The Chosen Ones pulled into a tight circle around the bed.
Dina indicated the bones should be placed on the rolling bedside table.
John supposed some people would find this scene odd or even disrespectful: thirteen individuals of different ages, genders, and races around a dying man’s hospital bed, opening ancient leather sacks tied with strings of yellow, red, and blue and pouring petrified bones into three small piles. But most people didn’t know Irving. No one here doubted this was what he wanted; no one here would disregard his wishes.
“This is right.” Jacqueline counted. “Twenty-seven bones. Exactly right. The prophecy is right here. Now all I need is . . .” She placed her hand over one pile, then the other, then stepped back, shaking her head in frustration.
“The bones need to be assembled,” Genny said, “into the shape of the hand.”
Every eye turned her way—some with interest, some with incredulity.
John put his hand on her shoulder. “She has a feel for these artifacts.”
“She feels it in her bones?” Charisma grinned.
A ripple of edgy amusement swept the room.
Charisma covered her mouth with her hand and looked apologetically at Dina. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Dina gestured wearily, and in that heavy voice they all recognized from the words she had put in their heads, said, “He would laugh, too. That was why I loved him. Because he made me laugh. And why I hated him. Because he made a fool of me.”
“You deserved it,” Martha said fiercely.
“Shut up, Martha,” Dina answered just as fiercely.
The Chosen Ones looked from one to the other, uncertain how to respond to the sharp, unexpected hostility.
Genny stepped into the breach. “I haven’t met everyone here. I know Martha, but you’re . . . Dina?”
Dina dipped her head, a single nod.
“I’m Genny.” She reached out.
Dina reluctantly gave her her hand.
Genny shook it. “I had heard your name, but I hadn’t realized you were sisters.”
All sound ceased. All motion stopped.
Genny didn’t know what she’d said. She glanced at John.
He stood frozen, only his pale blue eyes in motion, touching first Martha, then Dina, then Martha again.
“I’m sorry.” Somehow, Genny had put her foot in it. “You’re not sisters?”
Charisma stirred, rattled her stone bracelets, said, “Of course they are. We simply hadn’t realized it before.”
Martha said, “We’re sisters by blood only.”
Dina lifted her chin. “We had the same parents, but that was an accident of fate.”
As if she was quoting some great tome, Rosamund asked, “In the end, what matters except blood and kin?”
Genny thought Rosamund was right.
Hadn’t Genny allowed her father to go about his merry way without bothering to set him straight about what a monster of a father he had turned out to be? Possibly she’d kept her mouth shut because he wouldn’t understand. But possibly she’d said nothing because . . . he was her father. And if she’d been adamant enough, if she’d held the mirror to his face and insisted he see the truth . . . what good would it have done? He would still be a thief—immoral and weak. Not a better man, but one who saw himself for what he was and despised himself.
She might get satisfaction from such a revelation, but what would be accomplished?
Nothing. Everyone was allowed their self-delusions. She would allow her father his.
Family. Friends. In the end, that was all that mattered.
Charisma heard every word as if Genny spoke inside her mind. She said softly, so softly, “It’s time.”
John heard her, of course. “Time for what?”
Charisma was staring at the stones in her bracelets. Gradually, she lifted her head and looked at John. “It’s time. Take my hand.”
Genny wanted to back away. What did Charisma mean? Why did she look so determined, so intense?
John seemed to understand. He clasped her proffered hand, then Genny’s. Aleksandr took Genny’s other hand. All around the room, hands were clasped, held tightly.
This was some kind of ritual, Genny realized. Something involving the Chosen Ones and their mates . . .
Until Martha stopped them. “She is one of the Others.” She pointed at Dina. “She cannot be part of this.”
“I don’t belong here.” Dina lifted her chin.
The energy in the room paused, faded—
One of the machines beeped an alarm.
Still sunken, still broken, still unconscious, Irving reached out and grabbed Dina’s hand.
Caleb laughed, briefly, harshly. “He’s not dead yet.”
Dina’s eyes filled with tender tears.
Martha turned her gaze away as if the sight of Irving holding Dina burned her.
But Charisma grabbed McKenna’s hand, and McKenna took Martha’s hand, and it continued until the connection was complete.
Reaction was immediate. Heat, light, electricity flashed around the circle, uniting Genny with everyone in the room. She felt Irving’s pain, Dina’s uncertainty, Martha’s resentment. For that one instant, she could hear the stones like Charisma, see the future like Jacqueline, search the library with knowledge and instinct like Rosamund. All the talents, the passions, the laughter and tears were hers.
Then . . . she was once again Genny, but no longer alone. A part of them was in her. A part of her was in them.
“What was that?” Dina snatched her hands away and held them in fists against her stomach.
“That’s how we know that we’re supposed to be together,” Isabelle told her.
“Not me. That’s wrong.” Dina looked around wildly, then muttered, “I need a cigarette,” and pushed her way toward the door.
“No!” The voice came from the bed.
Dina froze.
Isabelle and Martha gasped.
John stared.
Irving’s eyes were open, alert, commanding. “No,” he said again. “Come back.” His eyes closed.
The door slapped against the wall. Makayla stood there like an avenging goddess.
Aleksandr pushed the rolling table covered with hand bones behind him.
“What is going on in here?” Makayla pushed her way to Irving’s side. “What did you do to him?”
“What’s wrong?” Isabelle managed to look both innocent and in command.
Makayla checked the monitors, counted Irving’s pulse, listened to his lungs. “It’s like he had a defibrillator to his chest. He’s stabilized. Doing better. All of a sudden.” She whipped around, glared at them menacingly.
Charisma pumped her arm.
Genny smiled. “What good news!”
“That’s miraculous.” Samuel leaned toward Makayla.
She glared at him as if she knew his gift was mind control. “Don’t you try anything on me.” Pointing her finger around at the group, she said, “I’ll be keeping an eye on all of you.” With a final glare, she left, muttering, “I’ll get the doctor in here as soon as I can.”
Dina stood by the door, twisted her hands together.
Martha gestured toward the bed. “Are you going to come back? Or are you going to run away again?”
Dina’s whole demeanor caught fire. “I didn’t run away last time. After I gave him what he wanted, he tossed me out like garbage.” She pointed to her mutilated nose. “Don’t tell me I betrayed him.”
“Then leave,” Martha said. “Just leave.”
“Irving came out of his coma to call you back.” Isabelle sounded cool and sensible. “Of course, he’s not healed. I hate to think that he would die without you.”
Dina looked around helplessly. Pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket, looked at them, then put them back and trudged to Irving’s side.
Displaying a tact that seemed almost miraculous for such a young man, Aleksandr said, “Let me put the bones together.”
The Chosen Ones crowded around to watch.
On the bed, Irving breathed in, then out, each rise of his chest a labor.
At last Aleksandr stepped back.
The group drew a single indrawn breath.
Dark marks were etched on four of the bones—the bones that formed the palm. When placed together, they formed a clearly recognizable outline . . .
Jacqueline held her hand out, palm up.
Genny stared first at the black lines that marked Jacqueline as a seer, then at the bones on the table. “The eye.”
“It’s the same,” Isabelle said.
“Like the bad twin when the world was young.” Aleksandr stepped back. “That is creepy.”
“Do you think this is the bad twin’s hand?” Rosamund bent down to study the bones from the side, then stood on her tiptoes, adjusted her glasses, and examined them again.
“Duh.” Charisma rolled her eyes.
Earnestly, Rosamund said, “For a hand to have survived since some undefined past ‘when the world was young’—and for it to be the hand of the evil twin—and then to have it be divided into three packages that miraculously reunite here and now . . . that would be unlikely.” Her mouth twitched in a half smile. “It would also be helpful.”
Another silence fell as they contemplated the hand.
“Man, I hope they waited until she was dead before they removed it,” Samuel said.
“The bones show no signs of chopping or sawing. So, yes. I believe someone probably removed the bones from her skeleton.” Caleb sounded like he knew his way around human mutilations. “Jacqueline, can you see anything with this?”
Genny looked around the room. An elderly man lay dying on the bed, apparently still commanding the twelve people who watched spellbound as Jacqueline placed her hand over the bones in the exact imitation of the shape and position. Nothing happened; no fireworks or frothing at the mouth. Instead, Jacqueline said, “She died a natural death, very quiet and serene, secure in the knowledge that she would live again.”
Caleb took her shoulders in his hands. “Jacqueline, are you there?”
She laughed. “Yes. I can see all the way back to when the world was young, and all the way forward into the mists.”
John said, “Tell us what you see.”
Chapter 55
John unlocked the door to his ninety-second-story penthouse, held it open and flipped on the lights.
Genny walked into the stark foyer, then into the massive living room. “This . . . is yours?”He watched her wander across the dark bamboo floor, touch the tall cut-glass Tiffany vase full of fresh flowers, trail a finger across the back of the soft brown leather couch, and finally look through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of Central Park. “I bought it about five years ago. Before the . . . tragedy in Indonesia.”
“I see.” She sounded dangerously neutral.
“After what you told your father, I hope you don’t mind, but actually, I’m—”
“Rich.”
“Right.”
She discarded her coat onto the arm of his recliner. “I’d like to shower.”
That wasn’t any kind of answer. But he didn’t care. She had successfully derailed his carefully planned explanation. Because she was going to shower. In his bathroom. In his home.
Naked.
He had had dreams like this, but never had he thought they could come true.
She started toward the open door where his bed was clearly visible.
“Of course.” He hurried and caught up, showed her his bathroom—the maid had been in that day, so thankfully his underwear was in the hamper and not on the floor—then shut the door and left her alone.
And let out a gasp of relief. Okay. Everything was going to be all right. She intended to stay here and he hadn’t even had to grovel.
Yet.
He discarded his trench coat and suit coat. His tie was in a pocket somewhere. His shirt was a bloody mess; he stripped it off, wiped himself off with a damp washcloth . . . and smiled.
The scratches on his shoulder were no longer bleeding, but they were deep and clearly marked. For Genny, he had given up his fear of commitment, and he had earned his mark.
He donned a T-shirt. Put on some jazzy music.
And he paced.
He opened a bottle of chardonnay. Placed it on the breakfast bar. Set out bottles of water. Opened a zinfandel in case she hated chardonnay. Paced some more. Sliced salami and cheese, then a good, grainy whole wheat bread. He was holding the bowl of tapenade when she walked barefoot out of his bedroom wearing one of his white shirts.
She’d rolled up the sleeves, turned up the collar. The hem almost reached her knees in the front and exposed her thighs on the side. She had buttoned all the buttons except for the top two.
She was still damp.
He could see right through the material.
She wore nothing underneath.
His body voted for action first, talk later.
But she was still fussing with the sleeves. “You were going to tell me how you got rich.”
Okay. She wanted to talk. He would explain everything as quickly and efficiently as possible because . . . she was here, she was wearing his shirt, and she was naked underneath. “I was an immigrant with no family. I was used to doing without. I had a knack for investment. Then . . . the tragedy on the volcano. I put all my investments into federal bonds—which was splendid timing: I missed the downturn—and when I came back, I had all that and a little more. So I was able to take the stake I had and with some careful investing . . . I can take care of you in the manner to which you should be able to quickly become accustomed.”
“And in the two and a half years since? You’ve done well?”
“I haven’t been dating or having sex. At all. With anyone.” A fact that had frustrated his friends. “So . . . yes.”
She looked up and observed him. “Me neither. About the dating or sex thing.”
That cheered him immeasurably. “Good. We’ve both been concentrating on our goals. I’ve been leading the Chosen Ones and acquiring wealth.”
“I started my wildlife rescue. And have been learning to depend only on myself.” She glanced at the tapenade he still held, then at the feast behind him.
Hastily he put down the bowl and picked up a bottle. “Wine?”
“Soon. I like this place.” She walked to the window again. “The view is spectacular at night.”
“It’s better in the daytime. The furniture, of course, is minimalist”—he didn’t even know exactly what that meant, but his exasperated decorator had told him it was—“and easily changed, or you could add pieces as you like.”
He quickly added, “I have contacts in the financial world and funding for your wildlife rescue program should be easy to obtain.”
Finally she turned, leaned against the window, hands behind her, and smiled. “Are you bribing me to stay with you?”
“Is it working?”
She appeared to give it some thought. “I’m not particularly moved by wealth.”
He was afraid of that.
“My father spent so much time chasing money, believing it would make him happy, and nothing would have done that.”
“Wildlife fund?” he reminded her.
“I have a business degree and my father insisted I take extra courses on influence and negotiations, so I’ve done very well raising money for the fund myself.”
“One of the many things I admire about you is your impeccable good sense.” He prowled toward her as she stood silhouetted against the window. “So what does move you?”
She turned to face the city and spoke to his reflection. “I believe that earlier you said something about begging.”
“For your hand in marriage.” He leaned agai
nst her, pressed her against the cool glass. He recognized her scent, knew it like he knew his own. Bending his head, he nuzzled the back of her neck.
She arched her head away to give him access. “I’ve already said we were going to marry. So why would you beg?”
“You deserve a proposal worthy of the woman you are.”
“Of the woman I have become.”
“I liked who you were in Russia. You were a woman who wasn’t afraid to be my friend at a time when everyone else feared me. You loved the lynx, you loved the wilderness, and you loved the freedom. In the ancient, stifling atmosphere of Rasputye, you were a breath of fresh air.” He remembered how she had been, so innocent and alluring. “That’s why I—”
“Reacted strongly to my perceived betrayal?”
“I was an idiot.”
“Why were you an idiot?” She was leading him. She wanted to hear him say it.
“Why would I judge you based on the behavior of my foster mother and my wife? And yet I did.” He slid his arms around her waist, pressed his palms against her belly.
She was so alive, so warm.
“I couldn’t leave my mistrust behind. Keeping it like a shield before me was easier than keeping my faith in you.” He held her, his arms trembling. “Then I came out of the rasputye and discovered you had died—”
“I’m feeling fine. I took shelter with the nomads, traveled with them, milked their yaks.” He felt her shake with laughter. “It was exactly the healing time I needed, and a dose of reality, too. I learned about survival in a hostile world, and what’s important when all else is stripped away.”
“That’s funny. That’s exactly what I learned here, when I was alone and without you.”
She twisted around to face him. “That’s why we belong together. We’ve learned the same lessons. We know the same truths. We’re fighting on the same side.” She slipped her hands around his waist. “And—”
“And at the end of the day, I would rather be with you than with any other person on earth.” Dipping his head, he kissed her, and merely the touch of her lips and scent of her breath made him happy. “I love you. Please marry me, Genesis, so I can spend my whole life being your companion.”
She wound her arms around his neck. His shirt rose to precarious heights and somehow, he wasn’t clear how, two more top buttons had come unfastened. “I love you, too, and I would like that—very much.”
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