She sank down on the cushions thrown in careful disarray against the window seat and sipped from a glass of Grand Marnier.
She knew the traditions of the Chosen Ones. Ideally they would first struggle and argue, then find a natural leader, then settle down to the job at hand. Usually that job was finding and rescuing others like themselves . . . the Abandoned Ones. If they found the babies in time, the children would be adopted into families and disappear into the real world to live out their lives in obscurity. If they failed to retrieve the babies, the Others would take them. Sometimes they sacrificed them. Sometimes they raised them to be steeped in evil. Always they reminded the children that the Chosen Ones had not cared to rescue them. Always they cultivated resentment against the Chosen Ones.
Sometimes the mix of the Chosen was less than ideal. Sometimes there were two leaders, or three, or four, and the group fought fruitlessly, never establishing a rapport. Sometimes the Chosen were born into a time that required physical strength and acts of heroics, and they had become bulwarks in the struggle against evil.
Right now, with the strife and the arguments, it seemed this group would be one of the insignificant Chosen.
Yet . . . they needed to be so much more.
The pool players racked up the balls. Isabelle broke, and ran five balls before giving over to the other team. She watched and chalked as Aleksandr placed three balls in three pockets, then turned to face Irving. “I need to call my mother, let her know where I am, what I’m doing,” she said.
“This is a delicate situation. You can’t call her,” Irving said.
Samuel crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against the table. “God forbid your mother should worry.”
For all the attention Isabelle paid to Samuel, he might not have existed. “I can’t not call her. If she doesn’t hear from me sometime tomorrow, she’ll call the FBI. And the FBI will listen to her.”
Samuel sighed loudly.
Isabelle continued. “My fiancé works in DC as a lobbyist.” Samuel snorted so loudly, Isabelle snatched the handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it over his mouth. Pressed it hard, like she wanted to cut off his air. “After that snort, you’re unattractively moist. And don’t tell me you don’t have someone you want to know that you’re alive.”
With his dark eyes focused on her, he pushed her hand away. “My secretary.”
“You’re sleeping with your secretary?” Isabelle’s voice rose. “Again?”
Jacqueline squeezed her spine against the window seat and wished she could turn away from the scene. But they were both so passionate, so angry, sparks flew between them, riveting the attention of every person in the room.
“I am not sleeping with anybody. And I resigned from my law firm to take this job.”
“Then you don’t need to talk to anybody, do you?” Isabelle asked.
Samuel drew a breath. “I have to notify my parole officer.”
Isabelle looked as if he’d struck her in the face.
She stared at him, her eyes so wide and horrified, he taunted, “You always knew I would come to this. Or at least—your mother did.”
She turned her back to him and thumped her cue to the rug hard enough to create a vibration through the hardwood floor. “What did you do?”
“Another attorney claimed I used coercion to extract a confession from his client. The judge agreed.”
“Because you did.”
“No one could prove that, but it was enough. . . . It doesn’t matter. They convicted me.”
Isabelle stood with her head bent, breathing hard.
“Ma belle . . .” Samuel used a voice deep and warm, so reassuring that Jacqueline put her hand over her heart.
But when he would have cupped Isabelle’s shoulders, her hand slashed out in a gesture that clearly said Halt. “Don’t touch me.”
His usual cynical sneer snapped back in place. “Of course not, Miss Mason. I wouldn’t dream of dirtying your noble self.”
Whew. Bad blood between those two.
To Jacqueline’s surprise, Aleksandr stepped into the breach with the assurance of a man twice his age. “Mr. Shea, I have to call my mother, too. If I don’t, there will be a very large and angry clan of former shape-shifters descending on your house.”
“If my mother heard about the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, then she’s having a fit right now,” Charisma said.
Irving nodded. “In that case, you’re right, Miss Mason, Mr. Wilder, Miss Fangorn. Not calling your contacts would create a greater danger than calling. We’ll arrange for everyone to contact family or . . . whomever they need to tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Isabelle turned back to the table in time to see Samuel finish the game. Without a word, she walked over, handed her cue to Aaron, and said, “Your turn.”
He wasn’t fool enough to say he preferred to remain stretched out on the love seat. Instead, he took the cue, headed for the pool table, and warned Aleksandr, “You’re going to be sorry. Pool is not my game.”
Jacqueline noticed Caleb even before he stepped into the room. He moved without sound, but sometime in the last few days she’d picked up an awareness of his vibration, his scent, his presence.
Irritating.
He swooped over, snatched a pillow from under her arm, seated himself close against her side, and braced his shoulder against hers.
She moved away.
He moved close.
She glared at him.
He smiled at her.
She contemplated kicking him, but she’d tried that before, unsuccessfully, and she didn’t intend to face that kind of humiliation here and now.
Irving watched the two of them jockey for position; then with more cheer, he said, “Do you know, the last time a disaster of this magnitude occurred, the Dark Ages followed.”
“Great.” Tyler chalked his cue and proved the players were listening. “We’ve got something to look forward to.”
Irving continued. “But you, dear Jacqueline, you have given me hope.”
“Hope? Me?” She didn’t mind giving him hope. She simply didn’t enjoy the attention that went with it.
“At last . . . at last, you’ve agreed to become the seer of the Chosen Ones.”
She shrugged carelessly, dismissing her gesture as inconsequential. “For this group of the Chosen Ones.”
“My dear.” Irving smiled so warmly, all shadow of sorrow was banished from his face. “All your life, you’ve heard that there is only one seer.”
Tension crept over Jacqueline. “Every cycle. There’s one seer every seven years.”
The players stalled; everyone grew still and silent.
Charisma covered her head with both hands; clearly, she knew what was coming.
“No,” Irving said gently. “Our seer is our most precious commodity, and we are blessed with only one at a time.”
He didn’t mean what she thought he meant. He couldn’t. “But my mother is still psychic. She proved that without a doubt.”
“When you stepped into the circle, the transfer of power began. When she stepped out, she was no longer our oracle. She was Zusane Vargha, a lovely lady to whom we are grateful.” Irving’s adoration for Zusane couldn’t have been more clear.
Jacqueline grabbed Caleb by the shoulder and turned him to face her.
He gazed at her, his pale blue eyes cool and interested, as if she were a bug under a microscope. He said, “There always has to be one. Her term extends for as much time or as little as she likes, she picks her successor, and every seven years, she has to approve the new Chosen.”
The bastard. He’d known this all along.
“So the fate of the world depends on me and my visions?” Jacqueline spoke to Irving, but she stared into Caleb’s eyes. “Then the Chosen Ones are in trouble, because I’ve never had a vision.”
Chapter 12
“What?” Aaron Eagle swung away from his shot.
“Great. Just great. This seems like a good time
to take a”—Samuel stopped, looked at Isabelle, and finished in a sarcastic tone—“a powder room break.”
“Why don’t you do just that?” Isabelle said. He strode from the room, and she muttered, “Run away. That’s all you’re good for.”
“How could you have never had a vision?” Aaron asked.
“I just never have.” Jacqueline didn’t like the way the American Indian fixed his dark eyes on her and demanded an explanation as if he had the right.
“Wow. I’m not the only one without a gift.” Aleksandr Wilder seemed less morose, more relaxed.
“Jacqueline, you have the mark,” Irving insisted.
“I know I have the mark.” Jacqueline tried to be quiet, but when she got defensive—and that happened a lot around the Chosen Ones, past and present—her voice rose. “I’ve never been allowed to forget I have the mark. That doesn’t mean the mark has ever done anything to me. Meant anything to me. I mean, what if it’s just a birthmark?”
Naturally, Irving paid no heed. “Have you gone underground? The earth always sheltered your mother, gave her the cradle she needed to access her talent.”
“It doesn’t work.” Jacqueline scooted into the mound of pillows, crossed her arms, and wished she didn’t feel like a sulky kid. She wished she didn’t feel as if she’d just failed the Chosen Ones. She wished Caleb would stop watching her so knowingly.
She wished . . . she wished that sepia-colored world would recede from the edges of her sight.
“If you’re not a psychic, why did you step into the circle?” Isabelle asked, her voice cool, aristocratic, and yet somehow comforting. Maybe she wasn’t so thrilled with her gift, either.
“It seemed the thing to do at the time. I didn’t know the building was going to blow up—” As Jacqueline remembered that blackened crater, her voice shook. “And I really didn’t realize there could be only one. I figured my mother would be around to pick up the slack.” Which was the truth, but not all the truth.
Caleb took her hand and toyed with the Velcro that held her glove in place. “Do you ever say something unintentionally? Something you never really thought about, but that comes out of your mouth and turns out to be true?”
Damn him. He knew the trouble she’d gotten in as a child, blithely predicting divorces and new siblings and Christmas presents.
“Yes. I did. But those aren’t visions. Those are premonitions. If you want me to tell you that your computer’s going to fry, I’m your woman. But if you want to know who blew up the Gypsy Travel Agency, or why, I haven’t got a clue.” Jacqueline had learned to close her mind to her premonitions, too. If she hadn’t, Caleb wouldn’t have found her in California. She would have hauled ass out of the country—for all the good that would have done her. She might have premonitions on her side, but he had her mother’s money on his.
“Look. It’s okay. You guys are forgetting—I’m a psychic.” Tyler sounded more than a little irritated at being ignored.
“That’s right,” Charisma said in relief. “He’s a psychic. We’ve got one.” She glanced apologetically at Jacqueline. “More than one.”
So there, Jacqueline mouthed at Caleb.
Irving tapped his long finger on his lips and examined Tyler. “It’s unusual for males to have an intuitive gift. Usually the sensitive gifts are the arena of females. . . . Interesting.” Irving looked as if he were trying to remember something of importance. “What kind of visions do you see?”
“It depends on what happens and what I’m looking for.” Tyler was a handsome man in his late twenties, tanned, with shoulder-length golden hair and the greenest eyes Jacqueline had ever seen.
“So you have control over your visions?” Irving asked.
Tyler shook his head. “I didn’t foresee the explosion at all, but I think we can safely assume Zusane didn’t, either, or she would have stopped it.”
“But she did see the explosion,” Aaron said.
“She was very connected to the site and the people. I had only been in the building a few hours when they brought us down to the subway station. And unlike Zusane, I don’t receive well underground.” Tyler shrugged ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I don’t understand my gift or how it is given to me. I merely know I’m blessed to have it.”
“All of you gentlemen have done very well for yourself with your gifts.” Irving leaned toward Aleksandr and said kindly, “And I’m sure your gift will arrive in due time.”
“I hope so. It’s not easy being the untalented, unremarkable Wilder.”
Jacqueline really did like the boy. His youth hid a wry humor and an acceptance she wished she could claim.
“There are a few points about today’s explosion I don’t understand,” Charisma said.
Samuel walked in and proved he’d heard when he said, “Only a few points?”
“More than a few, but . . .” Charisma slid the bracelets around and around her wrists. “Did the perpetrators know we would be out of the building?”
No one answered. Finally Isabelle said, “We didn’t know what time we would leave to go to be confirmed. We were sent into that subway when a call came through.”
“From me,” Caleb told them.
Isabelle continued. “How would an enemy judge the right moment to eliminate us? I think it’s possible that they don’t know we’re still alive.”
“That’s a hopeful view of the matter.” Samuel watched her as if he were sorry for his previous cutting comments, as if he cared for her more than he could say.
Yes, you jerk, you hurt her when you behave like a jackass. Jacqueline’s gaze shifted to Caleb. Oh, she knew about jackasses. And she knew about hurt. Luckily, she wasn’t as delicate as Isabelle. With a mother like Zusane, she had learned to be tough. It was the only way to survive.
“Do you think the perpetrators died in the explosion? Are we talking suicide bombers?” Tyler looked intensely at Caleb, wanting an answer from the man who, because of his experience, had assumed leadership of the investigation.
“That’s what I think,” Caleb answered. “Ask me what I know.”
In the doorway, someone cleared her throat, and everyone in the room swung around.
“If I could be allowed to speak . . .” Martha sounded, and looked, sarcastically polite.
“Of course, Martha,” Irving said.
“Someone should be sent to protect Gary.” Martha’s eyes kindled with anger. Her shock at the day’s events had curdled into bitterness; she sought to blame someone for the tragedy.
In a way, that removed her from the list of suspects.
“Who?” Irving asked. “There’s no one to do it.”
“Who’s Gary?” Charisma asked.
“Something you don’t know!” Samuel said in pretend shock.
In a smooth, cool, aristocratic voice, Isabelle said, “Samuel, you’ve already won the award as the nastiest person in the Chosen Ones. You don’t need to try and cement that honor.”
Jacqueline was starting to like Isabelle.
“Gary White. He was a team leader, one of our most talented, most trusted Chosen. Four years ago, he led his team into a dangerous situation. He lost almost every one. He returned—in a coma. There’s been no sign of recovery. He’s in a nursing home. . . .” Irving shook his head. “Forty-two years old. He could live like that for another fifty years.”
“Wow. When they recruited us, they never told us stuff like that.” Tyler was clearly displeased.
“Only a fool would imagine anything different.” The words escaped Jacqueline without forethought. Then she wanted to clap her hands over her mouth.
But it was too late.
Tyler glared and said, “If I’m such a fool, you’ll be relieved if I leave.”
“You can’t leave. This is more than a job. It’s a destiny. It’s your fate, and you cannot escape your fate. Tomorrow, we’ll begin to plan what we must do, but for tonight”—Irving gestured to the servants at the door—“Martha, McKenna, if you would fill everyone’s g
lasses again? And fill your own.”
When each of the Chosen Ones and the servants held a drink, Irving came to his feet.
Jacqueline stood. Caleb did also. Charisma and Isabelle rose. Everyone stepped forward, sensing the gravity of Irving’s intent.
Irving lifted his glass and began the traditional toast, the toast that had ended every evening at the Gypsy Travel Agency for as long as Jacqueline could remember. “To our fallen heroes, the Chosen Ones of days past.”
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