Storm of Visions

  “I hear the earth song.” She almost bounced with enthusiasm. “What’s your gift?”

  “Hm?”

  “We are the Chosen Ones. We have gifts. What’s your gift?”

  “I don’t talk about my gift.” He had, they’d assured him, a lot in common with these people. Right now, he doubted that.

  Unfazed, she asked, “You’re American Indian, aren’t you?”

  Points for using the politically correct term for his people.

  “That’s why you’re so silent and inscrutable.”

  Deduct points for heading right for the clichés. “Right you are.” If Charisma could see him in his tux, holding a drink, talking finance to all the right men, charming all the right women, while none of them suspected . . . well. Almost none of them. If none of them had suspected, he wouldn’t be here.

  “What do you do for a living?” she asked.

  “I’m a thief.”

  “Of course you are.”

  She accepted his statement so blithely, he couldn’t tell if she believed him or not.

  But it didn’t matter because she lowered her voice and nodded her head toward the Blond Surfer Guy. “What do you think his gift is?”

  Silent and inscrutable. She had decided Aaron was, and it suited his convenience, so he crossed his arms across his chest like Sitting Bull and shut the hell up.

  Charisma sort of jangled her rock bracelets at the guy, and announced, “He’s a weird jumble.”

  Surfer Guy turned. He fixed his mesmerizing blue eyes on her.

  She looked back, searching his face, and in relief said, “Oh. Of course. He’s Tyler Settles. He’s a faith healer and a psychic. Just not a very good psychic.”

  The way she pronounced that, her certainty, took Aaron off guard, and he dropped the inscrutability. “How can you tell?”

  “The stones told me.”

  That was just stupid, to think stones could gather information and hand it out at her whim.

  But no one believed what he could do, either. Thank God, because he’d made a fortune off his specialty.

  “Okay, what about him?” He indicated the other guy, swarthy, handsome, and with an indefinable air of authority.

  She laughed. “He’s Samuel Faa. He’s a lawyer. He’ll do anything to win a case.”

  “Being a lawyer is hardly a gift.” Aaron had good reason to dislike lawyers. Half the Gypsy Travel Agency’s board of directors was lawyers.

  “It is when you can control minds.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t worry. He can’t control yours. He doesn’t even want to. He doesn’t want to be here. They had to blackmail him to get him here at all.”

  There was a lot of that going around. “You got all that from shaking your stones at him?”

  “No, from listening at the door.”

  Aaron viewed her with new respect.

  She had emerald green, charcoal-rimmed eyes to go with that black and purple hair, a sweetly rounded face with dimples pressed into her delicately pale cheeks, and he realized she was laughing at him for his caution. This was a woman who embraced life and all its quirks. “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty.”

  “I would have said sixteen.”

  “Great! I’ve found people underestimate me when they think I’m young.”

  His respect notched up another degree. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “So are you.”

  The two grinned at each other, and a fast friendship was forged.

  Not far away, a woman in her early twenties stood inside the circle. She had just the right hair, just the right makeup, and expensive designer clothes. Aaron’s expert eye identified a conservative black Chanel suit offset by a trendy leopard-print Betsey Johnson bag and shoes, platinum-set one-carat diamond studs, and a three-carat platinum-set diamond ring on her right hand. Perfect Boston Brahmin, if her accent was anything to go by, but not so perfect after all. She had an exotic look; her bones were as delicate as porcelain and her eyes were faintly slanted. Somewhere in her unknown bloodlines, she boasted an Asian ancestor. She stood apart from the others, glancing at her watch, a vintage Cartier worth more than the rest of the outfit put together, with a smooth patience that would have done credit to a politician’s wife.

  “That’s Isabelle Mason,” Charisma told him.

  “Of the Boston Masons.” He knew the family, had attended parties at their home, but he had never met Isabelle. Probably she’d been at finishing school, or touring Europe, or doing something high-class and preppy.

  Charisma continued to smile brightly, but her voice was subdued and a little depressed as she said, “I can’t quite get a fix on her gift. She doesn’t like it, doesn’t acknowledge it, keeps it restrained.”

  Isabelle caught Aaron watching her and smiled politely. Caught the lawyer watching her and her expression became Botox smooth.

  “Whoa. She doesn’t like him,” Charisma observed.

  “No . . .” Aaron wasn’t so sure. There was something between those two. He nodded at the young guy in frayed jeans, dirty running shoes, and a denim jacket. “Who’s the kid?”

  Charisma goggled at Aaron. “Don’t you know? That’s Aleksandr Wilder.”

  Aaron shrugged. He’d already figured out if he kept his mouth shut, she’d spill everything she knew.

  She did. “Nineteen years ago, the Wilders broke their family’s covenant with the devil. It was a big deal in the world of the Chosen Ones, and I imagine in the world of the Others, too.”

  “That would do it.” The board of directors, a group of sharp-eyed, middle-aged men in suits, had given Aaron the barest outlines of the organization. They called themselves the Gypsy Travel Agency, located in a historic cast-iron building in SoHo. They were widely famous for leading treks into the wildest parts of the world, had been doing it since the late nineteenth century and apparently collecting a wad of money from satisfied customers. According to them, the agency had started because of their gypsy background and their dedication to combating evil.

  None of the directors looked Romany to Aaron; more like a bunch of middle-aged white guys in suits with one politically correct clean-cut black guy. And none of them looked like they’d ever been in combat with more than a New York investment broker.

  But then, he didn’t really care who they were or what they did, because while they made it clear they would use him as a tour guide if needed, his real job for them related to his special talent—and they owned him and his talent for the next seven years.

  “So, did the Wilders work for the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

  “The Wilders raise grapes in Washington and sell wines in California.”

  Aaron blinked at Charisma. “Is that a cover like the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

  “No. They really raise grapes and sell wines. They’re completely out of the paranormal business now. None of them can shape-shift anymore.”

  Seeking a way out of his confusion, Aaron said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right—the Wilders broke a covenant with the devil that let them shape-shift.”

  “That’s it.”

  “So what’s the Wilder kid doing here? What’s his special gift?”

  The Wilder kid stepped close. “For starters, I’ve got really good hearing.”

  Aaron had to admire him for his poise, had to admire both the kids, because Charisma grinned and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Charisma Fangorn. I’m so glad to meet you, Aleksandr.”

  Aleksandr shook her hand, then Aaron’s.

  “So what’s your gift?” Charisma asked.

  Aleksandr stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have one.”

  Charisma looked affronted. “Of course you do. You walked through the fire with your mother.”

  “Yeah.” Aleksandr paused to scuff his feet on the tile floor. “There’s speculation, probably justified, that my mother’s gift protected me.”

  Aaron’s head swiveled between them. He had no idea what th
ey were talking about, but he had to admit it was fascinating.

  “Why justified?” Charisma asked.

  “When I was thirteen, I decided maybe it was me, so I tried grabbing a burning stick. Man, did I get in trouble. My father and grandfather aren’t exactly keen on teenagers who do dumb stuff.” Aleksandr shook back his shaggy blond hair. “While we were in the emergency room, I thought my mother and grandmother were going to rip me a new one.”

  “So it was bad?” Charisma prompted.

  Aaron figured the kid was exaggerating the extent of his injuries to impress Charisma.

  Then Aleksandr held up his hand.

  Burn scars rippled the skin, and two of the fingers were fused together.

  Charisma winced.

  “What the hell made you do that?” Snapping at Aleksandr made Aaron feel as old as the kid’s grandfather, but . . . good God. That looked like hell, and he bet it had hurt forever. Maybe still did.

  “We were out in the woods. My cousins were there. The Wilder cousins are younger, and I didn’t care what they thought. But my grandmother’s family is Rom, and they’re all so wild and tough.” Aleksandr hunched his shoulders and mumbled, “I wanted to impress them.”

  “Okay. I get that.” Aaron did. He’d been a dumb kid himself once.

  Charisma shook her bracelets at Aleksandr. Shook them again, and frowned. “You really don’t have a gift?”

  “Not that anybody can figure out,” Aleksandr said.

  “And you’ve got family? You weren’t abandoned?” Aaron stared at the old woman standing on the outside of the circle, the one who had led them here, the one who was apparently some sort of dedicated servant of the Gypsy Travel Agency. “Hey! You! Martha!”

  The woman turned to face him. Her brown face was creased with age. Her gray hair was long, braided, and wrapped around her head like some Austrian yodeler. Chalk dusted her gnarled fingers.

  “The board of directors said there’d be seven Chosen,” Aaron called.

  “Sh!” Martha hurried—well, hobbled, really—around the outside of the circle toward him.

  Aaron continued. “They said that we all had gifts that we’d received because we were abandoned.”

  “Mr. Eagle. We do not discuss this in public!” Martha stood inches away from Aaron, her toes almost on the circle, and stared at him with black, unblinking eyes.

  Look at that. Aaron had just found the gypsy in the Gypsy Travel Agency. “Then we shouldn’t be standing in the middle of a subway station, should we?”

  “This is where Suzanne’s powers are at their greatest.” Martha spoke as if Aaron should know what she meant. “But I am not supposed to talk to you. Not while you’re in the circle!”

  “Then quietly, tell me about the kid.” Aaron had Martha over a barrel.

  And Martha knew it.

  Charisma and Aleksandr edged closer.

  In a low voice, Martha said, “In the last seven cycles, the gifts have been fading.”

  The Abandoned Ones were chosen every seven years. So, seven cycles times seven years . . . Aaron did the math. In the last forty-nine years, Martha was saying. “The gifts have been fading? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Mr. Eagle, let us not mention hell when we’re so close to its mouth I can smell the brimstone.” Martha sounded so fierce, so convinced, Aaron looked around for the flames. “I mean the gifts given to you six are mere shadows of the gifts given in years past.”

  “Really?” Aaron had always been pretty impressed with his gift. But actually, lately, it had been fading. That was what had gotten him into this mess to start with. “Does anybody know why?”

  “There is some talk that we’ve wandered away from our purpose, or that modern life has corrupted us, or—” Martha stopped herself.

  “What do you think, Martha?” Charisma asked.

  “It’s not my place to say,” Martha said primly.

  “It’s not your place to say, or you don’t want to talk about it so close to hell?” Aaron hated this pussyfoot ing around.

  “Are we done speaking in such an inappropriate manner?” Martha turned away.

  Aaron started to reach out and grab her. And something zapped him, something like static electricity, but . . . dangerous. Much, much more dangerous.

  Martha looked back at him, satisfaction cold in her dark eyes.

  Aaron had stepped in the circle under his own will. He would leave when someone else allowed him.

  So. He’d learned something today. Watch out for chalk circles.

  “Was there anything else?” Martha asked.

  Damned right, there was. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You guys took the kid”—Aaron indicated Aleksandr—“because there was no one else, and you hope he develops a gift or some specialty you can use?”

  “I’m not privy to the decisions of the directors,” Martha said, but she nodded her head.

  “Is that why there’s only six? Because there have always been seven.” Charisma did know her stuff.

  For the first time, Aaron wondered if he should have glanced through the text he’d been given after he signed on the dotted line.

  “We have one more coming. I hope.” Martha sounded disgusted. Then she looked beyond them, and the old woman broke into a broad smile. In a voice hushed with pleasure and worship, she said, “Suzanne has arrived.”

  Chapter 7

  Aaron gaped in amazement.

  Martha hadn’t been saying Suzanne. She’d been saying Zusane, and no wonder she looked like an awestruck teenage girl.

  Zusane was . . . Zusane. One of those women who only had one name, who was famous for being famous, who was Hungarian or Romanian or some nationality that gave her a rich, smoky accent. Zusane had had more husbands—seven? eight?—than anyone could remember, all of them had been rich, and she’d left them all considerably less wealthy and a lot more whiny.

  Now she was walking through the subway station, three bodyguards in front, acting like the prow of a ship to cut their way through the afternoon rush hour crowd, and another two bodyguards in back, making sure that no one crowded her from behind. Because dressed like that, she was one hell of a target. She wore a long, skintight dress covered with gold sequins from the low neckline, over every inch of her curvaceous body, and down to the weighted hem. With every step, she showed a flash of shapely leg, and she walked so smoothly on four-inch spiked heels, they might as well have been Reeboks. Her black silk gloves extended from her fingertips over her elbows to her well-toned upper arms, and she held a small evening bag decorated with Swarovski crystals. Like American royalty, she waved to the crowds, shook hands, signed autographs.

  “Your jaw’s hanging open,” Charisma said.

  She was talking to Aleksandr, but Aaron shut his mouth, too.

  As Zusane stopped at Martha’s side, the bodyguards took their places around the edge of the circle and turned to face the crowds.

  Zusane put her hands on Martha’s shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. She whispered something that made Martha nod, roll her eyes, and indicate the circle.

  Lifting her skirt, Zusane carefully stepped inside. As if by magic, people stopped staring and pointing at her.

  As if by magic . . . Aaron looked around at the others. Was there something about the chalk circle that made them invisible to all the normal people and removed them from their minds?

  Of course. Magic would explain a lot.

  Zusane removed her long gloves, a slow striptease that titillated and entertained. And all the while she observed the six in the circle, her blue eyes thoughtful and perceptive. She tucked the gloves into her bag, then turned to Aaron. “Mr. Eagle. How good to see you again.” Her voice was throaty and amused.

  Aaron had run into Zusane one other time, about a year ago, right after he’d finished a job, and she’d looked at him and spoken to him as if she could see him.

  Now he knew why. She had seen him. She had a gift, too. “I’ll bet you’re the reason I’m here,” he said. br />
  She laughed, throwing her head back to release a light chuckle. “You don’t hold that against me, do you?”

  “No. No, I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  Up close, she wasn’t as young as she first appeared. She had wrinkles around her eyes and a faint thin scar at her ear left by a chin lift.