Chains of Fire

by Christina Dodd

  As she watched, the automatic light over the door flickered off.

  But she’d spotted a dark cloth sack discarded against the building. Moving softly, swiftly, as Caleb had taught them, she loped forward, drawn by the sack, which was long and man-shaped, and the dark stain beneath it . . .

  As she approached, it moved. That wasn’t a hand, was it? A hand covered with blood?

  It wasn’t Samuel’s hand, was it?

  Whispering, “No. No. Samuel, no,” she ran the last few feet with no care for the danger. She dropped to her knees beside him.

  His nose was broken. His left cheek was concave. Blood trickled from his mouth, from the wounds on his shoulder and his hip. He gurgled when he breathed, as if he had a punctured lung.

  She held one hand over his heart.

  The beat was slowing.

  He was dying.

  No.

  “Samuel.” She touched his cheek.

  His eyes opened. His hand flashed up, caught her wrist. He looked at her, just looked at her. He smiled. “Beautiful . . . to see you . . . one last time.” He slurred his words, struggled for breath. “Love you.” His hand fell as if he were too weak to hold it up.

  “The assassins did this?” She wanted to kill them. “Where are they?”

  “Gone. To report. Change locations. For the moment . . . you’re safe.”

  She placed the pistol on the dock close to her side. With her other hand she reached for him.

  He flailed, pushed her away. “No. Don’t touch. Can’t survive this.”

  He was right. She couldn’t survive these gunshot wounds, the injuries from the beating those savages had given him.

  She would have to let him go.

  Because . . . she didn’t want to die.

  She loved her life. She loved the winter sunshine, New York, great clothes, Jimmy Choo heels, her parents, her friends. She’d loved being part of the Chosen Ones, of a higher cause. She loved knowing she could help people who were hurt. She had always taken that responsibility seriously, and when injuries had been too severe, she had been careful not to sacrifice herself and her gift. The decision had never been easy, yet she had always been sure she was doing the right thing.

  No one would blame her if she said it was God’s will and let Samuel go.

  No one would blame her . . . except her.

  Because she would know the real reason she let him die.

  Sitting there at the very beginning of day, she faced her greatest fear.

  She was afraid to suffer like this.

  But this was Samuel. He was here, in this condition, because of her.

  She had always wondered if he really loved her.

  Well. Here was her answer. Knowing full well the possible consequences, he had come to this place to save her. He had been willing to sacrifice himself for her.

  Could she do any less? She loved him.

  Very gently, she pushed the damp strands of his hair off his forehead. “I’m not going to survive anyway. I talked to Todd.” Todd hadn’t enjoyed their conversation. She had put her fight training to use, and for the first time in her life, she had enjoyed inflicting pain on another person. “These assassins—they won’t stop until I’m dead.”

  “Tell John. Run away. Hide. Get a new identity.” Samuel had to stop to breathe again. “Stay safe. For me. Promise.”

  She could do that. Her parents had money. She could leave the Chosen Ones, have surgery, change her looks, spend her life in hiding and be safe.

  “Promise,” he mumbled. He was losing his grip on consciousness.

  Today one of them had to die.

  “Shh. Go to sleep.” Decision made, she put her hand over his eyes. “I’ll take care of everything.” As he slipped into a coma, she added, “When you wake, my darling, remember—I don’t want to live in a world without you, but you must live for both of us. Be strong. Be honorable. Love with all your heart. Laugh with all your soul. And fight the good fight, just as you did today.”

  Chapter 53

  The early-morning sun on his eyelids woke him, and Samuel frowned.

  The bed was hard. He was stiff. And damp. Something smelled like blood. What the . . . ?

  Abruptly, memory flooded his mind.

  He opened his eyes.

  He was here, at the warehouse where he’d tracked the assassins. He’d lost the fight. He’d been dying. Then . . . “Isabelle!”

  He sat up. And saw her. Isabelle, stretched out beside him, shot in the shoulder and hip, battered, bleeding, wheezing with the broken ribs and punctured lung that had only recently been his. “Isabelle.” Her name was a sorrowful breath on his lips.

  Yet she heard him. She opened her eyes . . . and they were bloodshot, cloudy with pain. Her powers had healed him, but at a dire cost.

  Pressing his palm to her unshattered cheek, he said, “Don’t leave me. Please. Heal yourself. You have to heal yourself.”

  “Too much. Must go. Pain . . . so much.” She closed her eyes again, struggling for breath. Opened them. “You know. Want to go.”

  Yes. He knew. When pain grew overwhelming, death was a gift.

  Her lips and fingernails were blue. Her breathing was labored. Death was coming swiftly.

  “Hold me,” she whispered.

  Leaning down, he put his arms on either side of her, holding himself away, desperately afraid to damage her more.

  “No,” she said. “Really hold me.”

  “I’ll hurt you.”

  She laughed soundlessly. “No. Doesn’t hurt . . . now.”

  He hurt. As he gathered her into his arms, the pain in his heart threatened to destroy him.

  This was Isabelle. She had been his first friend, his first lover, his only beloved. He could feel her breathing fail, her skin grow cool, her muscles grow lax. As inevitably as the tide, life was stealing away from her. . . .

  She observed him, scrutinized him so intently he knew she wanted his face to be her last sight on this earth.

  So for her, he smiled, nodded, said, “I have loved you every day I’ve known you, and no matter where you go, I will always love you.”

  Her lips moved without sound. “Love . . . you.”

  As he watched and grieved, her ruined lungs took their last breath. Her heart gave its last beat. The soul slipped out of her eyes.

  He should want to weep.

  Instead, he roared, “No!”

  No, he wouldn’t allow this to happen. Not to her. Not to Isabelle.

  He hugged her to his chest, rocked back and forth, tried desperately to do what she had done for so many others—for him—and give her all the days of her life lived in health and happiness. Inside him, a part of her was still alive, and he took what she had taught him—how to heal—and pushed it at her.

  Her heart gave a single beat.

  He lifted his head, overwhelmed by sudden hope.

  But that was all. A single beat.

  And she was gone again.

  Healing wasn’t his gift. He couldn’t do this.

  But Isabelle had given of herself to others, too, so many others.

  They weren’t here. They didn’t know she needed them.

  Yet . . . yet if they knew . . . they would help her. He knew they would.

  Holding her tightly, he stood and, not knowing where he was going, what he was doing, he staggered toward the water. Lifting her body toward the rising sun, he shouted out loud—and in his mind—“Listen! Everybody! Listen! Isabelle helped you when you needed her. Now she needs your help. Find her inside yourself and heal! Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!”

  Mathis Moreau woke. Eyes wide, he stared around his room.

  In his mind, he heard Samuel’s voice.

  Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

  Throwing back his covers, he rushed to the window. In the flood of sunlight, he closed his eyes and sought Isabelle inside himself . . . and he gave back.

  Jacqueline D’Angelo stood in the light shining in her window. She slid smoothly from cob
ra to downward dog, the yoga as natural as breathing to her. She inhaled into the posture, slid back to stretch her spine, brought her arms above her head—and froze in her salute to the sun.

  It wasn’t a vision, not really, yet she heard Samuel’s voice.

  Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

  Going to the window, she took a long, deep breath, sought Isabelle within herself . . . and gave back.

  Lady Winstead cursed the old age that interrupted her sleep and woke her as soon as the sun came up over the horizon. She sat in her breakfast room, sipping her tea and nibbling at a croissant when she heard someone. . . .

  That handsome young man Samuel called her.

  Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

  Isabelle needed her.

  Pushing her chair back, she used her cane to stand; then with the usual morning stiffness, she hobbled to the window.

  Looking out at the wash of sunlight, she gave back.

  Patricia Mason sat wrapped in her robe, staring at the rising sun and mentally urging Isabelle to call her. Reassure her. Tell her she’d found Samuel and told him off and was coming home.

  Isabelle hadn’t been the child of her body, but she had always been the child of her heart: the kindest, the smartest, the most loving . . .

  The first time Patricia had seen Isabelle heal something, it had been the family German shepherd. The animal had run into the street. A car had winged it. The dog limped back, yelping, in anguish. And three-year-old Isabelle had taken the injury into herself and made the dog better.

  Patricia had never heard of such a thing, but she did her research and discovered all the information about abandoned children and why they had been given gifts.

  But that wasn’t what Patricia wanted for her little girl.

  Magic? Fighting evil? Patricia discouraged her daughter, pointed her at charitable organizations, gave her different outlets for her gentle intentions. She thought she had sent her in a different direction.

  Then came the day Patricia suffered an ectopic pregnancy. She would have bled to death, but thirteen-year-old Isabelle saved her.

  On that day, Patricia really understood that it wasn’t social suicide for Isabelle to heal people. This gift was worse than that. It could kill her. Patricia’s focus changed from what was nice, what was proper, to a much more commanding directive.

  No matter what happened, she would save her Isabelle from impending death.

  But she hadn’t been able to change what she had taught Isabelle. Isabelle believed in helping people, and although she was a good, obedient daughter who tried to make Patricia happy, when push came to shove, she did what she thought was right. That included joining the Chosen Ones. And loving Samuel Faa.

  If only Isabelle would call . . .

  Then Patricia heard Samuel.

  Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

  Patricia found herself on her feet.

  Isabelle was hurt. Her baby was hurt.

  She ran to the window, pushed the curtains as wide as she could.

  Deep inside, her body remembered the shift that occurred when Isabelle healed her.

  And she gave back.

  Samuel held Isabelle’s lifeless body up toward the sun, held it until his arms trembled and his legs collapsed. Pulling her in close to him, he held her against his chest and once again tried to push his life force into her.

  Nothing happened. No matter how much he pleaded, demanded, wanted, needed her to come to life . . . nothing happened.

  Dry eyed, he cried. Deep, wrenching sobs that tore at his lungs and sent his muscles into spasms.

  She was dead. She was gone. She was beyond his reach, and until the day of his own death, he would never see her again.

  And she had sacrificed herself for him.

  The Chosen Ones had a myth that deliberate sacrifice compensated for many sins. But what sins had Isabelle committed? She didn’t deserve this fate.

  He had been the one who sinned. He had wanted to be the sacrifice.

  “Take me.” He closed his eyes, bent his head over Isabelle’s broken body. “Bring her back and take me.”

  Long moments passed . . . and someone touched his cheek.

  Isabelle whispered, “I’m here.”

  Chapter 54

  Samuel froze.

  Had he imagined that voice, that touch?

  He opened his eyes.

  Isabelle lay in his arms, watching him, her face battered, but wearing a crooked smile. “What did you do?”

  “I . . . I asked for help.” He gazed at her, entranced at the sight of Isabelle, always a miracle, but now . . . a miracle in his arms.

  She was alive.

  Or maybe he was dead.

  He looked around.

  No. He was still sitting on dock thirty-seven A. The smell was rotting wood and salt water. He saw the sun on the water, the grubby warehouse, the dirty metal door. And in his arms, he felt warmth returning to Isabelle’s body. With each breath, her chest rose and fell, and before his eyes, her wounds were healing, leaving her unmarked and with a healthy glow.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You brought me back to life.”

  “Me? No.” He laughed a little. “I’m no miracle worker. I think . . . it’s a case of what goes around comes around. Only this time, it was the good stuff.” Leaning over her, he wrapped himself around her, trying to absorb her into his skin, his heart. “What you received was just what you deserved—the best, the kindest, the most generous parts of your soul were given to others, and they gave back to you.”

  She wrapped one arm around his neck, hugging him in a wild desperation. “Samuel, what happened, happened because of you. You were the lightning rod.”

  “I hope so.” He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be worthy of Isabelle. “I hope so.”

  A man’s voice called from the end of the dock. “Samuel!”

  Samuel jumped in alarm.

  The assassins. The Others. Osgood. This place wasn’t safe.

  No place was safe. Not for Isabelle.

  Even before he looked up, he reached for the pistol.

  Big and strong and worried, John Powell stood there, gesturing wildly. “Come on. Come on! We’ve got to get out of here. Look!” He pointed at the warehouse.

  Wisps of smoke were leaking out from around the battered metal door. One yellow flame licked through the wall near the metal roof. Smoke . . . Samuel could smell it, and beneath his knees, he felt a vibration in the wood that signaled a shift on the dock.

  As Samuel watched, fire blasted through the warehouse, consuming the old, damp, rotten wood in one greedy gulp. Fire roared toward them, eating the dock from under their feet.

  No. The assassins weren’t going to kill Isabelle with a fire.

  They weren’t going to kill her at all.

  He knew what to do now. If he acted fast enough, he could protect her.

  Isabelle took her gun from him.

  Samuel picked her up. He raced toward John, flames licking at his heels. “Have you got a car?” he shouted, and ran toward the street.

  “A cab.” John fell in behind him. “It’s waiting.”

  “Good man.” Samuel glanced at Isabelle, at the gunshot wounds that were not totally healed, at the blood on her clothes.

  She was a miracle. She was a lady. She should be eating caviar off silver plates. She should be relaxing on silk sheets.

  She should not be running from a fire set to dispose of his body, or holding a gun and scanning the vicinity for enemies. She should most certainly not have to worry about Osgood’s scumbags hungering for her blood.

  They reached the street.

  John sprinted to the cab, held the door open as Samuel, still holding his precious burden, slipped inside.

  John followed.

  “Richardson Airfield,” Samuel told the cabbie. “I pay for speed. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

  Isabelle sat between the two men, rubbing her upper arms with her hands.

  “Are you co
ld?” Samuel asked. Did she have a chill? A premonition? An injury?

  She put her hands in her lap. “I’m fine.”

  John waited until the cab had hit the main road and accelerated into traffic. “Where are we going?”

  Haunted by a new, desperate torment, Samuel said, “New York City, as fast as we can.”

  The landing in New York was smooth. Irving’s 1952 classic Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith limousine with dark-tinted windows waited on the tarmac. Samuel made sure that he and John served as a shield as Isabelle, now almost completely healed, ran toward it.

  As they reached the Rolls, the door opened.

  The men shoved Isabelle inside and followed.

  Samuel was desperate. He was worried. He was dirty and tired and had stared death in the face. Now the one thing he wanted was to get this over with. They needed to get this over with, and as soon as possible.

  For Isabelle.

  As soon as the door closed, McKenna drove away at a stately rate.

  Caleb was there with Jacqueline, Aaron with Rosamund, and John Powell sat alone, his pale blue eyes cool and intense.

  The interior was lavish, leather, chrome and exotic woods polished to a luxurious gleam.

  “Can you make him hurry?” Samuel gestured toward McKenna in exasperation.

  Everyone stared at him as if he were speaking Greek.

  All except Rosamund, who did speak Greek, and she said, “I haven’t really paid a lot of attention, but I don’t believe McKenna knows how to hurry.”

  “It’s all right, Samuel.” Isabelle put her hand on his. “The limo is bulletproof.”

  “It’s not all right. We’ve got to get there as quickly as possible.” Samuel would have gotten out and pushed if he thought it would help. “Are all the Chosen on their way?”

  “In different cars. And on the subway. I thought it would be best if we arrived separately.” Caleb spoke to Samuel, but his gaze ceaselessly scanned the traffic around them.

  Jacqueline bit her lip. “This is so dangerous. My skin is crawling.”

  Leaning forward, Isabelle patted her hand. “You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

  “Yes, I do. Samuel’s plan is sound and right. This is something we need to do together.” Jacqueline turned her hand over, caught Isabelle’s and squeezed, and smiled at her friend. “For you.”