Then the Sculptor heard a noise: the tap of a foot on the marble floor.
In a panic, he glanced around.
Nothing. There was no one, only a hundred motionless faces detailed in anguish.
He walked — tottered, really — into the middle of the entry. “Who’s there?” he called.
A voice behind him muttered … something.
He whirled.
More statues, staring at him accusingly.
Were they closer than before?
He kept his hammer lifted as he turned around and around, moving slower and slower as he heard more noises: a word, a groan, the whisper of silk as it moved.
He saw change. Over there, the prostitute was standing. Closer at hand, the boy had turned his head.
Slower and slower the Sculptor spun. His joints grew stiffer and stiffer.
The statues around him shrugged and shifted and mumbled words as if trying them out after a long, winter freeze.
Slower … slower.
The plaster turned to dust. The statues regained their colors: black skin and brown and tan, blonde hair and brunette and red-head, pink lips and coral and plum, blue jeans and dress suits and plain t-shirts.
Yet as they came to life, the Sculptor lost his ability to move. He was locked in place, his hammer upraised, his eyes stretched wide with fear.
He tried to scream, What have you done? But his mouth wouldn’t move … no sound came out.
He was frozen, a statue in his own home.
You didn’t think I’d forgive failure, did you? Osgood’s laughter echoed in the Sculptor’s head.
All the statues stared at him, at the Sculptor, and he realized — he could still see them. He could still hear them. See the contortions of their faces as they hated him. Hear the gradually rising babble of their ire as they realized that at last they were free.
All this time, he had never known if they were sentient beneath the stone.
They were. Oh, God, he knew they were … because now he was alive and aware, and unable to move.
All through the moments, the days, the years of their lives his statues had seen and heard everything, and they remembered … and they lusted for vengeance.
His former statues stood at a distance, and started to circle him, around and around, staring at him as if he were an exhibit for them to view. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, they appeared and disappeared from his field of vision while he futilely strained to turn his head, to move his eyes.
No, Osgood, please. I beg you!
Osgood's dispassionate voice answered, They all beg. But we’ve learned not to show mercy, haven’t we?
As if by a signal, the statues stopped circling. In unison, they moved closer.
The room was silent except for their breathing.
Then the boy, the statue who had grown up from an adolescent to a man, the one the Sculptor had plastered and re-plastered, stepped up. He reached out. He took hold of the Sculptor's hammer and slid it out of his frozen grasp.
In his head, the Sculptor screamed.
And the boy lifted the hammer like a judge’s gavel, and when it fell, over and over again, Amanda's prayer was answered.
Justice was done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROBBIE WAS hanging around, waiting for his next assignment, when he saw Liam, Amanda and that little girl, Sophia, walk out of the Sculptor's mansion and down the street.
Liam was limping. The two girls were supporting him.
In the slow, deep recesses of his mind, Robbie wondered when Liam had arrived at the mansion. And where was the old guy, Irving Shea?
Robbie hoped the Sculptor hadn’t killed him. Irving had seemed harmless enough.
Robbie never ever understood why the Others did anything. It was all part of some cosmic plan concocted by Osgood, and a guy like Robbie wasn’t smart enough to comprehend the ins and outs of cosmic plans.
But he liked the little kid, Sophia; when she wasn’t a statue or crying in fear, she had seemed nice. Same thing about Irving Shea — for an old man, he hadn’t been much trouble. And Liam had been all gooshy in love with that nurse Amanda…
Robbie frowned.
What was it about Amanda that he was supposed to remember?
His brow cleared.
Ohhh. He was supposed to give her a note from the Sculptor.
He pulled the envelope out of his jacket and stared at it.
He hoped he wasn’t in trouble. He didn’t like to be in trouble. He hated when Eric yelled at him and punched him, although he hadn’t done much lately, not since Robbie had accidentally punched back and sent Eric through the wall.
Gosh, maybe Robbie should open the note and read it. That way he’d know if he should run after Amanda and give it to her.
But the Sculptor had said it was secret.
But he’d also said it was urgent.
So Robbie sort of had to open it.
So he did.
Amanda, my dear, (See? The Sculptor wasn’t such a bad guy. He called Amanda “my dear.”) You have three days to bring Irving to me. Three days, or the statue of your sister will meet with an unfortunate, fatal accident.
Robbie exhaled a sigh of relief.
Amanda had brought Irving to the Sculptor, and Sophia had not met with an unfortunate, fatal accident. So he could stop worrying. Everything was okay.
Robbie shoved the note into a garbage can and slammed the lid.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he smiled at a little old lady, who took one look at him, did a one-eighty, and headed back the direction she’d come.
Robbie went back to hanging around and waiting for his next assignment, glad that his dear old granny’s favorite saying had been proved right again.
She used to say, All’s well that ends well.
And it had.
EPILOGUE
“HOW ARE the two lovebirds?” Charisma asked.
The Chosen Ones sat around the dinner table, nibbling on tiramisu and drinking espressos.
Irving perused the letter he had received with a postmark from a tiny town in Tuscany. “Amanda says Sophia is happily immersing herself in learning Italian, and Liam is studying viticulture so they can make a profit with their little winery.”
Isabelle chuckled. “Not like they need the money after the amount you handed to Liam before they boarded their flight.”
Samuel chimed in from his place next to Isabelle. “It’s true. They could probably live off the interest. But they took a whole lot less than Liam was originally promised.”
“Liam didn’t want the money,” Irving mused. “He wanted their new identities so he could start his life with my erstwhile private nurse.”
“Well, you got a replacement nurse who will rehabilitate you … whether you like it or not. Right, Helga?” Caleb looked at the thick-necked, linebacker of a German nurse that had arrived the day before.
Helga gave Caleb a grunt and quick nod before returning to her second dessert.
It had taken them weeks to find someone with the nursing qualifications that could also pass their strict background check, but they were still completely taken aback by the product of their search.
They were the Chosen Ones. They had special powers.
And Helga scared the hell out of all of them.
Jacqueline giggled and then tried to play it off as a cough. “It sounds like Sophia’s force field is holding up.”
“Yes,” Irving said. “As long as they don’t try to stray too far from home, they’ll be protected.”
“If I lived on a vineyard in the middle of Tuscany, straying from home wouldn’t be a concern for me,” Aaron replied. “But I think we should keep an eye on Sophia. We’re going to need a new set of Chosen in a few years. I mean, we will, assuming we don’t screw up and get killed, and Osgood succeeds in dragging the world into hell.”
“Well, aren’t you the cheeriest Chosen One?” Charisma laughed at his grimace.
Not that he wasn’t telling the
truth. The Chosen Ones weren’t exactly losing this fight, but they weren’t exactly winning, either. Osgood and the Others seemed to be getting stronger and craftier, and they never knew what Osgood had up his sleeve next.
Then she looked around the table at her friends and sworn companions, and her smile slowly faded.
If only she knew where Aleksandr was … and why her stones had stopped singing.
THE END
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