“No.” Swiftly, Irving turned on her. “Do not tell them!”
“But, Mr. Shea,” Martha said, “they’ll be so relieved!”
“Do not try to contact them,” he said sternly.
“Yes, Mr. Shea.” But she bit her lip and looked rebellious.
“Where is she?” McKenna asked.
“In the earth,” Taurean said again. She’d already told them that.
“Who is he?” Martha asked. “The man who wouldn’t give up?”
“He is our Guardian.”
Martha frowned as if Taurean were mocking her.
Irving looked worried. “If Charisma is alive, why does she need Isabelle?”
“She said to bring Isabelle.” It was the only answer Taurean had.
“Bring her where?” McKenna asked.
“Into the earth,” Taurean answered.
“Into the tunnels?” McKenna clarified.
“Yes. Into the tunnels.” Taurean enunciated each word, wondering why they didn’t understand. “She was lost. He found her. He saved her. But she wants Isabelle.”
“Eat your soup.” Irving raised a shaking hand to his chin and stroked it. “You see, Taurean, the trouble is—Isabelle can’t come right now. The Chosen Ones, including Isabelle, are in Switzerland at a bank in a vault deep underground, trying to open a safety-deposit box consigned to the Gypsy Travel Agency.”
Taurean picked up her spoon. Her fingers were trembling, she noticed. “Why are they doing that?”
Irving said, “Because if they aren’t successful, in less than a month, the devil will sign the papers that give him a thousand-year lease on the whole world.”
Chapter 10
The five Chosen Ones and their mates huddled close in the confines of the Swiss bank’s underground steel-lined vault.
Samuel reflected that there wasn’t enough room to do anything except huddle close. The room was long and narrow, cool, and austere, containing only a marble countertop and a safe.
The bank president, Adelbrecht Wagner, used a handprint reader, a series of voice commands, and a key to open that safe. “There you have it,” he said, as if everything should be easy. Removing a long gray metal box, he placed it on the marble counter. “I will leave you alone now to discover the contents of your safety-deposit box. I hope you have better luck this time than those other times when Samuel visited.”
“Ha, ha.” Samuel laughed feebly and without humor. He’d been here half a dozen times trying to figure out how to do nothing more complicated than remove the safety-deposit box from the room. Last time, whatever was inside had zapped him so hard he’d been unconscious for a half hour.
“I will lock you in. This is our highest-security area, and no one is allowed to wander unsupervised.” Wagner was six-foot-six, fair and blond, with long arms, long legs, and big fists. He was not a man who encouraged challenge.
Yet John Powell, the leader of the Chosen Ones, six-foot-five and a man who wielded power with supernatural ease, stood toe-to-toe with him. “Why lock us in? I thought there were guards at the door.”
Samuel wanted to snort. This whole stupid idea of all of them coming together to free the contents of the safety-deposit box was John’s, and now . . . he had the guts to challenge the restrictions of this top-security Swiss bank?
Good luck.
“Yes, of course. Well-trained armed guards. Should any unauthorized person wander through this level, they aim to kill.” Wagner stared unblinkingly at John.
“Good to know.” John stepped back. “I feel safe.”
“Exactly our intention. Now I will lock you in.” Wagner gestured at the button on the wall. “When you’re ready to leave, ring that and I will come to release you.”
Samuel offered his hand.
Looking a little puzzled, Wagner took it and shook.
“Thank you, Wagner. It’s always a pleasure to see you again.” Samuel used the moment of contact to make sure that Wagner’s mind was still firmly under his control.
It was. Wagner had no ulterior motive except to protect the clients of his bank.
Yet as he shut the door behind him, as the thick steel closed so quietly and the turn of the key in the lock was so final, the Chosen Ones looked uncomfortable . . . except Aaron Eagle, who, as the world’s most proficient thief, had spent more time in closed bank vaults than the rest of them.
Aaron strolled to the box and fiddled with the latch, then shook his head and backed away.
Isabelle restlessly rotated her shoulders. “Sammy, couldn’t you have controlled Wagner’s mind and made him leave the door unlocked?”
Isabelle Mason was Samuel’s wife, the love of his life, with a high-class Boston accent, delicate bones, and exotically slanted blue eyes. She never raised her voice; she never broke a sweat—and oh, God, how could he forget? She was the healer for the Chosen Ones.
That meant she absorbed injury in order to heal them, and in doing that . . . she absorbed their pain.
He couldn’t stand to see her hurting. That was why he tried to keep her away from trouble.
Not that she ever listened to him.
But he did everything he could to make her happy, so now he said, “I could try. But when it comes to mind control, it’s best to keep it simple, to never go against ingrained behavior—and Wagner’s compulsion to protect the stolen billions in cash and jewels is ingrained in him. I convinced Wagner that we all have the right to be in here. For now, that’s enough.”
“You’re right.” Isabelle smiled at Samuel, her lips trembling. “Ever since you and I were trapped together, I get a little uneasy underground.”
He caught her hand and placed a warm, intimate kiss in her palm. In a deep voice that both reminded and enticed, he said, “Some good things occurred while we were trapped together, too.”
Her smile strengthened. “I know.”
“Nothing like those good things are going to happen now with the rest of us here,” Aaron said. “Right, Samuel? Right?”
Samuel grinned at his friend. “Right.”
John Powell, who harnessed the power of the universe and, as needed, kept the Chosen Ones focused on their goals, took a long, patient breath. “Guys, stop joking around. Let’s see if this works.”
They stood in a circle—actually the shape of the vault created more of an oval—and one by one they prepared for the ritual they could only pray would release the contents of the safety-deposit box.
First their seer, Jacqueline Vargha, joined hands with her husband and their director of security, Caleb D’Angelo. Then Jacqueline joined hands with Aaron, who joined hands with his wife, the antiquities expert and librarian Rosamund Hall. Then Rosamund joined hands with John, and he took the hand of his wife, Genny.
In their infancy, Jacqueline, Aaron, and John had been given supernatural gifts, and although Caleb, Rosamund, and Genny were not gifted, each Chosen had found the perfect mate. And since John and Genny had first met, Genny had developed the disconcerting ability to see talent in other people.
Now Samuel and Isabelle were left, still separate from the others.
Isabelle took Caleb’s hand and placed her other palm against the side of the box.
Samuel leaned his cane against the wall. He took Genny’s hand and placed his other hand on the other side of the box.
And they waited.
“Nothing’s happening, John,” Samuel said.
“I know nothing’s happening,” John said irritably. “Samuel and Isabelle, try joining your hands.”
Samuel put his hand over hers, gently turned her hand up, and intertwined their fingers. And although he was tired of standing, grumpy at being here, and worried to death, still the touch of Isabelle’s skin against his brought all his love for her rushing back to him.
He glanced up with a smile, expecting to meet her gaze.
But she was staring at the box with a startled expression.
“For the hundredth time, John, why does Isabelle have to be here?” Samuel
picked up his cane and leaned on it.
John Powell fixed his icy blue eyes on Samuel, and he looked like a linebacker scoping the new tackling dummy. “For the hundredth time, Samuel, Isabelle has to be here because we’ve all, one at a time, tried to unlock the safety-deposit box and failed, so we needed to try opening that box together.”
“I’ve never tried by myself,” Isabelle said.
Of course. She would say that.
“I feel responsible.” Jacqueline sagged against Caleb. “I’m sorry, everyone. I saw everyone here, and when John suggested that if we did our thing where we held hands and got that jolt of approval that we get when we’re all together, maybe the magic that guards the box would dissipate and hand over its contents . . . well, that seemed sort of a good idea.”
“It was worth a try.” Rosamund gave her a hug.
Genny joined in the hug.
Samuel waited for Isabelle to rush over and do the female thing and hug and pat and reassure.
Isabelle still stood there. “I could try,” she said dreamily.
Samuel was pretty freaking pleased with his level tone when he said, “Isabelle, you’re our healer. How does having you try to free the safety-deposit box make any sense at all?” Samuel turned back to John. “And maybe having all of us here might be the key, except all of us are not here. We’re missing Aleksandr and we’re missing—”
A stifled sob interrupted him.
“Crap.” He glanced around. The embracing women had gone from sad to desolate. They’d lost Charisma less than two weeks ago, and even he knew he’d been insensitive.
“If Charisma were here, it might work.” Jacqueline’s voice rasped with the effort to hold back her tears.
“We can’t give up on her.” Genny held Jacqueline’s arm. “I know that your visions will help us find her.”
Samuel felt bad. It was all so bleak. Charisma was like a kid sister, annoying, smart-assed, tattooed, rebellious, strong, careless. . . . He had never gotten along with her. Yet she had been a part of his life for almost seven years. She had mocked him. She had exulted when he’d at last won Isabelle. She had protected his back in every battle.
But how to say what was in his heart without embarrassing himself by . . . by sobbing? “Look,” he said, and he used his hearty voice. “I’m sorry. I miss Charisma, too. You know I do. No one except Isabelle has ever managed to give me as much hell as Charisma. That woman was born to be the boss.”
Still crying, Rosamund took off her glasses and wiped the lenses.
Jacqueline stood with her hand over her wet eyes.
Genny buried her head in John’s dark shirt.
And Isabelle stood with her back to him and her head bowed.
The guys were glaring at him.
“I’m sorry.” Samuel really was. “I’m sorry I said anything.” He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. But he couldn’t keep quiet now. “I’m just so tired of visiting this bank every damned year trying to open the damned safety-deposit box when we don’t even know for sure what’s in it.”
Just like that, Rosamund stopped sobbing and exclaimed, “I know!”
Chapter 11
“I know you know,” Samuel said hastily, trying to head Rosamund off before she got rolling about Lucifer and the feather and the prophecy and all that other stuff she loved so much because she was an antiquities librarian and such cool stuff was her specialty.
Not that he didn’t agree it was cool.
It was just that he’d heard it. So. Many. Times. Before.
But there was no stopping Rosamund. “It makes sense, Samuel.”
Agree with her. Just agree with her. “I know. You’re right. Really. I know.”
“God’s beloved angel Lucifer tried to lead an insurrection against God, and God expelled him from heaven.” Beneath her glasses, Rosamund’s violet eyes shone with conviction. “As Lucifer fell to earth in flames, his angel wings incinerated—”
“Except for two feathers, one from each wing.” He flapped his hands like tiny wings. “Yes. Yes. I know.”
Rosamund was exactly like the stereotypical librarian: She never wore makeup, her curly hair rioted wildly around her head, and she loved telling the details of her research.
Every single damned detail.
She continued. “Lucifer descended into hell, where he rules today, but as the devil he continually walks the earth trying to corrupt the souls of men. Occasionally he takes possession of a body, and occasionally he is invited into the soul of a wicked person. Right now, that’s Osgood.”
Rosamund’s husband, Aaron Eagle, leaned against the wall and smirked at Samuel.
“Osgood had one of the feathers buried in the foundation of his building to conceal it, so no one could use it for good, and as a charm to ensure the building would stand forever. But Charisma said”—Rosamund’s voice quavered for a minute—“Charisma said nothing could contain the feather, and it was working its way from the concrete foundation into the earth under the building. So if this safety-deposit box contains the second feather, and we think it does, we have them both.”
“Except that we don’t have the first feather,” Samuel pointed out in a level tone.
“We just have to find it,” Rosamund said.
“Yes, but, Rosamund, even if your theory is correct, we don’t know whether having the contents of the box is going to help us.” Caleb had heard all this before, too. The smug bastard was goading her.
“It will!” Rosamund said. “Jacqueline’s prophecy says—”
“I’ve heard the prophecy,” Samuel said.
Nothing could deter Rosamund. “It says, ‘Some must find that which is lost forever. For rising on the ashes of the Gypsy Travel Agency is a new power in a new building. Unless this hope takes wing, this power and this building will grow to reach the stars, and cast its shadow over the whole earth, and evil shall rule.’”
“The key word here is wing.” Jacqueline loved her prophecy, sought new meanings in it every day.
As far as Samuel was concerned, prophecies were tricky things, and he saw no use in looking too hard at them. “I got it!” he said.
John checked his watch. “Look, Samuel. We don’t have forever to fool around in here before the president of the bank shows up with the Swiss police and slaps us all in prison for trying to retrieve something we don’t have permission to retrieve.”
The injustice of that statement made Samuel want to pound his chest and roar. “I know that. I’m the mind controller who’s holding the guy in check!”
John continued. “Even if Rosamund is wrong about what’s in there, and I don’t think she is, it’s still something that could help our cause. The Chosen who put it here had to be safeguarding something important. I don’t know how it will help us. I don’t know why. But we’ve got to try something, because right now, we’re getting our asses kicked and we’ve got no time left.”
“Believe me, I know we’re getting our asses kicked.” Samuel pointed to his hip. “My hip is still broken from having that cooking show bitch who just happened to be an Other throw an industrial-size smoothie maker at me with her damn mind. . . . It’s not funny!”
Everyone tried to wipe the smiles off their faces.
“We know it’s not funny,” John said. “You were hurt, and that’s not funny at all. But, man, when I realized you were mind-controlling the wrong person and that sweet little cooking show diva suckered you. . . .”
Aaron gave a crack of laughter.
“Really,” John repeated. “It wasn’t funny at all.”
Samuel glared. He knew they all thought he should let Isabelle cure him.
But he was tough enough that a cracked hip wasn’t going to do more than slow him down, and he couldn’t stand to know that she was taking his pain as her own. . . .
Come to think of it, where was Isabelle? Usually when he got into a fight with the other Chosen, she stepped in to mediate.
He glanced around.
She was still standi
ng with her back to him, facing the safety-deposit box, and her head was cocked.
“Isabelle, what are you doing?” He started to reach for her.
Jacqueline caught his wrist in her hand, her grip strong. “Leave her alone.”
“Why?”
“She’s listening.”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. I can’t quite hear it. But she can.”
Immediately the silence in the small vault grew intense, profound, and held the faint, bitter hint of desperation.
The Chosen were here because they needed what was in that safety-deposit box. They needed something that could give them an advantage in the fight to defeat Osgood. All the chatter, the explanations, the teasing masked the frantic worry of eight people who stood, backs against the wall, mourning their losses while trying to find the proper weapon to battle the forces of evil before those forces controlled the world.
Now, at last, someone had made a breakthrough. Isabelle had made a breakthrough. And even Samuel knew that if Isabelle had to suffer to find that weapon, she would choose to make the sacrifice—and he would have to let her. His heart squeezed with fear and love.
This time, would he lose her forever?
Reaching out, she stroked the gray metal safety-deposit box. “So much pain is contained within. So much loneliness. So many years of being imprisoned.”
The Chosen exchanged glances.
“Is it a person?” John asked quietly. “Like a genie?”
“It is a piece of a puzzle that waits to be moved into position.” With a sure hand, Isabelle flipped back the latch of the safety-deposit box.
“Wait a minute.” Genny’s voice, too, was quiet. “Could we have done that at any time?”
Aaron was their expert thief. “First thing any self-respecting burglar tries is to see whether the door is left open. I tried it. It was locked.”
Isabelle smoothed her palms across the metal again, then flicked her wrists as if clearing away the dust of years. Or perhaps she had just wiped away the magic, because at once she lifted the long, narrow lid and looked inside.
Wilder The Chosen Ones Page 7
