“Still can’t get the box open?” Martha’s tone made it clear she took their failure personally.
“We will,” Charisma said. “If we have to sauté Samuel’s ass to do it.”
That brought a chortle from Irving and a lot of laughter from around the room. Which proved Genny was right—eating and the camaraderie that came with it restored their good tempers.
Afterward, Martha piled the dishes onto the cart and took them away.
“Great meal!” Charisma called again.
Martha royally ignored her.
Irving dozed in his chair until McKenna arrived to put him to bed. He went with a weary wave and the assurance they could stay and work on the box, because all he had to do was remove his hearing aids and he would never hear them.
So, since the good research material was in here, they stayed, concentrating on the still-closed metal box to the steady, comforting sound of Irving’s snoring.
Rosamund still had enough energy to enthusiastically say, “Since we’re not having luck with this spell, should we head down to meet Aleksandr?”
“I can’t. I can’t walk that far. I’m still recovering, and this has been a long and difficult day.” Admitting it almost made Charisma cry, for she wanted Guardian with a fierce and desperate ache.
“That’s a task best left for tomorrow,” John agreed. “We need to send Aleksandr word through Davidov, or he won’t be there to meet us.”
Charisma lifted her aching head off the back of her chair. “Should we send Martha tonight? Give her something to do, and him plenty of warning?”
“I don’t send anyone out at night anymore,” John said soberly. “Not onto the streets. Not into the tunnels.”
Charisma dropped her head back again.
Samuel hadn’t removed his gaze from the box. “What would happen if someone flipped the latch and just opened it? Would it be any worse than a blast that knocked him against the wall?”
“You’re not flipping the latch and opening the box,” Isabelle told him.
He tried to look innocent—an impossible task. “I didn’t say me.”
“Then who?” Isabelle looked around the room. “Who among the Chosen Ones can we afford to lose?”
Charisma closed her eyes and wondered whether they could afford to lose her. After all, they’d managed to retrieve the box without her. Her gift was past its expiration date. Her mark was fading. She had lost hope and strength. . . .
“Charisma.” Isabelle’s voice was right above her.
Charisma opened her eyes wide, trying to look alert.
“It’s way too late for that.” Samuel was grinning obnoxiously. “You were giving Irving a run for his money in the snoring department.”
“I’m good.” Charisma staggered to her feet. “I just need a good night’s sleep. Everything’s good.”
“I’m the expert here. Let me check you out.” Isabelle smiled at her, cajoling her, teasing her.
“Sure.” Charisma collapsed back into her chair. “I’ve got this lingering fatigue. If you could swap that out for a little kick-ass energy, I’ll be the old Charisma.”
Isabelle stroked Charisma’s hair off her forehead. “I like any Charisma at all, as long as she’s here with us.”
Charisma smiled sleepily and relaxed as Isabelle’s hands skimmed her head, her throat, her chest, her legs. With each gentle touch, warmth and strength poured into her body, and support and optimism filled her. . . .
“I feel so much better,” Charisma told her. “If you knew how sick I was, you’d understand. If not for Guardian and Dr. King, I would never have lived long enough for you to heal me.”
“I wish I had been there for you.” Isabelle’s lips trembled. “I can feel it in your bones. You suffered so horribly.”
“I’m good now. Just tired.” Charisma smiled beneficently at the whole group. “I missed you guys. I’m glad to be back.”
That was true . . . in its way.
At the same time, she longed for Guardian with a sharp, sweet nostalgia that made her wonder how so many life mates survived the separation of war and duty.
“Now I must go to bed and rest up for tomorrow.” She stood. “Thanks, Isabelle, for sending my injuries off with a final good-bye. Tomorrow I’ll fight at your sides. It’s so good to be back.”
With a weary wave, Charisma exited Irving’s room.
Isabelle stood. Just stood. And stared after her friend.
No one spoke.
Finally Samuel moved to Isabelle’s side. He put his arms around her. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. She tried to speak. Once. Twice.
“Charisma looked . . . transparent, as if her spirit is in transition. That never happens unless . . . unless the body fails.” Genny extended a hand to Isabelle. “Is that what’s happening?”
Isabelle nodded. “The demon’s venom has been driven back. But not defeated. I could still sense it, biding its time. It dines on her strength. It’s a land mine that waits to explode and destroy her.” She wept broken, helpless tears. “I can’t save her. There’s nothing more I can do. Charisma will die.”
Chapter 39
Guardian opened his eyes.
He remembered where he was: in Davidov’s brew pub.
He remembered what had happened: Davidov had spiked his ale.
While he was unconscious, his whole life had paraded across his brain, playing like a bad drama on the big screen.
He remembered growing up in Washington, surrounded by his boisterous, funny, devoted family.
He remembered coming to New York to go to school.
He remembered meeting Iskra, tutoring her . . . falling in love. That first, bright burst of ecstasy when every moment smelled like springtime and every touch of her hand was cherished.
Then . . . there was the uneasiness.
Why didn’t she want to meet his friends? His family? Why did she urge him to abandon them?
But every time he returned to her arms, every time he looked into her sparkling brown eyes, he forgot his disquiet and basked in his luck at winning her.
In disgust, he flung off the blanket, staggered up off the wooden floor. He stood, swaying, trying to get his balance, and he forced himself to remember it all: going to the courthouse to get married, realizing the courtroom was a trap, screaming at her to run, hearing her laughter like a knife to his heart.
He remembered being in the back of a van for three days, bumping along back roads. He remembered arriving at the facility, being shot with a tranquilizer gun before they removed him from the vehicle, and waking up on the operating table with Smith Bernhard leaning over him. Bernhard had explained that he demanded perfect specimens for his experiments, and then they performed the first operation: his hand, to separate his fingers, without anesthesia.
He remembered . . . everything.
Most of all, he remembered giving up Charisma to the world above. It was what pained him the most.
He looked down at himself, still hairy, still misshapen, still a beast.
His past didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. He had no freedom from the dark tunnels beneath the city, no chance to reunite with his family, no possibility of taking Charisma as his wife, of watching her swell with his children, of growing old and dying with her.
Davidov came out of the back room, and the handsome bastard had the guts to look concerned. “You okay?”
“I am the Guardian.”
“Yes.”
“I am also Aleksandr Wilder.”
“Yes.”
“I have no future.”
“Not true!”
“Face facts, Davidov. This is the end of days. If I don’t do my job, no one’s going to have a future.” He walked to the door. “Call me when the Chosen Ones arrive, and I’ll go with them into battle. Until then, I feel the urge to indulge my wild side. I’m going to go battle some demons.”
At the sound of a door closing, Charisma woke.
Where was she? What time was it?
> Where was Guardian?
She was in Irving’s mansion. It was the middle of the night. And someone had placed a tray beside her bed with a flute of champagne, a yellow rose in a black glass vase—and a pair of red patent-leather stiletto heels by Lanvin.
Picking them up, Charisma stroked them, held them, put them on . . . and cried herself back to sleep.
The next time Charisma woke, sunshine streamed through her bedroom windows, and she pressed her hands against her eyes and groaned.
She had that I’ve been crying too hard hangover, complete with headache and a dragged-down depression, and the earth’s call hummed in her ears like a bad case of tinnitus. She needed distraction, something to improve her mood. . . .
Turning on her side, she gazed at her stiletto heels on her nightstand where she had posed them. Reaching out a worshipful hand, she stroked her shoes as if they were her pets.
Guardian had sent her shoes back to her.
What kind of guy recognized her obsession with glorious shoes? What kind of guy, in the middle of a war, after a heartbreaking separation, arranged to somehow present her with supershiny, fire engine red, absurdly high heels? And then, after they separated, what kind of a guy fixed it so she woke to the sight of those heels after they had separated?
She rubbed the tickle in her nose.
Guardian . . . It was something only he would do.
Someone knocked firmly on the door.
As she sat up, Charisma groaned again. She flung her feet over the edge of the mattress and mumbled, “Shit!”
Taking her precious shoes, she slid them out of sight under the bed.
Another knock.
“I’m coming!” she yelled, went to the door in her scruffy pajamas, and opened it a crack.
She expected to see one of the Chosen Ones telling her it was time to go down to Davidov’s brew pub to meet Aleksandr.
Instead, there was Martha holding a breakfast tray and looking grim. “Miss Fangorn, Mother Catherine at St. Madeleine’s Orphanage sent word.”
Charisma wasn’t firing on all cylinders. “Sent word?”
“Their phone and Internet appear to be out, and the convent is being attacked by creatures they don’t . . . they don’t recognize.”
“Demons.” The scarred remains of the bite on Charisma’s shoulder gave a throb.
Martha nodded. “Sister Mary Louise said they looked like living gargoyles.”
“Sister Mary Louise came here . . . ?”
“And asked for help. Yes.”
Charisma didn’t cherish a lot of fond thoughts about demons.
Unfortunately, she also didn’t cherish a lot of fond thoughts about orphanages. She pretty much figured they were all lumpy oatmeal and cold baths. But Mother Superior Catherine Mary St. Ignacious had been running the orphanage at St. Maddie’s since Charisma had come to the city, and, as old as she was, probably since the orphanage had been founded about a hundred and fifty years ago. Under Mother Catherine’s guidance, the nuns really cared for their kids, and protected the ones who had gifts. Charisma had become a fan.
Charisma opened the door all the way. She didn’t want to; Martha was a neat freak, and when she saw the plethora of books, stones, weapons, paintbrushes, and canvases Charisma had stacked around, she would do her patented icy-housekeeper routine. Martha always made Charisma feel like a chastised child. But Charisma wanted the breakfast, so she braved Martha’s irritated glare to take the tray. “Thank you. Please, would you tell the other Chosen?”
“The Chosen Ones were called earlier to an attack on a subway station on Broadway. You were still sleeping. They’re gone.”
Charisma stared at Martha in dismay while chaotic thoughts tumbled through her brain. “They’re gone? I’m alone?” Left to fight demons alone?
“I called Mr. John’s cell phone,” Martha continued. “No one answered, so the battle must be heated.”
“I’ll bet.” Charisma had fought demons alone before. She’d done it successfully, too. It was just that last time, things hadn’t gone so well.
She’d feel more confident if she were prepared. If only she’d had the stamina to work out a little more, train a little harder. If only . . . if only she could go back to bed and sleep for twenty-four more hours. “Okay. I’ll get dressed and go down to the orphanage. I can do some damage. At least I can keep the demons away until the other Chosen Ones return.”
“I told that to Sister Mary Louise.” Martha nodded emphatically. “I told her you would save them.”
At least, Charisma thought, she wouldn’t have time to brood over her lost love.
And wow! That was looking on the bright side. With an eye to preserving her strength, Charisma said, “Ask McKenna if he’ll drive me to St. Maddie’s.”
Martha slowly shook her head.
“Oh. I suppose he drove the Chosen Ones to their battle?”
“I’m afraid so,” Martha said. “You can take one of the bicycles.”
“That’ll work.” Much to Martha’s disgust, the Chosen Ones kept a couple of sweet Cyfac racing bikes in the foyer. “St. Maddie’s is only a few blocks.”
Charisma snatched bites of oatmeal and fruit while she dressed in her jeans and leather jacket and gathered her weapons: two Glocks, fully loaded, knives and daggers stashed up her sleeve and down her boot, and her favorite weapon for fighting at close quarters—a medieval flail with a wooden handle attached to a chain and, at the end of the chain, a heavy iron ball with spikes.
She was good with the flail. The wildly swinging iron morning star blew through the squishy-bodied demons with marvelous efficiency.
When she was ready, she headed for Irving’s room.
Martha caught her before she got to his room. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to report to Irving.” Because the Chosen Ones always reported to Irving. John was their leader. Irving was their mentor—and their heart.
“He’s asleep!” Martha said sharply.
“Oh. But he likes to know. . . . Is he having a bad day?”
“He’s old,” Martha snapped. “Of course he’s having a bad day.”
“Okay.” Apparently Martha was having a bad day, too.
Turning the opposite direction, Charisma descended the stairs and moved toward the basement.
From the landing above, Martha asked, “Now where are you going?”
“We always gather in the kitchen after a battle. I want to leave them a note so they’ll see it right away and come to help—”
“I left a message on John’s cell.”
“Sometimes after a successful battle, they don’t remember to check their mes—”
“I’ll text for you. And I’ll tell them as soon as they get home.”
“I don’t want to take you away from your duties.” Because Martha was known to be sharp and cranky when she couldn’t keep to her schedule. Not like she wasn’t anyway.
“I’ll take care of the matter,” Martha said.
“Okay. Okay. Thanks.”
Charisma grabbed her bike and headed for the front door; she realized that seven years of work and worry—and hopelessness—were grinding at Martha, and probably at McKenna, too, and all too often the Chosen Ones took their services for granted.
On her way back, she would stop and grab Martha some flowers and a card. Then, when Charisma had time, she would clean her room.
Remembering the layer of dust on her nightstand, she planned for a big bouquet of flowers.
Flowers were like a promise of a better day.
Chapter 40
Irving tapped his fingers on the library table. He looked around his beloved personal library, at the stacks of books and research material the Chosen Ones had flung hither and yon in their search for the key to open the still stubbornly closed metal box.
In their search for an answer, the Chosen Ones really believed that with enough investigation, they could find the answer to the question, How do we break the spell that holds the box in thra
ll and free the feather?
It never occurred to them there might not be an answer.
These Chosen Ones were young. So young. And earnest. In all his years as director of the Gypsy Travel Agency, he had never seen such dedication, such perception, such maturity gained in so short a time. They made him proud to be their mentor . . . although at the beginning, he had never intended to last the whole seven years.
He thought perhaps he had survived because the Chosen Ones had dragged him along in their energy wake.
Of course, in his business, it behooved him to consider that fate had been only waiting for the proper moment to take him.
For a moment in his mind he felt a brief flutter of protest.
He frowned. Interesting, that. He had considered himself to be resigned to the idea of dying. Although he would like to serve some higher purpose with his death . . .
Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the box again.
When Martha moved into his line of vision, he jumped and gasped. “Martha!”
Inside his head, he clearly heard a woman’s voice. Oh, it’s that bitch.
He subdued an inner leap of excitement . . . and a smile.
At last. Dina had returned to him.
Martha waved and pointed at her ear.
He dug his hearing aids out of his pocket and put them on. “There,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to ask if you or the Chosen made any advances on freeing the feather from the box.”
“Here you see it.” He indicated the box with his cupped hand. “Still locked tightly.”
You finally got the box out of the safety-deposit box? It was Dina’s voice in his head again, stronger this time.
He knew she felt his agreement, and kept his attention on Martha.
Sadly, Martha said, “It’s a shame that the Chosen Ones are wasting so much valuable time on trying to open the box when the time left is now counted in minutes.”
She must be shaking in her boots that she threw her lot in with the losers. Martha always wants to come out on top. Dina’s sarcasm was awesome and biting.
Irving knew Dina was right: Martha despised the situation and the people who had failed to resolve it. He also recognized a vicious case of sibling rivalry when he saw it; after all, Dina and Martha were sisters.