Authors: Christina Dodd

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

Storm of Shadows (13 page)

BOOK: Storm of Shadows

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Rosamund took another bite, and closed her eyes as she chewed. “Bliss.”

When she opened them, Aaron was watching her so intently she figured she must have a crumb on her face, and dabbed at her mouth.

“Apparently Mr. Perez bowed and scraped and let Irving have his way. You’re on loan to Irving as long as he wants you.” Charisma flung herself back into a chair, and declared, “That sandwich was
sick
. Now I can die happy.”

Rosamund didn’t know if she could die happy, but she had to admit, the infusion of flavors and sugars did wonders to decrease her anxiety about Lance Mathews. “So you really think he won’t be mad that I forgot him?”

Charisma made an amused face. “No. Geez, only a guy with an immense, silly ego would notice.”

“So true.” Aaron captured Rosamund’s hand, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite of her ice-cream sandwich.

“Hey!” she said.

“You’re right—it is good.” Still holding her hand, he looked into her eyes.

Her breath caught in her throat. That sculpted, strong, and bronzed face . . . that curious, intent expression . . .

What was wrong with her? She was interested in Lance Mathews, not Aaron Eagle, but when Aaron looked at her like that, he made her breath sing in her chest.

He let go of her hand.

She looked away.

No one seemed to notice the brief moment of chest-singing . . . except her.

“Irving’s bedroom is right through that door. But let me lock it on this side.” Martha went over and turned the key.

“Irving had a cot brought in here for you.” Charisma waved at the twin-sized folding bed. “And Isabelle and I put together clothes we thought would fit you. Irving wants you to be comfortable while you look for the prophecy.”

When Rosamund glanced back at Aaron, he was looking at Charisma with the kind of affectionate smile she never saw him use when he looked at her.

Nope. She was right. He didn’t even like her.

“Hey, Rosamund, probably you want to sleep now,” Charisma said.

“I’ll get your warm milk,” Martha said.

“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll sleep. Now . . . I need to use the facilities.” She edged toward the corridor, far too aware of three pairs of eyes keenly watching her. “I’m tired. I know I’ll sleep well. I really will.” She made it into the bathroom, shut the door behind her, locked it and leaned against it.

She understood the situation. She really did. They desperately wanted an explanation about the explosion at the Gypsy Travel Agency, what it meant and what would happen next. They thought she could find that explanation . . . and when she was engrossed in her research, she believed she could provide it, too.

But her father had been so angry whenever she showed him her stories about fairies and dragons, witches and magicians. He had been so insistent that she forget all the things her mother had taught her about the Chosen Ones and their enemies.

How did she dare to imagine she could find a true prophecy among the multitude of farcical ones? Irving had gone to great lengths to keep her here, but she
had
to find a life to live that did not include research.

If she could only get it started.

Remembering the way Aaron looked at her, as if she were the village idiot . . . remembering the way Lance Mathews looked at her, as if she were the first course of a meal . . . she knew what she had to do.

Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she texted Lance Mathews.
sorry missed r date. try again?

Chapter 12

L
ance Mathews threw his phone across the office and hissed in annoyance. “The stupid little—”

From the desk in the shadows, a smooth, quiet voice spoke. “Mr. Mathews, you know I don’t appreciate inappropriate language.”

The sound of Osgood’s rebuke was enough to calm Lance’s fury. Or rather, his rebuke was enough to
freeze
Lance’s fury.

Because no one knew better than Lance just who, and what, Osgood was.

“It is bad enough that the Chosen recruits escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency.”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

“No. The people whose fault it is have been punished.”

“Are they dead?” If Osgood had taken his irritation out on them, it might go better for Lance.

“No. They were lucky that I always find it amusing to hunt inexperienced Chosen Ones. It adds a piquancy to eternity.”

“Right.” Lance’s mouth grew dry.

“But as for you—you should have secured the girl when you first made contact.” Osgood’s tranquil voice held a hint of a Southern accent.

“I thought it would be better if she anticipated our date.” When actually, Lance had been intent on putting off his painful duty as long as he could.

“Excuses, Mr. Mathews?”

“No.” Excuses were a waste of time. Osgood had a way of always knowing the truth.

On the surface, Osgood was nothing more than a New York City businessman, a very successful one, with nightclubs and bars all over the city, the East Coast, and beyond. He owned whorehouses, too, and single-handedly had gained the monopoly on prostitution, illegal gambling, and drugs. If there was money to be made on immorality, he made it.

Yet no one—not the media, not the government, not the man on the street—really knew anything about him. He owned enough police officials and politicians to make sure of that.

Osgood had no family. He had no friends. He had come up from nowhere and no one knew where he slept—or if he slept.

Lance could have sold the story on Osgood for a lot of money, but he wasn’t fool enough to try. No one rolled on Osgood and lived. In fact, it was a fast and easy way to die in agony—and that wasn’t the end of it.

The problem was what happened after death.

Because Osgood owned the monopoly on suffering in the afterlife, too.

At some point, Osgood had invited the devil into his soul.

Together, they made one hell of a team.

Now Lance stood in Osgood’s bare, dim office in his high-rise in midtown, and asked, “Who the h—Who knew that homely thing would go off with another man?”

“This kind of disappointment, especially coming from you, frustrates me. And you know how much I dislike frustration.”

Lance risked a glance toward the gray metal desk.

Osgood hadn’t moved, so maybe Lance would come out all right this time.

“It won’t happen again,” he said fervently.

“I trust not, but I like to give guidance when I can.”

A chill ran up Lance’s spine.

“Take off your shirt and come here.”

Lance didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare not.

“Oh, come, Mr. Mathews,” Osgood’s voice cajoled. “Surely you know I’m not going to eliminate you at this point. I own seven Others, each capable in his or her own way. You are the one best qualified for this job, and I would have a difficult time replacing you.”

“I know.” Driven by terror and pulled by hope, Lance pulled off his shirt. Holding it in tight fists, he stumbled toward the desk.

“You shouldn’t be so afraid.” Now Osgood sounded reproachful. “I realize how very much you cherish that pretty face of yours. That perfect hair. The body, so perfectly created for sin. And this youthful beauty is so useful to me. I wouldn’t hurt that tender outer surface.”

“Thank you.” Lance knelt before Osgood and stared up toward his face.

There was nothing remarkable about Osgood’s looks. He was past middle age, small-boned and not tall, bald and descended from some unmemorable branch of the white European populace. What hair he had was wispy brunet, his eyes were an indistinctive brown, and he was lightly tanned. He wore good clothes and expensive shoes, and was always formally dressed. He seldom showed expression; he looked the same when he was working, when he was fucking, when he was piloting his plane or threatening a debtor.

Right now, he wore that same serene face—and he scared Lance half to death.

“Half to death.” Osgood plucked the thought from Lance’s mind, and mused aloud. “Exactly. Half to death would work very well.”

“What are you going to do?” Lance’s voice quavered.

Osgood traced the mark of the flame on Lance’s chest. “Do you know, on the day your mother tossed you in the garbage, you received this mark as part of your gift, a compensation for the lack of a family’s love.” He held up a hand. “I had nothing to do with it, I assure you. I don’t share power. But I do harness it.”

“I know.” Lance thought of the Others, going about Osgood’s business all over the night-clad city.

“The thing about marks like this is—once the flesh and the spirit have been ripped apart, a weakness forever remains. And for someone like me, that’s opportunity, golden opportunity. It would be a shame not to take advantage of that weakness, now wouldn’t it?” Osgood warmed to his subject. “For instance, Mr. Mathews, I can feel your heart thumping beneath the flame. Racing, really. Are you frightened?”

Lance nodded, too scared to look away from that incredibly calm face.

“You should be.” Osgood flattened his hand on Lance’s chest. A blue flame lit in his eyes, burning like the hottest embers of hell.

And pain slashed like a knife into Lance’s heart.

He collapsed on the floor, writhing as agony tightened his shoulders and spread up his neck.

Osgood pushed back his chair and watched. “It appears you have a previously unrecognized heart defect. Probably it runs in your family—maybe you got it from your whore of a mother, or from the abusive sot she married.”

Sweat broke out on Lance’s forehead, trickled down his spine. He couldn’t breathe; his skin turned cold. He wanted to vomit; he couldn’t unlock his jaw.

“Death from a heart attack can take several minutes, and as I understand it, those minutes of torture seem to go on forever. That’s what makes a heart attack so interesting to view. The victim struggles so much—well, if he can.”

Lance could barely hear Osgood’s voice through the buzzing in his ears.

“Actually, the usual first sign of a heart attack is death. Did you know that, Mr. Mathews?”

Red spots paraded before Lance’s eyes. His struggles were growing more convulsive, less constant.

“But in your case, if you perform well and don’t make any more silly mistakes, your heart defect might remain unnoticed for the rest of your very long, long life.”

Suddenly, the pain was gone. Lance could breathe again. And he did, lying on the floor, gasping in the sweet, warm air of life.

“Mr. Mathews, I don’t want you to think that I’ve punished you unduly. After all, it was only this one little tiny failure.” Osgood waited for a response, then gently prompted, “Right?”

Lance gathered all his strength, and wheezed, “Right.”

“But nor do I want the Others to think I’ve favored you unduly. That would cause dissension in the ranks, and worse, it might encourage sloppiness with their work.”

This time, Lance knew to agree right away. “I understand.”

“So should you contemplate failing me again, please remember this hitherto undetected heart defect, the agony involved in dying of a heart attack, and how very long it can take.”

“I will.” The memory would hang like a knife above Lance’s head every day of his life.

“Now, I suggest you make your plans to take command of Dr. Hall and her knowledge so that when she finds that prophecy, it is ours.”

“I will. I swear I will.”

Osgood flicked his fingers in Lance’s direction. “Get out.”

Lance crawled toward the door.

When he reached it, Osgood called, “Mr. Mathews.”

Lance looked back.

Osgood touched his own chest, and once again, his eyes glowed blue. “Remember.”

BOOK: Storm of Shadows

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