Wilder (28 page)

Chapter 53

T
he elevator dinged. Stopped. The doors opened onto the roof, concrete-clad and bare of seating or plants. A low, ornate Italianate balustrade surrounded the perimeter.

Charisma could hear the wind howling, but here, in the center of the storm, everything was preternaturally still. Blinding flashes of lightning snaked out of the clouds, slapping the earth, and the smell of sulfur filled the air. Black clouds swirled in violent circles around the building, while in a single patch in the middle of the roof, the sun shone.

There, in the only patch of light left in the world, Osgood, arms upraised, called on heaven to watch as he wreaked death and destruction.

Good thing he’s got his back to me. . . .
Charisma glanced longingly at the down button.

Then some asshole must have called the elevator, probably Samuel, because the down arrow lit.

And Charisma had to make her decision. Her
final
decision.

Heart pounding, she slipped between the closing doors and onto the roof. There was no going back now. She was stuck.

“Miss Fangorn!” Osgood’s voice made her jump. “I’m so glad you decided to join my little party. It wouldn’t have been complete without you.”

His back was turned.

How did he know it was her?

Security camera in the elevator. Of course.

But she knew it wasn’t that easy. She’d glimpsed Osgood only once, been surprised at how mild, short, and old he looked, like an employee in the Boring and Boring Accounting Firm. That had been three years ago; they had never officially met.

Yet they knew each other. They shared a war. For seven long years they had been opponents. She had watched and fought as his power grew. He had watched as she survived against all odds. They were enemies, forever opposed.

Now she had to do more than survive. She had to win.

Kneeling, she unwrapped the blue cloth from around the feathers. She picked them up, held them uncertainly.

If only they came with an instruction guide. How did she attach these things? Why hadn’t she asked? She twisted, got first one, then the other to touch her shoulder blades.

Nothing happened.

Should she take off her blue blouse? Here in the sunlight? With Osgood on the roof and the apocalypse approaching?

That seemed so wrong.

Maybe if she just held one under each arm and jumped.

That seemed stupid.

But when did jumping off a tall building not seem stupid?

While she puzzled, one of the feathers took on a life of its own. It twisted out of her grip and skittered away.

She gasped, stood, groped for it.

As if dragged on a chain, the feather moved in jerks . . . toward Osgood.

He turned to face her.

He was still a mild-looking, stooped, and skinny old man with mottled skin. But his eyes were no longer a nondescript hazel. They glowed an eerie blue.

The devil looked out from Osgood’s soul.

His voice was quiet, yet she clearly heard him above the shriek of the spinning wind. “Miss Fangorn, you were very foolish bringing that feather here. It’s
mine
. It was part of
my
wings. I control it. It’s mine to use.” He spun his finger.

The feather whipped in a circle, faster and faster, a blur of white.

“Mine to destroy.”

The feathers were indestructible.

Weren’t they? Charisma stoutly said, “You already tried to destroy them once. You stuck that one in tons of concrete at the base of this building. It escaped. The feather won’t be contained.”

“That feather is still there.” Then he caught a glimpse of the second feather, the one she hid behind her back. With slowly rising fury, he asked, “What’s that, Miss Fangorn? Is it possible? Did you somehow obtain
both
feathers?”

“
We
did. The Chosen Ones.”

His voice surged. “What did the Chosen Ones intend to do with them, Miss Fangorn? Did the Chosen Ones plan to pay heed to the ancient prophecy?”

“The
ancient
prophecy?” No, it was Jacqueline’s prophecy that Charisma had heard. “What
ancient
prophecy?”

Chagrin passed over Osgood’s face.

Then the second feather jerked out of her grasp and slapped her hard across the face as it flipped into the air.

She cupped her stinging cheek.

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Fangorn. If you wish to fly, I can help you off the edge right now.”

He avoided the subject of the ancient prophecy.

She reached an inescapable conclusion—Osgood knew of an ancient prophecy, and he feared it.

So Jacqueline had nailed the truth. With those feathers, Charisma could fly, and when she did, Osgood’s reign of terror would be over.

Wow
. That was the best news Charisma had received for days. Months.

A gust of wind made her stagger toward the balustrade.

The feathers followed her.

Osgood
followed her. “You shouldn’t take these prophecies seriously.”

“You believe the prophecy is false. Let me prove it. Let me have the feathers and jump. If you’re right, I’ll plunge to my death.”

He lifted an admonishing finger.

Pain lanced into her brain.

“Do you know how many prophecies there are? How many crackpots and charlatans have made their living telling the ignorant and the desperate that they could read the future?” His voice pounded at her head.

She fell to her knees.

Relentlessly he continued. “Are you ignorant, Miss Fangorn? Or are you merely desperate?”

“I am hopeful,” she whispered.

“The more fool you. Look around! Hope is dying. Soon, very soon, it will be dead. Dead for a thousand years. I will reign for a millennium. It will be a new ice age, a new dark age. But you’ll die first.” Osgood stood over her. “Did you realize the demon’s venom is fatal, Miss Fangorn?”

The pain. She couldn’t speak for the pain.

He pulled his hand back.

The pain eased. She sagged. She gasped. “Yes. I know.”

“You know you’re dying.” He chortled. “No wonder you face the idea of jumping off the roof with such equanimity. When you already know you’re facing the long dirt nap, it’s not such a big sacrifice, is it?”

She had to keep trying. “If your ancient prophecy is false, give me the feathers and I’ll jump.”

He lifted his finger again.

Pain ripped into her heart. She gripped her chest, rolled, and moaned.

Still she could hear him speaking his words of misery, cruelty, and despair. “You Chosen Ones have done well. You survived the destruction of the Gypsy Travel Agency on this very site. You thrived without training, with few books, with little knowledge. . . . You should not have survived at all.”

Through her agony, she noted his vexation.

He continued chatting as politely as if they dined in a tearoom. “Did you notice the measures I used to keep you and young Wilder apart?”

“Iskra.” She gasped.

“From the first moment young Wilder arrived in New York, he never had a chance.” Osgood dug his fingers into her cheeks and turned her face to his. “On your way up, did you by chance run into Bernhard? He has such plans for young Wilder.”

“Aleksandr will win.”

“Still hopeful. How touching. Young Wilder has no chance.”

“Always a chance.” Her gaze fixed on the feathers hovering just out of reach. “Give me the feathers and I’ll prove it.”

Her ribs squeezed her lungs. Squeezed . . . she couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t breathe.

“You never had a chance, either. When he escaped from Bernhard, I sent Ronnie to you. But you saw through him before you killed him. . . . Miss Fangorn, that’s when I truly gained respect for you.” Osgood was sarcastic. “For your endurance.”

She started to slip from consciousness.

“Whoops. Can’t have that.” Osgood released her.

She gasped, sucked in air, took pleasure in breathing. In. Out. In.

Oxygen. Great stuff.

“But, Miss Fangorn, while you and Mr. Wilder have kept me greatly entertained for the last seven years, I am no longer amused.” Osgood’s glowing eyes blazed into hers. “To think that after all my efforts, after Iskra and Ronnie and so many obstacles, you could still find each other, still create a child.”

A child.

The two words fell into Charisma’s consciousness like a pair of dropped cymbals.

A child.

She was going to have a child.

Chapter 54

“A
s I told you,” Osgood said, “I don’t believe in prophecies. But this child of yours . . . she cannot be born.”

A child. Charisma’s child. And Aleksandr’s.

He pointed out, “So it’s convenient that your death is minutes away.”

No
. She carried a baby!

Osgood’s voice became a warm, pleasant croon. The blue glow of his eyes burned like coals. “Can you feel the demon’s venom moving through your veins? The approaching chill of death?”

Charisma could. And did.

She turned her head away. But nothing could stop Osgood. He was activating the poison, encouraging it to take her.

“Do you remember the hours after you were bitten? The convulsions? The delirium? The fever?”

“No.” Behind him, the stairway door was opening.

“You’ll remember this time.” Osgood glanced at his Timex. “Although I don’t have hours.”

A creature stepped through the door. A beast of unspeakable horror, not really man, not really wolf, its fur matted with gore.

Cheerfully, Osgood said, “Only a few minutes left until the apocalypse. So I’ll hurry your death along.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

Blood dribbled from the beast’s chest onto the ground.

It glanced at Charisma, dismissed her.

The poor thing looked about half-dead from the gunshot wound in its chest.

Then it fixed its gaze on Osgood . . . and the beast had Aleksandr’s eyes.

She caught her breath and turned it into a long inhale.

Aleksandr. That thing was Aleksandr. And he was hurt.

Abruptly he bounded toward Osgood, his gaze fixed on his back. Closer and closer, lips peeled back, teeth exposed, claws . . .

Osgood flipped his hand.

With a yelp, the creature somersaulted into the air. Blood and fur flew. He landed on his back.

Osgood turned with a snarl that would have done the beast proud. “You! You survive. And
survive
. Why don’t you take the hint and die?”

Aleksandr struggled to his feet. He crouched there, a wolf creature waiting to explode into action.

Osgood observed him, then threw back his head and crowed with laughter. “Look at you! Look at those fangs, those claws, that misshapen form. That appearance must be a humiliation for you, son of the Wilders. You’re a throwback. A predator—but you’ve so thoroughly destroyed your own human form, you can never go back.”

“No!” Charisma shouted.

“Don’t worry, Miss Fangorn.” Osgood’s eyes gleamed with revolting pleasure. “When you are dead, I shall keep him like a pet.”

“No!” she shouted again.

“Didn’t you hear me? You’ll be worm’s meat. What do you care? But wait!” Osgood tapped his lips, and his eyes shone evilly. “Do you know what will be even more entertaining? Your beloved Aleksandr is half-mad with pain and rage anyway.
I’ll have him finish you
.”

“No,” she whispered. If Osgood succeeded in forcing Aleksandr to kill her . . . Aleksandr would never recover any semblance of himself. Never.

In a voice rich with magic and command, Osgood said, “Aleksandr, kill Charisma.”

Aleksandr crouched, balanced on feet and claws. His head turned. His eyes fixed on her, and in their depths she saw rage and frustration.

“Kill the female,” Osgood said. “Sink your teeth into her soft flesh. Disembowel her.”

“Geez, you’re a sick bastard!” Charisma protested.

Aleksandr stalked forward, gasping and dripping blood.

“Drink her fluids. Rend her limb from limb.” To a mindless beast, every word must be an incitement.

Aleksandr bounded over to crouch over Charisma. His hot breath touched her neck. Red foam flecked his black lips. His mouth opened, showing formidable teeth. . . .

Osgood laughed, fearsome peals that controlled the lightning in the heavens. “Aleksandr Wilder reverts to a form so vile not even his ancestor Konstantine could match it. Not even the original Konstantine ever stooped so low as to eat his lover! And Miss Charisma Fangorn . . . what a fitting sacrifice!” In a low, vicious tone, he added, “Don’t let her stones get caught in your throat.”

His lightning spread wildly across the clouds, spreading outward from the closing hole.

The crackling made Osgood look up, and laugh again with sheer, vicious joy.

Delicately, Aleksandr licked her cheek.

His touch, his breath, was so counter to her expectations that she turned her head and looked into his eyes.

Aleksandr. She recognized him. Aleksandr. He wasn’t a mindless beast. This was Aleksandr. Just . . . Aleksandr. Somewhere beneath the fur and the teeth, Aleksandr remained a sentient human.

She had to warn him. She had to tell him. . . . “Osgood is afraid of the prophecy,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t allow me to take the feathers and jump off the building.”

Aleksandr looked above them.

Both long, snowy white, perfectly formed feathers hovered over their heads.

She reached out her hand, straining to grasp them, then collapsed. “I’m too weak. I’m dying. Aleksandr, it’s all up to you.”

He gasped, a long, nerve-racking sound that made her press her hands to his chest.

So much blood . . . it matted his fur, slid onto her hands and made them sticky.

He was dying, too.
Oh, God. Oh, no.
“Aleksandr, can you do this? Can you fulfill the prophecy?”

Valiantly, he nodded.

His agreement sealed a bargain; the feathers lowered slowly onto his bare back. . . .

Charisma struggled up on her elbows to watch . . .

. . . as the feathers attached themselves against his shoulder blades.

“Fly,” she whispered. “Aleksandr . . . fly!”

Aleksandr tried to catch his breath.

Osgood turned back. He caught sight of them.

Seeing the look on that evil face, Charisma frantically pushed at Aleksandr. “Go!”

“Damn you!” Osgood said. Never had a curse sounded so sincere, so real. “You two never stop. And why? There are only two feathers left. I had wings! Whole wings! Still I fell from heaven. This building is one hundred and thirteen stories. With only two feathers, you won’t stop until you’ve buried
yourself
six feet under.”

The clouds paused in their circling. They started to close over the last bit of sunshine.

Osgood smiled, a slow, cruel smile. “Anyway, it’s too late. The deal is done!”

“Go!” Charisma said. “Fly! Aleksandr,
now
!”

With a last, long breath, Aleksandr snatched her into his arms.

“No! Not me.” She struggled. “Save your strength. You have to do it!”

He bounded forward, leaped onto the parapet.

She got a dizzying glance at the plunge to the ground.

“No!” Osgood shrieked.

Aleksandr leaped.

They plummeted.

The building flashed past. The wind tore at them. They spun like acrobats.

Charisma clung to Aleksandr, holding his fur, desperate and afraid.

Osgood was right. He was right.

The feathers were useless.

The ground rushed up at them.