Chains of Ice (31 page)

He spread his hand over the book open before him.

What he’d said to John—it wasn’t true.

A sacrifice was a sacrifice.

A life was a life.

No matter how old you were, on the scales of eternity, each life weighed the same as the next. Because, of course, part of what he’d said to John was true:
To offer your body and soul to be extinguished for a good cause, or to save another’s life, not knowing for sure what awaits you beyond this plane? It erases many faults, expunges many sins
.

Irving loved his life. He loved his study; he loved McKenna and the clever foods he concocted to tempt Irving’s flagging appetite. He loved Martha and the way they could discuss their shared experiences at the Gypsy Travel Agency. Irving loved the present more than anything. He loved Jacqueline and Charisma and Isabelle and Samuel and Aaron and Aleksandr and John. He loved Caleb and Rosamund.

Most of all, he loved his work. He hadn’t retired at sixty-five. No, he’d gone ahead and worked at the Gypsy Travel Agency part-time, and he wasn’t just a figurehead. He gave them important input.

Then the Gypsy Travel Agency had blown up, and he became, not the aging former CEO, but the expert to whom everyone applied, the center of knowledge and of strategy, the wise old man. He believed that he was justified in saying that without him, the new Chosen would have been hunted down and killed, and the Others would have spread their chaos and their evil throughout the world.

Age was slowing him down. He knew it, and he hated everything about it: the indigestion, the walker, the incontinence. God, what a mess
that
was.

But in the big scheme of things, his pains were minor, and he hadn’t lost an ounce of his intelligence . . . although he almost wished he had.

Because he had come to the conclusion that it was his sin, and no other, that had brought on this catastrophe—the explosion of the Gypsy Travel Agency building, the loss of so many Chosen and support people, the destruction of the library and all the artifacts, culled from the best of the archaeology sites around the world . . .

His fault. His fault. But he never intended to do anything but save the Agency.

He had been the one who took over the Gypsy Travel Agency when it was failing. He had been a young black CEO in a time when no black CEOs existed in the white business world.

So he had done what needed to be done—
whatever
needed to be done—to save the flailing concern and to prove to the waiting world that men should be judged not by the color of their skin, but by their intelligence, dedication, and performance. Under his guidance, the Gypsy Travel Agency had infiltrated rival travel agencies to “study” their itineraries and clients. The gifted had used their gifts to convince native peoples to reveal hidden, holy sites; and once that was done, the people of the corporation, businessmen like Kevin Valente, had “acquired” the most valuable artifacts and sold them to collectors. The Agency always made sure to secure exclusive tour rights; then they’d whipped up excitement in the press and led eager tourists on expeditions.

Irving had even instructed the Chosen Ones to subtly use their powers with the wealthy to be named as beneficiaries in wills—and obtained this mansion.

For everything he had done, he had told himself he was justified. The Gypsy Travel Agency was the cover and the financial aid for the Chosen Ones, and the Chosen Ones did great good in the world. He had supported that good.

And then there was Dina. He regretted many things in his life, but what he’d done to her had been unforgiveable.

He knew it when he’d done it.

He knew it now.

Wearily he hefted himself out of the chair, got his walker, and made his way to the window.

There she was, standing on the street corner, smoking one of her interminable cigarettes.

She must be sixty-five now. No, seventy. But even with her ruined nose, she was still one fine-looking woman, slender and vital—and when he’d seen her for the first time, he had known she was the woman he was destined to love.

He’d thrown her away for the golden ring of success. Worse, he’d destroyed her when he did it.

Of course, she knew he was watching her.

Turning her head, she smiled coldly and blew a stream of smoke in his direction.

Her voice echoed in his head.
Hello, Irving.

She was the most talented mind-speaker he had ever met.

But he had no gift. He couldn’t answer her back. He couldn’t tell her of his regrets, of the long nights he spent alone, of how he had worried about her and dreamed of a different outcome to their story.

If he could have told her those things, she would have been justified in spitting in his face.

But he could send a message: placing his hand over his aching heart, he bowed in her direction.

She straightened, stared at him, trying to see his thought.

Yes, my dear, you can’t read my mind, but you recognize regret when you see it, and love, and you wonder why I should feel this way . . . because you don’t give your allegiance to the Others, no matter what they think.

He had such a good life.

But now he believed—no, he knew—that the deeds he had authorized in the name of a healthy bottom line had ultimately broken the organization at its very foundation. The Gypsy Travel Agency and the Chosen Ones were meant to do good. No exceptions. Ever. That was
the
eternal law.

Now, no matter how hard Irving had tried, no matter how hard he had driven the Chosen and their mates, it hadn’t been possible to discover a prophecy to reverse this free fall into evil. So the truth had taken root in his mind and was growing.

A sacrifice was necessary. And who better to sacrifice than himself—the man responsible for this disaster?

He heard a familiar step in the corridor.

Ah. A sign.
A man like him believed in signs.

He smiled at Dina, a farewell smile.

She shook her head, started walking rapidly toward the mansion.

But Irving ignored her. He turned toward the door, and as Gary walked past he called, “Gary!”

Gary came back, stuck his head in. “Do you need something, Irving?” He looked so normal, so composed, not at all like a man who had made a deal with the devil.

“I was wondering”—Irving left his walker behind, tottered toward the door—“if you could help me down the stairs.”

John stood in the basement of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library antiquities department, speaking to Rosamund about the possible routes a lone woman might take to cross Asia, when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller, answered, and listened to the frantic voice on the other side.

John shut the phone. “It’s Irving. He fell down the stairs. He’s not expected to live.”

No guard this time. No one else on this floor.

He stepped inside the waiting elevator, straightened his tie, and pressed the lone, unmarked button.

He didn’t know how high he climbed. He only knew his heart was thumping, his hands were sweating, and his usual bold confidence plunged as the elevator rose.

How had he, Gary White, famed team leader for the Chosen Ones, arrived at this moment?

Oh. That’s right. John Powell had put him into a living death.
The bastard.

And Osgood had rescued him from his coma. Revived him, given him mobility, speech, escape from the nursing home, from the smell of antiseptic, from the eternal, measured drip of the IV. For that, Gary owed Osgood everything: loyalty, service, success . . . and that success had eluded him. In two and a half years, he’d done nothing to impress Osgood.

The elevator opened. He walked through the empty foyer to the tall, wide door. Knocked.

His knuckles barely made a sound against the solid wood.

Nothing happened. He heard nothing, saw nothing.

He put his hand on the doorknob, took a breath, turned it, swung it open.

“Come in, Gary.” Osgood’s quiet, Southern-tinged voice grated Gary’s nerves into fine shreds.

Gary strode into the office.

It was large. The walls were gray. The carpet was thick. The room was empty except for a vast, almost clean, gray metal desk. A puddle of light shone on its surface, right in front of the shadowy figure in the chair—and Gary found himself transfixed by the man’s soft, veined, aged hands, so busily using a fountain pen and sorting papers. Hands that looked as if they belonged to a polite, pampered older gentleman.

Gary knew better.

“Shut the door behind you,” Osgood said.

Gary shut the door.

The silence that followed was broken only by the scratch of the pen.

Osgood was a shadow behind the light: not tall, not handsome, with no distinguishing characteristics at all. The casual onlooker on the street wouldn’t even notice him. That was Osgood’s strength. That, and the fact that before he had invited the devil into his soul, he had been a ruthless, immoral, uncaring businessman.

That kind of possession made for a precise and evil melding of man and demon.

In New York State and all up and down the East Coast, Osgood controlled the gambling, the prostitution, the liquor, the drugs, the clubs. If corruption existed, he had a hand in it.

Now Osgood put down his pen and folded his hands on top of the papers. “Gary White. What have you done for me lately?”

Gary felt the exultation rise in him. At last, he had something substantial to report. “I pushed Irving Shea down the stairs.”

Osgood didn’t stir a muscle. He simply stared at Gary. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Maybe he was incredulous.

Gary didn’t blame him. What an unexpected boon!

So Gary repeated, “I pushed the old bastard down the stairs,” and this time he allowed himself a charming smile and a voice full of pride.

“I heard you.” Osgood’s voice was curiously neutral. “How did this fortuitous event come about?”

“He asked me to help him down the stairs.” Gary laughed at the memory. “He’s so old, it was nothing to get him to the top and give him a push. He tumbled right down.”

Another pause. “Did he yell?”

“Nope. Just went over and over and over. But when he was at the bottom, I yelled enough for the both of us.” Osgood’s lack of response was starting to bug Gary. “He’s got a broken hip for sure, a concussion, maybe a broken back.”

“When you got down to him—I assume you ran down to him?”

“Yes! In case anybody had seen it, and I babbled all the necessary horror and concern.”

Osgood disregarded Gary’s acting skills. “When you went down to him, was he conscious?”

“Yes, and in so much pain.” It did Gary’s heart good to remember.

“Did he say anything?”

“No, I’m safe. He couldn’t speak.”

“Did he look at you? Did he smile?”

Gary froze. How had Osgood known that? “Yeah, he smiled. Brain damage, I figure.”

“You
fool
.” Osgood rose from behind his desk.

Gary had always thought Osgood’s constant eerie calm was the most frightening thing he’d ever seen.

He was wrong.

Because he’d never seen him in a rage before.

Osgood paced toward him, and his eyes glowed—actually
glowed
—blue and virulent. “The old man suckered you.”

Gary backed up. “No, he didn’t! What do you mean?”

“The one thing,
the one thing
that would hand the Chosen Ones an advantage in this battle is the willing sacrifice of a life.”

“Come on. A willing sacrifice wouldn’t make that much diff—” Gary realized the foolishness of telling the devil himself how eternal laws worked. “Besides, Irving didn’t know what I was going to do.”

“He didn’t? Really? Didn’t he always dislike you? Hasn’t he suspected you since your resurrection? And he asked you to
help him down the stairs
?” Osgood’s face came nearer. He was merely a bald, middle-aged man of slight build. Innocuous. Except for the blue flames burning in the depths of his eyes. “What does that say to you, Gary?”

Gary had never heard his name spoken in quite that tone. “He’s senile.”

“He set you up. He made of himself a willing sacrifice.” Osgood took Gary’s chin in his hand.

His touch set off a sound in Gary’s brain.

Drip.

Then another sound.

Drip.

And another.

Drip.

Gary knew that sound. He had lived with that sound for four long years.

It was the endless, measured splash of an IV. “No!” he shrieked and writhed, trying to get away.

“Why not?” Osgood controlled him effortlessly. “We made a deal. I would perform a miracle. You would rise from your coma and walk and talk and be my creature for the rest of my life. You would serve me with all your heart and soul.”

“I have! I am!”

“Yet although you live in the same house as the Chosen Ones, you don’t lead them, because you clumsily tried to get them killed once too often. You don’t bring me information, because they don’t trust you. Now you tell me you pushed Irving Shea down the stairs,
exactly as he set you up to do
.” Osgood squeezed Gary’s face so hard Gary felt veins explode under his skin. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put you back in a coma right now.”

In a rush, Gary said, “John Powell—I’m blocking his power.”

The office grew quiet.

Osgood’s eyes narrowed. The blue flames flickered.

Gary prayed to a deity he no longer served.

Then—

“Better.” Osgood caressed Gary’s chin, and lightly slapped his cheek.

The dripping stopped.

Gary almost collapsed in relief.

Osgood walked back to his desk. He seated himself again, leaned back. In his calm, emotionless voice, with eyes empty of necromancy, he asked, “How are you blocking John Powell?”

Gary settled on the most straightforward story he could tell. “When the Gypsy Travel Agency tested me, they decided I was a powerful mind reader. But I always knew there was more to me. Before John Powell tried to kill me, I was practicing with throwing thoughts. I put a couple of people into comas myself.”

“And aren’t we proud of ourselves,” Osgood mocked.

Gary wanted to snap at him. Instead, he took a long breath and reminded himself that he had trickles of sweat easing down his ribs from his fear of this man—this
creature
. “When John took my leadership position in the team, I wondered how best to hurt him—and serve you, of course. I thought if I could gain control of his powers, he’d be afraid to lead them into danger for fear he’d kill them like he killed his wife and his friends.”

Osgood nodded thoughtfully. “Good. Undermine his confidence in himself and their confidence in him.”

“Exactly.”

“How’s it working?”

“Like a dream. He tries to send out one of those big power waves—hold up a falling tree—and I block him. Or I don’t. The Chosen don’t trust his power to be there when it’s needed. He doesn’t trust it, either.” Gary loved what he was doing to John. “The team still praises his strategies, but they know they can’t depend on him.”

“Good work. You can walk the city streets for another day.” Osgood picked up his pen and started to write again.

“Why don’t you just let me kill him?”

The pen paused. “The rules of the game don’t allow that.”

“We . . . that is, you blew up the Gypsy Travel Agency and killed them all.”

“Not quite all, although at the time I had great hopes . . .” That imperturbable voice showed signs of stress. “But that was apparently not so much a victory for me, as I had dared to imagine, but part of some eternal plan to show the Chosen Ones they had wandered off course.”

“I thought we
were
destroying them once and for all.” Then Gary cowered, thinking he had overstepped the bounds.

“If we handle this correctly, we are.” Osgood’s calm was back in place. The pen proceeded to its task.

Gary lingered for a moment, terrified to leave, terrified to stay. At last, he decided he had been dismissed, and sidled toward the door.

With cool disinterest, Osgood said, “Don’t make me angry again. I would hate to have to return you to that slow, helpless, humiliating descent into hell.”

Gary nodded, a single dip of the head. He reached for the doorknob.

Osgood spoke, freezing Gary in place. “Do you remember that leather pouch you brought back from the glacier in Chile?”

In a panic, Gary cast his mind back.
Glacier. Chile.
Which team had that been?

Amina hanging on him in adoration. Sun Hee preferring John to him. The glacier melting around them, taking out the cave that contained only a leather sack . . .
Gary had been so disappointed. “The sack with the bones inside?” He couldn’t keep his disdain from his voice.

“That’s the one. It has become an object of interest.” Osgood wrote with meticulous care. “Bring it to me.”

“It’s a relic. What if it blew up in the explosion of the Gypsy Travel Agency?”

Osgood looked up. “There is more than one sack. Any of them will do.”

“B-but I don’t know how many or where to start . . . ?”

Osgood stared, heavy lidded.

Gary felt a shock go down his spine. “I’ll find it. Or them. I’ll get them.”

“You’ll know you have all the sacks when the contents can be used to construct a whole skeletal hand.”

“Right. I’ll find it.” Gary corrected himself again.
“Them.”

“Soon.”

“Very soon.” Gary wrenched the door open and fled toward the elevator.

Behind him, the door closed with a soft, controlled click.