Storm of Shadows

by Christina Dodd

  “When . . . when did the Paris magic disappear?” In the coat closet? In the Sacred Cave? On the airplane on the flight back to New York?

  Yet Aaron said he loved her. . . .

  Over her head, he watched her knowingly.

  He was sculpted and bronzed, handsome even with bruises and cuts, and the contrast with her made her miserably aware that he was so debonair and urbane, and she was so not. She had to make herself clear. “The thing is, I liked being pretty, but it took hours. It was okay to do once, but it’s not me. I mean, of course, I put on lipstick. . . .” She almost said every day, but she couldn’t lie. “I do put on lipstick every once in a while and I comb my hair every day.”

  She didn’t know why, but he chuckled.

  Dauntless, she plowed on. “But this is the real me.” She pointed at her reflection in the mirror.

  He turned her to face him. “This is exactly the woman I want—intense, intelligent, fascinating, and not at all pretty.”

  She stiffened. She knew it was true, that she wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have to say so.

  She knew that he wanted her, too, but what they had could never work . . . because she was a coward.

  Capturing her chin with his cupped hand, he lifted her face to his. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and all I want is to spend the rest of my life with you.” Sliding his arm around her waist, he pulled her close and kissed her with such passion and heat, she forgot her qualms, her fears. With his lips on hers, she thought of only one thing. Having him. Mating with him. Giving him pleasure, learning passion from him.

  But as soon as he stopped kissing her, the truth came flooding back. I can’t do this.

  And he knew. He scrutinized with those deep, dark eyes, and he just knew. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, not wanting to ruin this moment.

  “No. Don’t pretend with me. You loved me, I know you did, and I’m just a guy with no sensitivity, but you’re on the verge of crying.” He used his thumb to catch the tear that spilled over and trickled down her cheek. “After the fight in your library, you said you loved me, but ever since Samuel got us out of the hospital, you’ve been . . . distant. Why? Did I say something wrong?”

  “Say something wrong?” She tore herself out of his arms, wrapped her good arm around her stomach, tried to contain the agony that bubbled inside her. “It’s not what you said. It’s what you did.”

  “What did I do?” He tried to embrace her.

  “You died.” She evaded him.

  As if he were startled, he laughed a little. “But I’m okay!” He spread his arms as if to show her. “You heard what I said in the kitchen. I’m more than okay. I’m great!”

  “No. No! It doesn’t matter. I don’t love you anymore.”

  “Hm.” He took her hands, uncurled her clenched fingers, and held them. “You know, I just don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.” He had to believe her, because she was going to make herself believe it.

  “All right. Why don’t you tell why you don’t love me anymore?” He walked her toward the stairway that led to the mansion’s impressive foyer.

  “I told you. You died.” She grabbed for her composure again, and found it, never mind that it rocked like an ice floe on the arctic waters. “I have too much experience with that kind of loss. I lost my mother when I was a girl, but I was a kid. I didn’t understand then. I thought that somehow, someday, I’d see her again, hear her voice, somehow touch her spirit. Or something! I didn’t understand forever, the emptiness that weighs more than love, that like a glacier grinds you a different path so that you become someone who doesn’t dare hope. Because hopes are destined to be dashed. My father’s gone now, too. Both of my parents gone . . . because they were scholars seeking knowledge, and the Others . . . the Others wanted to hoard the knowledge for themselves.”

  They reached the foyer, and Aaron turned her. “I would understand if you declared you didn’t love the Others. But your parents’ deaths are not my fault.”

  “I know that.”

  “You haven’t told me why you don’t love me.”

  She didn’t want to face him while she talked. She didn’t want to meet his eyes. She pulled away from him, turned her back, stood before a Queen Anne antique side table graced with a green porcelain vase. With her finger, she traced the design cut into the smooth wood. “In a lesser way, I loved Louis, and a few hours after I met him, he was dead.”

  “The fact you knew and loved him didn’t make him a target for death.” As Aaron spoke, he moved to one side of her.

  “I know that. I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I must have been the cause of my mother’s death. It was the only reason I could imagine that my father would suddenly dislike me so.” She looked up, and realized she faced into a mirror, and Aaron had changed positions so he could observe the expressions that chased across her face. “Okay. I thought that all the way up to the time when Lance admitted he’d killed my father. Then I realized both my parents were killed for knowing too much and poking their noses into a dangerous business.”

  Aaron still watched her.

  So she still talked. “In a weird way, it was okay to lose my parents. Not good. Not easy. I loved my mother, I loved my father, but my parents were always supposed to die before me. You—I fell in love with you. I didn’t want to. I just couldn’t help it. You were strong and smart. And competent! You handled everything in the world so easily. You could get a cab. You could find my purse. You could fight off a dozen attackers. You could hide me in plain sight to get me out of Fournier’s château. You could make love so beautifully.” She put her hand over her aching heart.

  He stood very still, very quiet, his dark eyes intent on her. “Honey, you’re talking about me in the past tense. I am still here. I am still that man.”

  “But don’t you see?” She faced him, leaned against the table, said, “You could die again.”

  “Yes. That’s true.” He captured her hand, kissed the back of her fingers. “Darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you’re afraid, but what comfort can I offer you?”

  She tried to yank her hand back.

  He wouldn’t release her. “Listen to me. I’m one of the Chosen Ones. The mark on my back—it’s a gift.”

  “A gift you have to pay for.”

  “I don’t have to. I admit, I had to be blackmailed into joining the Chosen Ones. But when the Gypsy Travel Agency exploded, and so many people were killed, and I realized there was only us, seven people who didn’t know what they were doing . . . well, six now . . . It means I’m someone who has a job to do, and that job is dangerous.” He used his grip on her hands to gather her close to him. “The mark on my back is a target, and when I do what I must do, I’m going to be in peril.”

  She smelled the scent of him, felt his warmth, listened to his voice, and all the time, she knew she only had this moment with him. She could not depend on tomorrow. “I don’t want to be in love with a man who could die again. The first time . . . the first time almost killed me. I sat there in the ruins of that collapsed cave and held you in my arms, and I knew your spirit had gone from me. You were gone, and I was alone. Forever.”

  “Darling . . .” He tried to kiss her.

  She fended him off. “No. If you’re going to go off and steal things, to embrace danger, I don’t want to know. If you’re going to be one of the Chosen Ones, I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here. I cannot love a hero.” Her eyes filled with tears. Her voice wobbled.

  In a flat tone, he said, “If I can, you can.”

  “What?” Huh? What? Had he lost his mind?

  “You have spent the last week dashing across oceans and up mountains in search of a prophecy. You faced off with men who counterfeit antiques and with assassins and murderous security men. You dealt with hostile French villagers and the collapse of the Sacred Cave.” He held her close and shook her, then wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer, into his
chest. “Most terrifying, you emerged triumphant from the dreaded fashion makeover. You beat every challenge—and today, you told Irving you were going to explore a way to corroborate the prophecy you found.”

  “I’m not brave. That’s just research.”

  “That you could be killed for conducting.” When she would have objected, he added, “As your parents were killed. So don’t tell me you fear my death and the loneliness that would follow, because if you died in the quest for a prophecy that I asked you to find . . . I would never forgive myself.” His voice shook. He put his face into her hair and took a long breath, and said, “Rosamund, I love you. I can’t live without you. Living with you, for no matter how much time is given us, is better than living an eternity without you.”

  “Oh. You had to say that.” He was so completely logical, she was forced to be logical in her turn, and face the fact he was right. The pain of losing him would be nothing compared to the pain of never being with him again.

  “I trust you to have a care for yourself,” he said. “Won’t you do the same with me? I’m good at what I do, and getting better all the time. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes. I do.” She’d been witness to his skills and his gift. “You are very competent. Even . . . brilliant.”

  “Good. I’m glad we agree.” He muffled his laugh in her hair. “So stay with me, and we’ll be brave together, and if one of us has to pass on before the other, we’ll know that someday, we’ll be together again.”

  She stood in his embrace, trying to think, to understand what had happened that she, the ordinary, too-smart, bookish librarian, should inspire this kind of devotion from Aaron Eagle, the man who fought, stole antiques, hailed cabs, and made love, all with unparalleled proficiency. Still, she tried to protect herself. “All right. I want to try with you for a while.”

  “How long a while?” He leaned back and looked into her face.

  “A year?”

  “I have a better idea. I think we’d be better off starting with fifty.”

  “Fifty what?”

  “Fifty years. That way we’d really know if we could handle this situation with aplomb.”

  “Aaron. That isn’t funny.”

  “I assure you, funny is the last thing I’m trying to be.” In fact, he looked utterly serious. “Rosamund Fair, I want to marry you. I want to live with you forever, and when I die, I want to die in your arms. I don’t know if I can live without you, but I know I don’t want to try. Take a chance with me. Say yes.”

  She thought about the things he’d said, but more than that, she thought about who he was—a man of honor, a man of valor, a man who loved her so completely he had died to save her life, then put his life on the line again to save her again. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

  He laughed again, this time a lighthearted laugh that made her smile in her turn. “Do you still love me?” he asked.

  “No matter how hard I try, no matter how long I live, I will never stop.” Even though she was opening herself up to so much pain . . . and so many sweet rewards.

  He lifted her gently and spun in a circle of exultation. “I love you, too, Rosamund, all the way through this world and into the next.”

  As they circled, her heel caught on the edge of the table.

  The green vase teetered toward the marble floor.

  She squeaked with dismay.

  He dropped her to her feet, lunged, and caught the fragile porcelain. Looking up at her, his eyes horrified, he said, “Ming dynasty. Chrysanthemum styled.”

  “Priceless?” she asked.

  He nodded and carefully placed the vase back on the table. “McKenna would have killed us.”

  “That would have ended our quandary.” For the first time in days, she laughed.

  He listened to her merriment, a half smile on his face, and said, “Now, that is priceless.” Putting his arm around her, he said, “We have got to find someplace private.”

  As he hustled her up the stairs, she smiled at him, besotted by his intent, chiseled, severe face. “You know, we’ll always have Paris.”

  “To hell with Paris.” He opened his bedroom door and ushered her inside. “Wait until you see what we can do in New York City.”

  Chapter 43

  Aaron and Rosamund were upstairs. The Chosen Ones had left for their first mission. Martha had gone to establish a place for the rescued child. McKenna was monitoring the rescue operation from afar. In the kitchen, Irving and Davidov stood together.

  Irving turned to Davidov. “You couldn’t have left them alone a little longer.”

  Davidov moved out of the shadows. He didn’t look a day older than the last time Irving had seen him, teeth gleaming, blond hair glowing with vitality, muscled body hard—and that was forty years ago.

  But his eyes were tired.

  “You couldn’t have let them be safe.” Since the moment Davidov had spoken, Irving’s hands had been knotted. Now he rubbed them together trying to ease the ache.

  “Irving, you’re an old man.” Davidov shoved a chair toward him. “The Chosen Ones aren’t supposed to be safe. They’re meant to be out there, fighting the good fight.”

  “They haven’t got training. They haven’t got backup. They’re the most inexperienced Chosen since—”

  “Since the world was young, and the twins went out to fight for good and evil.” Davidov seated himself on a low stool. “Isabelle’s got a good head on her shoulders. Caleb is a bodyguard, and he trained Jacqueline to fight. Give them a chance.”

  “Thanks to you, I don’t have a choice.” Irving didn’t want to sit, didn’t want Davidov to know his weakness. He’d had never liked the man, with his deep secrets and his dark warnings and the way he showed up whenever he pleased and disappeared just as quickly. Davidov wasn’t a company man. He wasn’t even . . . Well, Irving didn’t know what he was or wasn’t, but he knew Davidov couldn’t be controlled. He knew Davidov was dangerous.

  Yet Irving’s knees were shaking from tension, and he eased himself into the chair.

  Davidov leaned his arms on his knees, gazed at Irving, and in a reasonable tone that set his teeth on edge, said, “Listen. Six Chosen is bad luck. You know that. You need to get that seventh Chosen.”

  “I don’t believe in bad luck. The records have been destroyed. I don’t know who to get.” Irving recited every excuse without expecting Davidov to listen or care.

  “There are past Chosen out there who would respond to an appeal.”

  “If they weren’t at the Gypsy Travel Agency during the Choosing, then they’re renegades.”

  “You mean they’re Chosen you can’t control.” Davidov slapped his hand on the massive table—and it quivered from the shock. “Irving, this isn’t about you and your position as CEO of the Gypsy Travel Agency. Yes, when you stepped into the position fifty years ago, the whole organization was in a mess, and you fixed it. You incorporated, you made the Gypsy Travel Agency financially secure, and the Chosen Ones were able to do their jobs without worrying about how to fund their missions. But what you did was—” He hesitated.

  “What I did was . . . what?” Irving fixed his eyes on this man, this thing that had always been his nemesis.

  “You saved them,” Davidov said simply. “And condemned them.”

  The two men stared at each other, challenging each other, saying more than words.

  Irving’s gaze dropped first, to his gnarled, aching, spotted old hands that gripped the armrests on his chair. “I retired because I was old.”

  “It was already too late.”

  Something jingled in the pantry.

  Davidov turned his head. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the doorbell. It rings down here, and it rings on McKenna’s pager. He’ll get it.”

  Like a dog worrying a bone, Davidov returned to the issue at hand. “The seventh Chosen. You are missing an integral component to this team. You need a gift of raw power.”

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you pi
ck one in the first place? Then perhaps now you wouldn’t have your cock in a wringer.”

  “Because of what happened last time. And because he’s still the only Chosen of power we’ve had for a century. He didn’t finish his seven years because he . . .” Irving shook his head at the memory. “You scoff at control, but John Powell cannot be trusted to control himself.”

  “If you don’t get someone in here with experience, someone who can provide guidance and protection to those fragile human beings who just walked out the door, they will die. The Others have prepared for this for years, and you know—Irving, you know—what is driving them.”