Chains of Fire

  Samuel must have sounded fiercer than he realized, because Moreau scooted back a little. “I would suppose you do.”

  “But it isn’t clear which organization he hired. I don’t know who to go to see the contract overridden.”

  Moreau clicked his teeth together as if he imprisoned words at the back of his throat.

  “Monsieur, is it possible that you have the connections to find out what I need to know?” A delicate question with no easy way to ask it.

  “Perhaps. My connections are mostly European, but there is always gossip, and as we all know, gossip is frequently . . . truth.” Seating himself behind his desk, Moreau started typing.

  Samuel watched him, and all the while, he cursed himself for his own ego that imagined the assassination attempt in Switzerland had been on him, cursed himself on the shortsightedness that led him to imagine the assassins would stop when they realized he had successfully retrieved the bank accounts in Switzerland. “Also...”

  Moreau looked up inquiringly.

  “There’s a safety-deposit box in one of the Swiss banks that belongs to the organization I work for.”

  Moreau shifted suddenly, awkwardly.

  Samuel pretended he hadn’t noticed. “Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, the directions on how to open that safety-deposit box have been lost and the contents are trapped within. I was wondering if you had any connections with the Swiss banking authorities that would help us discover the combination that would open the box. The contents are very precious to us.”

  “Out of idle curiosity, do you know what’s in the box?”

  No, but I’m not sure that you don’t. “I haven’t a clue.” Who was Moreau? Not merely the French ambassador to the US. But certainly someone with more knowledge than Samuel had previously suspected.

  “Yet you think you need those contents?”

  Samuel weighed his answer. “You know your son has a gift?”

  Moreau gestured noncommittally.

  “You know Isabelle has a gift, also?”

  Again the gesture.

  “Those who are gifted in different ways”—Samuel could also gesture noncommittally—“tell me that the contents should be in our possession. Whatever is inside the bank will soon be required outside. Disaster has already befallen us with the explosion of our headquarters.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We fear the beginning of the end.” Remembering Jacqueline’s vision, Rosamund’s revelations, Samuel didn’t feel as if he were overstating the matter.

  Moreau treated Samuel’s pronouncement with appropriate solemnity. “I will see what I can do. There are rules and safeguards, but—” An alert sounded on Moreau’s computer, interrupting him. He stared. His ruddy complexion paled. He said, “This contract on Isabelle—it was made with the Others.”

  “The Others?” Samuel’s knee-jerk reaction was disbelief. “They don’t do contract killings.”

  “They do what they are told to do. Do you know that their leader, Osgood, controls the corruption on the East Coast? That includes prostitution, drugs, graft—”

  “And assassination.”

  “Assassination is a good moneymaker, especially with politics being such big business here.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “The problem—Osgood is bound by his word. Once he has made a vow, he cannot fail to keep it, or the eternal rules have been violated.”

  Moreau’s knowledge confirmed all Samuel’s suspicions about him. Somehow, Moreau knew things. Someday Samuel intended to come back and see what he could learn, but for now . . . “What happens if Osgood breaks his vow?”

  “He loses everything, and in recent months, he has acquired much—more wealth, power, publicity. Osgood was a wicked man, and invited Lucifer into his soul. That’s been done before. But never have I heard of such a creature becoming so influential.” Moreau frowned. “It is as if it was the perfect joining.”

  Samuel filed that information away in his mind.

  “So—the payment for Isabelle’s murder has been given. The deal has been made. There is no canceling this contract.” Moreau looked drawn and tired as he made his pronouncement. “The Others will never stop . . . until Isabelle is dead.”

  Chapter 48

  The ambassador’s private jet was smaller than the Masons’, but the appointments were more luxurious, and more important, it was fast, the fastest Learjet in the air.

  Samuel needed that, needed to be able to drop Isabelle at her parents’ home in Boston, then go take care of matters before the night was over.

  The flight was forty minutes.

  But she didn’t wait until they were off the ground before she pounded him with questions. “Did you talk to Moreau?”

  “I did.”

  “Did he know anything about the firm that creep Winstead hired to kill me?”

  “He was surprised to hear a contract had been put out on you.” Not a lie, but she had no reason to think Samuel was withholding information.

  “That makes two of us.” Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes wearily and was quiet while the engines revved up and the jet taxied down the runway.

  Their ascent into airspace was smooth. Below, lights dotted the coastline.

  Samuel used the time to look up an address on his phone, and text a message to John Powell. He figured he’d hear back from John soon enough.

  When the jet had reached cruising altitude, she opened her eyes again. “When I signed up for the Chosen Ones, this wasn’t what I expected. The Gypsy Travel Agency was full of people selected especially for their competence and enthusiasm.”

  “I know.” He remembered what it was like when he’d arrived at the Gypsy Travel Agency for his interview. There had been people everywhere, carrying ancient texts, handheld computers, walking briskly, walking slowly, wearing Birkenstocks, wearing Armani, speaking in Latin and English and God knew what other languages.

  Isabelle rambled on. “When I went into that building, I discovered I wasn’t the only physical empath. Not that it’s a common gift, but while I was there, I met two others. They told me about my duties, that I would ride along with the Chosen Ones and heal people as necessary, but they assured me that for the most part, I wouldn’t have to worry about expending my life force. Neither of them had ever faced life-threatening injuries. Neither of them had ever had to face the moral dilemma of having to retreat from someone who was dying. They said it had happened in the past, but not anymore. The worst I would experience was the occasional broken bone, and they both seemed to think that was a big deal. I’m pretty sure they were telling the truth, too, and that neither one of them had to cure a seer from devil-induced smoke inhalation.”

  Samuel remembered that time; Jacqueline had almost died from the smoke, Isabelle had almost died helping her . . . and when he had seen Isabelle in extremis , he hurt as if he were the empath. Actually, that was his common reaction to seeing Isabelle in pain: He always wanted to do whoever hurt her a violence—even himself.

  Opening the bar, he poured a drink—Scotch and Drambuie, no rocks—and handed it to her.

  She took a sip, coughed. But she didn’t continue to drink. She was bewildered; she wanted to talk. “When I signed up for my stint with the Chosen Ones, Zusane was there to handle the weird stuff like visions and prophecy, and that was good, because what did I know about seeing the past and the future? Even now, what do I know about it? Nothing. I don’t understand prophecy at all.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “Nor does Jacqueline, I think.” Isabelle took a swallow and put down the glass. “But what I’m trying to say is—when I signed on with the Chosen Ones, I wasn’t worried about getting killed. It never crossed my mind. The main thing I was worried about was having to spend time with you.”

  “I can imagine.” When he signed up, it had been because the directors of the Gypsy Travel Agency had blackmailed him. But discovering Isabelle would be on his team had been the beginning of his acquiescence.
He loved her; he wanted her. Here was another chance to have her.

  “The sheer number of people involved in the organization made me think I wouldn’t see you too often.”

  “Didn’t turn out that way, did it?” She was an innocent; she had never been safe from him.

  “Then all those people were gone, blown up by the Others. To think of so much vitality, enthusiasm, knowledge lost . . . even more than two and a half years later, it doesn’t seem possible.”

  “No.” Samuel was glad he had barely joined the Gypsy Travel Agency at the time of the explosion; to have personally known those people would have been a crushing blow. He knew Irving still grieved, and when the anniversary of the explosion rolled around, Martha always disappeared. She would return the next day, heavy-eyed and still a little drunk, and go back to work without a word.

  “Those first months when we were the only Chosen . . . they were so difficult. Caleb was training us to fight. We were rescuing children. I was healing horrible injuries and trying to be the leader of the group when I knew so little of what our missions should be and what procedures we should follow. Worse, I was with you all the time. Nothing was like I thought it was going to be. Nothing. But through all that, I never imagined I would anger someone so much that he would take out a contract to kill me.” She sounded incredulous. Hurt.

  Samuel handed her the drink again. The next few minutes would go easier if she wasn’t thinking too clearly.

  “I know Todd Winstead,” she said. “I’ve known him for years. And I guess from what Mathis showed us, he’s the one who—”

  “He’s the one.”

  She took a good swallow. Coughed again. Croaked, “Why?”

  “Because you saved his grandmother from death.” Samuel couldn’t stand that expression on Isabelle’s face, the one that looked like her belief in the goodness of mankind had at this minute shattered. “Look. Todd Winstead is a worm. You know that.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He tried to kill his own grandmother, a lady who has been nothing but good to him, and all because she has money and he’s too feeble to go out and get his own. Then he tried to kill you for saving her.” Samuel snorted. “He didn’t even have the guts to try to kill either one of you himself. He’s afraid of getting his ass kicked.”

  “He should be,” Isabelle said evilly.

  “Let me freshen your drink.” Samuel added more Scotch, more Drambuie.

  “No, it’s too strong.”

  Samuel added ice and handed it back to her.

  She took a sip, swirled the glass to melt the ice, took another sip. “Better.”

  Okay. She had a little anesthesia in her. Now was the time to start breaking the ties that bound them. In a voice rough with contempt, he said, “When I signed up for the Gypsy Travel Agency, I wondered if we’d see much of each other, too. It didn’t seem likely, which was good, since with our past, I knew contact could be dangerous.”

  She chortled. “Yes.”

  “Turns out I was right. Here we are, right back where we were—what? Five or six years ago when we separated the second time. We’ve had sex, we’ve fought, and we’ve discovered all over again we’re incompatible.”

  Isabelle’s glass slipped out of her fingers.

  He caught it and placed it in her cup holder. “We can’t do all this again. Not and work together.”

  “W-well,” Isabelle stammered. “Caleb and Jacqueline are involved and they work together. So are John and Genny. And Aaron and Rosamund.”

  “They’re not on the team together. Only one of each couple is Chosen.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He didn’t give her a chance to talk. “I mean, look at us! Sex one minute, violence the next. I’ve still got a lump on my head where you hit me today.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Charisma explained that you were trying to say you’d take care of me no matter what the circumstances.” Isabelle smiled at him ruefully.

  Oh, no. No smiles. No conciliation. “Which goes to show you Charisma doesn’t know as much as she thinks she does.”

  Isabelle flinched as if he’d slapped her.

  “We simply don’t have much in common. That second time we were together, we were living together, we were happy, and you left me because of one little incident that didn’t add up to anything.”

  “What are you talking about? Wait. Are you talking about Benedikta Vos? Are you dismissing what you did to her—and me—as ‘one little incident’?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “You dare ...”Isabelle twisted to face him. “I was working with that woman. What I knew about her and where she was hiding was confidential. You had no right—”

  “Look. Benedikta Vos came to me because her husband was powerful, corrupt, and he beat the crap out of her. She had the goods on him, she knew I would prosecute him to the full extent of the law, and with her testimony, I knew I could put him away for a thousand years.” It was the kind of case Samuel had reveled in, because the good guys were going to win and the woman was going to get away to a better life.

  “She had the right to change her mind about testifying!” Isabelle said hotly.

  Good. He was getting to her. “No, she didn’t. He was hurting people and she could stop him.”

  “He abused her, and she was afraid he would kill her.”

  “Like if he ever caught up with her, he wasn’t going to kill her anyway? Once I put him in prison, he couldn’t catch up with her and she was safe.” His logic was impeccable, now and then. “I needed that information and I got it.”

  “You used your mind control on me and I didn’t even realize I had told you where she was!”

  That had been his mistake. His sin. He had known it when he did it, but in his arrogance, he had believed she would understand.

  It hadn’t happened that way, and he had been left without the one woman he loved.

  Now he drove her away using the same sword, and he knew that when he was finished they would both be bleeding.

  “Once I talked to her, convinced her I would keep her safe—which I would like to point out that I did—she was willing to get on the stand, and we took him down.” The plane was rapidly descending. Thank God, this was almost over. “With her help, I was able to do a lot of good.”

  “You mind-raped me,” Isabelle said quietly.

  “Very dramatic. But think on this—the end does justify the means, and you need to face the facts.”

  “The fact that I can’t trust you not to do it again?”

  “For the same results, I would do it again.”

  The plane touched down. Before they had come to a halt, she was out of her seat.

  Isabelle wasn’t a rule breaker. If the pilot told her to sit, she sat. So her flouting of that immutable rule of flying told Samuel he had succeeded. “What are you doing?” he asked. Like he didn’t know.

  “Getting as far away from you as I can. After all, I might know something you’re curious about and you would feel justified in controlling my mind to discover it.”

  “Like ...?”

  As they cornered, she hung on to the opposite seat and looked down at him. “Like the fact that I do love you. And at the same time, I feel total contempt for you.”

  He shrugged. “I told you. We’re incompatible. Better to find out now than after we’ve done something stupid, like gotten married.”

  “When you’re right, you’re right.” She walked to the front of the plane.

  The pilot shut down the engines, came back, and opened the door.

  She walked down the stairs without a backward glance.

  Samuel uncoiled himself from the seat.

  Looking sympathetic and embarrassed, the pilot met his eyes. “Ambassador Moreau said to take you wherever you wanted.”

  “Stay ready; I may need you again tonight.” Samuel followed Isabelle through the airport at a discreet distance, keeping her in sight, observing the crowd around her, and he didn’t relax until she
got into her parents’ limo. Running to the waiting taxis, he grabbed the first one in line and told the driver, “Follow that car.”

  At her parents’ house, he watched her go to the door, saw his father answer it, usher her inside, and close the door behind her.

  Only then was Samuel satisfied.

  He’d back Mrs. Mason against any assassin.

  Meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he gave him an address. “I’m going to visit a friend.”

  “At this hour?” The driver peeled off the curb. “Must be a good friend.”

  “Yeah. He and I—we’re going to have a talk.”

  Chapter 49

  Ever since he’d heard that Samuel Faa and Isabelle Mason had escaped the avalanche, Todd Winstead had been hearing noises in his Boston apartment. Creaking floorboards. Scratching in the walls. Tapping at the windows. No matter how many times he had contractors and exterminators in, the noises continued until the doorman suggested maybe the sounds were nothing more than the rattling in Todd’s head.

  Todd had made sure the doorman was fired.

  But he’d also stopped complaining out loud. He couldn’t afford to get kicked out of this apartment building. It was old, it was run-down, but it was prestigious, and with what he made working for his grandmother, this was the best he could do.

  Now he lay in bed, covers up to his chin, eyes open, staring at the ceiling over his bed.

  It was the middle of the night. His night-light was on. His security system was blinking green. Yet something had woken him, and it took him a few minutes to figure out what.

  The noises had stopped—and for some reason, that bothered him. He couldn’t help but wonder if something bigger, something more dangerous had frightened away the rats, the cockroaches . . . the gremlins.

  This was his grandmother’s fault. If the old woman had drowned in her car like she was supposed to, he’d be living in her penthouse apartment instead of this fourth-floor shithole, listening to weird noises and feeling as if he were seven years old again and afraid of the monster under the bed.