Chains of Ice

by Christina Dodd

  “No,” Genny said, “after I give you this artifact, I’ve got to be on my way.”

  The same deafness that afflicted Charisma also apparently afflicted McKenna. “Martha will bring refreshments.”

  “Good,” Charisma said. “Genny’s probably hungry. Aren’t you, Genny?”

  Genny surrendered. “All right. I can stay a little while.” Especially since she didn’t want to wrestle herself free from Charisma’s hold on her arm.

  Charisma dragged her toward the big open arch off the entry. “McKenna hates when we have a scene in the foyer. It offends his sense of propriety.” She grinned at McKenna.

  He did not grin back.

  Charisma’s face and voice softened. “McKenna, would you ask Jacqueline to come down? Genny needs to talk to her.”

  “Of course, Miss Charisma.” He walked toward the wide, smooth sweep of steps that led upstairs, and nothing about his proper demeanor changed.

  But Genny thought he might be hurrying.

  This place was odd. Off kilter. A lunacy seemed to be alive in the air.

  Genny tugged Charisma to a halt just inside the library, a gracious room of immense proportions. “Who is Jacqueline? Why do you say I need to talk to her?”

  “Jacqueline is our seer. And my stones said that what you have is for her. Lately, they’ve been speaking to me very loudly.” Charisma cocked her head and studied Genny. “I think maybe you’re the reason. John’s been having so many problems lately and we’re worried—”

  “John . . . is sick?” Genny didn’t want to be concerned. But she was.

  “Yes. Well, no. He’s the head of our team.”

  In a way, Genny was glad to hear that. She was glad to know he’d come back to the real world and was doing what he was born to do. At the same time, she didn’t care how mature she’d become in the last two and a half years. She didn’t want to see him—which didn’t keep her from asking about him. “What kind of problems is he having?”

  “Problems with his powers.” Charisma pushed Genny into a chair in front of the fireplace.

  Books filled the shelves, oriental carpets covered the hardwood floors, and if Genny wasn’t in a hurry, she would have wanted to sink down on the couch and take a nap.

  Kicking off her shoes, Charisma paced in her stocking feet. “His powers aren’t working right. We were pretty worried about him, thinking it was all about the fact his true love was dead and he was going to lose it—you know, it—altogether. We didn’t know how to handle it because we’re used to having someone who can, you know, knock a bullet aside if we need it.”

  “Very useful,” Genny agreed.

  “But now you’re here, so he’s going to be okay.”

  Genny had no idea what Charisma was talking about, and told herself she didn’t care. She only cared about one thing. Handing over what she owed and getting out of here. “If you would take this off my hands—”

  “I can’t take it. It’s for Jacqueline,” Charisma said with absolute assurance, then twirled like a ballerina toward the door. “It’s Martha with the tea cart!”

  A dour woman in her seventies pushed the cart to the sidebar. “I brought drinks and snacks. Baked brie encased in pastry with cranberry jelly. Cherry tomatoes stuffed with yogurt and rice. Green tomato spread and sourdough bread.” Every word she spoke sounded as if it had been chipped from ice.

  But for Genny, she sang a siren’s song. Genny rose, drawn to the cart, and gazed in awe at the delicacies. “I could stay for tea, I suppose.”

  Charisma seemed to know exactly what Genny felt. “Yeah, we eat like this all . . . the . . . time. Martha is the best.”

  “McKenna would have you believe he’s the best.” Martha handed Genny an icy can of Coke.

  “We let him think that because he’s a man.” Charisma popped one of the tomatoes in her mouth.

  As Genny filled her plate, she became aware of Martha’s scrutiny. She scrutinized in return.

  Martha’s gray hair was braided and wrapped around her head like an Austrian yodeler, and dark eyes shone in her brown, wrinkled face. She was Romany, the kind of strong woman who frightened the hell out of men everywhere. Genny could see no gift in her soul, yet splashes of others’ gifts clung to her as if she’d been exposed to the mystic for a very long time. One gift in particular had been imprinted on her being—a dark gift, one Martha resented . . .

  “Thank you, Martha, for this feast,” Genny said. “Never will you have a more grateful recipient.”

  Martha nodded, still watching Genny as if something about Genny puzzled her. “You are Kevin Valente’s daughter?”

  “You know my father?”

  “I used to work at the Gypsy Travel Agency. You aren’t like him.” Martha nodded. “Good. You may have John.” Turning on her heel, she left the room.

  Genny stared after her. “I don’t want John.”

  Charisma paid no attention to the exchange. “Have I smeared my mascara?” Going to the gold-framed mirror, she took one look at herself and burst into tears again.

  “Are you okay, Charisma?” A tall, Nordic blond female stepped into the doorway.

  Genny could see an eye in the middle of Jacqueline’s forehead. It wasn’t freaky. Nothing big and bulging. The eye didn’t look around or anything; it was nothing but a dark outline.

  And it seemed no one else could see it.

  But Genny could. Genny knew. This was Jacqueline, the clairvoyant.

  “No.” Charisma’s voice wobbled and she used another round of tissues. “I won’t be until we hear from the hospital. But I do have good news.” She gestured at Genny. “Guess who this is.”

  As Genny rose to her feet, Jacqueline examined her. “Someone who made you cry?”

  “No!” Charisma said indignantly. “Some seer you are! This is Genesis Valente.”

  Somehow, Genny didn’t think Jacqueline was nearly as surprised as she pretended to be.

  Jacqueline also looked as if she’d been crying, but she was more restrained in her welcome. “John will be pleased to discover you’re alive—and very surprised. It’s been . . . what? More than two years since you disappeared?”

  “Jacqueline!” Charisma was shocked. “She just got here. We’ll yell at her when we get to know her better!”

  “Actually, I can’t stay. I came by because I believe I have something that belongs to the Gypsy Travel Agency.” Genny dug to the bottom of her backpack and brought up a small crushed cardboard box. “I think it’s valuable, or at least it’s . . . influential.” She unwrapped the leather purse she had found at the bottom of the pond in the rasputye and held it out.

  Jacqueline gave a pleased sigh. “Ohh.”

  “What is it?” Charisma peered between the two women.

  “It’s what I need to find the prophecy. May I?” Jacqueline asked.

  “Of course.” Genny placed it in her cupped hands.

  Jacqueline held it. Just held it, eyes half closed, and seemed to be listening to music no one else could hear.

  Charisma put her hand on Genny’s arm.

  The two women exchanged glances.

  Jacqueline shook herself, and with sudden enthusiasm, said, “Come on. Let’s go to Irving’s office.” She led the way out of the library and up the stairs.

  Genny followed.

  Charisma brought up the tail.

  Genny felt as if she were being corralled.

  “Why do you say it belongs to the Gypsy Travel Agency?” Jacqueline called back.

  “Because I owe them for the price of my education, and it’s the only thing I’ve gathered in my travels that I believe would be of interest to them.” Genny suspected the matching bag at her father’s house would also be of interest to the Chosen Ones. In fact, she suspected it had come from the Gypsy Travel Agency, one of the relics he had stolen and not returned because everyone thought it without value.

  But she didn’t have possession of it, and couldn’t take possession unless she went to her father’s house. And
that was a visit she did not desire to make.

  Yet it had to be done; she knew it did. For two and a half years, her father had believed her dead. She’d seen his lament on the online networks, knew the bitterness of the truth—he cared so little for her, he had used his grief and loneliness to attract women.

  When he realized she was alive, would he once again try to force her into the business world? Or would he recognize the changes in her?

  She was betting he would once again try to use her. She suspected it would be a very unpleasant visit.

  Now Jacqueline opened the door to a large room. Genny walked in and stopped.

  Behind her, Charisma laughed in a wavering way. “Weird, huh? It’s Irving’s study, and the stuff he has in here is positively spooky.”

  “But this is what we’re interested in.” Jacqueline walked to the table, to an open medieval manuscript, where a leather sack identical to Genny’s, except for the color of the string, sat waiting. “Early this morning, I woke and I knew there was something about this purse. I had Irving find it for me, because I believed I should be able to use it for a vision, an important vision. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t get beyond the first stage. Now, this afternoon, you bring me this? Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  “Whoa. Cue the Twilight Zone music,” Charisma said.

  Genny nodded at the sack with the red string. “What’s inside that one?”

  Jacqueline smiled and carefully untied the blue string on Genny’s purse. “Bones.” She poured the bones out of Genny’s sack, then the bones out of the sack on the table.

  Eighteen finger bones rested on the table. Eighteen finger bones, yellowed with age, the same lengths and widths . . . the same hand.

  “More spooky,” Charisma said.

  The three women sank into chairs around the table.

  Jacqueline sorted the bones, carefully keeping them in separate piles. She picked them up, a sack’s full worth in each hand, and shook them like dice. “Hm,” she said.

  “How did you find that, Genny?” Charisma was asking questions, but her gaze was fixed on Jacqueline, waiting . . .

  Genny watched, too, fascinated and on edge, waiting for something profound to happen, and at the same time chatting as if nothing mattered. “When I first received the bag, I thought it was simply an odd old relic. Then as I traveled, it seemed to help me out. Guided me to shelter when I thought I was going to die. Helped me when I was attacked. Once, I even lost it, and it found its way back to me.”

  “Yes, there’s something very powerful here.” Jacqueline pushed the two piles of bones into mounds, then placed her hands over them. “I can’t quite figure out how to . . .” She stiffened. Her head fell back against the chair.

  In China, Genny had seen women and men who claimed to be oracles. When a vision possessed them, they frothed and fell, shouted and writhed.

  Jacqueline was calm, coherent . . . here. She opened her mouth to speak.

  Genny waited on the edge of her seat.

  Jacqueline’s eyes closed all the way. She relaxed and sighed. Opening her eyes, she looked at Genny and Charisma and shook her head. “The prophecy is there, just beyond my reach, but it won’t quite coalesce. It’s like this is a puzzle with a piece missing.”

  Didn’t that just figure? Genny wanted to bonk her own head on the table.

  Instead, she pushed back her chair and stood. “I know what’s missing. Give me a couple of hours. I’m sure I can get it for you.”

  Chapter 47

  Genny had traveled from New York to Russia to Kazakhstan, and around the world. She’d been gone two and a half years, and now she discovered the extra key to the lock of her father’s house was still hidden behind the chunk of loose mortar at knee level to the left of the door. She stood on the stoop, looked at the brass key in the palm of her hand, and didn’t know whether to use it. She’d gone in and out a thousand times before, but now to do so almost felt like breaking and entering.

  Wherever else she went, she felt like a person rich with experiences, good and bad—she could make conversation with a senator, milk a goat, hold her own in a street fight, or drive a cab through the streets of Hong Kong. She knew she could do all those things . . . because she had.What she couldn’t do was become the woman her father had envisioned.

  How would he react to her return? Would he even know her?

  Because here on this street, people looked, but no one recognized her. She was a ghost.

  The truth was, she would rather fight her way once more through that snow in Kazakhstan to the shelter of that yurt and try to communicate with people who spoke almost no English or Russian than to try to speak to her father.

  With a sigh, she put the key back in its hiding place and rang the doorbell.

  Avni opened the door.

  Genny stared, slack-jawed. “Avni? What . . . ? How . . . ?”

  Avni looked as she had in Rasputye: tall, thin, eastern Indian, smiling. Yet Genny saw differences . . . “Genny. I was hoping you’d come home today.”

  “Come home today? How would you know I was even here?”

  “It’s your father.”

  “What about my father?” Genny couldn’t make sense of this turn of events. “Is he sick?”

  Avni grabbed her wrist. “Come on!” She gave Genny a tug, pulling her across the threshold and into the dim entry hall.

  The furniture hadn’t changed since her grandparents’ deaths. It looked like a nineteen-sixties sitcom in here, and for a second, she stood frozen in the memory of her youth.

  The door shut behind her.

  She whirled around.

  Brandon stood there, his back pressed against the door. He was thin to the point of gauntness. His white T-shirt was torn; his jeans sagged around his hips. He looked at her with sorrow, eyes full of tears. “Why did you come back? Why didn’t you just stay away?”

  Then something hard slammed into the back of Genny’s head. She fell to her knees. Looked up. And saw Avni lifting the bookend once more.

  John was making his hundredth circuit of the waiting room, his gaze on the clock, when his cell phone vibrated. He stopped pacing, glanced at the caller.

  Isabelle.“How is he?” As always, her voice was quiet, restrained, but he could hear the anxiety behind it.

  “No one has come out for two hours. He’s been in surgery for over five.”

  “What are they doing in there?”

  “Orthopedic surgeon is replacing his hip and his shoulder joint. General surgeon is fixing anything else. How did the mission go?”

  “Pretty standard. We followed the Others. Had a fight. We won.” She paused. “I wish you’d let us know about Irving.” She was angry.

  He didn’t blame her, but he’d had his reasons. “I didn’t know if you were going to have to fight today, but there’s always a chance and I didn’t want you to be distracted. I didn’t want to be pacing the floor for you, too.”

  “We’re on our way down. Caleb, Samuel, and I.”

  “See you in a few.” John hung up.

  He couldn’t believe he’d been talking to Irving just that morning. They hadn’t really settled the issue of John’s powers. Irving seemed remarkably unconcerned by the problem, while John . . . Carefully, he targeted a chair across the waiting room. Slowly, with great control, he lifted it a few inches off the floor. Everything was working normally now. But for how long?

  “Mr. Powell?” A weary-looking doctor stood beside him. “I’m Dr. Rodriguez. Mr. Shea is out of surgery and in recovery, if you’d like to follow me.”

  John stayed right on the doctor’s heels. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “He’s old. There was a lot of damage done—broken hip, broken shoulder, concussion. Dr. Allen replaced both joints. The good news is, Mr. Shea is still alive. Most men his age wouldn’t have survived at all, much less live through five-plus hours of surgery. But add the internal injuries and the concussion . . .” The doctor looked troubled. “The next twenty-four ho
urs are crucial. Even more crucial is whether he wants to live, and you know more about that than I do.”

  “He has a full and busy life with a lot of people who love him.” But did Irving want to live? If this was the sacrifice he was contemplating, he would go before the sun set—very soon.

  The doctor gestured toward a closed door. “Talk to him. Remind him of that full and busy life. I’ll check in before I leave.”

  They shook hands.

  John quickly sent a group text to the Chosen Ones and their support staff, repeating the doctor’s comments. Then he entered the room where machines beeped and huffed.

  A woman dressed in black was leaning over Irving, speaking in a soft voice that sounded, to John, faintly familiar.

  A curl of unease twisted through him. “Hello?”

  She turned.

  It was Dina. Dina from the street corner. Dina who smelled of cigarette smoke and who spoke so clearly in his mind. Her dark eyes met his—and she had been crying. “Hello, John.”

  “What are you doing here?” He strode to Irving’s side, looked at the old man stretched out on the mattress.

  Irving’s face was gray and sunken, his eyes were closed and his nose was swollen. Tubes and tape covered him.

  “You may have suspected—we have a history, Irving and I.”

  “Then you should leave.”

  She shook her head. “No. Right now I’m the only one he can hear, and trust me, he needs to hear my voice. Don’t worry about leaving Irving with me. I will take care of him.”

  John couldn’t believe Dina’s nerve. “Why would I leave him with you?”

  “Because your woman is in danger.”

  “My woman?” Dina was crazy. He rang the call bell. Got ready to forcibly evict her. “Charisma? Isabelle? Who . . . ?”

  “They’ve got Genny at her father’s house.”

  That stopped him cold. “Genny?”

  “Isn’t that her name? Brown hair, gold eyes, just arrived from Timbuktu?”

  “She did not!” But the doubts of this morning returned to plague him. Was Genny alive? Was she here in New York City?