Chains of Fire (34 page)

Like she cared. Pulling the pick from her pocket, she went to work and was inside in thirty seconds.

The place was a mess—a shattered lamp, a broken coffee table, blood. . . . “So Samuel has been here,” she said with satisfaction.

She was on the right trail.

There were two doors leading out of the small living room, both of them shut. The first was the bedroom, also trashed. The second was the tiny, darkened bathroom with nowhere to hide except in the tub behind the shower curtain. A stupid place to hide . . . and there she found Todd, pasty with fear, holding a vase over his head.

She stepped back. “Auditioning for a role as the Statue of Liberty?” she asked.

He lowered the vase, breathing hard.

He had a black eye, a split lip, a broken tooth.

Seeing his battered face, she felt briefly sorry for him.

“You!” he said. “You’ve ruined my life.”

Good to be finished with compassion.

“Samuel’s been here. He questioned you. Where did you send him?” she asked.

He stepped out of the tub, put the vase in the sink. Looked in the mirror and dabbed at his face. “To hell, I hope.”

“For your sake, you had better hope not.”

“What are you going to do?” He looked her up and down insultingly, at her dark, formfitting catsuit. “I may not be a gorilla like your boyfriend, but I can still defend myself against a woman.” He pushed past her.

“I’m a healer. If we made a deal, I could fix your face as good as new. You realize that, right?”

He halted in midstride. Hopeful, he turned toward her.

Catching his hand, she twisted his arm behind his back, and savagely slammed his face to the floor. Pulling her pistol from the holster strapped to her shoulder, she pointed it at his head. “But I won’t. I want you to suffer.” She felt his pain and exulted in it. “Now—tell me what I want to know.”

The area looked empty. No movement.

It sounded empty. No voices.

As she watched, the automatic light over the door flickered off.

But she’d spotted a dark cloth sack discarded against the building. Moving softly, swiftly, as Caleb had taught them, she loped forward, drawn by the sack, which was long and man-shaped, and the dark stain beneath it . . .

As she approached, it moved. That wasn’t a hand, was it? A hand covered with blood?

It wasn’t Samuel’s hand, was it?

Whispering, “No. No. Samuel, no,” she ran the last few feet with no care for the danger. She dropped to her knees beside him.

His nose was broken. His left cheek was concave. Blood trickled from his mouth, from the wounds on his shoulder and his hip. He gurgled when he breathed, as if he had a punctured lung.

She held one hand over his heart.

The beat was slowing.

He was dying.

No.

“Samuel.” She touched his cheek.

His eyes opened. His hand flashed up, caught her wrist. He looked at her, just looked at her. He smiled. “Beautiful . . . to see you . . . one last time.” He slurred his words, struggled for breath. “Love you.” His hand fell as if he were too weak to hold it up.

“The assassins did this?” She wanted to kill them. “Where are they?”

“Gone. To report. Change locations. For the moment . . . you’re safe.”

She placed the pistol on the dock close to her side. With her other hand she reached for him.

He flailed, pushed her away. “No. Don’t touch. Can’t survive this.”

He was right. She couldn’t survive these gunshot wounds, the injuries from the beating those savages had given him.

She would have to let him go.

Because . . . she didn’t want to die.

She loved her life. She loved the winter sunshine, New York, great clothes, Jimmy Choo heels, her parents, her friends. She’d loved being part of the Chosen Ones, of a higher cause. She loved knowing she could help people who were hurt. She had always taken that responsibility seriously, and when injuries had been too severe, she had been careful not to sacrifice herself and her gift. The decision had never been easy, yet she had always been sure she was doing the right thing.

No one would blame her if she said it was God’s will and let Samuel go.

No one would blame her . . . except her.

Because she would know the real reason she let him die.

Sitting there at the very beginning of day, she faced her greatest fear.

She was afraid to suffer like this.

But this was Samuel. He was here, in this condition, because of her.

She had always wondered if he really loved her.

Well. Here was her answer. Knowing full well the possible consequences, he had come to this place to save her. He had been willing to sacrifice himself for her.

Could she do any less? She loved him.

Very gently, she pushed the damp strands of his hair off his forehead. “I’m not going to survive anyway. I talked to Todd.” Todd hadn’t enjoyed their conversation. She had put her fight training to use, and for the first time in her life, she had enjoyed inflicting pain on another person. “These assassins—they won’t stop until I’m dead.”

“Tell John. Run away. Hide. Get a new identity.” Samuel had to stop to breathe again. “Stay safe. For me. Promise.”

She could do that. Her parents had money. She could leave the Chosen Ones, have surgery, change her looks, spend her life in hiding and be safe.

“Promise,” he mumbled. He was losing his grip on consciousness.

Today one of them had to die.

“Shh. Go to sleep.” Decision made, she put her hand over his eyes. “I’ll take care of everything.” As he slipped into a coma, she added, “When you wake, my darling, remember—I don’t want to live in a world without you, but you must live for both of us. Be strong. Be honorable. Love with all your heart. Laugh with all your soul. And fight the good fight, just as you did today.”

Abruptly, memory flooded his mind.

He opened his eyes.

He was here, at the warehouse where he’d tracked the assassins. He’d lost the fight. He’d been dying. Then . . . “Isabelle!”

He sat up. And saw her. Isabelle, stretched out beside him, shot in the shoulder and hip, battered, bleeding, wheezing with the broken ribs and punctured lung that had only recently been his. “Isabelle.” Her name was a sorrowful breath on his lips.

Yet she heard him. She opened her eyes . . . and they were bloodshot, cloudy with pain. Her powers had healed him, but at a dire cost.

Pressing his palm to her unshattered cheek, he said, “Don’t leave me. Please. Heal yourself. You have to heal yourself.”

“Too much. Must go. Pain . . . so much.” She closed her eyes again, struggling for breath. Opened them.
“You
know. Want to go.”

Yes. He knew. When pain grew overwhelming, death was a gift.

Her lips and fingernails were blue. Her breathing was labored. Death was coming swiftly.

“Hold me,” she whispered.

Leaning down, he put his arms on either side of her, holding himself away, desperately afraid to damage her more.

“No,” she said. “Really hold me.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

She laughed soundlessly. “No. Doesn’t hurt . . . now.”

He hurt. As he gathered her into his arms, the pain in his heart threatened to destroy him.

This was Isabelle. She had been his first friend, his first lover, his only beloved. He could feel her breathing fail, her skin grow cool, her muscles grow lax. As inevitably as the tide, life was stealing away from her. . . .

She observed him, scrutinized him so intently he knew she wanted his face to be her last sight on this earth.

So for her, he smiled, nodded, said, “I have loved you every day I’ve known you, and no matter where you go, I will always love you.”

Her lips moved without sound. “Love . . . you.”

As he watched and grieved, her ruined lungs took their last breath. Her heart gave its last beat. The soul slipped out of her eyes.

He should want to weep.

Instead, he roared, “No!”

No, he wouldn’t allow this to happen. Not to her. Not to Isabelle.

He hugged her to his chest, rocked back and forth, tried desperately to do what she had done for so many others—for him—and give her all the days of her life lived in health and happiness. Inside him, a part of her was still alive, and he took what she had taught him—how to heal—and pushed it at her.

Her heart gave a single beat.

He lifted his head, overwhelmed by sudden hope.

But that was all. A single beat.

And she was gone again.

Healing wasn’t his gift. He couldn’t do this.

But Isabelle had given of herself to others, too, so many others.

They weren’t here. They didn’t know she needed them.

Yet . . . yet if they knew . . . they would help her. He knew they would.

Holding her tightly, he stood and, not knowing where he was going, what he was doing, he staggered toward the water. Lifting her body toward the rising sun, he shouted out loud—and in his mind—“Listen! Everybody! Listen! Isabelle helped you when you needed her. Now she needs your help. Find her inside yourself and heal!
Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!
”