Storm of Visions

by Christina Dodd

  Jacqueline had apparently finished. Perhaps she wasn’t hungry. Perhaps she was grieving for the dead, or because her mother had once again left her alone. In either case, she sat holding her knife clutched in her gloved hand. Caleb picked up his own knife. Perhaps she was contemplating murder—his.

  If that was the case, he would enjoy the final battle.

  He ate with the appetite of a man who knew what it was like to be hungry, who knew that the next meal might never be forthcoming. When he put down his fork, he found himself facing eight pairs of eyes. He smiled a tight-lipped smile. “What’s for dessert?”

  Samuel exploded, “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  McKenna appeared at Caleb’s side at once. “I threw together an English trifle. I hope that’s acceptable.”

  “It sounds wonderful, McKenna.” Caleb watched him hurry toward the kitchen on the lower level, watched Martha walk from person to person to clear away the dirty dishes. Then he turned to face Samuel. “To answer your question—I went out because I’m the only one here who is expendable.”

  Samuel slapped his palm on the table, stood, and leaned forward. “Or because you’re making plans with the enemy to blow us up, too?”

  “Sit down, Mr. Faa,” Irving said. When Samuel ignored him, Irving’s voice became a whip. “Sit down!”

  Samuel sat.

  A brief smile slipped across Isabelle’s lips—a smile Samuel noted with resentment.

  “If Mr. D’Angelo were to try to blow us up, he would be disappointed.” Irving looked around the table, warning them all. “Since the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, I changed the security that protects my home.”

  “The security?” Tyler ruffled his golden hair in bewilderment.

  “The enchantments, if you would. I am now the only one who knows them.”

  Dangerous. Caleb met Jacqueline’s gaze. If anything happened to Irving, they would have no way in or out—and a ninety-three-year-old man didn’t need to be murdered, didn’t need to meet with an accident. He could just . . . die of old age.

  Yet Irving knew the risks better than anyone, and had made his decision. Meeting Caleb’s gaze, he said, “Desperate times require desperate measures.”

  “Yes.” Caleb interceded before the Chosen Ones could make their own deductions. “The confirmation of the Chosen Ones is a time-honored celebration. Almost every one of the Chosen Ones from years past attends. According to my records, Zusane arrived at the Gypsy Travel Agency at two p.m. She had a drink, met Chosen from twelve cycles ago—”

  “Twelve cycles ago? That’s eighty-four years.” Tyler gaped at Caleb. “That’s impossible!”

  “It is not,” Irving said. “In the past, the Chosen Ones came to us as youths as young as thirteen. In the past, when they achieved adolescence, the gifts were at the height of their power. Those Chosen were mighty indeed, and only the advent of middle age caused their abilities to fade. In addition, the gifts seem to lend long life to those so blessed. So at the Choosing today, I met men and women who far surpassed me in age and wisdom.”

  “They’re gone. Dead. At rest at last.” Caleb didn’t have a doubt. “Zusane left the Gypsy Travel Agency at four forty-five. She greeted fans on the streets—”

  “Wait a minute. You weren’t with Zusane.” Jacqueline glared at him. “You were with me.”

  “You saw me on my phone. What did you think I was doing?” She didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait. “I was supervising Zusane’s bodyguard. I am in charge of her safety.”

  “What are you doing here, then?” Aaron asked.

  “I am now in charge of her successor’s safety.” Caleb explained himself not because he felt the need, but because these people were uncertain and afraid. Because the events of the day had ushered in a new age of the world, and somehow, he knew he was an integral part of its success.

  McKenna arrived with the trifle and with a flourish placed the glass bowl before Irving. Red berries, white whipped cream, and pale golden ladyfingers had been lovingly arranged into a work of art—a work no one had the time or patience to admire.

  “Lovely. Serve it,” Irving instructed.

  “Louts!” McKenna sniffed in disdain.

  “McKenna,” Irving said in warning.

  “Yes, sir.” With the care of a Michelangelo dismantling his David, McKenna took the trifle to the sideboard, divided it into nine equal parts, and placed the servings on vintage Meissen dessert plates.

  He might consider them louts, but that didn’t mean he should lower his own serving standards.

  As he placed the trifle before each person, Caleb said, “Zusane arrived at the chalk circle at five thirty, at the height of rush hour, and I arrived with Jacqueline at five forty-five.”

  Heads nodded around the table.

  “During the time Zusane was gone, no Chosen left the building. No board members left the building.” The search for the facts led to an immutable, grim picture, no matter how many times Caleb reviewed them. “Yet five more Chosen arrived and rushed into the building.”

  “Why were they in a hurry?” Aleksandr picked up his fork and dug in. “This is good!”

  “Thank you, young sir,” McKenna said in a deadly tone of appreciation. “Shall I pour the port, Mr. Shea?”

  “Port or brandy or coffee, whatever they want.” Irving lifted his hand in blessing.

  Caleb asked for coffee, toyed with his fork, and waited—waited to see if Aleksandr would keel over from poison or drugs.

  The young man plowed right through the serving and glanced around for more.

  Jacqueline pushed hers toward him. With a grin, he thanked her and, while everyone watched, polished it off, then asked McKenna if he could have a shot of vodka.

  “You have an iron gut,” Tyler said in awe.

  Aleksandr shrugged.

  “That goes without saying,” Irving said. “He is young, male, and Ukrainian.”

  “I’m American,” Aleksandr said proudly.

  Irving inclined his head, and rephrased his comment. “Aleksandr is young, male, and of Ukrainian origin.”

  “Thank you.” Aleksandr inclined his head in return.

  Caleb picked up his fork and tasted the trifle, found it good enough to risk a slow-acting poison for, and went to work on it.

  “Why were they in a hurry?” Aleksandr glanced around the table, then patiently dragged the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Caleb said five more Chosen rushed into the Gypsy Travel Agency. Why were they rushing?”

  “Because if the Chosen Ones didn’t arrive by five thirty, when the cocktail party began, they wouldn’t be allowed in. Those were the rules.” Caleb examined the faces around the table. One by one, Samuel, Aaron, Tyler, Charisma and Isabelle picked up their forks and ate their desserts with varying degrees of gusto and murmured appreciation.

  None of them looked ill, and none of them looked brokenhearted. They had accepted the deaths this afternoon as a tragedy, but their real concern was for themselves and how the situation would impact them. But then . . . only one of the Chosen Ones had known the victims; that was Jacqueline, and she had never pretended a fondness for the people who had so often taken her mother away from her.

  For all that he suspected everyone, he could not see how any of the other six, so new to this world of protection and heroics, could have the knowledge and the control to bring about such a hideous offense. “Those have been the rules since the Gypsy Travel Agency incorporated forty-nine years ago.”

  “This trifle is most excellent, McKenna. Thank you for your efforts in such a difficult situation, and you, too, Martha.” Irving put down his fork after a few small bites and addressed the group. “When I was the director, I always demanded a prompt arrival, and that tradition has thankfully continued.”

  Jacqueline explained to the table, “Until Irving arrived, the Gypsy Travel Agency was run by the Chosen Ones themselves. It teetered on the brink of bankruptcy and disaster, and Irving gave them—us—financial solvency.”
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  “And a few badly needed rules,” Irving said. “They were mavericks, all of them.”

  The new Chosen examined Irving, in his dark suit and red power tie, and none of them seemed surprised.

  Irving turned back to Caleb. “How do you know who left and who arrived?”

  “I accessed the records, which are kept off-site. You can see the video, Irving. You can see multiple views of every entrance and exit.” Caleb held Irving’s gaze.

  Irving nodded reluctantly. He knew technology well enough to know that video could be tampered with, but probably not so quickly and/or so thoroughly, and he was a smart old guy. Like Caleb, he had confidence in no one, but he had met Caleb the first day the young man landed in New York City. If there was trust to be had, Caleb had his.

  “The explosion occurred at six p.m., a half hour after the cocktail party had begun.” Caleb looked around the table. “An ominous hour, six.”

  “Why?” Aaron asked.

  Like a college girl, Charisma waved her hand in the air. Her bracelets jangled and her tattoos were vibrant with color. “I know! I know! I read it in When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones. Am I the only one who did the required reading?”

  Depending on their characters, the Chosen Ones looked guilty or aggravated.

  Charisma finished, “Because six is the devil’s number.”

  Tight-lipped with irritation, Samuel said, “I sincerely doubt the devil had anything to do with this disaster.”

  Caleb was startled to discover Charisma could do irritation at least as impressively as Samuel. Her black and purple hair stood up like a wolf’s ruff, and she rapped on the table with her knuckles. “Mr. Faa, do you not understand what and who we are? We are the bulwark between the darkness and the light, and the devil is exactly who we stand against.”

  “If the devil is behind this, then why wasn’t it completely successful? Why aren’t we dead? And in fact, why doesn’t the devil just take us out himself?” Samuel was angry as only a man trapped in an untenable situation can be.

  Charisma showed no patience with his interrogation. “Because Lucifer isn’t allowed to intervene personally. It’s against the rules.”

  “Whose rules?” Samuel demanded.

  She put her fists on her waist. “Whose do you think?”

  Aaron gave a laugh that quickly changed to a cough. Caleb glanced at Jacqueline and found her eyes full of amusement, an amusement she shared with him for one golden moment before she remembered her hostility and turned away.

  “Lucifer is a fallen angel, and that is a powerful being. But he is not in charge of this world or any other.” Irving spoke slowly, weighing each word as if it were gold. “Mr. Faa, unless you accept that, you’re going to have a difficult time with your role in the organization. The Chosen Ones who succumb to hopelessness are those who succumb to the blandishments of the enemy.”

  Samuel was a lawyer. He exuded power in the way he dressed, the way he talked, and in his person. He did not appreciate their amusement, or having the matter spelled out by a ninety-three-year-old man. His dark eyes flashed with resentment, and Caleb made a note to keep an eye on him, too.

  In this room, the only people he trusted were Jacqueline and himself, and he knew given the chance, Jacqueline would put a knife through his heart.

  But at least she had good reasons. Personal reasons.

  Aleksandr cleared his throat twice before he managed to croak out, “Are you saying the Chosen Ones can switch sides?”

  “Yes, indeed.” As if pained, Irving placed his hand on his chest. He looked down toward the table, and whispered, “Any of you can break your word and betray us.”

  “Has it happened before?” Jacqueline asked softly.

  He looked up as if surprised to see her there. “Not often.” His voice was slow and soft. “Not often, but it does happen, and whenever it does . . . it is a failure for which I pay, and pay, and pay.”

  A chill crawled over Caleb’s skin. For the first time in Caleb’s memory, Irving’s mind seemed to be wandering. He was old, but he had always seemed so sharp, so intelligent. Had he been fooling them all?

  Or . . . had Caleb been seeing what he wanted, an infallible leader of the Chosen Ones?

  In fact, was the old man in the early stages of dementia? Of Alzheimer ’s?

  Was he the one who had somehow given up the security of the Gypsy Travel Agency to the enemy? Had he caused the murder of so many gifted men and women?

  Chapter 11

  In all the time Jacqueline had known Irving, she’d never thought of him as old. But right now, his voice was low and shaky, his hands had a tremor, and the skin under his eyes drooped as if he was sad and weary. “Irving, you can’t assume that responsibility for all time. You can’t protect everyone. Besides . . . that means the Others can come to our side, also.”

  “Yes. It has happened. But seldom, so seldom, and we don’t ever really trust them, do we?” Irving stared into Jacqueline’s face, pleading for something. For insight or kindness or . . . understanding.

  She glanced at Caleb, at McKenna, at Martha, not comprehending this sorrow that seemed to weigh so heavily on Irving.

  Caleb shook his head slightly. He didn’t know, either, and for all that she wore her dislike of Caleb and his methods like a badge of honor, she believed him.

  But McKenna stepped forward. “Sir, I hate to interrupt so lively a discourse, but should I serve the after-dinner refreshments here? Or would you prefer to take them in the comfort of the library? The library is warm and cheerful; I’ve lit a fire, and there’s the pool table should the young people wish to play, and of course, there is a table for poker and other gaming indulgences.”

  Jacqueline fought the tug of amusement. McKenna was ever the stern Celt, disapproving of gambling in any form. Yet tonight, he was willing to suggest “gaming indulgences” to lift Irving’s spirits. Grasping Irving’s hand, she said, “McKenna is right. Let’s go to the library. On such a night, this room is too large and gloomy.”

  Irving tottered to his feet. “Those of you who work out on a regular basis should know that I have a thoroughly equipped gym down in the basement. I keep towels and workout garments. Just ask McKenna should you wish to indulge.”

  “Thank God,” Samuel pronounced. “I’m going to go nuts stuck in here if I don’t do something.”

  Jacqueline tucked her hand through Irving’s arm and allowed him to lead her into the foyer.

  With a scraping of chairs, the Chosen Ones stood and followed.

  The library was as warm and cheerful as McKenna had promised, with walls painted the color of mustard, mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound books, and wide sweeps of antique Aubusson rugs on the floor. A massive fireplace, with an opening as tall as Caleb and as wide as his outstretched arms, blazed merrily. Comfortable seating clustered around it, the gaming and pool tables dominated the center of the room, and heavy blue velvet curtains kept out night’s menace.

  Aleksandr spoke for them all when he picked up a pool cue, weighed it in his hand, and said, “Very . . . cool.”

  Even the dour McKenna looked pleased at the approbation. He and Martha hustled around, filling their drink orders, and when that was done, the two servants disappeared.

  The group quickly divided into the players and the watchers. Isabelle selected a cue and Tyler as her partner. Aleksandr waited for someone to partner him, and when Samuel took up a cue, the teams were formed.

  The others settled down to watch, drinks in hand, and Jacqueline surveyed them all.

  Charisma sat on the floor beside the fire, brandy snifter hanging carelessly from her fingers.

  Aaron stretched out on a love seat, a mug of coffee clasped between his palms.

  Irving sank into his worn leather easy chair and accepted a small Waterford glass of tawny port.

  Caleb . . . had vanished on his way to the library. Potty break, Jacquelilne supposed.

  So these people were all that were left of the C
hosen Ones.

  Was that good? Was that bad? Jacqueline didn’t know. She had visited the Gypsy Travel Agency many times in her life. The company had been a constant in her life. The board of directors employed her mother, sent her on trips, encouraged her romances, all in the name of keeping the world safe from the devil’s machinations. Except for Irving, Jacqueline had never liked any of them . . . and occasionally, she suspected that if she’d known Irving during his heyday, she would have disliked him, too. To her, the directors seemed to be cold, self-absorbed men who directed the mon eymaking part of the business with enthusiasm while maintaining their saintly reputation for protecting the Chosen Ones.