“Why don’t we hear about these?” Isabelle asked.
Martha looked sideways at her. “Do you think the city of New York wants a bunch of tourists stumbling around down here?”
“I was afraid it was because vagrants or escaped criminals lived down here.” Isabelle looked at a filthy sleeping bag discarded among a fall of tin cans.
Martha said nothing.
“They don’t, do they?” Aleksandr sounded hopeful.
“I would ask that you not come down without an escort,” Martha said.
“It gives me an ooky feeling to know the tunnels have been here, and I’ve been oblivious.” Charisma shivered.
“Are there levels below this?” Aaron suspected he already knew the answer.
But without a bit of expression in her voice, Martha said, “I couldn’t say. If there are, I have no desire to go there.”
Although she had no gift, she had obviously held a position of importance in the Gypsy Travel Agency. She had created magic for their induction. She had gained the respect of Zusane, their previous seer, and of Irving and McKenna. Yet in the last nine days they had faced tragedy and danger, and sworn to stand at each other ’s backs, and the Romany woman was still a mystery.
Behind them, they heard running; they turned and saw Caleb and Jacqueline holding hands and sprinting across the rough ground toward them. Caleb had that look on his face, the one that said he was not happy with the level of safety here.
“You okay?” Charisma asked.
Jacqueline stopped, panting. “There was something back there.”
“Someone,” Caleb said. “There was someone back there.”
Aaron looked into the twilight behind, and saw the quick scuttle of a very large someone . . . but he knew what Jacqueline meant. The someone looked like a walking pile of filthy rags, and when he glanced toward the Chosen, his face—or hers—gleamed with pallid resentment.
Martha didn’t look back. “We’re almost there.”
True to her prediction, Aaron stumbled on a curb as the ground suddenly became concrete again. They made a hairpin turn, and the tunnel came to a precipitous end in a rough rock wall and a short, wide steel door with a tiny nameplate that said DAVIDOV’S.
Martha tapped on the metal.
The sound barely carried, but at once the weighty door opened, the rich, yeasty smell of brewing beer rolled out on a wave, and a warm, pleasant, male voice said, “Martha, I heard you were coming. And you brought the new Chosen Ones.”
Aaron squinted into the dim pub, trying to get a bead on the guy, whoever he was.
“I’m Vidar Davidov,” he said. “Welcome to my pub.” He stepped back into one of those squares of light from above, and Aaron heard the women suck in a collective breath.
Put him on the deck of a longship with a sword in his hand, and Vidar Davidov was the poster boy for a medieval Viking raider. He was easily six and a half feet tall, probably thirty years old. His electric blue eyes lit up his long, square, chiseled face. His wavy, white blond hair brushed his wide shoulders. His T-shirt hugged his hewn chest. His arms were muscled strongholds, his wrists brawny, his palms broad, his fingers tapered. His legs were long and clad in old, soft denim that molded his lower body like a worn leather glove. “Come in. Come in!” He smiled at Isabelle, Charisma, and Jacqueline, white teeth gleaming like a toothpaste commercial, and in a trance, they followed him as if he were the pied piper and they were the children of Hamlin.
The guys exchanged glances.
With a fair amount of dark humor, Caleb muttered, “If I swung that way, he’d be the one I’d date.”
Vidar proved that his hearing was better than they might have liked when he said, “You should be so lucky.”
The women laughed and settled at the round table in the middle of the empty pub.
The guys followed more cautiously.
Martha wandered in, shut the door behind her, went to the bar, and perched on a stool.
The place had the kind of woodland atmosphere that warmed like an embrace, with oak-paneled walls that reached up to a fifteen-foot ceiling decorated with leaves and branches so artfully done they resembled the forest canopy. The bar was a slab of granite, with huge round tapped kegs set into the wall behind. Worn wood tables dotted the floor, with padded leather benches and deep cushioned chairs gathered around them. The lighting was just right, not too bright, not too dark, and dappled like a sunny day beneath a giant oak tree in a European woods a thousand years ago.
Aaron liked the pub.
He wasn’t so sure about Vidar. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the guy was off. Just . . . off. Vidar should have acted like a brewmaster, a pub owner, and a business owner. Instead he acted like royalty. Very hospitable royalty, but royalty nevertheless.
“Would you beautiful women allow me to pick your brew?” Vidar leaned forward, hands on the table, and smiled.
Jacqueline and Charisma nodded.
Isabelle bit her lip. “To tell you the truth, I’m not a beer drinker.”
“I know. You like a chardonnay, not too dry, and you sip one glass all night long.”
Aaron was unwillingly impressed. Vidar had pegged Isabelle with a single glance.
“I’ll pick out a brew I think you’ll like, pour you a small glass, and after you’ve given it a fair try, I’ll pour your one glass of chardonnay.” Vidar lifted a querying eyebrow. “All right?”
“All right.” Isabelle blushed under his gaze.
Samuel grabbed a chair and, with a loud, harsh scraping, dragged it beside Isabelle and seated himself.
“A good, dark beer for me, the darker the better.” Samuel gave the order as if Vidar were nothing more than a waiter.
“That won’t do any good, Mr. Faa. Nothing will wipe that bitter taste from your mouth.” With a flare of his aristocratic nostrils, Vidar dismissed Samuel, turned away, and headed behind the bar. He tapped one of the small kegs for Martha, making a low comment as he set a pint in front of her. She laughed, a low, amused, liquid sound that made everyone turn their heads to look, and they found her looking back at them with the knowing gaze of an affectionate mother for her foolish children.
Aleksandr, Caleb and Aaron pulled up chairs at the round table.
“Why did you guys leave Irving’s without us?” Jacqueline glared at them all, torn between indignation and fright.
“We didn’t think you’d even notice we were gone,” Samuel said sarcastically.
“We’re a team!” Jacqueline answered.
“You and Caleb are a team within the team.” Isabelle hugged her.
Jacqueline dropped her head onto Isabelle’s shoulder in a brief moment of appreciation, and smiled at Charisma.
Jacqueline’s ascension to the role of seer had been pain- and sorrow-filled, and the ordeal had bonded the women in a way that Aaron and the guys knew they couldn’t comprehend. Women just had this thing about friendship—they told each other everything, they comforted each other, they groomed each other, they gave each other constant approval and clothing advice, and commiserated over each other’s foster mothers.
Aaron was grateful that these women cared for Rosamund, too—but in a different way. They made sure she washed, dressed, and brushed her teeth. They insisted she brush her hair and gave her a curfew, telling her she couldn’t work past ten at night. They treated her as if she were their dumb younger sister, or maybe a sister who had not yet been tested by fire. Without Jacqueline, Isabelle, and Charisma, Aaron knew Rosamund would be a wreck—and so would he.
Vidar served frothy pints to each of them. Each beer looked a little different, with varying levels of froth and diverse shades of brown, amber, and gold, and for Isabelle, a pale, sparkling beer with a faint rosy tinge. She stared at the glass, and everyone at the table could see her struggle between her good manners and her good taste.
“Try it,” Vidar murmured. “A woman so exquisite could never offend me, not even if you don’t like my beer.”
/> She looked up at him with cautious eyes, and Aaron realized that for all her poise and beauty, something sometime had deeply wounded her.
His gaze shifted to Samuel, who was glowering into his dark beer.
The bastard had done his part, no doubt, but beneath that sting lurked a sorrow Aaron couldn’t comprehend. But then . . . they all had their secrets. They hid their pain.
Isabelle lifted the glass and took a sip, and her eyes widened in surprise. “This is good.”
“You don’t have to say it if it’s not true,” Samuel said.
“But it is true. This tastes fresh and . . . I don’t know . . . like spring.” She smiled at Vidar. “Thank you. I will enjoy this.”
As if he couldn’t resist, Vidar slid his hand over her shining head.
Then in an abrupt change of attitude, he pulled up a chair next to Aleksandr. Staring right into his face, he said, “You remind me of someone I knew years ago.”
“He’s a Wilder. Perhaps you’ve heard of them?” Charisma took a sip of her beer and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Wilder?” Vidar balanced his chair on two legs. “No, that’s not the name . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Varinski. Konstantine Varinski! It has to be the same family. You’re the spitting image!”
“Konstantine Varinski is my grandfather.” Pride radiated from Aleksandr.
“Is that ruffian still around? When I knew him, he was the scourge of the steppes, Lucifer was none too happy with the attention he was getting, and the first thing I knew Konstantine had made a deal with the devil and all hell broke loose—”
Martha cleared her throat.
Vidar looked toward the bar.
Martha shook her head.
“Oh.” Vidar dropped his chair legs back down. “His grandfather is one of that Konstantine’s descendants, and so is young Aleksandr. I see.”
Aaron tasted his pint and found the ale precisely to his taste—smooth, crisp, and brown. All around the table, the Chosen were tasting, nodding. Even Samuel relaxed in his chair. Aaron had to hand it to him; Vidar had a flare for brewing, for creating the right atmosphere, and for making the right choice.
As they unwound from the tension of the past week, Samuel tapped the table with his fingers. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you guys, because I’m pretty sure we’ve got more trouble with the Gypsy Travel Agency than Irving has told us.”
Chapter 15
Everybody looked at Samuel warily. Charisma groaned and dropped her head into her hands.
Vidar stood up and eased away.
“Yes, I know. I’m a bastard to bring this up now. But we’re away from the mansion, and I’ve been reading up on some of the things the Gypsy Travel Agency was doing after Irving incorporated.” Samuel shook his head. “Very questionable stuff, legally and ethically.”
“Like what?” Isabelle sipped her beer, then dabbed the froth off her upper lip.
“Infiltrating rival travel agencies and stealing their itineraries and clients. Collecting antiquities from ar cheological sites they ‘discovered’”—Samuel used air quotes for “discovered”—“bringing them into the States and selling them to collectors for a tidy profit.”
“Why ‘discovered’?” Caleb repeated the air quotes.
“I’m reading between the lines, but I suspect they used their powers to convince native peoples to reveal sites holy to them that they’d been hiding for generations, looted the most valuable stuff, announced the find, alerted the National Geographic Society and secured themselves exclusive tour rights, then whipped up a bunch of excitement among the press and led eager tourists on expeditions.” As Samuel recited the list of misdeeds, he looked as if he’d eaten something rancid.
“And to think I’ve just been stealing the stuff,” Aaron said ironically.
“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.
“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.