Chains of Fire

by Christina Dodd

  Mostly, he had been picked for this mission because he was a mind controller.

  He found it a useful talent for a lawyer.

  He had also used it to destroy his own happiness. Because yes, everyone knew he was blunt to the point of rudeness, abrasive, impatient with fools, and he was fine with all that.

  But he was also a monumentally stupid ass.

  That hadn’t turned out so well for him.

  When all of the Chosen Ones had been satisfied he was as prepared as he could be and he was on the way to the airport to catch his flight to Switzerland, he went to the hospital to say good-bye to Irving . . . and Dina was there.

  The old man struggled to communicate in words, but he made himself clear in other ways—through Dina’s interpretation, through the few instructions he could manage aloud, and with gestures that indicated approval or rejection. Irving intended that she help Samuel with little reminders.

  Samuel thought it was a bad idea.

  Dina thought it was a bad idea.

  But for some reason, Irving was intent on getting his way. He was ninety-four. He had fallen down the stairs, broken his hip and his shoulder, started rehab, had a small stroke, spent months in the hospital . . . and he was insistent on this point.

  Samuel gave in.

  Because it isn’t like you have a choice. If I want to talk in your head, I will. I know the way.

  Knock it off. Samuel accepted his shoes back from the guard, put them on, and walked directly into the elevator. You’re a mind speaker, not a mind reader.

  She was quiet for so long, he began to relax, thinking she hadn’t heard him.

  Then she said, You’re a strong receptor.

  It’s not like I have a choice here, he snapped back.

  You’re a strong sender, too, probably part of your gift. And I don’t know why, but . . . if I listen, I can hear your thoughts. Sometimes. Lately my abilities seem to have expanded.

  Samuel knew what was going on, and that comprehension made him want to thump his head against the stainless-steel walls of the elevator. He would have, too, except he knew the guards who observed him on the cameras would flag that behavior and escort him back down to the lobby and out the door.

  Dina was not only one of the Others, the enemy of the Chosen Ones. She also shared a past with Irving. A pretty intense past, if the way those two acted proved anything. So she might be wicked. She might be cruel. She might have been stalking every single Chosen for the past two and a half years, delivering cryptic warnings into their minds and scaring the crap out of them. But because of the prophecy that affected the Chosen Ones—when a Chosen sacrificed his or her greatest fear for true love, that love expanded his or her gifts in ways no one could have foreseen—her talents had expanded.

  Not that she was Chosen. Quite the opposite. But the Chosen Ones and the Others were flip sides of the same coin. All had been abandoned as infants. All had been given gifts. Some used them for good. Some for evil.

  If Samuel needed proof that Dina loved Irving, this assistance was it.

  But still it didn’t mean she wasn’t going to betray Samuel. Women had a history of betraying him.

  Or rather . . . one woman.

  Never mind her, Dina said in his mind. You can worry about her later.

  If I live through this.

  There is that.

  He grinned.

  If Dina wasn’t a lying, cheating, treacherous minion of the devil, he would almost like her.

  She reminded him of himself: rude, conflicted . . . and tainted. Tainted by birth, tainted by living, tainted by dark blemishes on their souls.

  No matter what they did, no matter what reparations they made, how honorably they behaved . . . they could never escape themselves.

  Chapter 2

  The elevator doors opened and a man stood there, six-foot-six, fit, fair and blond, with long arms, broad shoulders, and no neck. Adelbrecht Wagner, bank president, looked like a billboard advertising the Aryan Nations.

  Two guards stood behind him.

  Samuel didn’t know what purpose they accomplished. He wasn’t going to attack Wagner. The guy looked like he could crush Samuel with one fist.

  Wagner extended his hand. In precise, German-accented English, he said, “Mr. Faa, how good to meet you. I’m Adelbrecht Wagner. We haven’t seen anyone from the Gypsy Travel Agency for several years. In fact, we had heard reports that an explosion at their headquarters had killed everyone on their board.”

  Samuel shook hands, did the male dominance thing by squeezing too hard and making sure his hand remained on top, and put on his solemn face. “Did you? The explosion was a tragedy that deeply affected our organization.” It was a nonanswer, one worked out ahead of time and given Irving’s nod of approval.

  Samuel had learned a few things about one-upmanship, and he understood Irving’s position about this operation.

  Just in case he didn’t remember, Dina repeated the instructions. Say as little as possible. Don’t explain yourself. Don’t defend yourself. Make it clear from the beginning you are the man in charge.

  Yeah, thanks.

  Samuel strode beside Wagner down the short corridor to his office and was ushered inside. The place was immense, luxurious, and windowless.

  The guards took up their positions at the sides of the entrance. Wagner closed the doors, and they gave a thunk that all too clearly proved they were reinforced with metal.

  Wagner’s office was a vault, protecting the bank president, everything he represented and everything he knew.

  Samuel would either succeed here or die in prison.

  No pressure.

  Samuel didn’t even know who thought it first.

  Pulling a two-by-two slip of yellow paper out of his inside pocket, he placed it on the desk in front of Wagner. “I need you to transfer control of the Gypsy Travel Agency accounts to this address.”

  Wagner didn’t bother to glance down. “Without the necessary legal documents, I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Which was exactly what Samuel expected him to say. So he removed the formidable set of papers from his manila envelope and placed them beside the slip with the address for Wagner’s perusal. “The originals of the documents we sent ahead.”

  “Without the signatures of at least three of the Gypsy Travel Agency board members, I’m afraid this is impossible.”

  “As you know, the whole board is deceased. As a former board member and former CEO, Irving Shea—”

  “Has been declared incompetent and is therefore not a legal signer.”

  Crap. Wagner knew it all.

  They were getting nowhere.

  So Samuel used his mind to take control of Wagner’s thoughts.

  To his surprise, his intention skidded off as if Wagner’s mind were Teflon protected.

  Crap.

  What’s wrong? Dina asked.

  I can’t reach him. In a reasonable tone of voice, Samuel said, “But surely you’re not saying you intend to keep these not-inconsiderable accounts in your bank forever?” He reached out again, this time with more force.

  Wagner appeared to be oblivious. “Perhaps you’re not aware, but we have hundreds of unclaimed accounts which will never be opened because the owners have lost their minds, forgotten their passwords, or died. There are fortunes that haven’t been touched for over a hundred years.”

  Samuel took a breath, looked straight into Wagner’s eyes, and concentrated.

  Wagner stared at him. “Will there be anything else?”

  Samuel couldn’t believe it. This had never happened before. He had never failed.

  Dina snapped, What is this? Mind-control dysfunction?

  Is he one of you? Samuel snapped back.

  Sarcastically: I don’t know. I’m not personally acquainted with every miscreant in the organization.

  He knew it. He knew Dina would betray them.

  But I don’t think so. Samuel could almost hear her tapping her fingers on the table. He coul
d be an undiscovered talent, hired for exactly this capacity.

  “Mr. Faa?” Wagner stood. “I believe we’ve concluded our business.”

  Samuel sent another shot at Wagner’s mind.

  The mind was locked tight as a vacuum cylinder.

  Wagner said, “In fact, I believe the Swiss police are waiting for you in the lobby below. They want to question you about your knowledge of and intentions for these particular accounts.”

  A cold sweat trickled down Samuel’s spine.

  Urgently, Dina said, I can distract him. Touch him. Touch him!

  Samuel stood, extended his hand, and when his flesh touched Wagner’s, he heard Dina’s voice say, Look out!

  Somehow the contact of their hands opened Wagner’s brain to Dina, and Wagner heard her voice, too.

  His surprise gave Samuel his chance.

  Samuel slammed a command into Wagner’s head. Do what I tell you.

  Wagner blinked at him. “I apologize. I thought I heard a woman’s voice.”

  “A woman?” Samuel raised his eyebrows as if amazed.

  “A woman’s deep voice, hoarse, a smoker’s voice . . .”

  “You’ve been working too hard,” Samuel said sympathetically.

  “Yes. A temporary distraction.” Wagner blinked again, his defenses broken, his mind bending to Samuel’s will. “What was it you wanted?”

  Samuel instructed him without words. Transfer control of the Gypsy Travel Agency funds to the account on that paper.

  “I remember. You wanted me to transfer the Gypsy Travel Agency funds to this account.” Wagner indicated the yellow paper and sat down at his desk.

  Samuel stood, barely breathing, as Wagner typed on his computer, checked the numbers on the paper, then pushed SEND.

  Wagner looked up. “That’s that. Is there anything else you require?”

  “Call off the police downstairs.”

  Samuel heard Dina say, It is done.

  Control of the funds had been transferred into the control of John Powell, the trustworthy leader of the Chosen Ones.

  Samuel wanted to laugh in triumph. How he had enjoyed this!

  Instead he spoke with cool composure. “There’s nothing more I require.”

  Maybe a good stiff drink, Dina suggested.

  “Very good. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Wagner stood again.

  Samuel walked toward the door. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, also.”

  “I trust now that your business is concluded, you’ll have a chance to experience our magnificent skiing. It has been a record year for snow.” Wagner pressed the button on the wall. The doors swung open. “I’ve lived here twenty years, and I’ve never seen powder this deep.”

  They walked into the corridor and toward the elevator. The guards fell in behind them.

  “Tonight I’m going to Monastère for the party benefitting the World Children’s Literacy Foundation; then, alas, tomorrow I must return to New York,” Samuel said.

  “Probably just as well. There’s a storm coming in. Just wind, they’re saying, but that always makes the slopes dangerous. Avalanche weather, you know.”

  Samuel didn’t know, but he smiled and nodded, wanting nothing more than to clear out of here before Wagner realized what had been done and why. “That’s it, then.”

  They shook hands.

  The guard punched the elevator button.

  The doors opened and Samuel stepped in.

  The doors started to close—and right before they snapped shut, Wagner stuck his arm in.

  The doors reopened.

  “We should probably clarify one matter.” Wagner frowned.

  Samuel’s heart stopped.

  Wagner asked, “Will someone else return to claim the contents of the safety-deposit box?”

  Samuel stepped back out of the elevator. “The safety-deposit box?”

  Chapter 3

  Monastère, Switzerland

  At first Isabelle Mason thought the bump from behind was an accident. The ballroom was, after all, full of guests wearing designer clothing, expensive jewelry, and subtle colognes, all ostensibly to support the World Children’s Literacy Foundation.

  Then a maternal hand slid its way around Isabelle’s waist, and in perfectly accented French, Patricia Mason asked, “Ambassador, would you forgive me if I steal my daughter away for a moment? I need her help.”

  Isabelle glanced around to find her mother, thin and elegant, standing at her side, and she tried not to look surprised at the interruption. Because for all Patricia’s graceful, fragile appearance, Isabelle knew her mother was perfectly capable of directing this party, auditing the charity’s books, and arranging next year’s vacation in Aspen all at the same time. She most certainly did not require Isabelle’s help.

  Michel Moreau managed to contain his skepticism, also; Patricia Mason was famed for her competence. Instead he kissed Isabelle’s fingers, a lingering yet respectful kiss the French performed so expertly. He bowed to Patricia Mason. “Madam, your party is, as always, a tribute to charity and elegance.” With a smile, he made his way toward the buffet, leaving Patricia and Isabelle alone in the midst of the crowd.

  For all of her urgency, Patricia took a moment to stare after the balding, stylish Moreau. “Such a charming man. Such aristocratic lineage. Why couldn’t you have married him?”

  Isabelle did not sigh. There was no point. She’d heard it all before, and until she married the proper man, she would continue to hear it. “Because Michel is twice my age. And half my height. And he’s already married.”

  “I suppose. But—”

  “Mother, I can’t believe that’s why you interrupted our conversation. He was about to get out his checkbook to make a sizable donation to the foundation.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Patricia patted Isabelle’s hand. “You do make the gentlemen loosen their purse strings in a formidable way.”

  “I learned from the best. Now—what’s wrong?”

  Recalled to her grievance, Patricia said, “Look. There!”

  Something had put an edge to her mother’s voice, so Isabelle scanned the ballroom.

  The Masons’ nineteenth-century château had been decorated with the same subtle elegance that marked her mother as a leader of society in Europe and the States. Flowers had been flown in from the Riviera to fill tall Tiffany vases. The walls glowed with carefully restored Renaissance murals, and rich metallic gold gilded the arched ceilings. The quartet played quiet background music; in about an hour, they would strip off their coats and ties and make the move to dance music, taking the party to its next stage.

  Society had traveled by plane and train, then on icy roads up to the tiny, exclusive village for the privilege of dancing, eating, and, most important, being seen at one of Patricia’s exquisite charity events. Young women wore Kane and Zac Posen; older women wore Dior and Prada. Patricia herself wore a conservative black satin Chanel evening gown; she preached the classics.

  Isabelle had learned from her mother, and wore Versace, a simple pale gold silk that clung in all the right places and gave her bosom (so the designer said) “height.”

  Now, with nothing visibly wrong with the flowers, the atmosphere, or the people, Isabelle said, “Mother, I really don’t see—” Then the crowd parted and gave her a clear view of Senator Noah Noble. “Him? It’s okay, Mother; he’s merely my ex-fiancé, and since the breakup we’ve met amicably if not fondly.”

  “Not him. I invited him.” Patricia’s voice changed to warm interest. “Although if you haven’t heard, he and his wife have just secured a divorce.”

  Isabelle allowed herself a single, spiteful smile. “Did they? Good. I hope she took him for everything and ruined his political career in the process.”

  “Hm.”

  “Mother, do you not remember the scene he made when he broke our engagement?”

  “Yes, yes. But you were going to break the engagement yourself!”

  “Proving I ha
ve good instincts about men.”

  “Not necessarily.” Patricia used her clasp on Isabelle’s arm to direct her. “What I want to know is—what is he doing here?”

  Isabelle pretended to search with her gaze, but she had caught sight of him. Now she knew who had her mother in an uproar.

  “There,” Patricia said. “Speaking to Prince Saber. It’s Samuel Faa.”

  “Oh. Him.” Isabelle infused her voice with boredom. “I invited him.”

  “You? You?” Patricia hustled Isabelle toward a curtained alcove and in a hushed voice said, “But, darling—the gossip!”

  “What gossip? Mother, we haven’t been together for over . . . what? . . . Five years? Six years?”

  “Five years, and everyone remembers.”

  “Few knew, and only you would care. Half the people in here are ex-lovers of the other half.” Isabelle watched her mother struggle with the universal truth that among the wealthy, sex was entertainment.

  “It’s true. But I don’t have to like it.”

  Samuel wore his tuxedo with a flair that made women turn and look, some in disdain—the outfit was so obviously not his natural state—and some in pure, absolute lust. He looked like the kind of man who could drink too much, make love all night, steal the Hope Diamond from the Smithsonian, and do it all without breaking a sweat. With his black hair and swarthy skin, he was clearly Gypsy. She would call him Romany, but there was nothing politically correct about Samuel. Ever.

  Right now he was chatting up Lady Winstead, a female old enough that she shouldn’t be blushing under his regard.

  But she was.

  Because Samuel knew the secret of charm; when he used those dark brown eyes on a woman, she had his full attention—and she knew it.

  Isabelle remembered the force of his charm all too well. More than once in her life, she had been that woman, melting under his regard.

  But she was wiser now. She knew what it meant when he concentrated on her. It never ended well.

  The man was the kind of lawyer who gave the law profession its bad reputation. He barely acknowledged the high moral standards demanded of the Chosen Ones. He was gifted with a capital “G”—a mind controller, totally without scruples.