Chains of Fire

  She was fine. She had to be, or the crowd wouldn’t be so happy.

  So where was she?

  He played to the cameras, smiling and waving, saying all the right things while walking through the crowd: “So glad to be out. . . . Thank you to all the noble rescuers. . . . Never gave up hope. . . . Just want a hot meal and a shower . . . and a milk shake.” Catching sight of Mrs. Mason, he cut off the reporters. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see someone who’s here for me.”

  Not a lie. Mrs. Mason was there for him. She stood beside her long limo, door open, chin tucked into her ankle-length down coat, her large dark glasses covering her eyes.

  Darren Owen stood beside her, dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit, even now clearly disapproving of Samuel.

  What did Samuel have to do to gain his praise? Rescue a dozen infants and die in the attempt?

  Yeah. That might do it. Especially the dying part.

  A member of the ski patrol grabbed at Samuel and said, “We need to perform a physical.”

  “But first, this is very important.” Samuel indicated Mrs. Mason, pulled away, strode toward the car.

  Mrs. Mason slid inside.

  He followed.

  Darren shut the door on them, ran around, got in, and while reporters and ski patrol shouted, Darren drove them away.

  Samuel didn’t even have to glance around the interior of the limo. He knew Isabelle wasn’t waiting inside. Turning to Mrs. Mason, he bared his teeth. “She’s not there when I get dug out. She’s not here with you. Where is she?”

  Patricia Mason should have been afraid of his anger.

  She wasn’t. As far as he could tell, Patricia Mason wasn’t afraid of anything. “She’s on her way back to New York.”

  “What did you do? Hug her, say, ‘Honey, I’m glad you’re alive,’ fling her into a car, and send her away? As soon as you confirmed she’d spent five days trapped with me?” He leaned toward Mrs. Mason, ignoring the oversize sunglasses to keep aggressive eye contact. “Anything to get her away?”

  “That’s not the way it worked.”

  “Tell me how it worked.”

  “She wanted time to think.”

  “Time to think?” He was so angry—at Mrs. Mason, but mostly at Isabelle for allowing her mother to control her again. “Is that your euphemism for, ‘I don’t want my daughter sleeping with you no matter how right it is’? ”

  “It wasn’t me!” Mrs. Mason whipped off her glasses. Her pale blue eyes were indignant. Insulted. “I didn’t tell her to run away.”

  “Oh, really. This from the woman who made sure her daughter got away from our teen romance without being besmirched by any rumors about the butler’s son.”

  The glass partition between the seats was down.

  Darren cleared his throat, and, when Samuel glanced up into the rearview mirror, he glared meaningfully.

  “Forget it, Dad. It’s way too late for decorum.”Samuel placed a heavy, scornful emphasis on his father’s favorite word.

  “I won’t lie to you,” Mrs. Mason said. “I don’t want you two together. But she told me what you did to save her. I thought she should stay and thank you. And talk about . . .” She waved vaguely.

  “About our relationship?” He shot the word at her.

  “Well . . . yes. Isabelle doesn’t seem to be able to settle, and it’s because of you.” When he would have spoken, Mrs. Mason lifted her hand. “I don’t want her to be with you. But I do want her to be happy. So I did not send her away.”

  He leaned back, shoulders tight, and mulled over Mrs. Mason’s words.

  The woman didn’t lie. She didn’t have to. Such a powerful personality never needed to stoop to deception.

  Isabelle always did the right thing. And the right thing was to stay here, make sure that he was rescued unhurt, thank him, and speak to him seriously about their time together. The truth was, he had half expected her to tell him the conversation and the sex and the vows were all a fluke built on the belief that they were dying and might as well seize every moment. . . .

  The fact that Isabelle Mason had disregarded her mother’s advice and run rather than face him meant . . . it meant she was scared.

  Not of him, but of herself. Of her feelings for him. She still didn’t trust him. Obviously. But she’d confessed she loved him, had always loved him, and he believed her.

  So Isabelle was running in panic.

  And he would give chase.

  He smiled.

  Mrs. Mason saw his expression. She apparently interpreted it in a correct manner, because she gave a huff of distress and turned her head to look out the window.

  He relaxed against the leather seat. “Guess I need to go back to New York and check in at Irving’s and see what’s up.”

  Chapter 36

  Isabelle watched the rescue from the news feed on the airport monitor.

  Samuel looked good. A little thinner, a little paler, with a full pirate’s beard. And when he realized she wasn’t there . . . his expression was quite savage.

  She knew she shouldn’t be running away. It was cowardly and unlike her. She and Samuel had said so many things to each other: admitted their mistakes and their regrets, declared their love, and done everything to make each other happy.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t mean everything she’d said about loving him forever. She did.

  But she’d thought they were going to die!

  She didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to try another relationship with him. No other man could break her heart like Samuel, and she didn’t trust him not to do it again.

  The television camera zoomed in on his face.

  As if he knew she was watching, he looked into the lens and smiled with all his teeth.

  She stepped back, away from the impact of that ferocious message he was sending, stumbled over a flowered duffel bag, and slammed into a guy walking past. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t watching.”

  He was a big man, taller than Samuel. Beefier, too, and he looked Polynesian or Japanese, she didn’t know which, but for sure he could be a sumo wrestler. He steadied her with his hands on her arms. “No problem.” His accent was American, and he hurried toward the gate, where they were giving last call for the flight to Amsterdam.

  She rubbed her arms where he’d touched her. The contact had been brief, but unsettling. He was . . . odd. Not quite right.

  But not her business, and anyway, they were calling her flight to New York City.

  She glanced toward the television once more, where reporters chased Samuel for the chance to interview him. Then she hastened toward the gate and away from the image of Samuel and his fury.

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” a young man’s voice called.

  She paid no attention.

  “Excuse me, miss!” This time the call was in accented English. Footsteps pattered behind her, and someone caught her sleeve.

  She turned to see a teenager holding a flowered duffel bag.

  He held it toward her. “You left this.”

  “It’s not mine,” she said.

  “You have no carry-on?”

  “This purse.” She lifted the cross-body bag she’d picked up in the gift shop.

  She had refused to go back to her parents’ home to pack. She knew if she paused so long . . . Samuel would catch up with her.

  The young Frenchman held the flowered bag and looked around in dismay. “But whose?”

  An older woman rushed down the concourse toward them. With a scowl, she snatched the bag from the boy and headed toward the Amsterdam flight.

  Isabelle and the boy looked at each other and shrugged.

  Isabelle continued on to her airplane, settled into first class, and tried to sleep. Instead she found herself watching the blue waters of the Atlantic and wondering what would happen when she once more saw Samuel . . . and he saw her.

  When she landed in New York City, security was swarming the airport.

  The flight to Amsterdam had exploded in
midair.

  Chapter 37

  McKenna opened the door to Irving’s nineteenth-century Upper East Side mansion and came as close to smiling as the dour Scotsman ever came. “Well met, Mr. Samuel! And such good timing. Mr. Irving is on his way home from rehabilitation and the Chosen are gathered to greet him.”

  “Hey, great, thanks, McKenna.” Samuel shed his coat into McKenna’s waiting hands. “Did Isabelle make it here okay?”

  “Miss Isabelle arrived with no problems and has done nothing but sing your praises for your gallantry and courage. Congratulations, sir, for stepping so nobly up to the plate!”

  That explained McKenna’s enthusiastic welcome. Isabelle had been assuaging her guilty conscience by touting his heroism.

  Good move, Isabelle. But it isn’t going to save your ass.

  “Where are the Chosen Ones?” Samuel asked.

  “In the library. When Mr. Irving arrives, I am allowing a brief welcome only; then Mr. Irving is to rest from the ordeal of his return.” McKenna sounded firm, and he’d get his way . . . if Irving allowed it.

  Samuel headed across the foyer.

  McKenna followed. “At Mr. Shea’s age and in his condition, merely the act of leaving one bed and going to another will be fatiguing beyond his capacities.”

  “Agreed. Let’s hope he thinks the same way.” Samuel walked into Irving’s spacious, well-appointed library, flung out his arms, and smiled narrowly.

  Isabelle saw him first. Of course she did. Her face lit up with joy. Next the joy faded and shame took its place.

  If nothing else happened in his life that was good and just, he would always remember that first instinctive response.

  Caleb D’Angelo nodded, a brief jerk of the head that acknowledged his relief at Samuel’s return.

  Charisma Fangorn threw herself at him, bracelets jingling, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I knew you were okay. I knew you were. The earth stones told me you had survived.”

  “It’s a long way from Switzerland’s earth stones to New York City’s earth stones,” Samuel said.

  “Not when you measure the distance in light-years,” Charisma assured him.

  “Good point.” Samuel shook Aleksandr Wilder’s hand.

  “Good to have you back,” Aleksandr said.

  “Good to be back,” Samuel replied, and noted that Aleksandr had lost weight. In fact, he was looking gaunt, not a likely situation for a grad student who ate at Irving’s table.

  Had he looked like this before Samuel left for Switzerland? Should Samuel be asking the kid what was wrong? Not that Samuel was good at that empathetic thing, but if everyone else was oblivious, perhaps he was elected.

  Their seer, Jacqueline D’Angelo, hugged him next. “I knew you’d be back.”

  “Yes, but you and your crystal ball—you cheat.” He grinned at her.

  “For you, it was sort of a science project. I had to look in the entrails of worms.” She grinned back.

  Rosamund Eagle put down her book, stared at Samuel, and said in her vague way, “I thought you were gone.”

  Aaron pressed her shoulder. “He was, honey. He returned.” Stepping forward, he shook Samuel’s hand. “Welcome, man. There was no one here for me to be an ass with.”

  “Everyone has their place in the food chain.” Samuel pressed Aaron’s hand solemnly.

  Their leader, John Powell, stood apart, waiting for Samuel to finish his greetings. Stepping forward, he enveloped Samuel in a bear hug. “Good work all around,” he said.

  “No problems with the cash flow?” Samuel asked.

  “It’s clean. It’s good. Not a glitch.” John lowered his voice. “I got your message about the safety-deposit box, and right away set Rosamund to doing the research. She’ll get it figured out soon . . . I hope.”

  “Hm. Yeah.” John seemed shaken, a most unusual occurrence for their stoic leader. What was in that safety-deposit box?

  John indicated Isabelle. “We’re grateful you brought our healer back alive.”

  “I know you are.” Samuel reached Isabelle.

  Isabelle of the dark blue downcast eyes and trembling smile. “Samuel. So glad you made it back.”

  “Made it out, you mean? From under the avalanche? The rescuers collapsed more than half the ski lodge before they got to me.” He allowed his irritation to color his words. “I thought for sure I was a goner.”

  She stared at him, stricken.

  He smiled pleasantly, wrapped his arms around her, pressed his cheek to hers. He spoke in her ear. “We’ll talk . . . later.”

  She nodded as if numb. Or maybe she was resigned.

  John’s wife, Genny, scrutinized Samuel as if seeing something she didn’t understand. Then her face cleared. She smiled and said, “You’ve got Isabelle in you!”

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  Isabelle flushed.

  Genny laughed a little. “That didn’t come out like I meant. I mean, Isabelle healed him and now he has her inside him.”

  Genny was not Chosen, yet after meeting John and going through hell to return to his side, she had developed a most interesting talent. When she looked at one of the Abandoned Ones, Chosen or Other, the gift given at birth manifested itself before her . . . somehow.

  Spooky.

  Samuel patted his stomach and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “In me?”

  “I know what I see,” she told him. “I’m not wrong, am I? She did heal you recently, and from a grievous wound.”

  “That’s right, but she’s healed me before.”

  “A long time ago,” Genny said. “That’s why she’s at the base of your being.”

  “Yes.” Samuel stared at Isabelle. “She is.”

  There was a silent, awkward moment as everyone looked from Samuel to Isabelle and back again.

  From the foyer, they heard the door open and McKenna say, “Mr. Shea, welcome home!”

  As if galvanized, the group rushed out and lined up like school kids for inspection.

  At the first glimpse of Irving, Samuel’s exultation faded.

  Two burly men carried the old man up from the street. Irving looked old, frail, slumped in his wheelchair, a survivor of an accident that everyone now knew was not an accident, and only his incredible will to live had kept him clinging to life.

  Dina walked at his side.

  She looked rougher than she had the last time Samuel had seen her. She was Romany, short and stout, with dark hair now streaked with gray and the damaged skin of a lifelong smoker. Her dark eyes were beautiful, but long ago, someone had split her nose from top to bottom. It had healed, but no one could look at her without knowing this handsome woman had suffered pain, humiliation, and indignity. She looked at Samuel as she passed, and he thought she had the most cynical gaze he’d ever seen.

  And he was a lawyer. He knew cynical.

  Another woman came in last. She was young. She was tall. She was pretty. Her blond hair looked natural, and she wore it in a neat coil at the back of her neck.

  “Have you been picking up girls again, Irving?” Samuel asked.

  Irving lifted his head, and in slow, slurred speech, he introduced her. “Amanda Reed. Private nurse.”

  The Chosen Ones and their mates nodded, murmured hellos and their names.

  She looked at them coolly, her gray eyes commanding. “Mr. Shea needs to rest after his trip. Perhaps it would be better if you visited tomorrow, one at a time.”

  “No!” Irving struggled to speak. “Want them. Talk. Now.”

  “Mr. Shea—” Amanda began.

  “No!” His dark skin was almost gray with exhaustion, but his brown eyes blazed. “Want a report!”

  “We’ll be fast,” John assured Amanda.

  “And we live here, so we can easily visit when he’s not so tired,” Charisma said.

  “You all live here?” Amanda looked them over as if they were a bunch of freeloading relatives.

  “Not all. I mean, John and Genny have their own place, and th
e rest of us are in and out all the time. Aleksandr’s hardly ever here anymore—he sort of lives at his girlfriend’s—and Aaron and Rosamund have talked about getting a place, but Aaron’s afraid Rosamund would forget to eat if we’re not around to remind her . . .”Charisma trailed off.

  “It would be best if you all came by later, and one at a time,” Amanda said again.

  “Report now!” Irving insisted.

  “You might as well forget it, sister,” Dina advised. “If you try to stop him from getting his report now, he’s going to get more agitated. These people care for him; you can trust in that. They’ll protect him from harm in every way possible.”

  “Of course. I never thought any differently.” All too clearly, Amanda was only mouthing platitudes.

  With impeccable timing, McKenna stepped into the developing situation. “If you would allow me, Miss Reed, I’ll take you to Mr. Shea’s room. I’m sure you’d like to verify that the medical equipment you requested has been delivered and set up correctly.”

  She gave up with very little grace. “Of course.”

  “This way.” McKenna led her toward the stairs.

  Charisma moved over by Samuel and, in exaggerated terror, said, “She’s scary.”

  “I’ll bet she’s going to get scarier, too,” Samuel answered.

  Irving waited until Amanda was out of earshot, then waved an imperious hand. “Library!”

  Jacqueline pushed the wheelchair.

  The Chosen Ones followed.

  John shut the door, closing them in with the shelves of books, the comfortable seating, the cozy, familiar room.

  Irving pointed a shaking finger at Samuel. “Now. Report.”

  Chapter 38

  Briefly, Samuel sketched the events of his visit to the Swiss bank, noting that the accounts had been transferred to John’s control and that Adelbrecht Wagner was convinced that he’d made the transfer because Samuel had given him the proper documentation. “But then . . . he asked what I wanted to do about the safety-deposit box.”

  “The safety-deposit box?” Charisma looked around the room. “Is that something we’re supposed to know? Because we’ve read every word of When the World Was Young, A History of the Chosen Ones—”