Storm of Visions (32 page)

A vision. She was living in her vision.

The experience was fragile. If she struggled, if she panicked, she could break free, and she knew, she
knew
, she would never have to worry about another vision. She would be, at long last, as normal as she had always longed to be.

This was temptation, offered not by the devil, but by her own desires.

She looked up into the dim, gray sky. The snow fell, cold on her face. In the distance, she could hear the honking of cabs and, far away, see the flash of New York billboards. The landmarks matched the ones in the snow globe: a church, a hospital, and a cemetery.

Here the drip . . . drip . . . drip of water was constant and distracting. It was coming from somewhere close, and some instinct told her that if she wanted to
know
, she would have to
look
.

But she didn’t want to look at the church. The masonry building was old, crumbling, surrounded by a fence with a sign that said CONDEMNED. The cemetery was attached to it, and its gravestones were uncared for, chipped and covered with moss. Some of the names had worn off, and they surrounded elderly trees that sagged under the burden of the heavy snowfall. A shadow dwelled in that church, a darkness that made her want to run away.

She was afraid. She could break free. She could quit.

With a shudder, she turned to the hospital. The building was small, no more than three stories. The walls were private, pale, and when she looked in the windows, she saw nurses and doctors moving silently through their rounds. She wondered if one of them would have put the stitches in her palm with more skill than Martha, or whether what had been done by the swift slice of a broken bottle could ever be undone.

Opening her hand, she at last forced herself to look.

The glass had slashed the outer line of the eye as well as the pupil and the iris, but Martha had carefully matched them up. The black stitches were small and neat, pulling the skin together. It wasn’t Martha’s fault that the cut was red. She had disinfected it. She had done everything right, yet when Jacqueline touched the cut lightly with her finger, she felt the heat of an infection.

Her mark would never look the same, but more important—if the devil had truly bent his malice toward her, might she not have lost her hand and her life to this injury?

A tear dripped off her cheek and onto her palm. It splashed, startling her from her terror. She blotted at her nose with the back of her hand, and looked up.

Yes, she was a coward.

So what? She could be afraid, and do this. Fear would not rule her now. For Caleb, for the Chosen, for her mother, she
would
do this.

The weight of years and years of fear and rebellion dropped away, and she walked along the street, armed by fear, yes, but also by determination.

Dear God. If only that dripping would stop. The more she heard it . . . the longer it went on . . . the scarier it got. It didn’t sound like rain, or snow melting off the roof, or even a leaky faucet. The sound was too steady for that; it had a sense of eternity about it. The dripping sounded like . . . like water in a cave, the movement of one molecule at a time, forming a drop on the tip of a stalactite, hanging there for an interminable second, then falling to the floor. And then starting again.

Maybe there was a cave under the church. Or one of the old graves had collapsed. Or . . . she felt the cool touch of the floor against her back as she slowly lowered herself into a supine position. Or . . . maybe she was dead.

She
is
dead.

“D
arling, I know this is an important vision, and I am so proud that you overcame your fear, but I need you to wake up.” The voice was familiar. So was the cool touch of a hand on her forehead.

Jacqueline opened her eyes to the cramped, warm, sunny attic. “Mother?”

Zusane knelt beside her. She wore a gold sequined gown, huge yellow diamond earrings, and an anxious expression that made Jacqueline sit up straight.

“Mother, I’m really busy here.” The images of the snowy New York street still hovered close. “I’m going to find out who betrayed the Chosen Ones.”

“I know you are, but if you stay in Mrs. D’Angelo’s attic, you’re going to get hurt.” Zusane sounded calm, but she looked as she did when she was on the verge of an Eastern European tantrum. “I won’t let them do that again.”

Because last time Jacqueline had been hurt, Zusane had been . . . she’d been killed. The thought made Jacqueline’s heart leap, and shocked her back to the present. “I thought you were dead.”

“I am, dear. But I do get a few bennies for sacrificing myself so many times for the good of the Chosen Ones!”

“Of course you do,” Jacqueline said automatically, then wondered what kind of bennies a dead person was entitled to.

“Although,” Zusane mused, “I didn’t mean to make the ultimate sacrifice of my life. If I had realized who Osgood harbored in his soul and that he could bring you on board before I got on that plane, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“I’m glad to hear you have at least that much sense.”

“What do you mean? I have lots of sense.”

“I mean, you loved the adventure so much you ignored the danger. How many times did you think you could gamble with your life and win?”

“You are the most annoying child.”

“Because I’m logical?”

“Because . . . oh, for heaven’s sake! We don’t have time for this bickering. You can’t laze around here all day. You need to get going, or you won’t be able to bear the consequences.” Zusane stood up.

She was fading. Leaving. An hour ago Jacqueline had wept for her and dreamed of one more chance, and now all she could manage was light chitchat. “Wait. Mother. Listen! I can’t bear the consequences now. Mother, I’m doing what you wanted—I’m looking into the future.”

“I know. Now, if you’ll just finish college so you can get a day job—”

If Jacqueline had had any doubts that this was truly Zusane, they were vanquished now. Exasperated, she plowed ahead. “Listen to me, Mother. I never told you—”

“That you loved me?” Zusane smiled, and that smile was the same as always, filled with the truth of her vivacious personality. “One thing I’ve learned here on the other side—love is a very real emotion. I feel your love, as soft as a puppy’s fur. I see your love, bright as a diamond’s sparkle. The scent of your love is my favorite perfume. And I hear you cry when you miss me. Don’t cry, Jacqueline. Don’t miss me. I’m not far away.”

Tear sprang to Jacqueline’s eyes. “Oh, Mama . . .”

“Still . . . occasionally in life, I would have liked to have heard you tell me you loved me. It would have made me very happy.”

Jacqueline gave a crack of laughter. “Guilt. The gift that keeps on giving.”

“Always the joke.” Zusane cocked her head as if she heard something, and her voice sharpened with urgency. “On your feet, now. Get out of this vision. Trouble is coming, and you have to be ready to meet it.”

“But I still don’t know who the traitor is!”

Zusane stopped. She turned back and smiled. “You know one of them. Think!”

Jacqueline sank inside herself, looking for the clue, the thread. . . .
If he looks into it, he will die.

“That voice. It’s Tyler Settles.” The fog that covered her memory cleared. It was Tyler who had come to Jacqueline while she was in a vision, picked up the crystal ball, and smashed her skull. He had been lifting it again, prepared to kill her, when he heard the pounding of feet on the stairs. He had dropped the globe and run for the other exit, and barely made it before Caleb came running in. . . .

“See? You know him, and you remember everything. Now go. Remember, I love you, and be careful!” Zusane disappeared with an incongruous little pop.

Jacqueline found herself standing in the middle of the green chalk circle, her eyes wide, listening to the sounds in the brownstone.

Nothing about the noises signaled a problem, but the atmosphere within the house curled and writhed like a gray sea fog.

The danger of which her mother had spoken was here.

Picking up the snow globe, Jacqueline walked to the stairs. Lightly, taking care to make no noise, she ran down into Caleb’s apartment.

The door was locked. Mrs. D’Angelo was downstairs. . . .

With Tyler?

Moving with stealth and speed, Jacqueline opened the door to the stairway and started down.

Maybe Mrs. D’Angelo was still napping. But if that was the case, where were the dogs? Why wasn’t Lizzie barking? Even if Jacqueline was wrong, even if Tyler wasn’t here, Lizzie should be barking. But the place was as silent as a . . . as a tomb.

As Jacqueline descended the stairs, her heart started a slow, terrified thumping. She looked down at the snow globe in her hand. What a
stupid
weapon to pick up. But she’d grabbed it without thought, and now she had to trust her intuition.

As she set foot in the entryway, a voice spoke in her head.
You’re going to die, and she’s going to die with you.

Tyler’s voice. He
was
here—and he knew she was, too.

How could she have not recognized that dramatic flourish as his?

He’d killed a hundred people at the Gypsy Travel Agency, and destroyed countless priceless books and relics.

He’d hurt her. He’d tried to kill her.

And now he was trying again, and he intended to destroy Mrs. D’Angelo, too.

Jacqueline was going to make him pay.

She strode through the living room. It was empty. Then she looked into the kitchen—and stopped short.

A smear of blood wet the tile floor.

She ran the last few steps toward the door.

Mrs. D’Angelo sat at the table, staring blindly ahead, her hand on Ritter’s head.

Tyler, handsome, blond, conceited Tyler, stood behind her, a pistol to her throat. With all the considerable charm at his disposal, he smiled at Jacqueline. “Mrs. D’Angelo is such a hospitable woman. When I got here, her back door was locked. I thought I would have to break it in, but her doggie barked at me. She hushed it and opened the door and invited me in. How hospitable she is! And with her personal history, how foolish!”

Jacqueline glanced between him and Mrs. D’Angelo.

Mrs. D’Angelo had no expression on her face. She was as remote and cold as an iceberg. Yet her fingers clenched in the loose skin at Ritter’s throat, and the gentle Lab pushed closer to her side.

“So I shot her dog, the one that barks, and unless Mrs. D’Angelo cooperates, I’ll shoot this one, too.” The eye of the pistol swerved to indicate Ritter. “And unless you cooperate, I’ll shoot Mrs. D’Angelo in the brain. I promise that this time, she won’t recover. This time, she’ll be brain-dead until she’s really dead.”

“Hasn’t she had enough hurt in her life?” Jacqueline cried.

“What do you care? You’re like me. You don’t have a
mother
. People like us—we don’t concern ourselves with
families
.” His lip curled in contempt. “Only the weak yearn for something they can never have.”

“Only the weak envy families so much they long to hurt them.”

“I’m not weak, and I don’t long to hurt this . . .
mother
.” He dug his fingers into Mrs. D’Angelo’s hair. “But since the chance has presented itself, I might as well enjoy it. So come in, Jacqueline Vargha, and let’s talk about our plan for the Chosen Ones.”

Jacqueline didn’t want to talk about his plan for the Chosen Ones, because his only plan for the Chosen Ones was death.

And the Chosen Ones were Jacqueline’s friends. They were her people.

She walked toward him, calm and quiet, trying to put him at ease. “Don’t hurt Mrs. D’Angelo, Tyler. We can work this out.”

His gaze shifted over her, appreciatively taking in her jeans, her rumpled shirt, her bare feet. “Do you know what he promised me if I ended the Chosen Ones?”