Wilder The Chosen Ones

by Christina Dodd

  But even at the best of times, in the real world he would be treated with horror. At the best he would be an object of scorn, a headline on the scandal sheets beside the checkout counter in every grocery store. At worst, he would be a thing to be imprisoned, observed, dissected.

  No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t live forever belowground. Sooner or later she’d go mad from the darkness and the stifling air, from longing for a life in the sunshine.

  Guardian couldn’t live above.

  As Davidov said, a wolf might love a bird, but where would they make their home?

  “I don’t even know why I’m worried about the future,” Charisma told Taurean. “From the way things look up here, the Chosen Ones don’t stand a chance of surviving.”

  “The monsters have always been out there. Human monsters. But now even the monsters are afraid.” Taurean pointed at one of the mansions. “Like in there.”

  “The Becker mansion?”

  “I worked in there. The monsters hurt me. Human monsters. I hope the demons eat them. All of them. I don’t want the demons to leave even their bones.”

  Charisma had never imagined the shy, gentle, awkward Taurean could be so rancorous. But Charisma said, “I’ve met Mr. Ambrose Becker. He’s a vicious, disgusting pig.”

  “So is his brother. And his cousin. I want their names, their bodies, their memories wiped from the face of the earth.” Taurean’s tone went from ominous to bright. “Here we are! Irving’s mansion!”

  “Yes. And my home for almost seven years.” Charisma sagged with relief to be here. “The place looks the same.” Unlike the rest of the mansions defaced with graffiti and with boarded-up windows.

  “Tall, grand, a home built for display,” Taurean said. “It’s the last fort that will fall.”

  “There’s some comfort in that.” Charisma started up the front steps.

  “No!” Taurean sprang after her and stopped her with a hand on her arm. “We go around by the kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where the food is.”

  “Of course.” Because someone who lived on the streets and in the tunnels knew her priorities.

  At the corner, Taurean cautiously peered around, then sidled down the wall toward the kitchen.

  Charisma followed, not sidling but staying close to the mansion.

  The city had a claustrophobic feel to it, as if no one here should show themselves as a target, as if everyone here were trapped and no amount of struggle could free them.

  Dropping to the ground, Taurean struggled in a low crawl to the basement kitchen window. She plastered herself against the glass and knocked hard. “It’s Taurean!” she shouted. “Remember me?” She must have gotten a positive response, because she pointed to Charisma, then at the door, and crawled in that direction.

  Charisma walked around, and when McKenna opened the door, she cried, “McKenna!”

  When she had first come to live at the mansion, she and the stuffy butler had often butted heads.

  In the intervening years, either she had grown more straitlaced or he had loosened up, because she tried to rush forward, into the familiar safety of the house McKenna ruled with an iron hand so she could hug him, kiss his shaven cheeks.

  Taurean strong-armed her back. “No! It’s a dangerous passage. We have to stay low.” Seating herself on the stairs, she inched her way down on her bottom. Turning back to Charisma, she said, “Come on. Don’t be afraid. You’ll be okay.”

  Sometimes Taurean seemed so normal that Charisma couldn’t help but wonder whether she was messing with her now.

  Then she remembered Taurean’s revealing words about the Beckers, and she sat on the stairs and bumped her way down.

  At the bottom, McKenna helped Taurean to her feet, and then Charisma to hers, and when Charisma flung her arms around his neck, he beamed. “I am so glad to see you, Miss Charisma. So glad. The Chosen will be thrilled.”

  “They really are all back?” At the thought of seeing her friends, a little of the burden Charisma carried lifted from her heart.

  “Just back.” McKenna’s voice, with his hint of a Scottish burr, was as comforting as hot chocolate on a cold day. “What good timing you have!”

  “I came as soon as I got the message you sent.”

  “Message?” McKenna frowned. “What message?”

  “The one about returning to see Isabelle.”

  “I didn’t send a message.”

  “Somebody did. Taurean told me. Taurean, who . . . ?” Charisma turned to face Taurean.

  But Taurean was gone, fleeing without a word.

  Chapter 37

  “That’s weird.” Charisma stared at the place where Taurean had stood. “I wonder who told her to fetch me?”

  “I don’t know.” McKenna shut the door. “But in the case of Taurean, she’s been watching the house. I tried to get her inside to have a meal, but she would have none of that. So I left food out for her. Somebody ate it.”

  “It was probably her. She was very intent on reaching the kitchen.” No wonder. The kitchen was cool and quiet, redolent with the aromas of bacon, rosemary, and garlic, and in here, with the hum of the refrigerator and sound of water boiling on the stove, Charisma was free of the earth’s call.

  Almost.

  “My point exactly. She may have seen everyone arrive.” McKenna lifted the lid of a pan to stir the contents.

  Charisma peered inside. Stew. She loved McKenna’s stew. “She said the Chosen Ones were expected, not that they were all here.”

  McKenna lifted a hand. “I do not understand the efficiency of the underground network, but we can’t argue with its success.”

  “I suppose.” But Charisma felt still uneasy, as if she’d somehow missed something she should at once see.

  “Come, Miss Charisma; the Chosen are all up in Mr. Shea’s room. They will be so glad to see you.”

  He walked her up the stairs to the grand entry hall, then up the long, curving stairway that led to the second floor. As they entered the imposing upstairs corridor, lined with dark oil paintings in gilded frames, she could hear her friends’ voices as they babbled and laughed.

  Charisma smiled at the racket. “Sounds like they’re celebrating.”

  “They are.” McKenna wore smugness very well.

  “Did they get it? Did they get the feather?” A spark of hope lit in her soul.

  “They did. Or at least a case that looks as if it could contain the feather.”

  Charisma’s smile faded. “Why not open the case and find out?”

  McKenna hesitated, grimaced. “It’s not that easy.”

  She already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “It’s bewitched?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re in Irving’s room because he’s the man who owns all the best research books on how to open the box?”

  “Yes.”

  Charisma seethed with frustration. “Why does everything have to be so difficult?”

  McKenna chuckled. “You sound exactly like Mr. Samuel.”

  “With my luck, we’re probably long-lost siblings.” Dreadful thought.

  “You do not look at all alike, but at the base your personalities are so similar, I have wondered about some hidden bloodline myself.”

  “Don’t flatter Samuel so,” she snapped.

  “Exactly right.” McKenna bowed and gestured toward Irving’s room. “Would you like me to announce you?”

  “No. Please. Let me announce myself.”

  They exchanged smiles.

  She slipped into the room.

  Irving’s private library was unlike any Charisma had ever seen. Bookshelves lined the giant room. Books of every kind lined the bookshelves. Ancient books. New books. Loose manuscripts. Egyptian scrolls made of papyrus and filled with hieroglyphics. Stone tablets. And scattered here and there, two dozen e-book readers of every variety. If the books weren’t enough to keep the casual peruser busy, mixed in among the books were relics and
oddities: African witch doctor masks, shrunken heads, glass jars with questionable contents that looked very much like petrified male body parts, dried flowers, glass beads, wigs made of human pubic hair. . . . Charisma had never cataloged the contents. Usually after a few minutes she was so grossed out she preferred to ignore the whole disgusting display.

  Through the double connecting doors, Charisma could see Irving’s bed. She didn’t know how he slept with those gargoyles staring at him from the posts.

  But it warmed her to see her friends all gathered together.

  In the center of the room, Irving sat at the end of the long library table, in his wheelchair, a dark metal box stretched before him.

  By the bar, Martha stood with a tray, collecting dirty glasses and putting out clean ones.

  Across the table from Irving, Rosamund sat in a leather desk chair, a tall stack of books at her elbow, a book open before her, looking at another book that Genny held in front of her nose. John stood behind Rosamund, pointing at the open page. Aaron stood off to the side, arms crossed.

  They were all frowning intently.

  In the far corner, Jacqueline stood twirling the illuminated globe of the world, an orb so large it required its own maple stand. As it circled, she ran her fingers along the smooth surface as if seeking a moment of revelation.

  Caleb stood beside her, his hand outstretched, ready to catch her if a prophecy struck.

  Isabelle sat beside Irving, stroking the long, slender metal box with a loving hand and talking animatedly to Irving.

  Samuel stood beside her right shoulder, and, like Aurora in the fairy tale who touched the spindle on an enchanted spinning wheel, he deliberately reached out with one finger and touched a corner of the box.

  A spark arced.

  Samuel was slammed back against the bookcase.

  A mason jar fell on his head and broke, sending glass and human teeth in an explosion across the room.

  Conversation died.

  Everyone stared at Samuel in disgust.

  “Why do you keep doing that, man?” John snapped.

  “I keep thinking the charge will run out.” Samuel touched his face. “Geez, I’m bleeding!”

  “Serves you right. Magic taps into the energy of the universe.” John sounded as if he’d completely lost patience. “Unless the eternal generator dies, which would make our current crisis look like a cakewalk, this box will not open without the right spell.”

  “All right, fine. It was a stupid idea.” Samuel used his handkerchief to blot his head. “This time I really knocked my hip out of joint. Somebody help me up.” He held up his hand.

  Charisma judged that her moment had come. “Samuel, I hope none of those teeth were enchanted. You could end up at the dentist getting a tooth extracted from your brain.”

  A moment of silence, of wide-eyed stares.

  A gratifying shriek of joy.

  Jacqueline and Genny, Rosamund and Isabelle rushed toward her. They surrounded her, hugged her, and exclaimed over her.

  When the female joy had subsided to a manageable level, the guys moved in.

  They hugged. They thumped on the back and said hearty, encouraging stuff.

  When they were finished, she went to Irving and knelt beside his wheelchair. “How are you, dear friend?” she asked.

  “I’m not senile. I’m not sick. I’m not in pain unless I try to walk. So I’m good.” He patted her cheek.

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “I’m scarily close to a hundred years old, darling.” He patted her cheek again. “I can’t keep that way much longer.”

  “We’re almost to the end of the seven years. Don’t you want to see us finally triumph over the forces of evil?”

  “Wherever I am, I’ll know. And I know you’ll succeed.” He looked around at the gathered friends and comrades. “I have every faith in you.”

  “Good to hear.” John ran his hand through his hair, and a little of the weariness lifted from his face. “Faith is exactly what we need right now.”

  Charisma stood and walked to Samuel, who still sat on the floor against the bookshelves, looking disgusted. She offered her hand. “Imagine my enjoyment to see you knocked on your ass.”

  “By something supernatural. Not by you.” Samuel grasped her hand and let her pull him up. Sweeping his arm around her, he pulled her close. Gruffly he said, “Good to see you, peewee.”

  “Good to see you.” She turned to the Chosen Ones. “You wouldn’t believe where I’ve been.”

  Chapter 38

  Hours later, Charisma sagged in exhaustion.

  She had told the Chosen Ones how she was lured underground, how she got lost, how she had almost become a demon snack.

  She had told them about the demon bite, and about Guardian and how he had saved her.

  She told them about her eleven days of oblivion and her slow recovery.

  She did not tell them about the intimacies she had shared with Guardian.

  This wasn’t like the last time she had kept an affair from them.

  With Ronnie, she had been seduced.

  This time she had been the seducer.

  This time she knew she had found her one true love. And this time she understood all too well that they could never be together.

  God help her to find the strength to endure the upcoming challenges without Guardian’s tenderness and care.

  Finally, she had explained to the Chosen Ones the possibility that Guardian might be Aleksandr Wilder.

  They had been horrified at the details of his imprisonment. They had dismissed her worries that they would be shocked at his appearance. They had been excited and ready to go down and visit him at once.

  Then Rosamund discovered a description in one of the ancient texts about a metal box that matched the one on the table, and John decreed that freeing the feather took priority over Aleksandr. So Rosamund worked out the translation from Akkadian to English, Aaron and John had gone out to collect the necessary supplies for a potion, Jacqueline had read the spell—and Samuel had been knocked on his ass again.

  “I could watch that over and over.” Charisma helped him up again, and handed him his cane. “It never ceases to be entertaining.”

  “You should have been with us in Europe,” Caleb said darkly. “You would have been entertained all the time.”

  Out of the corner of his mouth, Samuel said, “He’s such an old lady.”

  Caleb huffed.

  Charisma grinned at Samuel. “Someone has to act responsibly around here.”

  “What can I say?” Samuel spread his hands wide. “When Rosamund said she had the spell to open the box, I believed her.”

  “I said I thought I had it, Samuel.” Rosamund glared. “Don’t try to blame me because you’re impetuous and can’t wait to try out new things.”

  “Makes for a great sex life.” Samuel hugged his wife. “Doesn’t it, honey?”

  Isabelle ignored him.

  Of course she did. Isabelle was the most ladylike creature Charisma had ever met. She could drop a hammer on her own foot and never even say shit.

  How they were such good friends, Charisma would never understand.

  “Samuel, I wish you would let me fix your hip,” Isabelle said.

  “I let you fix my face. That’s enough for today.” Samuel touched the now-healed place on his forehead. “Really, honey, the hip is just uncomfortable.”

  “It’s cracked.” Isabelle looked worried and fretful. “Promise you’ll let me help you before the big showdown.”

  “Hey, if this Guardian guy Charisma found is actually Aleksandr Wilder, we won’t have to bother with a big showdown. Everything will get fixed, zip-zap, and all we have to do is pick the next seven Chosen Ones for the next seven years.” Reflectively, Samuel said, “Poor bastards, whoever they are.”

  “Yes, Samuel.” Aaron’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Because everything we’ve done so far to stop Osgood has been so easy and so effective.”

  “Actu
ally, darling, it doesn’t seem that way to me,” Rosamund said.

  Jacqueline patted her on the head.

  Rosamund looked around. “Oh. That was a jest. I get it.”

  “Actually, your reaction was right for how funny it was.” Samuel glared at Aaron.

  Aaron glared back.

  John started to stand up.

  “Time for dinner!” Martha called from the doorway.

  “Thank heavens,” Genny muttered to Charisma. “The frustration is getting to everybody.”

  Martha pushed a laden cart into the room, and smiled tightly at the Chosen Ones’ exclamations of pleasure and anticipation.

  So the tension wasn’t merely getting to the Chosen Ones. Irving’s housekeeper had been with him and the Chosen Ones’ organization apparently forever—and heaven only knew how long that had been, because depending on her mood, Martha looked as if she was somewhere between sixty and ninety. When she was angry, her brown eyes snapped, her skin flushed a dusky rose, and she was the epitome of a malevolent queen of the Gypsies.

  For more than one reason, the Chosen Ones stepped carefully around Martha. She had been part of their initiation, she had faithfully served them for almost seven years, she was privy to a lot of cool information—and at any time, she could poison them all.

  “As always, Martha, everything smells fabulous, and you read my mind.” Charisma took a plate. “The whole time I was gone, I kept thinking about your green chili enchiladas.”

  “Even I have my uses,” Martha snapped.

  Charisma lifted her eyebrows at Irving, who shrugged.

  Martha did have her quirks. She was not gifted, which rubbed her wrong, because her younger sister was not only gifted—Dina was a talented mind-speaker—but had been a rebel and joined the Others. Yet when Charisma and the women in the group discussed Martha, they agreed her big issue was that no matter how wicked and undeserving Dina might be, Irving loved her. And Martha loved Irving. Probably in an underappreciated lifetime of service and dedication, that fried her more than anything.

  Even so, she insisted that she personally fix Irving’s plate, take it to him, and help him with the chicken tortilla soup, which he loved but, since he’d developed a tremor, found difficult to eat.