Storm of Shadows (10 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #General

BOOK: Storm of Shadows
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Rosamund looked at her watch again. “I have a date. With Lance Mathews. I really need to get ready early because . . . um, I don’t usually use makeup and stuff and I don’t do a very good job.”
“Don’t worry about the makeup,” Charisma said. “I’ll help, and when I’m done, you’ll look great.”
Rosamund looked at her in alarm.
From the top of her black and purple dyed hair to her purple-painted toenails, Charisma was an original. Her black eyeliner and dark red lipstick had been tattooed on, and another tattoo curled along her spine to bloom by her left ear. Yet for all the artifice, she was smart and strong and determined. If any of them survived the challenges ahead, it would be Charisma.
“Don’t worry,” Charisma said in a soothing tone. “I can do librarian makeup, too. But really, you’d better sit down.” Charisma plopped down on the couch. “At his age, Irving doesn’t move any too quickly.”
“Of course.” Rosamund sat beside Charisma. She reached for the nearest book, the one Isabelle had so carefully placed on top of the stacked papers.
Isabelle jumped a little.
Rosamund didn’t notice, of course. Instead she picked up the book and asked, “What are you reading?”
“
The Historian.
” Isabelle smoothly picked up the stack of papers. “It’s one of my favorites. Have you read it?”
Aaron took them, glanced at the top one, read
Chosen Procedures
written in scrawled, old-fashioned handwriting, and placed them on the computer desk away from Rosamund’s easy reach.
“No. I think it’s about vampires, right?” Rosamund decisively shook her head. “I don’t believe in the occult.”
Charisma’s eyebrows lifted. “Sucks to be you,” she muttered.
Aaron put a brotherly arm around her and squeezed—hard. “Charisma’s our comedian.”
Charisma elbowed him in the ribs.
“Really, who does believe in the occult?” Isabelle laughed indulgently, and met Aaron’s gaze. “Yet that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the story.”
“I suppose not.” Rosamund smoothed her hand across the dark cover. “But my father so strongly disapproved of anything involving the paranormal, he even yelled at me when I read
Dracula
.” She shuddered as if at a horrible memory.
“If you want to borrow
The Historian
, I won’t yell at you,” Isabelle said gently. She was beautiful in an exotic way, with delicate bones and faintly slanted eyes. She’d been adopted and raised by one of the best families in Boston, and Aaron speculated that somewhere in her unknown bloodlines, she boasted an Asian ancestor. She spoke in a high-class, Boston accent and wore platinum-set, one-carat diamond studs, a classic Chanel watch, and a three-carat platinum-set diamond ring. Sometime while Aaron had been out of the house, she had received replacements for the clothes that had been destroyed in the Gypsy Travel Agency explosion, for instead of jeans and a T-shirt, she wore what Aaron’s expert eye identified as a Tory Burch blue linen dress.
In his business, it paid to recognize the difference between a designer and a knockoff.
Yet Isabelle was barefoot; apparently, Charisma was not without her influence.
And neither was Isabelle.
Charisma must have plundered Isabelle’s wardrobe. Seeing Aaron eye her kilt-style pleated skirt, she bobbed up and into a little curtsy. “Like it?”
“Very nice,” he said. “Burberry, right?”
She sighed. “You know the weirdest things for a straight guy.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Sam stood in the doorway, examining Aaron in overdone masculine horror.
Aaron flipped him the bird.
Charisma plucked at her blue stretch camisole. “Can you guess this?”
“Armani’s spring collection.” He’d been at the showing, stalking Mrs. Malay and her stolen cache of pre-Columbian art.
“And the heels?” Charisma stuck out her foot and turned it from side to side, admiring the tacky gold sandal.
“I can’t begin to guess.”
“Ha! They’re Zappo’s! Since no one will let the womenfolk leave the house”—she was getting sarcastic about their enforced confinement—“we’ve been hitting the Internet with Irving’s credit card. It’s all about overnight shipping.”
“But what brand are they?” He was guessing something cheap.
“I dunno.” She shrugged. “But this outfit needed some pop.”
“Clearly.” The Chosen Ones had known each other for five days—five strife-ridden, challenging days—and from the first moment, Charisma had been his favorite. She made him laugh.
Aaron looked around. “We’re missing Jacqueline and Caleb.”
Samuel thumped his fists together.
“In bed again?” Jacqueline was their seer. Caleb was her bodyguard. In the days since the Gypsy Travel Agency had blown up, they had gone through hell. Now desperately in love, they seized every available moment to be together.
“They’re celebrating.” Charisma took off one of her heels and rubbed her foot. “They went down and got their marriage license.”
“I knew they were going to get married, but . . . their marriage license? Already? I was only gone a few hours.” Although the last few days had been life on fast-forward.
“That’s the plan,” Sam said. “He’s so freaked out because Jacqueline was kicked around and he wasn’t there to save her, and she’s so freaked out because of her mother, they want to be married in the eyes of God. They’re looking for a chapel or nondenominational church.”
“Okay.” Aaron supposed that made sense. “Wow.”
Irving appeared in the doorway, tall and thin, looking every day of his ninety-three years, and at the same time hale and hearty. He had recovered from the shock of losing so many friends and associates in the blast of the Gypsy Travel Agency building, and now showed the steel that had made him one of the pioneering CEOs of the twentieth century. He extended his hand to Rosamund. “Dr. Hall, how good to see you again. I’m so glad you managed to carve some time out of your busy schedule to visit me.” He was obviously unsure exactly what to say, so he cleverly said little.
“I knew she would enjoy your library,” Aaron said, “and I hoped we could convince her to return to help us find our prophecy.”
Irving frowned. “She can’t stay?”
“She has a date tonight,” Charisma said.
“With Lance Mathews,” Isabelle said.
Aaron looked right at Irving and said with meaning in his voice, “He’s the
other
guy.”
Chapter 9
R
osamund looked from Charisma to Isabelle to Irving to Samuel to Aaron.
They were talking in code. She could tell they were, but for all her talent at translation, she could only comprehend the actual words.
And really, why was this diverse group of men and women living together in Irving Shea’s mansion? Even she knew that was odd.
She needed to leave, and she had the perfect excuse. Standing, she said, “I probably ought to go now and get ready for my date.”
“My dear, you’ve come to see my private library, which I would love to show you. Furthermore, it has come to my attention your father has passed on. You must allow me to offer refreshments and my sympathies. You can’t refuse an old man who is feeling very, very guilty about his neglect.” Irving offered his arm. “This will take only a few minutes, and of course, as soon as you’re ready to go, McKenna will drive you home.”
Irving was right. She couldn’t refuse him, not when he was being so kind and thoughtful. Taking his arm, she walked with him toward the stairway, but she couldn’t resist looking back at Aaron.
He was following close on their heels, an Indian warrior stalking his prey.
Yet his presence reassured her.
Funny. She didn’t know if she liked him, and she was almost sure he didn’t like her, yet something about his presence comforted her. She knew, without a word from him, that he would never let anything happen to her. And not just because he wanted her to translate a prophecy, either. He seemed to understand her father had felt guilty about her mother’s death, and in a weird way, he’d almost seemed to think her father should feel guilty. Because Aaron was the kind of man who, regardless of the odds, would protect his woman from harm.
Not that she was his woman, of course, but . . .
“Here we are.” Irving guided her along the upstairs corridor to a tall, wide, hardwood door. He opened it and said with self-deprecating humor, “My private library is attached to my bedroom with a connecting door. At night, when I can’t sleep, I enjoy being able to rise and sit among the detritus of the ages.”
She stepped inside and realized Irving’s private library was more than a library; it was a repository of relics. Leather-bound texts and parchment scrolls shared the shelves with ornate antique fans and pottery. A complete and yellowed human skeleton hung on a stand in the corner. An African war mask grinned at her from one wall. A gracefully rendered copy of some unknown da Vinci painting hung on another. A worn leather chair sat between an illuminated world globe in a tall maple stand and a long library table stacked with books, scrolls, a Mesopotamian fertility goddess, and a crystal ball—a beautifully rounded glass ball sitting on a primitive carved wood base.
“Do you like it?” Irving was as eager as a boy.
“How spectacular! And peculiar.” She prowled deeper into the room. “It reminds me of a medieval alchemist’s library.” She sank down into one of the three leather office chairs located by the library table. “Only comfortable.”
“Thank you! When the Cho—children”—Irving stammered over the word—“came to live with me, I ordered some comfortable seating for them in case they wished to study the history of their . . . of the Gypsy Travel Agency.” He swallowed, and his brown eyes glistened with tears.
His grief broke her heart. “I was sorry to hear about the devastation of the company. I know how much that must have grieved you.”
In this she struck a chord, for the old man looked both fierce and anguished. “So many friends and associates gone, killed by an ancient enmity. When I think of the knowledge and experience destroyed in that blast—”
Aaron put his hand on Irving’s shoulder. “It was a tragedy, but we’ve got to look to the future.”
A woman’s voice spoke. “Isn’t that why Rosamund is here?”
In unison, Irving, Aaron, and Rosamund turned toward the door. A buff, handsome, grim-faced man stood there, but it was the tall, gorgeous, platinum blonde beside him who drew Rosamund’s gaze. The blonde wore leather gloves with the fingers exposed, and had the most peculiar amber brown eyes. . . .
She walked in slowly, holding her ribs as if she was in pain, and Rosamund saw a ring of bruises around her throat. Sometime in the very recent past, she had been attacked and hurt badly. Yet she scrutinized Rosamund so acutely, Rosamund was mesmerized.
Aaron said, “Rosamund Hall, this is Jacqueline Vargha and her fiancé, Caleb D’Angelo.”
“How do you do?” Jacqueline stripped off her gloves, then offered her bared hand. When Rosamund took it, Jacqueline placed her other hand on the crystal ball.
Rosamund felt a warmth flow to her from Jacqueline, a comfort, a confirmation. Without volition, she relaxed back into the chair.
In a tone of surprise, Jacqueline said, “Rosamund! You have come to find the prophetess.”
“Has she?” Irving seated himself in his leather easy chair and smirked at Aaron in ill-concealed satisfaction.
“She has,” Jacqueline assured him.
“The prophetess? The prophet is a woman?” Rosamund looked at Aaron in reproach. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I . . . didn’t know it mattered.” He had a twist on his lips that looked like pained amusement.
She didn’t have time for pained amusement. “Of course it matters. If the prophet is a woman, that greatly cuts down on the research. Traditionally, female prophets don’t get as much respect as male prophets, for in the great span of history they were frequently illiterate, so their prophecies are mentioned as mere footnotes by the men who recorded the divinations. Even if they were literate, they were usually a lot less verbose than men. The men always had to brag about themselves and give their credentials. The women said what they had to say and shut up.”

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