Wilder The Chosen Ones

by Christina Dodd

  Samuel stepped forward, at her right shoulder, prepared to protect her.

  Everyone else crowded close, unafraid, curious.

  The reality of the box’s contents made Samuel sigh with disappointment. “Just once,” he said to no one in particular, “couldn’t we find some ancient artifact encrusted with jewels? Do we always have to end up with dry bones and sandstone tablets and”—he gestured—“this?”

  A ripple of assenting laughter went through the Chosen.

  A three-foot-long, twelve-inch-wide, black iron sword case rested inside the box. Patches of rust discolored the hinges, and the massive utilitarian lock looked like something out of the Old West.

  “We’re going to need WD-40 to crack that baby open.” Caleb reached out to touch one of the corners.

  The sword case shimmered as if gathering energy. A spark arced.

  Caleb slammed against the far wall as if a giant hand had shoved him.

  “Caleb!” Jacqueline ran to his side.

  He sat up, shaking his head as if his brains were scrambled. When he recovered enough to see everyone staring anxiously, he said, “Apparently it’s going to take more than WD-40.” With Jacqueline’s help, he staggered to his feet and in an apologetic tone said, “I’m fine. Really. That’s what I get for grabbing at a magic object. I do know better.”

  John studied the sword case. “The thing is, an angel’s wing feather would fit in there. I mean, theoretically—I’ve never actually seen an angel’s wing feather. But—”

  Samuel interrupted. “But have we got the safety-deposit box open? Only to be unable to take the contents?”

  “Another test?” Genny asked.

  “Another puzzle to solve?” Aaron asked.

  “Why does every damned thing have to be so hard?” Rosamund asked.

  Everyone stopped and stared at her.

  “What? I’m not allowed to get discouraged?” she snapped. “Isn’t the next question always, ‘Rosamund, what should we do now?’”

  “You know a lot of stuff, Rosamund, and you usually know what we should do now,” Aaron pointed out.

  “Probably there’s something in a book in Irving’s library about a rusty sword case that gives off sparks—but I’m here.” Rosamund ruffled her long, carroty curls. “Underground. The guards took away our phone and tablets. How do you expect me to do research?”

  “Cranky,” Samuel muttered, but he really wasn’t paying attention to anyone except Isabelle.

  Isabelle studied the case as if it were a foreign friend whose English she didn’t quite understand. Cautiously she stretched out her hand over the box, then withdrew it. Stretched out her hand again.

  No one else was watching her; they were squabbling about what to do next.

  So only Samuel saw her lean forward, pick up the rusty iron sword case, and turn to face the room. “Okay.” She started toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The squabbling stopped. Everyone stared at Isabelle, sensitive, noncombative Isabelle, holding the magical case that shimmered . . . and seemed to embrace her.

  Samuel knew exactly how the case felt. He liked to embrace her, too.

  Jacqueline clapped her hands and laughed.

  Aaron said, “The box wanted a woman’s touch.”

  “Maybe the box needed to be healed of a long-ago hurt?” Genny suggested.

  “It’s what’s in the box that was hurt.” Isabelle’s eyes half closed. “All these years it has barely survived in loneliness and pain. Now it has hope, so it chose to come to me.”

  Everyone started toward the door.

  John stopped them with a gesture. “The Others are watching, and now that we’ve freed the box, they’ll try to take it. So remember the plan. Each couple is going to get back to the States by a different path. Be cautious. Be observant. Especially you, Samuel and Isabelle—you’ve got a precious cargo there. No cell communication, no Internet, no way for the Others to track us. They are watching.”

  “We remember, but we need to go now.” Isabelle seemed itchy, worried, as if the feather were urging her on. “Let’s go.”

  Samuel looked at his friends, his comrades, the Chosen Ones. “You heard what the lady said. Let’s go.”

  Chapter 12

  Guardian was tired. He was dirty. And even after days of fighting demons, his rage still simmered.

  Stripping off his battle gear, he dropped it in the basket outside the cave.

  He never took that stuff inside. He believed the cave would be the last citadel to fall to the demons. He would never stain his peaceful home with the residue of war.

  Then he trudged in.

  Two days ago—or three, he wasn’t sure—Charisma had asked for Isabelle. She had claimed Isabelle would heal her, and he’d experienced the kick of hope that Charisma could be healed. He’d left her sleeping and he’d been foolishly optimistic, imagining he could fetch her friend to heal her.

  What an idiot he’d been.

  They were after him . . . whoever they were. He didn’t remember their names, but he knew they would always be after him. And he would be forced to remain belowground forever.

  The upwelling of fear, frustration, and rage had sent him rampaging through the tunnels, seeking the bands of demons and destroying them. Now he was back, filthy, hungry, and exhausted. And a failure—Taurean had found him and reported that Isabelle was in Europe with no date set for her return.

  Guardian so badly wanted to be able to talk to the people at the Upper East Side mansion, tell them how to find him when Isabelle returned, so he could help hasten Charisma’s recovery.

  But when he questioned Taurean, she looked confused and upset, afraid she hadn’t done enough during her visit and afraid to go back. So for now, he would do nothing until he had talked to Charisma.

  One glance at her cot on the ground proved she wasn’t sleeping now. In fact, no sign of her remained except a faint, womanly scent that teased his nose with false promise.

  Regret pierced him. And concern.

  While he was gone, had she slipped beyond all help? Had she succumbed to the demon’s venom?

  No. His people would have found him, told him.

  No, it had to be the other choice. She had recovered enough to leave.

  He had hoped for this. Yes, he had. He didn’t need a woman here, distracting him from his fight, teasing him, touching him, reminding him of what he could never have.

  And yet . . . on his arrival, Charisma was the first thing he had looked for.

  He hurried deeper into the cave, searching for someone who knew where she had gone, and when, and why. “Amber!” he shouted. “Where is she?”

  Amber popped up her head from the hollow in the rock where she preferred to meditate. She spread her hands and frowned as if she didn’t understand.

  He indicated Charisma’s empty bed. And knew a chill of fear, for Amber covered her mouth in horror.

  Charisma hadn’t left on purpose.

  Somehow, she was gone against her will.

  Instincts screaming, he put his nose to the ground and went on the hunt.

  Charisma knew where she was; she was lying on her back in a hollow in the earth in Guardian’s cave. She knew why she was there; she was recovering from a demon’s bite. The packed ground was hard and cool against her back. . . .

  But something unfamiliar was poking her shoulder blade. She groped for it.

  It was a button.

  A button. On the ground.

  The ground felt velvety, smooth. Not like dirt at all. And it had a button. It had . . . a lot of buttons. It felt like . . . upholstery, fancy rolled upholstery like on the antique chairs at Irving’s mansion.

  She didn’t want to look.

  But no. It was okay. The demon’s venom had hurt her vision, so she wore a blindfold. She couldn’t see anyway.

  So she opened her eyes.

  She could see: shiny metal and wood. Red velvet upholstery.

  A coffin, her coffin, held her close.

&nbs
p; She took one long breath to scream—and the heavy lid slammed down on her, hard and fast, muffling her, imprisoning her forever.

  In the dark and the forever, she panicked.

  She couldn’t get her breath. She couldn’t breathe.

  She wanted out. Get me out!

  Abruptly, she stood alone at the base of a tall, sheer rock mountain. A small, dark cave beckoned.

  She knew she had no choice. She had to go in. On the other side of the mountain was everything she wanted. Her friends. Her life, free from cruelty, evil, and anguish. She could linger here, but nothing would change. She had to go in.

  She had to look for her destiny.

  She also knew . . . knew she might never find it. Many paths led into the darkness. Only one was the right path. She might be—probably would be—lost in the dark for all eternity.

  Charisma woke in truth.

  She pulled air into her lungs in a mighty gasp.

  She was standing up. In the dark. In utter and complete silence.

  No birds chirping. No brook babbling. Still underground . . .

  She reached out her hands, hoping to encounter . . . something. A wall. A piece of furniture.

  Nothing.

  But she wasn’t blind. No. She wasn’t. She was wearing a blindfold, and all she had to do was take it off and she would see . . . something. Everything. And that stuff about her eyes being burned was just so much bull fed to her by someone who was now playing games with her. Or who existed only in her nightmares.

  Where was Guardian? Had she dreamed him? She wanted Guardian.

  It struck her how much she hoped he wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Like the coffin, like the cave, was Guardian a part of her subconscious’s ravings? Was this a trick? Was this all madness . . . ?

  She realized she was standing rigid, with her hands straight at her sides as if she were afraid to take off the blindfold.

  But she was Charisma Fangorn. She was afraid of a lot of things—in her business, only the foolish didn’t fear the dark—but she was not afraid to take off that blindfold.

  No, removing the blindfold wasn’t what she feared.

  It was seeing what lay beyond.

  Lifting her hands took effort, but she touched the knot at the back of her head, untied it—wouldn’t it have just been easier to push it off her face?—and unwrapped the blindfold. And stared at . . . nothing. More nothing. Total darkness.

  She saw nothing. She heard nothing. She felt no draft of air, sensed no other being. She was alone except for . . . except for the earth.

  Panic built in her mind.

  She was far below ground. She could feel it. She could smell the deep, rich, life-affirming, death-dealing earth. She could feel the first faint spark of excitement from the stones at her wrist.

  But how did she get here?

  She knew the answer. Pretending she didn’t would not help her.

  In her sleep, she had heard the call of the earth and followed it. Sleepwalking.

  How many times had this happened in the safety of the mansion? Usually she awoke before she wandered very far and took herself back to bed. Once or twice she’d come to consciousness to see Martha or McKenna talking to her gently.

  This time . . . this time Charisma had escaped from the Guardian cave.

  Or maybe that had been the illusion.

  She groped the spot on her shoulder where the demon had bitten her.

  The bite wasn’t an illusion, and she was thin and weak, so Guardian was not a figment of her imagination. Please. Be real.

  But how could he, or anyone, find her and return her to the surface? She was lost again below the city, marooned in the deepest dark where no light could ever penetrate, where even the demons did not come.

  She could go forward. She could answer the call of the earth.

  But . . . she was so afraid.

  The earth beckoned her to its heart, wanting her to come, to face what she must become. She knew that transformation must involve pain and anguish, a release of self, and ultimately . . . death.

  The coffin and the cave were real. She knew it in her heart. Death stalked her, and challenges waited in the utter dark of that endless, twisting cave. Her destiny was calling to her, even though she tried to ignore its grave demand.

  “Charisma . . .” Her name echoed softly, eerily.

  She held her breath.

  Had the earth developed a real voice to call her?

  “Charisma, don’t move.” Soft and low. “You’re on a bridge.”

  No, that couldn’t be the earth. It didn’t sound like its call.

  “There are chasms on either side of you,” the voice said.

  Oh, great.

  “Did you hear me?” The voice was deep, but distorted, as if it came across a great distance.

  “Yes, I hear you,” she said.

  “Speak softly.” The voice sounded nearer. “The rock here is rotten and pockmarked. A loud voice or sudden noise could start an avalanche.”

  Nearer. And clearer.

  It was his voice. Somehow Guardian had found her.

  “We want to be very quiet,” he said faintly, “very cautious not to dislodge a stone.”

  She nodded. She was not about to say another word.

  She could see a dim red light now, moving slowly toward her from far away, casting its feeble illumination on a narrow path cut into a sheer cliff.

  Of course. The way to the heart of the earth would always be challenging.

  Who made up these stupid rules?

  Now he started across the bridge toward her—the really narrow stone bridge that groaned under his weight. She felt the rock shift under her feet, and moaned softly in terror.

  He moved even more slowly.

  She couldn’t see him, only the hand holding the flashlight with the red filter.

  Red for improved night vision, of course, and possibly to be healthier on her eyes. But better safe than sorry.

  The bridge groaned again, as if protesting his weight.

  The light stopped.

  In that low, soft voice he said, “This won’t support me. You’ll have to come here.”

  “Okay.” In an abstract corner of her mind, she noted that she sounded a little squeaky.

  “Are you afraid of heights?”

  “No.” Still squeaky.

  “That’s good.” He spoke so soothingly, she knew he was worried.

  But she wasn’t afraid of heights. Not normal heights. But heights above a bottomless chasm in a midnight dark cave in the middle of the earth—well, that was a different story.

  He shone his flashlight slowly across the bridge, giving her a sense of where she must step.

  The way was narrow, the darkness beyond bleak, and every step was littered with pebbles and slippery, broken stones. She edged forward, each movement an agony of fear . . . and all the way, she fought the demand of the earth to come the other way, into the harsh unknown.

  Guardian spoke softly, constantly encouraging her, and she concentrated on him, used him to block out the increasingly strident call of the earth.

  At last she took the step that took her off the bridge and onto solid ground.

  As she did, the stone cracked.

  Her foot slipped.

  Guardian grabbed her, saved her from the chasm.

  The bridge broke.

  In a mighty roar, boulders poured into the gap.

  He pulled her into his arms, and she clung to him, burying her face in his fur. He backed away from the cataclysm, keeping her close, protecting her as the stone continued to crumble beneath their feet.

  At last the tumult died.

  They halted, panting.

  She thought she felt his hand touch her hair. “Very bravely done,” he said. “But I think we must not linger. I’ve never been here before, but nothing about this place is safe.”

  “No kidding.” Her voice had returned to normal, if normal meant it wobbled only a little.

  He placed her in
front of him and guided her with his light. “How are your eyes?”

  “No problems so far.”

  “Good.” He sounded so pleased. So relieved. “You’ve had time to heal. If . . . if they continue to be well, I could show you my cave. It is more hospitable than this place.”

  “I would like that. Let’s get out of here.” She was feeling more like herself every moment.

  Maybe because he kept his arms around her and walked close behind her, and this felt like . . . protection.

  Chapter 13

  Guardian and Charisma climbed out of the depths, and as they did, he marveled that she had come so far on her own, through a night so dark even he had been blind much of the time. Something had taken her into the hidden parts of the earth, something that frightened and appalled her. Yet for all that he’d known this woman for such a little time, he knew she would stand up against any fear, and face it straight on.

  He could learn a few things from her . . . perhaps if he did, the fact that she was soon going to see him in all his beastly glory wouldn’t worry him.

  Yes, he could face down a hundred demons without a quiver—but one small woman made him tremble.

  He sighed.

  “What?” she asked. “Did I take you away from something important?”

  “Not at all. Nothing is as important as the safety of my guest.” He debated telling her the truth. “We’re getting close to the Guardian cave.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s light there.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wonder what you’ll think when you see me.”

  “Do I seem the delicate type?” She turned so quickly, he almost lost his grasp on the flashlight. “Go ahead. Show me.”

  He realized his jaw was unattractively ajar. He shut it. “I’m not ready,” he said, and sighed. He sounded like a virgin.

  “What have you got to do?” she asked. “Shave first?”

  “You have a smart mouth.” He’d had to face this particular fear before. He’d had to brace himself for other people’s horrified reactions.

  But Charisma mattered.

  “Yes, I do have a smart mouth. Also, I’m insensitive to others’ feelings.” She paused. “What are you going to do about it?”