew she felt his agreement, and kept his attention on Martha.

Sadly, Martha said, “It’s a shame that the Chosen Ones are wasting so much valuable time on trying to open the box when the time left is now counted in minutes.”

She must be shaking in her boots that she threw her lot in with the losers. Martha always wants to come out on top.
Dina’s sarcasm was awesome and biting.

Irving knew Dina was right: Martha despised the situation and the people who had failed to resolve it. He also recognized a vicious case of sibling rivalry when he saw it; after all, Dina and Martha were sisters.

Yeah, it’s true,
Dina admitted.
She was always pissed that I had a gift, and royally pissed when I joined the Others, and cosmically pissed when you and I hooked up. After all, she’s so much purer than me.

“Mr. Shea?” Martha waved her hand at him. “Are you okay? Or do you need new batteries for your hearing aids?”

“New batteries might be a good idea,” he agreed. Better that than telling her Dina was back. “Top drawer of my bedside table.”

Martha went into the other room.

He pushed his wheelchair over to the window and looked out.

There Dina was, standing on the street, smoking her cigarette and looking up at him.

She was the most powerful mind-speaker he’d ever met. With everyone else, she could project her thoughts into their brains and they heard her as clearly as a loudspeaker.

With him, all he had to do was think and she understood him. So he thought,
I’ve been waiting for you.

It wasn’t safe before,
she answered.

It’s still not safe,
he warned.

No, but Osgood is distracted, busy preparing the papers that give him ownership of the world.

You could come in here with me. I’d keep you safe.

I would only do that if I were dying. Or you were.

Regret pierced him.
Sorry to disappoint you. I’m the healthiest almost century-old man you’re ever going to meet.
And he turned away from the window.

Don’t be like that,
she coaxed.
It’s not that I don’t want to see you. It’s that . . .

You don’t trust me.

A pause.
Yes, I do.

Years ago, when they were young, he had used her, betrayed her, and abandoned her. Because of him, the Others had had her nose split from forehead to tip, a dreadful punishment that left her scarred and outcast.

He had earned her suspicion. He had no right now to wish he had been a better man.

“I can’t find the batteries, Mr. Shea,” Martha called.

“Forgive an old fool.” Irving tapped his forehead ruefully. “I moved the batteries to the drawer in the headboard.”

Dina’s warm chuckle sounded in his head.
For an old guy, you’re wily.

Old age has to be good for something. Pretending forgetfulness is it.

I know.

You’re still young.

No. Not even compared to you, my darling.
She pulled out another cigarette.
So what’s in the box?

A feather from Lucifer’s descent from heaven to hell.

The lighter paused halfway to her mouth.
Now, that’s interesting. What does it do?

We’re not sure, but we are almost sure it has something to do with one of Jacqueline’s prophecies.

Dina laughed so hard she went into a paroxysm of coughing.
Fucking prophecies.

“Here you go, Mr. Shea.” Martha offered him the two tiny batteries.

“I can’t replace them, dear. My fingers aren’t steady enough.” He held out his hand to show her the palsy that shook him.

“Give them to me.” Martha held out her hand impatiently.

Meekly, he handed over his hearing aids.

When did she get so snappish?
Dina asked.

“We’re all a little tense,” he said out loud.

Martha looked up, startled and confused, and said something.

He tapped his ear again.

She shrugged and went back to work inserting the battery—which he was completely able to do himself.

So how are you going to extract that feather from the box?
Dina asked.

That’s the question,
he replied, but this time he remembered to keep his mouth shut.

Martha offered him the hearing aids.

He put them in and smiled. “Thank you, dear. I don’t know what we would do without you.”

“I don’t either,” Martha said sharply. “I keep thinking about what Samuel asked last night.”

He observed as she fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. “What’s that?”

“He wondered what would happen if someone just flipped the latch and opened the box?” Nervous. Martha was nervous.

“I’ve wondered that, too.”

“Which makes me worry. The dear boy is so impetuous.”

Irving lifted his eyebrows—no small feat for a man with the weighty equivalent of Gandalf’s eyebrows. “The dear boy?”

The dear boy?
Dina echoed.
She hates kids.

They’re hardly kids.

Compared to her, they are.

Crabby,
he thought appreciatively.

“Isabelle said he was not to open the box. But if we don’t get it open soon, you know he’ll try it.” Martha spoke loudly and slowly, enunciating every word as if she knew she was competing for his attention.

She certainly had it, although probably not for the reasons she hoped. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Martha said. “But it could be dangerous.”

“It could,” Irving agreed.

What’s her angle?
Dina’s voice echoed his own question.

Martha continued. “Isabelle said it best—which of the Chosen Ones can we afford to sacrifice?”

That bitch.
In his mind’s eye, Irving could see Dina tossing down her cigarette and, with a dramatic flourish, stomping on it.
She wants
you
to do it!

I intended to, anyway.

Bullshit, Irving.

Dina, I’m old. I’ve been atoning for my sins committed on this earth for a very long time—and my biggest sin was against you. It’s time for me to meet my maker. Surely you can understand that? And approve?

She didn’t answer.

“Mr. Shea?” Martha stepped close to the table. “Are you all right? You look . . . distant.”

He listened for another few minutes. Was Dina gone again? “I’m fine, Martha. Thank you.”

Now Martha spoke too quickly, as if she had a schedule to meet. “Did you hear me when I asked which of the Chosen Ones could be sacrificed to open the box?”

“Yes. I heard you. Both times.” In his mind, he continued.
The question for me is—why are you urging me on this course?

“Because the bitch wants the feather for herself.” Dina had run into the house and up the stairs. Now she stood in the doorway of Irving’s bedroom suite. Her chest heaved; her eyes flamed.

Martha flung herself around to face the intruder. “You! What are you doing here?”

Irving had forgotten how much the sisters resembled each other.

Both were handsome rather than pretty, sturdily built rather than thin, with dark, gray-streaked hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin that betrayed their Romany heritage. Yet they were nothing alike.

Martha had elected to serve the Chosen Ones.

Dina had joined the Others.

Martha had served him long and well as his housekeeper, and he appreciated that.

More than fifty years ago, he and Dina had conducted a violent, passionate love affair, and it ended badly. His fault.

Yet he loved Dina. Loved her with an affection that only increased with age and distance.

Now the sisters faced each other like the adversaries they were.

Aggressive and angry, Dina slammed the door hard enough to make his collection of skulls rattle on the shelves. She paced around Martha. “What are you going to do with it, sister? Who are you going to give the feather to? Did you finally realize the Chosen Ones’ ship was sinking? Did you feel the ice water lapping at your feet? Your thighs?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Martha watched her as if she were a circling shark. “You shouldn’t be bothering Mr. Shea. You shouldn’t be here at all.”

“But I am,” Dina said. “And I heard everything you said. I was in Irving’s head. You want him to open that box and take the chance that he’ll be obliterated.”

“The box needs to be opened. The feather needs to be rescued to fulfill the prophecy and save the world from being overtaken by the Others.” Martha lowered her voice. “Having him try to open it is not such a stupid idea. He’s close to one hundred years old, after all.”

“New hearing aid batteries, Martha,” he reminded her.

She whipped her head around to glare at him, then whipped back to face Dina.

“So you were encouraging Irving to open the box for the good of the Chosen Ones and to increase the likelihood that good will defeat evil.” Dina smiled with cruel mockery. “Did you intend to remain in the room while he sacrificed himself?”

Martha leaped for the door.

Dina tackled her around the waist, slammed her against the table.

Martha gasped in pain, then twisted and pushed Dina to the ground.

Dina came up at once, gold candleholder in hand, and smacked Martha across the side of the head.

Martha staggered.

Dina caught her in her arms. She looked over her half-conscious sister at Irving.
Do it. We can never be together in this life. Too much divides us. Maybe we can be together in the next.

“I love you,” he said aloud. He ripped open the latch and threw back the lid of the box.

Magic roared out in an explosion that rocked the walls, blowing out and up in a blast of heat and light that disintegrated every life-form in the room.

Then, like a cool breeze, it slid across the shelves, ruffled the pages on the open books, whipped through the empty-eyed skulls, and dissipated as if it had never been, leaving only a three-foot-long gleaming white feather floating, suspended, above the box that had been its home.