Storm of Visions

by Christina Dodd

  Gently, the men placed Zusane, pale and unconscious, on the floor. They knelt there, waiting and anxious.

  Charisma joined them and sat at Zusane’s head, brushing at Zusane’s aura . . . or something.

  It must have worked, because Zusane groaned—not an attractive, breathless moan, but a full-bodied, despairing moan. She opened her eyes, and with relief, Jacqueline realized her mother was back from wherever she’d gone. Zusane clung to Jacqueline with desperate hands, almost childish in her despair. “It’s the worst thing that could have happened. The end of the world.”

  “Tell me,” Jacqueline coaxed, and stroked Zusane’s hair off her sweaty forehead.

  “I never in my worst nightmares foretold this, but now . . . now . . . now I have seen it. I have felt it. The explosion rumbled the ground beneath my feet. The fire burned my hands and face. I wanted to run, but couldn’t.” Zusane gave a sob, all the more heartrend ing for being harsh and agonized. “The Gypsy Travel Agency is no more.”

  The guys glanced at each other.

  Samuel said, “The Gypsy Travel Agency’s building is old, but solid. What could have happened?”

  Zusane replied with conviction. “Sabotage. Sabotage! Now, when everyone has gathered for the Choosing. The offices, the library, the sleeping quarters, all of it—blew up. It’s burning. Everyone inside is dead. Dead. The directors are gone. The Chosen Ones are gone.” In a trembling whisper, she said, “They’re all gone.”

  Charisma continued to brush at Zusane’s aura. “Don’t worry. We’re still here.”

  “Oh, God.” Zusane staggered to her feet. Putting her manicured fingers to her forehead, she muttered, “The world is lost.”

  “Mother!” Once again, Zusane’s rudeness left Jacqueline speechless. And embarrassed. And wondering why everyone looked at her as if she was the crazy one. “I’m sorry,” she said to Charisma. “When she comes out of a vision, she’s—”

  “Truthful?” The girl seemed unruffled.

  “That, too.” Personally, Jacqueline thought her mother used the truth as a weapon and a tool, and could twist it to her purposes at any time.

  Zusane swayed on her feet, then visibly gained control of herself. “One good thing will come out of this disaster.” She took a snowy handkerchief from her purse and blotted her damp forehead and upper lip. “At last, you’ll have to face up to responsibilities.”

  She was talking to Jacqueline. “What are you talking about?” Familiar panic began to rise in Jacqueline’s throat.

  Zusane dropped the handkerchief to the floor. “I mean I have a party to attend. In Turkey.”

  Jacqueline picked it up. “You can’t be serious.” Not even Zusane could scream like a woman seeing bloody murder, announce that her own company had been blown to smithereens. . . . Not even she could be selfish enough to then breeze away to attend a party.

  “You’ll have to take the reins for your little group. They will be lost without a psychic.” Zusane glanced at Tyler, frowned as if puzzled, then lowered her voice. “A competent psychic.”

  “Not me,” Jacqueline protested frantically.

  Zusane took Jacqueline’s wrist and once again showed her her palm. “You know what that means.”

  Jacqueline stared at the eye, etched into the skin, black and emphatic, and drawn with the skill of da Vinci for the Mona Lisa.

  She didn’t care. She hated the mark. “It means I’m a freak.”

  “A freak, yes. But a prescient freak.” Zusane dropped Jacqueline’s hand and collected her black satin opera-length gloves out of her purse and pulled them on, a slow, intricate process with which Jacqueline was far too familiar.

  For all that Jacqueline had been raised on the legend and the traditions of the Chosen Ones, she had never wanted to be one of them, if for no other reason than her mother wanted her there. Now, because of a fatal moment of weakness, she had stepped into the circle. She figured that had all the weight of a Girl Scout bridging ceremony, a trivial moment of childish swearing.

  Yet . . . she did still get the Girl Scouts’ magazine, and she’d kept her badge vest wrapped in tissue paper in her cedar chest, so maybe the oath she had sworn at the age of eight had been exactly that—an oath on which she could stake her soul.

  And maybe stepping into a chalk circle drawn with precision on the floor of a New York City subway station had been an unspoken vow of equal importance.

  Because it wasn’t the oath or the gesture that was important, but whether or not she chose to honor it.

  She wasn’t one of the Chosen Ones. Because she had walked into the circle of her volition, she had chosen.

  Now she watched miserably as Martha took the whisk brush from the pocket in her skirt and started dusting the chalk off the floor.

  As if a great barrier had been removed, the sound of the subway station increased and Caleb locked his gaze on her again.

  Of course. Until she’d stepped into the circle, he hadn’t let her out of his sight since San Michael. Somehow, she suspected she might never escape him again.

  “Darling.” Zusane pinched Jacqueline’s chin to get her attention. “On the day I took you in, I foresaw a time when you would take my place among the Chosen Ones.”

  “You adopted me because you wanted a clone.” Jacqueline lowered her voice, wanting desperately to keep this confrontation private.

  Zusane raised her voice, because she loved nothing as much as melodrama played to the crowd. “I adopted you because I saw you and knew you were mine. Is that so impossible?”

  Jacqueline jerked her head away. “Considering that I spent my entire childhood waiting for you to come home from a party, I’d say yes.”

  “I had no one to depend on except myself. If we were to live in the manner I desired, I had to stay on top of things.”

  “You could have gotten an education. You’re smart enough.” Of that Jacqueline was certain. Zusane had an IQ off the charts, and a sense about others that had nothing to do with telepathy and everything to do with an earthy knowledge of the human race.

  “My dear. What a lovely tribute. But look at me!” Zusane spread her hands wide to indicate her Marilyn Monroe body covered by glittering sequins. “This is not the form of an accountant, and I used it for us. For you. So you would have a good life.”

  “Mother. This is not the time for this discussion. We, all of us, need to go to the Gypsy Travel Agency and—”

  Zusane talked louder still, talked over the top of Jacqueline. “I wanted you to have the childhood I never had, so I kept you innocent and untouched until—”

  Jacqueline’s patience snapped. “Until your bodyguard seduced me.”

  Zusane stopped talking. Her gaze dropped. “Yes.” She looked up again. “But I took steps to correct the matter.”

  “Did you?” Jacqueline had wondered. Now she knew.

  Not that that made it any better. On Zusane’s command, Caleb had dropped Jacqueline like a hot potato.

  What a guy.

  “You sent him to get me in California.” Remembering the day and night before he dragged her to the private jet at the Napa Valley airport, the hours of passion, the flight—and fight—that followed, Jacqueline asked, “What were you thinking?”

  Zusane’s blue eyes got soft and dreamy, the way they did when she knew something no one else did. Then she drilled a look into Jacqueline’s eyes, and her voice was brisk. “I had to use him. He was the only man who could get you here.”

  Jacqueline’s bitter cup overflowed as she turned to look at Caleb. “Your own personal Rottweiler. Don’t bother to pay him a bonus. I already reimbursed him.”

  Zusane considered the two of them, and Jacqueline remembered she was an expert on what made men and women tick. “Did you.”

  Even Jacqueline heard the similarity in their voices, in their tones. No matter that Zusane wasn’t her birth mother, or that she didn’t want to be like her—Zusane had been her role model, and they were alike.

  Taking Jacqueline in her embra
ce, Zusane pressed her cheek to Jacqueline’s. “All right, darling, I’ve got an important assignation that is more imperative than ever. So I’m off.” She blew kisses at the Chosen.

  Caleb directed the bodyguards into place.

  Aggravated and embarrassed, Jacqueline stood stiff and cold.

  Seeing her expression, Zusane stopped her diva imitation and pleaded, “Don’t be that way, darling.”

  Jacqueline began, “If you would only stay—”

  Zusane pulled a pocket watch from between her breasts and studied it. “I’m going to be late. I can’t be late. Now . . . you be good and make me proud.” She hugged Jacqueline again, stepped into the circle of bodyguards, and started toward the subway stairs. “I know you’ll be a wonderful seer for the Gypsy Travel Agency—”

  “You said it was blown up,” Jacqueline answered.

  Zusane stopped short.

  Martha straightened, whisk broom in hand.

  Zusane turned to face the small group of seven huddled in what remained of the circle. “Yes, but the Chosen Ones are not vanquished!” She sounded incredulous.

  The Chosen Ones stared as if she were speaking her native language.

  Zusane blew her breath out and up, trying to cool her forehead. “Darlings. Charisma is right. The building is gone. The experienced fighters are gone. But you are the Chosen Ones. By stepping into the circle, you accepted your fate, and that is to vanquish evil. As long as you are alive, the Chosen Ones live.”

  Samuel spoke for all of them. “I signed a contract with the board of directors of the Gypsy Travel Agency. If that contract has been blown up, what binds me to my agreement?”

  For the first time in her life, Jacqueline saw Zusane throw off her frivolous persona and become what she could always have been—a noble, clear-sighted creature. “I don’t know, Mr. Faa. You’re a lawyer. What does bind you to your agreement with the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

  No one answered. They looked at each other, then at Zusane, and even Mr. Faa looked embarrassed at her forthright question.

  “Yes,” she said. “Whether or not the paper is burned, you put your signature there with full knowledge of what it meant. You gave your word. Does it stand for less—or more—because the contract is gone forever?”

  The seven of them squirmed like kids caught lying.

  “We’re stuck with each other,” Aleksandr said.

  “Aleksandr, darling, you are so smart. I don’t know how, but someday, what an asset you’ll be!” Zusane blew another air kiss toward Jacqueline, and with a jaunty wave of her hand, she again started toward the exit.

  Caleb urged her bodyguards to run, to keep their pistols close at hand.

  Zusane might have already airily dismissed the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, but Caleb had not. He shot Jacqueline a grim look, then hurried toward Zusane. He stopped her, spoke quietly and urgently.

  She took him by the hand and, in a voice that projected clearly across the distance, said, “No, darling, you stay. I depend on you to protect Jacqueline.”

  Jacqueline thought he would object.

  But he stood still, leaned down so Zusane could kiss him on both cheeks, then watched her walk away.

  Chapter 9

  Caleb took a moment to observe the expressions that hurried across Jacqueline’s face: surprise, suspicion, horror, and possibly . . . pleasure. Hopefully, plea sure. But fear drove him like a prod. “Hurry, Martha. Finish your duty. We’ve got to get away from here.”

  He felt like a shepherd defending his helpless sheep against some unknown peril.

  The fledgling Chosen looked at him with varying reactions. One by one he checked them off in his mind: The thief, Aaron Eagle. The lawyer, Samuel Faa. The lady, Isabelle Mason. The boy, Aleksandr Wilder. The boy-psychic, Tyler Settles. Charisma Fangorn, the girl with the tattoos and the crystals. And Jacqueline, the unwilling seer.

  He knew them all; he’d been present when Zusane and the board of directors had argued about who held the right gifts for this cycle. He’d watched as they were interviewed, and more than once, Zusane had asked his opinion. Yet he didn’t know how the new Chosen would react to this kind of pressure; they were untested, and he didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know this was a disaster of untold proportions, or that he had to step carefully or he would lose them all.

  The men were aware of the danger, but jockeying for lead position. The boy stood morosely, hands in his pockets, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. The women were not worried about their places in the pecking order, for better than the men, they understood the ramifications of Zusane’s vision.

  Caleb spoke to the group, low and intense. “We need to stick together. For now, follow me”—he acknowledged the men and women, their intelligence and their wills—“and when we’re safe, we’ll sort out who’s in charge.”

  “Why should we follow you?” Faa fixed his dark eyes on Caleb. “For all we know, this could be a hoax. This could be a test for us. You could be in league with the devil.”

  Martha straightened. “Mr. D’Angelo is the longtime head of Miss Vargha’s bodyguards. He is a trustworthy gentleman.”

  “Thank you, Martha.” Caleb waited for Faa and the other men to make their judgment. Waited for Jacqueline to speak for him, too.

  From her expression, it was clear he could wait forever.

  “You gentlemen can do as you like. I’m going with Miss Vargha’s bodyguard.” Isabelle stepped forward to join Caleb.

  Charisma followed suit. “I’m good with that.”

  Aleksandr moved to join them.

  Faa and the other two nodded. The Chosen Ones were on board; all except Jacqueline, who stood staring toward the subway stairs.

  Caleb had conquered, for the moment. “Martha, hurry!” he said.

  Martha finished, tucked away her whisk broom, and joined Caleb. “Where to, sir?”

  “First we’ll go to Zusane’s apartment—that’s safe; then—”

  “Sir?” Martha indicated a figure stalking away from them.

  “Jacqueline!” Caleb leaped after her.

  At his voice, she broke into a run, up the stairs and into the street.

  He followed, and behind him he heard Martha calling to the Chosen Ones, “Keep up with them. Stay together and keep up!”

  It was early evening, but still light. The street was thronged with people from the neighborhood, Italians and Asians, mostly. Emergency vehicles, loud with sirens, inched through the traffic. Ahead of Caleb, Jacqueline dodged through the crowd, heading up two blocks to the street where the Gypsy Travel Agency was housed. She was thin, long-legged, fast, and determined, and he caught up with her as she turned the corner into the heart of the excitement.

  He grabbed her arms, wanting to stop her before she rushed past the police barriers.

  But she stopped on her own, held stock-still by horror.

  The cast-iron buildings stood like a row of teeth rising above the sidewalk—and right in the middle of the block, one of the teeth had been knocked out. The building was gone, nothing left but a black hole in the ground.

  More important and even more strange—none of the buildings around it had been touched. There was no debris on the street; the building seemed to have imploded. The fire still burned, contained within the vanished building.

  “Even the smoke is rising straight up into the sky like there’s a chimney holding it in place. . . .” Isabelle murmured incredulously.

  In a low voice, Charisma said, “The enchantments that protect the outer skin of the building are still in place.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle stood quiet and thoughtful. “Oh.”

  Only when the smoke had passed the barriers of where the building walls had once stood did the wind catch it and carry it away.

  The people who stood with them, the people off the streets, the police and firemen, were as stunned, speaking in whispers. “Weird.” “How is that possible?” “How could terrorists do that?”

  “I had to see. .
. . I hoped she was wrong. But she was right. Mother was right. The explosion obliterated . . . them. The rooms. The papers. The library. The . . . friends.” Jacqueline shivered in shock.

  Caleb wrapped his arms around her, pulled her chilled body into his, and she leaned against him as if standing alone was more than she could bear. He spoke into her hair. “It looks fake.”

  Behind him, Martha said, “A horror movie.”

  The Chosen Ones crowded around Caleb and Jacqueline. They gaped, transfixed by the impossible.