Storm of Visions (7 page)

“Sh!” Martha hurried—well, hobbled, really—around the outside of the circle toward him.

Aaron continued. “They said that we all had gifts that we’d received because we were abandoned.”

“Mr. Eagle. We do not discuss this in public!” Martha stood inches away from Aaron, her toes almost on the circle, and stared at him with black, unblinking eyes.

Look at that. Aaron had just found the gypsy in the Gypsy Travel Agency. “Then we shouldn’t be standing in the middle of a subway station, should we?”

“This is where Suzanne’s powers are at their greatest.” Martha spoke as if Aaron should know what she meant. “But I am not supposed to talk to you. Not while you’re in the circle!”

“Then quietly, tell me about the kid.” Aaron had Martha over a barrel.

And Martha knew it.

Charisma and Aleksandr edged closer.

In a low voice, Martha said, “In the last seven cycles, the gifts have been fading.”

The Abandoned Ones were chosen every seven years. So, seven cycles times seven years . . . Aaron did the math. In the last forty-nine years, Martha was saying. “The gifts have been fading? What the
hell
does that mean?”

“Mr. Eagle, let us not mention
hell
when we’re so close to its mouth I can smell the brimstone.” Martha sounded so fierce, so convinced, Aaron looked around for the flames. “I mean the gifts given to you six are mere shadows of the gifts given in years past.”

“Really?” Aaron had always been pretty impressed with his gift. But actually, lately, it
had
been fading. That was what had gotten him into this mess to start with. “Does anybody know why?”

“There is some talk that we’ve wandered away from our purpose, or that modern life has corrupted us, or—” Martha stopped herself.

“What do
you
think, Martha?” Charisma asked.

“It’s not my place to say,” Martha said primly.

“It’s not your place to say, or you don’t want to talk about it so close to hell?” Aaron hated this pussyfoot ing around.

“Are we done speaking in such an inappropriate manner?” Martha turned away.

Aaron started to reach out and grab her. And something zapped him, something like static electricity, but . . . dangerous. Much, much more dangerous.

Martha looked back at him, satisfaction cold in her dark eyes.

Aaron had stepped in the circle under his own will. He would leave when someone else allowed him.

So. He’d learned something today. Watch out for chalk circles.

“Was there anything else?” Martha asked.

Damned right, there was. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You guys took the kid”—Aaron indicated Aleksandr—“because there was no one else, and you hope he develops a gift or some specialty you can use?”

“I’m not privy to the decisions of the directors,” Martha said, but she nodded her head.

“Is that why there’s only six? Because there have always been seven.” Charisma did know her stuff.

For the first time, Aaron wondered if he should have glanced through the text he’d been given after he signed on the dotted line.

“We have one more coming. I hope.” Martha sounded disgusted. Then she looked beyond them, and the old woman broke into a broad smile. In a voice hushed with pleasure and worship, she said, “Suzanne has arrived.”

A
aron gaped in amazement.

Martha hadn’t been saying
Suzanne
. She’d been saying
Zusane
, and no wonder she looked like an awestruck teenage girl.

Zusane was . . . Zusane. One of those women who only had one name, who was famous for being famous, who was Hungarian or Romanian or some nationality that gave her a rich, smoky accent. Zusane had had more husbands—seven? eight?—than anyone could remember, all of them had been rich, and she’d left them all considerably less wealthy and a lot more whiny.

Now she was walking through the subway station, three bodyguards in front, acting like the prow of a ship to cut their way through the afternoon rush hour crowd, and another two bodyguards in back, making sure that no one crowded her from behind. Because dressed like that, she was one hell of a target. She wore a long, skintight dress covered with gold sequins from the low neckline, over every inch of her curvaceous body, and down to the weighted hem. With every step, she showed a flash of shapely leg, and she walked so smoothly on four-inch spiked heels, they might as well have been Reeboks. Her black silk gloves extended from her fingertips over her elbows to her well-toned upper arms, and she held a small evening bag decorated with Swarovski crystals. Like American royalty, she waved to the crowds, shook hands, signed autographs.

“Your jaw’s hanging open,” Charisma said.

She was talking to Aleksandr, but Aaron shut his mouth, too.

As Zusane stopped at Martha’s side, the bodyguards took their places around the edge of the circle and turned to face the crowds.

Zusane put her hands on Martha’s shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. She whispered something that made Martha nod, roll her eyes, and indicate the circle.

Lifting her skirt, Zusane carefully stepped inside. As if by magic, people stopped staring and pointing at her.

As if by magic . . . Aaron looked around at the others. Was there something about the chalk circle that made them invisible to all the normal people and removed them from their minds?

Of course.
Magic
would explain a lot.

Zusane removed her long gloves, a slow striptease that titillated and entertained. And all the while she observed the six in the circle, her blue eyes thoughtful and perceptive. She tucked the gloves into her bag, then turned to Aaron. “Mr. Eagle. How good to see you again.” Her voice was throaty and amused.

Aaron had run into Zusane one other time, about a year ago, right after he’d finished a job, and she’d looked at him and spoken to him as if she could
see
him.

Now he knew why. She
had
seen him. She had a gift, too. “I’ll bet you’re the reason I’m here,” he said.

She laughed, throwing her head back to release a light chuckle. “You don’t hold that against me, do you?”

“No. No, I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Up close, she wasn’t as young as she first appeared. She had wrinkles around her eyes and a faint thin scar at her ear left by a chin lift.

It didn’t matter. She was magnificent.

Taking her hand, he kissed the fingers. “It is good to see you again, Zusane.”

“Charm is such a rare thing in an American.” She placed one hand on his chest over his heart. For a long moment, she looked into his eyes, and he felt almost light-headed, a fly caught in a spider’s seductive trap. “But in your business, it is a necessity, is it not?”

“One of many,” he said.

“You will do very well,” she said.

“Thank you.” He supposed.

She lifted her hand away, and at once he was freed from her spell. He watched in curiosity and amazement as she turned to Charisma and offered her hand. In a brisk, businesslike tone, she said, “Hello, dear, how are you doing today?”

Charisma took the pale, slender hand. “I’m thrilled to meet you. You’re a legend, the most famous of them all.”

“Do not be misled by the glamour.”

“I’m not.” Charisma’s enthusiasm was boundless. “I read about you in
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen Ones
.”

“You are having a wonderful time at the Gypsy Travel Agency, are you not?” Zusane took possession of Charisma’s wrists, stones and all, and held them.

“Oh, yes!”

“Will you be ready for the challenges ahead?” Zusane’s smile disappeared, and she looked almost grieved. “For you will be greatly challenged.”

“I’m going to study. I’m going to prepare. And when it’s my turn, I’ll do what has to be done.” Charisma was so young, so sure of herself.

“You will be afraid, and in the dark.”

Charisma stared into Zusane’s face, closed her eyes so slowly, she might have been falling asleep, then opened them again. When she did, Aaron was startled to see the irrepressible Charisma’s eyes fill with tears. “Yes. I see. I am such a coward.”

“No. A coward you are not.” Zusane kissed Charisma’s forehead, then turned to Aleksandr. In a voice like a whiplash, she said, “Look at me, Mr. Wilder. My eyes are up here!”

Aleksandr yanked his gaze from her cleavage to her face, and blushed scarlet.

“Let me see your hands, both of them!” she said.

He showed them, palms up, then on her signal, turned them so she could see the backs.

She slid her cupped hands beneath them. Whipping around, she glared balefully at Martha. “This boy would be better in college.”

“Yes, Zusane,” Martha said. “He is in college.”

She turned back to Aleksandr. “Where? What are you studying?”

“Fordham. Engineering.”

Aaron didn’t have to be a psychic to know what Zusane was thinking. The kid was no dummy.

“Good.” She nodded. “Sometimes life doesn’t turn out like we wish, and we need something to fall back on.”

“So you don’t see a gift?” Aleksandr whispered.

“No. But there’s something here. . . .” She slid her gaze from Aleksandr’s left shoulder and across his chest. “The tattoo?”

“It’s there.”

“It came at adolescence.” She sounded certain. “Does it resemble your father’s? Your grandfather’s?”

“The colors, yes, but the pattern has never been seen before.” Aleksandr shifted awkwardly. “Or so my grandfather says.”

“He would know.” Zusane patted his cheek. “All right. Don’t worry. Study hard. Make your family proud.”

“I always do,” Aleksandr said.

Zusane smiled at him and headed toward the others in the circle.

In an undertone, Aaron asked Charisma, “Zusane is the most famous
what
?”

“Psychic.” Charisma really did know everything. “She’s the current psychic for the Gypsy Travel Agency.”

“And the psychic is always a woman?” Aaron watched as Zusane approved Isabelle Mason.

“Not always, but the guys never seem to quite get it right.” Charisma watched, too, all her attention focused on the drama playing out before them. “The guy who’s here—Tyler Settles—calls himself a psychic. Zusane has always been very vocal about her disapproval of male seers. This is the first time the directors have tried to bring one in.”

Zusane waved her hands around Tyler, close to his skin, but never touching.

Tyler preened, flattered by her attention.

She frowned.

He spoke to her, smiling all the while. Brought her gaze up to his.

And after a tense pause, she laughed and relaxed.

“Martha would tell us that because of the lack of talent this year, they had to stoop to trying out a male seer,” Aaron said to Charisma.

“Yes. I think you’re right.” Charisma shivered. “Spooky, isn’t it, to think we’re the weakest group since the Chosen Ones were formed.”

“I don’t really know what difference it makes,” Aaron said indifferently. “It’s not like we have to do anything but what we’re good at.”

Charisma shot him a cautious, sideways glance.

Remembering the directors’ slick description of his duties, he mulled and realized—they were paying him well, promising him protection, and if they were telling the truth, they asked very little in return. “What can go wrong?”

“In ordinary times, a job at the Gypsy Travel Agency is dull.” Charisma positively sparkled with reassurance.

He wasn’t buying it. “In extraordinary times?”

“Ohhh . . . I suppose you could say that in the past, extraordinary times have been . . . exciting.”

“Is that a euphemism for ‘dangerous’?” He’d joined up to get away from “dangerous.”

“You really ought to read that book,” she told him.

“As soon as I get out of this circle,” he promised.

Zusane stood between Isabelle Mason and Samuel Faa, and her frown returned and deepened. She threw her arms out in a wide, encompassing gesture. Her sequins shimmered in the fluorescent light. Her fingers, manicured with red, formed wide stars. “Never in my experience have I sensed something like this.”

From outside the circle, Aaron heard a ripple of amusement.

Zusane paid no attention. “There is something very wrong with this combination, a whiff of something rotten, and until I can discover what is wrong, I cannot release this team.”

The laughter in the subway grew, and Aaron did a quick check. The New Yorkers were pointing at this suit-wearing, dangerous-looking Italian guy carrying a long-legged jean-clad blond girl. He had her in a fire-man’s lift, she was kicking and shrieking, and the odd couple was headed straight for them.

Didn’t that just figure? Because right now, this subway station was the epicenter of oddness.

Relentlessly, Zusane plowed on. “Each of you, come close so I can discover the discordance. . . .” She caught sight of the Italian and the girl. Her voice trailed off. Melodrama fell away from her like a discarded cloak. She tapped her toe. She narrowed her eyes. She looked like a shrewish wife—or a disapproving mother.