Authors: Christina Dodd

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

Storm of Shadows (12 page)

BOOK: Storm of Shadows

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Aaron wanted to shake him. “She
knows
you.”

“My career has spanned seventy years . . . so far. I’ve met a lot of people—”

“She feels so strongly about you she hunted me down to pass on a message.”

“I wish I could see her.” Irving tapped his forehead. “That might jog something loose. This is the curse of being an old man. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Aaron wasn’t buying it. Not Irving’s professed ignorance or his pretend innocence. He’d seen the old guy use his age to manipulate circumstances before. He knew he was doing it now. But it didn’t matter; if Irving wouldn’t talk, Aaron couldn’t make him. “All right. You’ve got the message.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. No! Wait.” Aaron stopped Irving with a touch. “Was Rosamund’s mother one of the Chosen?”

“No. What makes you think that?”

“According to Rosamund, Elizabeth Hall had tattoos on her fingers that looked like a primitive alphabet, she was a miracle at translation, and it sounds as if she was murdered. Maybe by an Other.”

Irving hesitated.

Aaron exploded with frustration. “Oh, for God’s sake, Irving. What difference does it make if I know Elizabeth Hall was Chosen?”

The closemouthed old man weighed how much information to release before he admitted, “She wasn’t Chosen. At that time, we didn’t need someone who could translate old texts. But she was one of the Abandoned Ones, and yes, she had a gift.”

“Was she murdered by the Others?” Aaron insisted.

“I don’t know that. If it’s true, then the Others have been seeking this prophecy—or a prophecy—for years.”

“Good to know.” Aaron was playing catch-up, seeking their prophecy with a girl who, although not gifted, was the translator they needed. Or at least, Jacqueline said so, and so far, as their seer, she had been eerily accurate. “How many more people are like Elizabeth Hall, out in the world with gifts, and we know nothing about them?”

“Too many, and every day there are more.”

“Can’t we get them? To help us?” Aaron gestured wildly. “In case you haven’t noticed, Irving, we’re in dire straits!”

“I didn’t make the rules. I’m old, but not old enough to have anything to do with the rules!” Irving was exasperated. “We’re allowed seven every seven years. We can replace one who is lost, but we can’t have more than seven official Chosen in one cycle. We base . . . that is, the board of directors based their decisions about whom to choose on what our upcoming needs appeared to be, and according to the strength of the talents and gifts given.”

“The strength of the talents and gifts
that you know about
.”

“Exactly. Because we don’t find all the Abandoned Ones. Some of them escape detection altogether and die. Some of them are taken by the Others to be raised in evil. And some are raised in orphanages or by foster parents, and we never know who they are.”

“It’s a lousy world.”

“It’s your job to make it better.”

“I know that!” Aaron’s frustration with their lack of action—everyone’s frustration at their lack of action—chewed at his composure. Knowing that their fate currently rested in the hands of a girl with no belief in the Chosen Ones or their mission made him tense and snappish. And the pressure Irving so skillfully applied made Aaron say, “I didn’t ask to make the world better, but I’m in now, Irving. I’m sticking with my compatriots—except, gee, we’ve already been betrayed by one Chosen and we’re down to six. We need someone else. What are we going to do about
that
, Irving?”

“I don’t know.” Irving sagged against the wall. “The number of gifted has been steadily dwindling in past years. That’s why we pulled in Aleksandr, although he hasn’t a gift that we know of and he’s young. Very young. We hope his gift will appear. Worse, the records were destroyed in the explosion, so I haven’t a clue of the Abandoned Ones available to us.”

This time, the old guy was so obviously distressed, Aaron believed him. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”

Irving’s eyes narrowed as he thought. “Except . . . well, no.”

“You have someone?”

“A previous Chosen, but he . . . he’s not stable.”

“What does ‘not stable’ mean?”

“He can’t control his gift. Last time he used it, he created disaster.”

“That doesn’t sound too good.” Because the only disaster Aaron had experienced so far had been the destruction of the Gypsy Travel Agency, and that was a biggie. “You keep thinking. In the meantime, I’m off to do my job.”

“Don’t get caught,” Irving warned.

Fury at being trapped in these circumstances grabbed at Aaron, and he snarled, “I was only caught once, and I suspect I had help from the Gypsy Travel Agency.”

“Yes,” Irving agreed, “and if we can hook you, so can the Others. So be careful. Be very, very careful.”

Chapter 11

I
t was after six p.m. when Aaron walked into the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library and up to Jessica’s desk. The main room was quiet; two elderly women sat together, a heavy art tome spread out before them on the table. A student with papers placed haphazardly around him snored peacefully on the carpet. Unfortunately for Aaron, Jessica’s shift was over and she’d been replaced by some guy, and not even a gay guy, which might have worked to Aaron’s advantage. The boy was just some kid working his way through college.

Aaron put on his best stuffy official act and said, “I’m Aaron Eagle. I was here earlier to meet with Dr.

Hall. I took her to examine some manuscripts owned by my employer, and she asked me to return for her notebook.”

The kid—his nameplate said he was Dylan—studied Aaron. “I heard she had a date with some really hot stud. I take it it’s not you.”

Damn. Jessica had talked to him before she left. “Apparently the date fell through. Disappointing for her.” Aaron shrugged the tiniest bit. “But not surprising, you know?”

Dylan’s eyes grew cold. “I like Rosamund, and I don’t think she’s nearly the dog everyone else thinks she is.”

Great. Aaron had just set the kid’s back up.

“Anyway,” Dylan said, “I can’t let anyone into Rosamund’s area without an appointment.”

“She needs that notebook.” Aaron pulled out his cell phone. “What if I call her and she can tell you what she needs and you go down and get it?”

“No one goes in Rosamund’s area unless she’s there. Those are the rules.” The kid was not about to back down.

Part of Aaron’s job was recognizing when to admit defeat. He never made a scene; a scene attracted attention, and he didn’t really want anyone to remember he’d been here at all. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I was just hoping . . . oh, well.” He nodded. “Have a good evening!”

“You, too.” Dylan watched him walk away, and Aaron didn’t have to see him to know he smiled. Nothing made a college kid as happy as making an overbearing adult toe the line.

As Aaron walked, he glanced at the security cameras, located them, then picked out a dark, empty, un-surveyed corner and made his way there. Standing quietly among the stacks, he perused the books, made sure he was alone . . . then dissolved into a dark mist that disappeared into the shadows.

Next, he did what he did best.

He made his way unseen to the antiquities department. He located Rosamund’s worn leather notebook, stuffed with papers. He surrounded it with himself, making it as much a part of the shadows as he himself was. Then the dark mist that was Aaron wafted like smoke through the cracks in the doors, down the corridors, and when he knew himself to be safe, out of the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library.

“Rosamund.” Aaron’s warm, deep voice spoke close to her ear. “I have your notebook for you.”

She turned her head. Her neck popped. Her eyes felt square, like they’d shaped themselves into pages. Aaron’s face swam before her tired gaze, and she said the first thing that came to her head. “Do you realize it is a crime that Irving hasn’t allowed these manuscripts to be scanned and uploaded to the public domain?”

He straightened. “You’re welcome.”IT

“Oh.” She looked down at the notebook he had handed her. “Thank you. They didn’t give you trouble about going down to the antiquities when I wasn’t there?”

“Since I’d been there earlier . . .”

“Good.” She’d been sitting for too long. She needed to get up, stretch, go to the bathroom. “This will be very helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She pushed away from the table and scrambled to her feet.

“When you come back, I’ll have a glass of warm milk ready for you.” Martha stood up out of Irving’s big leather easy chair. “That will help relax you so you can sleep.”

“That would be lovely, but I really need to—” Horrified remembrance flashed through Rosamund. She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh,
no
. I forgot my date with Lance Mathews!”

“Oh, dear,” Martha said.

“What time is it?” Rosamund looked around wildly. A clock. She needed a clock. Irving had jars of teeth in here, but he didn’t have a clock?

Aaron glanced at his watch. “Ten twenty.”

“I need to call him, to explain. . . .” She felt sick.

“If he works from eight to five, it’s a little late. You might wake him up.” Martha’s voice was low and gravelly, as if she smoked when she could sneak away. Cigarettes or maybe, as rough as she looked, cigars.

“But I . . . He was supposed to pick me up and take me to dinner!” Rosamund flushed hot and then cold as she imagined Lance Mathews standing on her doorstep, dressed in a suit like Aaron’s—no, in casual clothes like the ones he had worn earlier—and thinking she had stood him up.

Charisma wandered through the door, her black and purple hair in Pippi Longstocking braids. She wore pajamas, huge fluffy slippers, and a tattered robe, and was unwrapping an ice-cream sandwich and holding another one. “Hey, Rosamund, I thought about saying something to you about that date, but you were so absorbed I thought you must have cancelled.”

“I never have dates that aren’t blind dates, and then the guys never call back. The one time I actually have a guy look at me and like me and ask me out—and he’s
gorgeous
—and I forgot. How big a loser am I? I want to jump off a cliff.”

“I don’t care how gorgeous he is. He isn’t worth that,” Aaron said.

“It’s okay, Rosamund. A real man . . .” Charisma began. Then she bit into the ice-cream sandwich, and her face lit up. “Good,” she said. “Better than good.”

With some vaguely deep meaning in his voice, Aaron asked, “What were you saying before you started eating, Charisma?”

“Oh! Right.” Charisma coughed. “A real man totally gets when a woman gets involved in her work. I’m sure Lance Mathews will get how important your work is to you, too.”

“Really?” Rosamund looked from Charisma to Martha to Aaron.

They all nodded.

“Sure.” Charisma handed Rosamund the second ice-cream sandwich. “Here, eat this. It will make you feel better.”

Rosamund peeled back the paper.

“Aren’t I right about guys understanding how important a woman’s work is, Aaron?” Charisma asked.

“Heavens, yes. If Lance Mathews is half the man I think he is, he will understand completely.” Aaron turned to Martha. “Has anyone told Rosamund that Irving called the library?”

Rosamund paused, the ice-cream sandwich halfway to her mouth. “The library? You mean the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library? Why? What did he call for?”

“He convinced the board to give you a leave of absence to work for him,” Martha said.

“Irving’s a wily old thing,” Charisma said. “He insinuated that he wanted you to assess his collection because he was deciding who was going to get it. The head of the board, some snooty guy in a suit—”

“Mr. Perez.” Rosamund bit into the ice-cream sandwich, chewed and swallowed. “This is tremendous.”

“A gourmet ice-cream sandwich, orange ice cream between two oatmeal cookies.” Charisma polished hers off.

BOOK: Storm of Shadows

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