Stone Angel

by Christina Dodd

  Isabelle turned to give Rosamund a big hug.

  Liam tried his best to hold in his chuckle. He had not expected the Chosen Ones to be so kind and so…chummy. The Others certainly weren’t like that. He’d never been friends with any of them, and the closest he’d ever been to any physical affection from the Others was when Johannes held him in place while Eric beat the living crap out of him after Sophia and Amanda’s capture.

  Amanda looked so alarmed about Rosamund’s comment that Liam jumped in to smooth things over. “I have no idea what the prophecy is. Osgood isn’t big on letting us lower minions in on the big plan.” Which was true enough. “But I promise I won’t tell the Others that you’re all coupled up. Though it would answer some of their queries about what all of you do in here all day.”

  The Chosen Ones seemed to relax, laughing softly.

  “Amanda’s plan is not without merit. Not that we should give anyone that particular tidbit but it is definitely information the Others would want.” Turning toward Amanda, Irving placed one cold hand atop the hand she had tightly clasped around her fork, a piece of sausage still speared on the end. “Amanda, I agree with your idea of pretending to have information. I feel I should warn you that it is a dangerous game you’ll have to play. If they capture you, they’ll torture you for any information about the prophecy.”

  Liam drew himself up in his chair. “I won’t let that happen.”

  Irving turned his dark eyes on Liam, piercing him with a direct stare. “Mr. Gallagher, you are a brave man. But you are only one man. Don’t pretend to be an army. Understand your own limitations or this plan could go terribly wrong.”

  “Yes, sir.” Liam slumped like a chastised child. “But I will try my best to keep her safe.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Gallagher. That’s the most I can ask — and I wish you both the best of luck.”

  With that Irving pushed himself slowly back from the table.

  McKenna grabbed the handles of his wheelchair.

  Irving turned to Martha. “Martha, dear, would you be so kind as to send whatever scrumptious dessert you have planned this evening up to my room?” He looked tired.

  “Of course.” Martha’s voice was clipped, but Amanda could sense her worry. Irving never left the table before dessert.

  Amanda started to rise from her seat, ready to prepare Irving for bed. He waved her off. “Stay down here. Eat dessert. Work out any kinks in the plan.” His smile was kind. “Martha will show you to your room, Mr. Gallagher. And I will see you both off in the morning.”

  Turning toward the rest of the group, he said, “Good night all.”

  A chorus of goodnights echoed around the table.

  When Irving was safely in the elevator in the hallway, Martha cleared away the paella to make room for tres leches cake and dark chocolate mousse cups, accompanied by small snifters of Grand Marnier.

  Liam took small portions of the cake and mousse, then startled Amanda by passing the plate to her, almost as if he’d noticed she’d barely been able to eat at all this evening.

  It was sort of weird, because Aaron was doing the same thing for Rosamund, and John for Genny, and Samuel for Isabelle, and Caleb for Jacqueline. Liam was probably giving them all the idea he and Amanda were a couple. The completely wrong idea.

  “So the idea is for us to both get into the Sculptor’s house,” he said, “grab Sophia, and I’ll change back into myself to help get us all out again without being killed by the Others or worse, changed by the Sculptor?”

  Amanda grimaced. “Yep, that’s what I’ve got so far.”

  “The plan has a few holes,” he said.

  “Yes. But the only other option is letting Sophia be killed. That’s not an option … for me.” Tears stung her eyes, and Amanda deliberately shut down, cut off her emotions, tried not to feel anything for Liam and his perfect blue eyes, his beautiful Irish lilt … tried to remember that he was here for the money.

  Liam met her gaze and said firmly, “Then we’ll get her back.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SCULPTOR could feel them watching him. It was like an itch under his skin, a prickling on the back of his neck. As he walked through his front hallway, he would sometimes glance quickly over his shoulder, arm lifted to prevent a blow to the head.

  But no one was ever there. The hallway was always empty … except for all those frozen statues, plastered white to disguise the pinks and browns and blacks of their skins, the glisten of their eyes, the open, screaming mouths.

  Nothing could disguise their frightened expressions. No one smiled in his gallery of horror, and he constantly felt them glaring at him, hating him for what he did to them.

  This was what he got for making a deal with the devil.

  Yes. The devil. Because the Sculptor was quite sure that was who Osgood was.

  None of the goons seemed to realize exactly who they worked for. None of the Others he had known before or since had been sure.

  Idiots, every one of them.

  There were whispers among the ranks that Osgood was a fallen angel.

  Who did they think the devil was, but the archangel Lucifer, thrown from heaven for daring to challenge God Himself?

  And Osgood was the devil here on Earth, for how else could he have the power to pluck the Sculptor out of his former life, if it could even be called that, and guarantee him health, wealth and longevity?

  Years before, the Sculptor had been forcibly retired from the Others. For what use was he if he couldn’t stop motion? He could never do it for long – a few seconds, even a minute or two in his heyday. But those few moments really came in handy for eluding the police, exploding a bomb at just the right second, or stealing a baby out of the orphanage.

  When he was in his forties, he noticed his gift fading … he would stop motion on someone, and the person would shake it off. Soon he became a joke, the Other no one picked for their team.

  So after a youth spent aiding in Osgood’s drug rings and prostitution schemes, they shoved him aside, sent away from all he had ever known, with no job prospects and no talents. Soon he began to waste away with a disease that science had yet to cure, his brain failing, his eyesight nearly gone, with no money and no family to care for him. Everyone had forgotten about him.

  During that time he often thought that this long, torturous death must be payback for the life he had lived, for the people he had maimed, for the innocent lives lost at his hands.

  All that time, Osgood had been gathering his power. When the time was right, he had come seeking the Sculptor. He promised youth again, with power. More power. Glorious, intimidating power. The power to vanquish Osgood's enemies by turning them into stone-like statues. Clearly, Osgood had been watching him, waiting for the moment when the Sculptor gave up hope … and so the Sculptor accepted without a second thought.

  He only found out later how many people he would have to change to satisfy Osgood’s lust for revenge on his enemies.

  Osgood had so many enemies. Mostly people who had not held up their side of a bargain, who one by one were brought to the Sculptor, so he could use his “gift” on them.

  Yet with power had come restrictions. Rules. Fears and cautions and the Sculptor's own kind of terror.

  Power had become a bitter pill to swallow.

  Look at him. He had no females fawning on him. He had no freedoms, no pleasures.

  He spent his life surrounded by frozen people with terrified expressions.

  Never was he allowed to leave his home … he hadn’t been outside, felt the sun on his face, had a drink, talked to people for over ten years.

  And always, he worried whether he could meet Osgood’s quota on souls damned to an eternity of stillness.

  No wonder he felt it necessary to apply plaster to each figure, vainly hoping that he could trick himself into thinking they were truly statues instead of people who had dared to cross Osgood … or fail him. As inevitably, the Sculptor himself must fail Osgood.

  Because,
of course, the more the Sculptor worked at his craft, the more Osgood demanded. The Sculptor was roused day and night by the brutal goons Osgood hired. They thrust the screaming, fearful souls into the workshop and roughly told him to do his thing. They showed no respect for his craft. They cared nothing for his fatigue. He hardly had time to sleep. His hallway was getting crowded. His nightmares were getting crowded….

  The Sculptor still wasn’t sure if the statues could feel anything, if they knew what their lives had become…

  Some had been here so long, he had watched them age. A few had simply disappeared. One night they were there, looking haggard and wrinkled beneath their white coating. The next morning all that would be left was a pile of dry plaster.

  Whether they could feel their lives passing by or not, the Sculptor would swear that they watched him, those wretched, pained, vengeful expressions on their faces.

  The little girl in his workshop … she was different.

  She had been a true innocent. When they had brought her in, she had not known why she had been taken, or by who. Even when the Sculptor questioned her, she could only guess that the Others sought her for her power.

  The Sculptor had tried to explain his plan to Sophia. He had tried to tell her that he was only freezing her until Osgood decided what he wanted to do with her. He told her, several times, how Osgood planned to break her of the bonds of her old life and convince her to fight for evil.

  Even when Sophia had at last realized that her fate was the same as the statues surrounding her, the girl had only wanted to know her sister was all right. She had tried to bargain, to extract promises from the Others not to harm her sister. In the end, after all those tears and messy emotions, he had been glad to change Sophia into a statue.

  The Sculptor didn’t understand Sophia’s kind of flagrant loyalty. He had been abandoned by his teenage mother. The Others were the only family he had ever known. He would use any one of them as a human shield when the bullets started flying. And that child, that Sophia, had been abandoned by her parents, too, or she wouldn’t have a gift. Why did she make such a big deal about … love?

  So he simply hadn’t understood why the girl wouldn’t stop screaming “Mandy!” and fighting against her bonds, trying to rescue her unconscious, bleeding sister.

  Eventually, the Sculptor had given up, and he had changed Sophia. Now she was a lump of stone like all the rest, the tears frozen on her cheeks, her arms outstretched to her sister … and he suspected Sophia of watching him, too.

  At least in the matter of the two sisters, the Sculptor proved his value to Osgood. It was he who realized that part of Sophia’s value lay in utilizing her sister’s willingness to do anything that would free the girl from her statue state and her eventual turn to evil.

  The Sculptor ordered Amanda to work her way into the Chosen Ones’ confidences, report on their inner workings … and eventually, to bring him Irving Shea.

  If she did not, Sophia would die.

  Actually, Osgood would never kill Sophia, or at least not unless he had tried to turn her and failed, so they were bluffing. But Amanda didn’t realize that, or if she did, she was too terrified to challenge Osgood's anger or his power.

  Smart girl.

  However, weeks turned into months, more than two months now, and still Irving was not well enough to leave the mansion. Amanda was of value; she handed over crucial information about the Chosen Ones — their movements and how they spent their time. She kept the Sculptor informed of Irving’s movements and his strides in rehabilitation.

  But not too long ago, the Sculptor had been old. He knew what it was like to feel his body giving out, to feel himself dying little by little. There was a good chance Irving would not recover enough to ever go outside. And Osgood wanted access to Irving now. He wanted the information Irving held now. He wanted to use Irving to make the Chosen Ones suffer … now. Now. Now. Before it was too late, and Irving was dead.

  So when the Sculptor received an ultimatum from Osgood, he threw a tantrum composed of rage, desperation, and terror. He had lifted his hammer and threatened Sophia’s statue, and for one moment he had considered smashing her into bits and ending all their agonies.

  Then … then something happened.

  He would have sworn Sophia’s green eyes moved, and looked at him. Really looked at him.

  He dropped the hammer. He backed up to the wall. He told himself he had seen nothing but a shadow; it was his imagination, his weirdly active conscience.

  Sophia couldn’t move her eyes. She couldn’t project fear and loathing.

  Yet his heart pounded and he broke a cold sweat, and for the first time, he wondered what would happen if all the statues came to life.

  What would happen to him then?

  For a moment, he shivered in terror.

  Then he realized he had better make sure that never happened. He needed Amanda to deliver Irving, and he needed it now. Now. Now.

  So he pondered how best to send a message to Sophia’s sister. She needed to know that she was out of time.

  First he sent for Liam. Then he changed his mind.

  Liam wasn’t the man for this job. He had displayed a lamentable fondness for Amanda. In fact, Eric and the boys had beaten the crap out of Liam for trying to help her.

  At the time, the Sculptor hadn’t paid much attention. The boys were always jostling for position, lying and blackmailing, trying to get ahead on a stepladder formed of fallen comrades. As far as the Sculptor was concerned, Liam’s talent and ambition more than made up for any softness of character.

  But this was important. He couldn’t take a chance that Eric was right about Liam.

  And he didn’t trust Eric. Eric was the go-between for Osgood and the Sculptor, and he smirked and swaggered every time he handed over Osgood's orders. He had no respect for the Sculptor's talents, and no fear of his reprisal. No, it would be like Eric to “forget” to tell Amanda that she had only three days to bring Irving to the mansion.

  So the Sculptor called in Robbie.

  As an evil henchman, Robbie made a pretty good plumber. He wasn’t smart. He didn’t think on his feet. He could not remember the details of any plan. But he always did as he was told, no matter whether how difficult or how violent.

  So the Sculptor called him in and handed him a note to give to Amanda, a note that spelled out her deadline and the dire consequences that would occur if she failed.

  Robbie had taken the note, put it in his pocket, nodded solemnly, and went off to watch over Liam’s Sunday meeting with Amanda.

  It wouldn’t be long now, and the Sculptor waited for Irving to emerge and for the Others stationed around the Chosen Ones’ mansion to bring the old man to him.

  If the Sculptor could pull this off, Osgood would reward him.

  If the Sculptor failed … if he failed, he shuddered to think of the consequences.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SOPHIA … HER green eyes are glassy like peridots, her tears frozen in trails along her cheeks. She holds her arm toward Amanda, calling, “Mandy! Mandy! Help me!”

  With a gasp, Amanda sat straight up in bed, her forehead slick with sweat, her body trembling. She pressed her hands to her eyes, holding back her own tears, then she wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth, back and forth, trying to find comfort where there was none. She knew there was none; the dream came to her every night, and every night she was once again desolate and broken.

  In her tissue-thin t-shirt and worn old boxers, she slipped from her bed. Going to the window, she looked out.

  Spring was supposed to be coming, but the cold, hard winter refused to give up. New York sidewalks glittered with frost, and the tall, old, homeless woman who trudged down the street waved her arms as if trying to fend off the cold. Or … or as if she were giving a tour of the nineteenth century mansions that lined the street.

  With a shiver, Amanda grabbed her blue cotton bathrobe from behind her closet door, pulled on her fuzzy green socks,
and grabbed her blanket. But when she went back to the window, the old woman was gone, pushed by the north wind onto a different block.

  Amanda supposed the old woman was crazy. So many of the street people were. But if she didn’t free Sophia soon, Amanda could see herself walking the streets, giving tours to invisible crowds of people. Sometimes it seemed as if the stress was too much. Already, at night when she couldn’t sleep, she paced the lonely corridors of Irving's mansion, making plans to rescue Sophia, or imagining vengeance on Liam, or futilely seeking tranquility.

  She placed her blanket back on her bed, opened her door, and down the dimly-lit hallway she went, trying to remember what it was like before Sophia was taken. She had slept like a baby then, always tired from a long day of getting Sophia to school, working at the hospital all day, and making dinner for Sophia in the evenings, while her little sister did her homework. On the weekends, they watched Harry Potter films and played Scrabble.

  Amanda didn’t have her own life. She had no time of her own, and while she knew what she was missing, she also knew what she had; a sister and a family. When Liam came along, he had had to ask and beg and grovel before she would date him, and even then she was always home early. Sophia had no parents. She had little enough of the normal existence. Amanda was determined to always be there for her.

  She had failed miserably, and all because one wicked Irishman had convinced her she could have both — her sister, and a lover.

  Now Amanda wandered the wide and elegant halls, wishing for her old cramped apartment back if it meant she could be with Sophia and not know that Liam was one of the Others.

  Padding down the main stairway in her stocking feet, she started to glide along the front hallway’s marble floors, pretending to ice skate in Central Park. She twirled and smiled, a pretend flirt on pretend ice. It reminded her of the way she and Liam had been a few weeks before Christmas, silly in love … or at least she had been.

  Who could have blamed her? He had looked amazing, the color in his cheekbones heightened from the cold, his black hair hidden by a ridiculous fleece hat with earflaps.