Storm of Shadows (43 page)
Authors: Christina Dodd
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General
“I’m not brave. That’s just research.”
“That you could be killed for conducting.” When she would have objected, he added, “As your parents were killed. So don’t tell me you fear my death and the loneliness that would follow, because if you died in the quest for a prophecy that I asked you to find . . . I would never forgive myself.” His voice shook. He put his face into her hair and took a long breath, and said, “Rosamund, I love you. I can’t live without you. Living with you, for no matter how much time is given us, is better than living an eternity without you.”
“Oh. You had to say
that
.” He was so completely logical, she was forced to be logical in her turn, and face the fact he was right. The pain of losing him would be nothing compared to the pain of never being with him again.
that
.” He was so completely logical, she was forced to be logical in her turn, and face the fact he was right. The pain of losing him would be nothing compared to the pain of never being with him again.
“I trust you to have a care for yourself,” he said. “Won’t you do the same with me? I’m good at what I do, and getting better all the time. Do you believe that?”
“Yes. I do.” She’d been witness to his skills and his gift. “You are very competent. Even . . . brilliant.”
“Good. I’m glad we agree.” He muffled his laugh in her hair. “So stay with me, and we’ll be brave together, and if one of us has to pass on before the other, we’ll know that someday, we’ll be together again.”
She stood in his embrace, trying to think, to understand what had happened that she, the ordinary, too-smart, bookish librarian, should inspire this kind of devotion from Aaron Eagle, the man who fought, stole antiques, hailed cabs, and made love, all with unparalleled proficiency. Still, she tried to protect herself. “All right. I want to try with you for a while.”
“How long a while?” He leaned back and looked into her face.
“A year?”
“I have a better idea. I think we’d be better off starting with fifty.”
“Fifty what?”
“Fifty years. That way we’d really know if we could handle this situation with aplomb.”
“Aaron. That isn’t funny.”
“I assure you, funny is the last thing I’m trying to be.” In fact, he looked utterly serious. “Rosamund Fair, I want to marry you. I want to live with you forever, and when I die, I want to die in your arms. I don’t know if I can live without you, but I know I don’t want to try. Take a chance with me. Say yes.”
She thought about the things he’d said, but more than that, she thought about who he was—a man of honor, a man of valor, a man who loved her so completely he had died to save her life, then put his life on the line again to save her again. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
He laughed again, this time a lighthearted laugh that made her smile in her turn. “Do you still love me?” he asked.
“No matter how hard I try, no matter how long I live, I will never stop.” Even though she was opening herself up to so much pain . . . and so many sweet rewards.
He lifted her gently and spun in a circle of exultation. “I love you, too, Rosamund, all the way through this world and into the next.”
As they circled, her heel caught on the edge of the table.
The green vase teetered toward the marble floor.
She squeaked with dismay.
He dropped her to her feet, lunged, and caught the fragile porcelain. Looking up at her, his eyes horrified, he said, “Ming dynasty. Chrysanthemum styled.”
“Priceless?” she asked.
He nodded and carefully placed the vase back on the table. “McKenna would have killed us.”
“That would have ended our quandary.” For the first time in days, she laughed.
He listened to her merriment, a half smile on his face, and said, “Now,
that
is priceless.” Putting his arm around her, he said, “We have got to find someplace private.”
that
is priceless.” Putting his arm around her, he said, “We have got to find someplace private.”
As he hustled her up the stairs, she smiled at him, besotted by his intent, chiseled, severe face. “You know, we’ll always have Paris.”
“To hell with Paris.” He opened his bedroom door and ushered her inside. “Wait until you see what we can do in New York City.”
Chapter 43
A
aron and Rosamund were upstairs. The Chosen Ones had left for their first mission. Martha had gone to establish a place for the rescued child. McKenna was monitoring the rescue operation from afar. In the kitchen, Irving and Davidov stood together.
aron and Rosamund were upstairs. The Chosen Ones had left for their first mission. Martha had gone to establish a place for the rescued child. McKenna was monitoring the rescue operation from afar. In the kitchen, Irving and Davidov stood together.
Irving turned to Davidov. “You couldn’t have left them alone a little longer.”
Davidov moved out of the shadows. He didn’t look a day older than the last time Irving had seen him, teeth gleaming, blond hair glowing with vitality, muscled body hard—and that was forty years ago.
But his eyes were tired.
“You couldn’t have let them be safe.” Since the moment Davidov had spoken, Irving’s hands had been knotted. Now he rubbed them together trying to ease the ache.
“Irving, you’re an old man.” Davidov shoved a chair toward him. “The Chosen Ones aren’t supposed to be safe. They’re meant to be out there, fighting the good fight.”
“They haven’t got training. They haven’t got backup. They’re the most inexperienced Chosen since—”
“Since the world was young, and the twins went out to fight for good and evil.” Davidov seated himself on a low stool. “Isabelle’s got a good head on her shoulders. Caleb is a bodyguard, and he trained Jacqueline to fight. Give them a chance.”
“Thanks to you, I don’t have a choice.” Irving didn’t want to sit, didn’t want Davidov to know his weakness. He’d had never liked the man, with his deep secrets and his dark warnings and the way he showed up whenever he pleased and disappeared just as quickly. Davidov wasn’t a company man. He wasn’t even . . . Well, Irving didn’t know what he was or wasn’t, but he knew Davidov couldn’t be controlled. He knew Davidov was dangerous.
Yet Irving’s knees were shaking from tension, and he eased himself into the chair.
Davidov leaned his arms on his knees, gazed at Irving, and in a reasonable tone that set his teeth on edge, said, “Listen. Six Chosen is bad luck. You know that. You need to get that seventh Chosen.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck. The records have been destroyed. I don’t know who to get.” Irving recited every excuse without expecting Davidov to listen or care.
“There are past Chosen out there who would respond to an appeal.”
“If they weren’t at the Gypsy Travel Agency during the Choosing, then they’re renegades.”
“You mean they’re Chosen you can’t control.” Davidov slapped his hand on the massive table—and it quivered from the shock. “Irving, this isn’t about you and your position as CEO of the Gypsy Travel Agency. Yes, when you stepped into the position fifty years ago, the whole organization was in a mess, and you fixed it. You incorporated, you made the Gypsy Travel Agency financially secure, and the Chosen Ones were able to do their jobs without worrying about how to fund their missions. But what you did was—” He hesitated.
“What I did was . . . what?” Irving fixed his eyes on this man, this thing that had always been his nemesis.
“You saved them,” Davidov said simply. “And condemned them.”
The two men stared at each other, challenging each other, saying more than words.
Irving’s gaze dropped first, to his gnarled, aching, spotted old hands that gripped the armrests on his chair. “I retired because I was old.”
“It was already too late.”
Something jingled in the pantry.
Davidov turned his head. “What’s that?”
“It’s the doorbell. It rings down here, and it rings on McKenna’s pager. He’ll get it.”
Like a dog worrying a bone, Davidov returned to the issue at hand. “The seventh Chosen. You are missing an integral component to this team. You need a gift of raw power.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick one in the first place? Then perhaps now you wouldn’t have your cock in a wringer.”
“Because of what happened last time. And because he’s still the only Chosen of power we’ve had for a century. He didn’t finish his seven years because he . . .” Irving shook his head at the memory. “You scoff at control, but John Powell cannot be trusted to control
himself
.”
himself
.”
“If you don’t get someone in here with experience, someone who can provide guidance and
protection
to those fragile human beings who just walked out the door, they will die. The Others have prepared for this for years, and you know—Irving, you
know
—what is driving them.”
protection
to those fragile human beings who just walked out the door, they will die. The Others have prepared for this for years, and you know—Irving, you
know
—what is driving them.”
“The devil himself.”
“Him, too. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a deep, bloodthirsty desire for vengeance—and you know who will have that revenge, and why.”
Irving knew Davidov was right—but he was right, too. John could not be trusted.
Davidov, of course, could read his reluctance. “I don’t care what you
think
. Get that seventh Chosen in here.” He had power in his voice, and he used it to try to bend Irving to his will.
think
. Get that seventh Chosen in here.” He had power in his voice, and he used it to try to bend Irving to his will.
Irving would not yield to such tricks. “I will make this decision when I see the need.”
Davidov slowly stood, glorious in his masculinity, his strength, his resolve.
In that moment, Irving knew he faced death—and he was not resigned. He was surprised how much he wanted to remain on this earth, to see the drama of these days played out; yet he would not be reduced to obedience. He would do as he had always done—what he thought best for the Chosen Ones. He stood also, prepared to have his neck snapped.
Then Davidov turned his head in the attitude of listening. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
“Believe what?” Irving listened, too. He knew the sound of McKenna’s footsteps. But he had someone with him. Someone who walked a little off-kilter, dragging one foot behind him.
Davidov seemed to know who it was.
Irving didn’t have a clue.
McKenna stepped through the door, his eyes bright, his posture sprightly. Irving had never seen him like this; he was the epitome of hope.
“What is it, McKenna?” Irving asked.
McKenna straightened his lapels, and in a sonorous voice announced, “Mr. Gary White.”
And the man Irving had only two weeks ago seen in the depths of a coma walked in the door.
Don’t miss
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New York Times
bestselling author Christina Dodd’s
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romance with this brand-new,
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IN BED WITH THE DUKE
Coming from Signet in March 2010
Moricadia, 1849
T
he four-piece ensemble ceased playing, and with exquisite timing, Comte Cloutier delivered the line sure to command the attention of all the guests within earshot. “Have you heard, Lady Lettice, of the ghost who rides in the night?”
he four-piece ensemble ceased playing, and with exquisite timing, Comte Cloutier delivered the line sure to command the attention of all the guests within earshot. “Have you heard, Lady Lettice, of the ghost who rides in the night?”
Certainly, he commanded the attention of the En glishman Michael Durant, heir apparent to the duke of Nevitt. There had been very little to interest him at Lord Thibault’s exclusive ball. The musicians had played, the guests had danced, the food was exquisite, and the gambling room was full. But of gossip, there had been nothing . . . until now. And now, Michael knew, only because Cloutier failed to comprehend the seriousness of his faux pas. He failed to comprehend that by tomorrow, he would be gone, traveling back to France and cursing his penchant for gossip.
With every evidence of interest, Michael strolled closer, to stand near the group of suitors surrounding Lady Lettice Surtees.
“A ghost?” Lady Lettice gave a high-pitched squeak, worthy of a young girl’s alarm. “No! Pray tell, what does this ghost do?” Before Cloutier could answer she swung around to her paid companion, a girl of perhaps twenty who stood at her left shoulder, and snapped, “Make yourself useful, girl! Fan me! Dancing with so many admirers is quite fatiguing.”
The girl, a poor, downtrodden wisp of a thing, nodded mutely. From the large reticule she wore attached to her waist, she withdrew an ivory-and-lace fan to cool the abruptly flushed and sweating Lady Lettice.
Lord Escobar hovered at Lettice’s left elbow. “Indeed, senorita, it is an unseasonably warm summer evening.”
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