Chains of Fire (35 page)

Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

Throwing back his covers, he rushed to the window. In the flood of sunlight, he closed his eyes and sought Isabelle inside himself . . . and he gave back.

Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

Going to the window, she took a long, deep breath, sought Isabelle within herself . . . and gave back.

Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

Isabelle needed her.

Pushing her chair back, she used her cane to stand; then with the usual morning stiffness, she hobbled to the window.

Looking out at the wash of sunlight, she gave back.

The first time Patricia had seen Isabelle heal something, it had been the family German shepherd. The animal had run into the street. A car had winged it. The dog limped back, yelping, in anguish. And three-year-old Isabelle had taken the injury into herself and made the dog better.

Patricia had never heard of such a thing, but she did her research and discovered all the information about abandoned children and why they had been given gifts.

But that wasn’t what Patricia wanted for her little girl.

Magic? Fighting evil? Patricia discouraged her daughter, pointed her at charitable organizations, gave her different outlets for her gentle intentions. She thought she had sent her in a different direction.

Then came the day Patricia suffered an ectopic pregnancy. She would have bled to death, but thirteen-year-old Isabelle saved her.

On that day, Patricia really understood that it wasn’t social suicide for Isabelle to heal people. This gift was worse than that. It could kill her. Patricia’s focus changed from what was nice, what was proper, to a much more commanding directive.

No matter what happened, she would save her Isabelle from impending death.

But she hadn’t been able to change what she had taught Isabelle. Isabelle believed in helping people, and although she was a good, obedient daughter who tried to make Patricia happy, when push came to shove, she did what she thought was right. That included joining the Chosen Ones. And loving Samuel Faa.

If only Isabelle would call . . .

Then Patricia heard Samuel.

Help Isabelle! Heal Isabelle!

Patricia found herself on her feet.

Isabelle was hurt. Her baby was hurt.

She ran to the window, pushed the curtains as wide as she could.

Deep inside, her body remembered the shift that occurred when Isabelle healed her.

And she gave back.

Dry eyed, he cried. Deep, wrenching sobs that tore at his lungs and sent his muscles into spasms.

She was dead. She was gone. She was beyond his reach, and until the day of his own death, he would never see her again.

And she had sacrificed herself for him.

The Chosen Ones had a myth that deliberate sacrifice compensated for many sins. But what sins had Isabelle committed? She didn’t deserve this fate.

He had been the one who sinned. He had wanted to be the sacrifice.

“Take me.” He closed his eyes, bent his head over Isabelle’s broken body. “Bring her back and take me.”

Long moments passed . . . and someone touched his cheek.

Isabelle whispered, “I’m here.”

He opened his eyes.

Isabelle lay in his arms, watching him, her face battered, but wearing a crooked smile. “What did you
do
?”

“I . . . I asked for help.” He gazed at her, entranced at the sight of Isabelle, always a miracle, but now . . . a miracle in his arms.

She was alive.

Or maybe he was dead.

He looked around.

No. He was still sitting on dock thirty-seven A. The smell was rotting wood and salt water. He saw the sun on the water, the grubby warehouse, the dirty metal door. And in his arms, he felt warmth returning to Isabelle’s body. With each breath, her chest rose and fell, and before his eyes, her wounds were healing, leaving her unmarked and with a healthy glow.

“Thank you,” she said. “You brought me back to life.”

“Me? No.” He laughed a little. “I’m no miracle worker. I think . . . it’s a case of what goes around comes around. Only this time, it was the good stuff.” Leaning over her, he wrapped himself around her, trying to absorb her into his skin, his heart. “What you received was just what you deserved—the best, the kindest, the most generous parts of your soul were given to others, and they gave back to you.”

She wrapped one arm around his neck, hugging him in a wild desperation. “Samuel, what happened, happened because of you. You were the lightning rod.”

“I hope so.” He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be worthy of Isabelle. “I hope so.”

A man’s voice called from the end of the dock. “Samuel!”

Samuel jumped in alarm.

The assassins. The Others. Osgood. This place wasn’t safe.

No place was safe. Not for Isabelle.

Even before he looked up, he reached for the pistol.

Big and strong and worried, John Powell stood there, gesturing wildly. “Come on. Come on! We’ve got to get out of here. Look!” He pointed at the warehouse.

Wisps of smoke were leaking out from around the battered metal door. One yellow flame licked through the wall near the metal roof. Smoke . . . Samuel could smell it, and beneath his knees, he felt a vibration in the wood that signaled a shift on the dock.

As Samuel watched, fire blasted through the warehouse, consuming the old, damp, rotten wood in one greedy gulp. Fire roared toward them, eating the dock from under their feet.

No.
The assassins weren’t going to kill Isabelle with a fire.

They weren’t going to kill her at all.

He knew what to do now. If he acted fast enough, he could protect her.

Isabelle took her gun from him.

Samuel picked her up. He raced toward John, flames licking at his heels. “Have you got a car?” he shouted, and ran toward the street.

“A cab.” John fell in behind him. “It’s waiting.”

“Good man.” Samuel glanced at Isabelle, at the gunshot wounds that were not totally healed, at the blood on her clothes.

She was a miracle. She was a lady. She should be eating caviar off silver plates. She should be relaxing on silk sheets.

She should not be running from a fire set to dispose of his body, or holding a gun and scanning the vicinity for enemies. She should most certainly not have to worry about Osgood’s scumbags hungering for her blood.

They reached the street.

John sprinted to the cab, held the door open as Samuel, still holding his precious burden, slipped inside.

John followed.

“Richardson Airfield,” Samuel told the cabbie. “I pay for speed. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

Isabelle sat between the two men, rubbing her upper arms with her hands.

“Are you cold?” Samuel asked. Did she have a chill? A premonition? An injury?

She put her hands in her lap. “I’m fine.”

John waited until the cab had hit the main road and accelerated into traffic. “Where are we going?”

Haunted by a new, desperate torment, Samuel said, “New York City, as fast as we can.”

The men shoved Isabelle inside and followed.

Samuel was desperate. He was worried. He was dirty and tired and had stared death in the face. Now the one thing he wanted was to get this over with. They
needed
to get this over with, and as soon as possible.

For Isabelle.

As soon as the door closed, McKenna drove away at a stately rate.

Caleb was there with Jacqueline, Aaron with Rosamund, and John Powell sat alone, his pale blue eyes cool and intense.

The interior was lavish, leather, chrome and exotic woods polished to a luxurious gleam.

“Can you make him hurry?” Samuel gestured toward McKenna in exasperation.

Everyone stared at him as if he were speaking Greek.

All except Rosamund, who
did
speak Greek, and she said, “I haven’t really paid a lot of attention, but I don’t believe McKenna knows how to hurry.”

“It’s all right, Samuel.” Isabelle put her hand on his. “The limo is bulletproof.”

“It’s
not
all right. We’ve got to get there as quickly as possible.” Samuel would have gotten out and pushed if he thought it would help. “Are all the Chosen on their way?”

“In different cars. And on the subway. I thought it would be best if we arrived separately.” Caleb spoke to Samuel, but his gaze ceaselessly scanned the traffic around them.

Jacqueline bit her lip. “This is so dangerous. My skin is crawling.”

Leaning forward, Isabelle patted her hand. “You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I do. Samuel’s plan is sound and right. This is something we need to do together.” Jacqueline turned her hand over, caught Isabelle’s and squeezed, and smiled at her friend. “For you.”

In the airplane restroom, Isabelle had washed her hands and face. She had been in there for such a long time, Samuel had been convinced she’d fainted or worse, and been ready to charge in to help her. But she had come out, smiling mysteriously, and still wearing the black catsuit, torn and stiff with blood.

His blood. Her blood.

Soap and warm water had done wonders for Samuel, too, but his Armani suit had been blasted by two gunshots, and so much blood had soaked his cashmere sweater he smelled like the goat that had donated the wool.

A good look for a corporate meeting.

Actually, considering the circumstances, maybe it was.

“Aleksandr’s behind us in a cab.” Caleb watched the cab zoom past.

“Now he’s ahead of us.” Leaning back in his seat, Aaron grinned at Samuel.

Samuel tried to grin back. He really did. But it felt like a grimace.

Isabelle rubbed her upper arms.

He whipped his head around to stare at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Samuel. I’m fine.”

“That’s not the first time you’ve done that. Rubbed your arms.”

“They itch. That’s all. If that is the least of our worries, we’re a happy little group.” Her voice grew soothing. “Don’t worry. I truly am well, you saved me, and together we can do what must be done.”

“Yes.” She thought she knew him so well, yet she didn’t comprehend the breadth and depth of the conflict that raged within him.

None of the Chosen Ones did. They thought he was vulgar, obnoxious, irritating. They had no idea he used those traits to hide his true character from them . . . and from himself. They had no idea he was weak, easily tempted . . . tainted.

Traffic was impossible, start and stop, cars crammed together, door handle-to-door handle. In other words, typical Manhattan. The lanes slowed even more as they approached Times Square.

Yet for all their stately speed, Samuel’s heart pounded as if he were running. Turning his head to look at Isabelle, the miracle beside him, he said passionately, “Once we get this taken care of, I never want you to heal anyone ever again.”

Isabelle was quiet. Finally, she said, “We’ll talk about that later.”

He took a breath to argue.

“Crap!” Caleb thumped his head on the back of his seat.

“What?” Samuel looked around in alarm.

“Charisma is riding her bicycle,” Caleb said.

Samuel craned his neck, saw Charisma spin past. “That girl is such a pain in the ass. Ever since she saw the special on New York City messengers, she’s been riding that blasted thing all over town. Doesn’t she realize how important this is?”

“I think she does.” Isabelle’s rebuke was clear in her tone.

“In this traffic, she’s going to get there sooner than we are,” Jacqueline said.

Samuel exchanged glances with the other guys.

Women
. They always stuck together.

“Where’s Genny?” Rosamund asked.

John glanced at his phone. He smiled the way he always did when he talked about Genny. “She texts that her cab is there, circling the block.”

“Then we’re all in place.” Samuel took a breath as they passed Times Square and headed for SoHo, to the site of the blast that demolished the Gypsy Travel Agency and everything it stood for.

As they reached their destination, Isabelle slid her arm around his shoulders and hugged him. “It’s okay, Samuel. This will work.”

“If we keep you alive long enough to get you to the meeting,” he replied vehemently. Then he shivered in a fear that had nothing to do with his anxiety for her, and everything to do with his own weakness and the secret knowledge that Darren and Patricia were right—he wasn’t good enough for Isabelle.

In fact, he wasn’t a good man at all.

“I’m alive.” Isabelle peered out the window, up at the behemoth rising on the same spot where the Gypsy Travel Agency had had its headquarters. “But I never thought that to stay that way, I’d have to enter the Osgood Building to confront the devil himself.”