He waltzed her away from the window and toward the bedroom. “Tomorrow.”
“What?” She leaned back in his embrace and smiled up at him. “We have to have blood tests and stuff.”
“As soon as possible.” He paused by the doorway and kissed her persuasively.
She kissed him back, taking and giving, and when he let her come up for air, she agreed breathlessly. “All right. As soon as possible. As soon as I can get a dress.”
Grimly, he said, “I’ll go with you to pick it out.”
She grinned. “Why would you do that?”
“Because if I do it, we’ll be done in a few hours. If you go with Charisma, Jacqueline, and Isabelle, it’ll take weeks.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.” He slid his hands under the hem of her shirt. Caressed her thighs, lifted her buttocks . . . Oh, God, he was right. She was naked under there.
She pressed herself against his palms. Breathlessly she asked, “Should we have that wine now? To celebrate?”
“Later.” He danced her toward the bed. “Later.”
Later . . . after the love, after the wine, after the food, after more love, they tangled together on the couch, watching the lights play across the city.
“What do you think of the prophecy?” she asked.“I think we’re in for a tough four and a half years.”
Chapter 56
“The world is changing.
“The rules are changing.“The gifted are changing.
“Some who are not gifted now will develop gifts.
“The Gypsy Travel Agency is sacrificed to one man’s ambition and his unwillingness to trust in the ultimate triumph of good.
“Now the Chosen Ones pay the price.
“Yet the sacrifice he offers might save them . . .
“In that, the fledgling Chosen can find hope. Before their seven years is over, each of the seven must find a true love. They will know they have succeeded with the blossoming of their badges and their talents.
“And some must find that which is lost forever.
“For rising on the ashes of the Gypsy Travel Agency is a new power in a new building. Unless hope takes wing, this power and this building will grow to reach the stars, and cast its shadow over the whole earth, and evil will rule.”
Osgood had informed the police chief he wanted So-Ho’s early-morning streets empty.
She had, of course, obeyed. She owed her position to Osgood, and he made sure she never forgot it.The cast iron buildings had since been demolished; their structural integrity weakened by the blast that had taken out the Gypsy Travel Agency. A chain link construction fence enclosed the whole empty block, and concrete trucks were idling while the mixers rotated their loads.
Osgood used his key to open the lock on the gate. He walked across the narrow strip of barren ground to the hole that plunged straight down two stories . . . the site where the Gypsy Travel Agency had stood.
The explosion had taken the building, the research, the libraries, the artifacts . . . the prophecies.
For a brief and glorious hour, he had believed the explosion had swept every single group of Chosen from this earth.
Instead, a single band of Chosen remained, untested, untried, without advisors or financing.
Osgood had been furious.
Then, when a suitable number of minions had been punished and his anger appeased, he had drawn breath and realized—it was a challenge. Of course. In this world, nothing was easy. And nothing was forever.
Did they know yet, the valiant little Chosen, about the prophecy? Were they in despair? Did they know what challenges confronted them? Or did they face the future shoulder to shoulder, chins bravely lifted and optimistic smiles pinned to their lips?
A smile grew on his lips, too, but it was the kind of smile that made grown men and women quail and small children scream and run.
From the specially provided long inner pocket of his custom designer coat, he pulled a three-foot-long, twelve-inch-wide polished silver sword case. He weighed it in his hand. Unlocked the latch. Opened it with a flourish.
Inside, cradled on black velvet, was the most magnificent white feather ever to make its way to earth. It shone with the light of a million tiny diamonds. It glowed with a life of its own. Long and elegant, it was the feather from an angel’s wing.
He had been an angel once, chafing under the divine dominion. He had led a rebellion, fallen into hell, and now he fought for the souls of every human on earth.
He was succeeding very well, thank you.
But he was greedy. He wanted more.
He had waited a long time for the proper moment to sacrifice this last remnant of his service, the only feather not incinerated during his long fall from heaven. Taking careful aim, he allowed the feather to flutter free.
It rose first, as if it longed to return home.
Then it fell, slowly and majestically into the hole, down to the ground to nestle among the steel reinforcement bars that formed the frame for the building—his headquarters—that would rise on this site.
When the feather settled into place, flat against the scorched New York soil where so many good Chosen Ones had lost their lives, he carelessly tossed the case in after it. It banged and clanged its way onto the rebar and perched precariously near the end of the building.
Lifting his hand, he said, “Start the pour.”
The construction lights flipped on, blindingly bright.
The concrete trucks moved into place. The pumps started up. Cement blasted out of the chutes, filling the void.
Osgood stood at the edge, watching as the feather flattened, quivered, and drowned beneath tons of gravel, lime, and water. He stood another five minutes . . . until he knew the feather was gone forever.
Then he walked away.
Turn the page for a glimpse at Christina Dodd’s next Chosen Ones novel
CHAINS OF FIRE
Available from Signet Select in September 2010
Chilled, sleepy and exhausted, Isabelle fastened her seat belt, huddled into her coat, closed her eyes and let herself drift.
The road was winding, swaying her back and forth as Samuel drove its length, taking her back to her mother’s house. Although it was three in the morning, she knew her mother would be awake, ostensibly supervising the cleanup, while in reality, she’d be waiting . . . for Isabelle to return with Samuel.Isabelle had had so much experience with this situation, she knew everything that would happen.
Patricia would look them over, her eyes sharp, silently demanding an explanation.
Isabelle would give her one. Mother, we had a job to do.
Patricia wouldn’t like that. But once she had ascertained that they betrayed no undue fondness for each other, showed no signs of lovemaking, she would invite Samuel to stay the night.
Isabelle would insist he do so.
He would agree.
Patricia would assign him a room so far away from Isabelle’s he might as well be in Italy.
Isabelle smiled painfully. As if that would matter to Samuel. If she gave him the slightest encouragement, he would swim Lake Geneva and scale the Matterhorn to reach her. To sleep with her. To shake her world.
She turned her head to gaze at his warrior’s profile, his chin shadowy with stubble, his dark gaze fixed intently on the road.
God, how she loved him. Most of the time, she could dismiss the knowledge that for as long as they both lived, she would love only him. But when she was tired, when her guard was down . . .
But no. No matter how much her body yearned, she wasn’t going to give in to him again. She wouldn’t allow him to destroy her once more.
The tires skidded on the pavement. The vehicle slipped toward the edge of the road.
She straightened in her seat and looked around. Moonlight sprawled over the vast snowy expanse of meadow that stretched to the right, over the dark silhouette of the medieval castle turned ski lodge snuggled against the sleek groomed slopes of the mountain, over the
lifts and trams, over the parking lot waiting for tomorrow’s influx of skiers. The narrow ribbon of road before them was shiny-slick with ice. On their left, the land fell away and only a snowdrift stopped them from falling into the dark precipice.
They were moving too fast, taking too many chances in these conditions—and for all that Samuel loved speed, she had never felt endangered by his carelessness.
“Samuel? What’s wrong?”
“Sh.” He didn’t lift his gaze from the road, but something about the way he held himself made her look again across the meadow and above.
The mountains rose abruptly toward the deep black velvet sky, blocking the stars, challenging the moon. In the daytime, their beauty lifted Isabelle’s heart. Right now she remembered how cruel they could be. . . . “Samuel, what’s wrong?”
He slammed on his brakes, skidding again.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Yet he corrected so expertly that the car slid around sideways, slowed. Then he accelerated around the next corner.
In the headlights, she saw evergreen branches spread across the road and a huge trunk in their midst. The wind had caught the ancient evergreen and blown it over.
Except . . . the stump was cut. The tree had been deliberately used to block the road.
Samuel eased the car to a halt.
Now she knew why he had acted so out of character. Somehow, he’d caught the scent of danger.
This was a trap.
With a low curse, he put the vehicle in reverse and flung his arm over her seat, and with his body arched and his gaze fixed behind them, he backed up as fast as he could. At the driveway leading to the ski lodge, he slammed on the brakes, skidded back, then forward, then accelerated into the parking lot. In a low, terse voice, he said, “Emergency kit is behind my seat. Get back there. Get it. Stay there and jump out as I stop.” He put the car into a skid, and they skated sideways toward the lodge.
The mountains, their peaks softened by huge mounds of snow, loomed menacingly in the windshield.
With a swift economy of movement, she unsnapped her seat belt and climbed between the seats. She grabbed the black nylon bag, heavy with the gear the Chosen carried when they could—flashlight, flare, first-aid kit, matches—and as the vehicle slid up over the curb and eased toward the ski lodge, she unlocked her door. As soon as they settled to a stop, she was out.
He was out.
They ran toward the ski lodge.
Her heels sank into the snow, and snow sifted through into her strappy sandals.
High above, she heard a deep, menacing boom.
She jerked her head toward the mountain and saw the snow lift off the slope like a cashmere blanket being fluffed by a giant hand. She stopped and stood transfixed as it settled back, slid toward them, gathering speed as it moved. . . .
She prided herself on her cool good sense. She was known for her serenity. But she screamed now. “Samuel! Avalanche!”
He leaned over, slammed his shoulder into her gut, lifted her and ran.
She gasped, the air knocked out of her, draped over him like a sandbag and bouncing until she was almost sick.
“Hang on to the bag,” he shouted.
She’d never heard Samuel sound like that before, but she recognized desperation when she heard it.
She heard the rumbling, too, and as Samuel slammed against the building, she heard another one of those deep, menacing booms far above.
Someone was setting off dynamite charges, creating avalanches that catapulted in their direction at high speeds under the influence of steep slopes and the weight of the snow.
And Samuel had known this was coming. Somehow, Samuel had known.
Samuel set her on her feet.
The ground beneath her shook as the massive wall of snow thundered toward them.
The ancient castle’s wall rose four stories above them. On the second and third floors, windows had been cut into the stone to give the skiers views of the Alps. But here on the ground floor, security reigned supreme. One narrow window. A single heavy metal door.
He tried the lever handle, then said, “Locked,” and stepped back to allow her access.
She handed him the bag, and pulled a long, stiff platinum diamond pin out of her hair. Kneeling beside the door, she inserted it into the lock.
Her unflagging calm made her the best lock pick in the Chosen. Yet never had she worked under such conditions, with the lock, the pin and the whole world trembling as death roared toward them.
Samuel flipped on the flashlight and aimed it at the window. “Glass is reinforced with mesh,” he said.
She continued to work the lock.
“Need the light?” he asked.
“Please. No.” The moonlight provided clear, even illumination. The flashlight’s narrow beam would simply distract her.
The roll of the avalanche grew to a bellow.
Samuel stood immobile beside her, ostensibly calm. Yet she could feel him straining, desperate to grab her and run.
She found the mechanism with the tip of her pin. Lifted. Manipulated. Heard the lock click.
She opened the door.
Samuel grabbed her around the waist, lifted her like a child, and dashed into the dim interior, which was lit by a pale night-light and the moonlight shining through the window. They stood on a metal landing with stairs going up to the main floor of the lodge and down to the basement.
Samuel vaulted down the first five steps.
She caught a glimpse of the lodge’s locker room.
The avalanche hit like a nuclear explosion. The window shattered. Moonlight disappeared. The electricity went out. Snow blew in with the force of a tornado, ripping at Isabelle’s skin.
The stairs shook like a bucking horse. Samuel struggled to stay on his feet.
Then the metal cracked. The steps disappeared out from under Samuel’s feet. And they fell . . . into nothingness.
Christina Dodd, Chains of Ice
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