Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
Storm of Shadows (16 page)
“That’s not all. I think the Powers That Be used the Chosen Ones and their gifts to get themselves named as beneficiaries in wills.” Samuel grimaced. “I’m pretty sure that’s how Irving acquired his mansion.”
Isabelle, the ever doubtful, asked, “Why do you think that?”
“Because the family of the deceased brought a law-suit claiming Irving was a con artist who had fooled their grandfather into believing in the occult.” Samuel took a long draw on his beer. “What’s that sound like to you?”
“It doesn’t sound good,” she admitted.
“None of what I’m telling you is certain, but there’s a great deal of evidence, and among New York City lawyers, the Gypsy Travel Agency has a sort of stench.” Samuel lifted a hand. “Before you say it, yes, yes, that’s like the garbage complaining the garbagemen stink.”
“He appears to be a little sensitive about lawyer jokes,” Aaron said to Caleb out of the corner of his mouth loudly enough for Samuel to hear.
Samuel sent him a withering glance.
Aaron clutched his chest and pretended to die.
For one moment, the atmosphere at the table lightened.
Samuel sighed. “Sorry about that Tonto thing earlier, man.”
“It really was so wrong. I’m not from Tonto’s tribe.” Aaron’s ale was tasting better all the time.
“I’ll try to remember that.” Deliberately, Samuel steered them back to their troubles. “So what do you guys think of all these charges against the Gypsy Travel Agency?”
“According to the contract we signed, the Chosen Ones were supposed to be the defenders of the weak and abandoned, and the warriors against evil. So I don’t understand why they did this stuff.” Aaron turned to Charisma. “You’re the Chosen Ones expert. Was the corporation involved in questionable activity?”
Charisma looked down at the table. “I think so. You have to understand, I’m extrapolating here.”
“Extrapolate away.” Isabelle thanked Vidar as he set another beer in front of her.
“Okay.” Charisma took a breath. “The Gypsy Travel Agency is and has been the cover for the Chosen Ones for over a century.”
“And a great cover it was,” Jacqueline said.
“What do you know about it?” Aaron asked.
“She was practically raised in the organization,” Caleb told him.
“Having a mother who was the seer for the Chosen Ones put me right in the middle of the action,” Jacqueline agreed.
“Right.” Aaron should have remembered—the rest of them had been recently chosen on the merits of their gifts . . . well, except Aleksandr, who had been chosen because of his family background and because they needed a seventh person to complete their number. But Jacqueline had been chosen from the moment her foster mother, Zusane, had fished the abandoned infant out of a Dumpster, verified that she had the mark of the eye on her palm, and pronounced her her successor.
“I saw some of the sleazy stuff they did, and the older Chosen taught me the history with a reverence that bordered on evangelical.” Jacqueline spun her icy glass on the table. “In the nineteenth century, the Chosen Ones lost three of their team in an attack by the Others, so they immigrated to New York City and looked for replacements. The city was a rough place then—”
Vidar set more glasses on the table, and proved he’d been listening. “Don’t fool yourself. It’s a rough place now.”
“Yes, but there’s more help now,” Jacqueline said. “Not as many desperate, angry women throw their babies away.”
He inclined his head in agreement.
Jacqueline continued. “In those days, there were so many Abandoned Ones to choose from, they set up the Gypsy Travel Agency to pay for expenses—food, clothes, travel expenses, incidentals.”
“A travel agency. That is so weird,” Aleksandr said.
“Not true. It makes sense,” Charisma answered. “Having a travel agency made it easy to move the Chosen Ones wherever they were needed in the world, and the people who worked for the agency—people like Martha, who had no gifts but traveled with the job, and the guides themselves—would watch for children who had been abandoned and for trouble created by the Others.”
“Why the
Gypsy
Travel Agency?” Aleksandr asked.
Gypsy
Travel Agency?” Aleksandr asked.
“Because in the beginning, when the world was young, the first man who was Chosen—”
“One of the twins?” Samuel had steadfastly refused to read
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen,
and since Aaron was none too clear on the background of the Chosen Ones, he was glad Samuel had asked.
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen,
and since Aaron was none too clear on the background of the Chosen Ones, he was glad Samuel had asked.
“Yes, one of the twins,” Charisma said impatiently. “The boy-infant was picked up by a wandering tribe of Romany. He traveled with them, creating fire in the palm of his hand—that was his gift—and always thereafter the Romany featured strongly in the myth and the reality of the Chosen Ones.”
“My grandmother is Rom, but I never knew all this stuff.” That explained Aleksandr ’s intense interest.
“There are different tribes,” Vidar said.
“Next time I talk to my grandmother . . .” Aleksandr’s voice trailed off. His eyes got wide. He looked like he’d had a slap on the back of his head.
“What’s wrong?” Charisma asked.
“My grandmother. My tutoring. She’ll kill me.” He looked at his watch and leaped to his feet. “I’m late!”
Aaron grinned. The kid always said his grandmother was scary when she got mad. He must not be joking.
“Come on.” Vidar turned toward the far corner of the room. “I’ll let you out this door. It’ll put you up on street level right away.”
“Thank you!” Aleksandr was slavishly appreciative. “Let me know how it all comes out!” he yelled over his shoulder at the Chosen.
Their group affection for the young man who had no gift except a wonderful upbringing and a cheerful nature had them calling,
“Have fun, kid.”
“Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
“Study hard.”
“He’s the tutor.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, teach him a lot.”
“Teach
her
,” Aleksandr corrected. “My student today is a girl.” His expression was blasé—but he blushed.
her
,” Aleksandr corrected. “My student today is a girl.” His expression was blasé—but he blushed.
“You stay here, Vidar. I’ll walk him up.” Martha slid off the barstool, grabbed Aleksandr by the arm, and walked him out the door.
At the table, they exchanged glances.
“Our young Aleksandr has found himself a flame.” Jacqueline’s eyes glowed with the fervor of a recent convert to love.
“I hope he doesn’t get burned.” As thrilled as Jacqueline was, Samuel was the opposite, looking at Isabelle with angry eyes.
She looked angry, too . . . and guilty. She took another sip from her glass, and said, “This really is very tasty. I see I’ve been hasty in condemning beer.”
“Thank you,” Vidar called from behind the bar.
The guy really did have good hearing.
“Back to the subject at hand. During World War Two, travel was necessarily curtailed and the need for help throughout the world increased.” Jacqueline mechanically recited stuff she’d known for years. “So the Chosen Ones were assisting more people than ever, drawing on their cash reserves, and at the end of the war, the whole association was broke.”
Aaron noticed that Vidar was nodding. Aaron watched him, and drank, and wondered how this guy who wasn’t one of the Chosen and looked like he was about thirty could know enough to agree with Jacqueline’s analysis. Had he been raised in the Gypsy Travel Agency, also?
“Here’s where it gets a little fuzzy.” Jacqueline looked around the table. “I think Irving was ambitious, a young black man of education and intelligence, and in the Gypsy Travel Agency, he saw an opportunity to shine. By the end of the fifties, when the agency was in total chaos, he somehow managed to convince the board to hire him as the CEO. Once in the position, he was the best thing the organization had ever seen. He turned them around, made them profitable again, did whatever it took to allow the Chosen Ones to rescue abandoned babies or help the helpless.”
“He did whatever it took,” Aaron repeated thoughtfully. “So he did all that stuff Samuel talked about?”
“Yes.” Vidar brought another round.
Isabelle looked at him. She was slightly tipsy, a loss of control Aaron had never seen from her. In a voice a little louder than normal, she asked, “For the sake of the Chosen Ones and their mission, he made immoral decisions?”
“Yes.” Vidar placed a new ale in front of Aaron and whisked the old glass away.
“And we’re paying for them now?” Isabelle asked.
“Yes.” Vidar walked around the table, a blond Viking god with eyes that looked . . . well, in this light, they looked knowing . . . and ancient.
Aaron watched the interchange. He wasn’t so much tipsy as buzzed, and very interested that Vidar answered questions for Isabelle, and with such certainty. “So you know Irving?”
“Sure. Why?” Vidar asked.
“Because I had an encounter with a mind speaker who said—”
Caleb jerked around to stare at Aaron. “The woman with the cut nose?”
“Yes.”
“Send Irving my regards?”
“Yes!”
“Irving claimed to know nothing.” Caleb leaned back in his chair, disgusted and obviously not believing a word of it.
“He told me that, too.” Aaron leaned back, too, relieved to know it hadn’t been just him.
“So, Vidar, who’s the woman?” Caleb asked.
“An old flame of Irving’s,” Vidar said. “She didn’t take the breakup well.”
Hunched over the bar, Martha snorted.
Aaron’s feeling that this guy was
wrong
grew stronger. He was like someone out of an Indian legend, a being of unimaginable age and wisdom. And power? Cautiously, he asked, “Can you tell us everything we need to know?”
wrong
grew stronger. He was like someone out of an Indian legend, a being of unimaginable age and wisdom. And power? Cautiously, he asked, “Can you tell us everything we need to know?”
“No,” Vidar said.
“Do you know everything we need to know?” Isabelle’s eyes were slightly heavy, her words slightly slurred, but Aaron looked at her with respect. That was a good question.
“Yes,” Vidar said.
“Why can’t you tell us?” Right now, with his eyes narrowed and his voice cold, Samuel seemed every inch the successful lawyer.
Vidar didn’t answer. Instead he stood quietly, his tray balanced on his hand.
But Martha turned around on her barstool. “He can, but you have to ask the right questions.”
Vidar frowned at her.
“Have you seen the mess they’re in? We’ve got to give them some clues. They need all the help they can get,” she snapped.
“What’s the most important thing we need to know right now?” Isabelle asked.
“Good question,” Aaron approved. She wasn’t as inebriated as she seemed.
“You need a seventh Chosen,” Vidar answered.
“Does anybody else ever come to your pub?” Samuel asked.
“Only if I want them to,” Vidar said. “Only if I want them to.”
So Aaron was right. Vidar was more than a brewmaster and this place was more than a pub. And Aaron and the Chosen Ones carried the fate of the world on their shoulders.
He looked around at the inexperienced, irritated, confused, inebriated, and uncertain group and said in a solemn voice, “The world is so screwed.”
Chapter 16
A
thought percolated through Rosamund’s consciousness.
thought percolated through Rosamund’s consciousness.
Aaron wasn’t here.
Of course, when he was here, she didn’t really notice him. Sometimes when she tore her attention from her work in Irving’s private library, Aaron wasn’t sitting in the chair across the way. When that happened, it was someone else—Irving, or Charisma, or Isabelle, and once it had been a scowling Samuel.
But usually by the next time she looked up, Aaron had appeared, and he’d ask whether she’d made any progress in finding the prophecy and whether there was anything he could bring her that would help. Only he didn’t say it like he wanted to help. He said it like . . . like he wanted her to look at him.
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