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Authors: Christina Dodd

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

BOOK: Storm of Shadows
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“He wanted you to stay in the real world.” And why? When Aaron had come down to the library basement with antiquities that needed to be authenticated or manuscripts that required translation, Dr. Hall had been brilliant, stiff-necked, and grim, yet unwillingly fascinated by the variety of Aaron’s interests and keenly interested in prophecies and the paranormal. Most important in Aaron’s mind was his sharp instinct for the genuine above the counterfeit.
Never, ever had he mentioned that he had a daughter.
Why had he so emphatically quashed Rosamund’s curiosity?
Why had he kept her a secret?
Had Dr. Hall foreseen a dread prophecy for her?
“Are you familiar with the legend of the Chosen?” Aaron asked.
“The Chosen . . .” He could almost see Rosamund flipping through the encyclopedia of her mind. “Yes. The Chosen and the Others. When the world was young, a beautiful woman gave birth to twins, each marked as something set apart from average people. Repulsed by their difference, she took them into the darkest woods—in these fairy tales, it always is the darkest woods—and left the babies for the wild animals to devour.” She looked at him inquiringly. “Is that the legend you mean?”
“That’s it. Do you know the rest?” He did. He’d been doing his reading—
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen,
the textbook of choice among his peers.
Rosamund continued. “Those two children were the first Abandoned Ones, babies left by their parents without love or care, and to compensate, given a gift of power. The babies survived. The girl was a seer. The boy was a fire-giver. They gathered others like them and formed two gangs, one for good—the Chosen Ones—and one for evil—the Others—and they fought for the hearts and souls of the Abandoned Ones.”
“A battle that goes on today,” he finished.
“Yes.” Her brow knit. “It’s not a very comforting fairy tale.”
“How many are?”
“Most have endings of some kind. The witch is tipped into the oven. The evil stepmother falls from a cliff—” She caught sight of his face. “All right, not very happy endings, but still, there’s none of that ‘the battle goes on today’ stuff.”
“Yet it’s so much more realistic to know there can never be an end, or at least not until the”—he could scarcely stand to say the words—“until the Apocalypse.”
“If the legend of the Chosen Ones were true, which it’s not.”
Aaron wished that she was right.
But unfortunately for her and her future peace of mind, she was staring right into the eyes of one of the Chosen Ones.
Chapter 3
“W
hat I find of interest is the persistence of the story.” Rosamund warmed to her topic. “Do you know that the Chosen Ones are discussed in European and Arabic medieval texts, given credence in Chinese scrolls, and portrayed in Native American cave art?”
“I did know about the Native American cave art,” Aaron acknowledged.
“You’re Native American. Have you seen the cave art?” she asked eagerly.
“Once. Briefly.”
“Oh, I would love to view it in the original.” She clasped her hands at her chest and looked at him, bright-eyed and appealing.
“It was obliterated by a collapse.” At least he thought it must have been. He’d been too busy getting the hell out to look back and make sure.
“Oh.” She sagged in disappointment, then straightened. “I’ve read the details of the myth in the original Latin, drafted during Julius Caesar’s reign. I theorize that the reason the Chosen Ones is such a successful legend is because there’s a sense of continuity. Do you know that every seven years, a new seven Chosen are drafted to become protectors of the innocent?”
“I did know that.” He had not been happy about it, either.
In the throes of relentless enthusiasm, she said, “I’ve got a book that tells all about it. Wait here.”
A month ago, Aaron had been called to the Gypsy Travel Agency, a casual invitation he’d found odd in the extreme. Yet in his line of work, he found it best not to let oddities go uninvestigated. Once there in the cast-iron building that housed the agency, he’d been called before the board of directors, a bunch of white, business-suited, humorless men who laid the facts on the line.
They knew what he did for a living, they knew how he did it, and if he hadn’t signed the contract agreeing to go to work for them as one of this cycle’s Chosen Ones, they would have betrayed him to a certain Japanese businessman, a businessman with a grudge and the money to carry that grudge to its most extreme. It was blackmail, pure and simple, and if Aaron had not agreed to their terms, he would be dead by now.
But frankly, he’d signed their contract, then barely escaped the blast at the Gypsy Travel Agency when he and six others, strangers to one another, had been taken to be confirmed as the Chosen Ones. In the days since, their seer had been almost killed by one of her visions, he himself had been far too close to death for his own comfort, and his prospects weren’t looking any too cheery for the immediate future. Just getting to the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library had been an exercise in caution.
Yet for all their travails, the remaining six Chosen had bonded together, swearing fealty to one another and to their mission.
Now, if only Rosamund and her prophecies could help guide them in the right direction.
Rosamund returned with a leather-bound book, blew the dust off the top, and showed him the cover.
Taken aback, he said, “You’ve got a copy of
When the World Was Young: A History of the Chosen.
”
“It was published by some obscure press in the early sixties as the definitive story of the Chosen Ones, and best of all, it’s in English.”
“Yeah, that is helpful.”
Flipping to the table of contents, she found what she was looking for, then opened to the right page and read, “ ‘For seven years, the Chosen Ones are required to work tirelessly under the one they elect as leader to save abandoned children like themselves from the clutches of the Others. Then if they wish, they’re allowed to retire, as another group is brought in and trained to help the innocent.’ ”
“Does this book, or any of the texts or paintings you spoke of, indicate what happens when a tragedy occurs, and all the Chosen are killed?”
Or blown up the way the Gypsy Travel Agency had been blown up?
“Oh!” She lifted a finger. “Interesting that you should mention that. According to the Greeks, the Chosen Ones made Athens their home for centuries, and in 430 BC, at the height of their power, a plague of some vicious disease swept through the city. Of course, there continues to be debate as to the exact nature of the plague, and how it came to the city, but according to the historian for the Chosen Ones, it was introduced by the Others. The resulting misery and death killed almost a third of the populace and most of the Chosen, and caused Athens to lose the Peloponnesian War. Athens never recovered her former glory, and eventually passed her dominance to Rome.”
“So when the Chosen Ones fail in their efforts—”
“Death, suffering, and disaster result.” Rosamund sounded cheerful enough, but then, she didn’t believe in the Chosen.
He
had the gift and the mark of the Chosen.
He
was looking disaster right in the face.
In the five days since the blast, they had lost one of their own new members, and been forced to face the chance that they—and the world as they knew it—were doomed.
Worse for Aaron, and so much worse for Rosamund, her Sir Lancelot was no fair knight. He was one of the Others, and whatever he wanted with Rosamund and her prophecies, Aaron knew it could not be good.
Rosamund Hall had become a leading performer in a legend unfolding before her very eyes, and she didn’t even realize it.
“So
you’re
not superstitious?” Aaron asked.
“My father was a man concerned with facts.”
“I asked about
you
, not your father.”
“I’ve never seen any reason to believe the prophecies were anything but humbug.” Rosamund sounded regretful.
“Is that what your father called them? Humbug?” Aaron could hear old Dr. Hall saying that.
“The delusions of a weak and pitiful mind.”
Aaron could hear Dr. Hall saying that, too. “Your father didn’t believe the Chosen Ones had ever existed?”
“He never discussed that particular legend with me, but no.” She glanced at the tablet on the table. “Did I answer your question?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s good.” She adjusted the lighted magnifying glass over a glyph.
He’d lost her interest. “Listen—”
She glanced up, clearly startled to see him there. “Oh. Did I answer your question?”
“You already asked . . . Never mind. Listen, about Lance Mathews—”
Rosamund jumped like he’d stuck a pin in her. “That reminds me! On your way out, would you ask Jessica to make sure she calls me at five? I have to leave early.”
Something about her mushy smile put him on alert. “Five isn’t early.”
“I forget to leave sometimes.”
“Don’t you get locked in?”
“Sometimes. But my father left a lot of work unfinished, and this . . . this is . . . just think, my mother ’s work, just waiting for me to delve into . . .” She waved a hand over the tablet, and as if they’d caught her, she leaned toward them again, spellbound.
This girl was a wreck. “Why do you need to leave early?”
“To get ready for my date.”
Shit
. “Tonight. With Lance Mathews.”
She straightened her shoulders and stared at him . . . through her glasses, which were perched on the end of her nose. “Why not?”
“Tonight I was hoping you could come with me to see my friend’s library. Irving is ninety-three years old and has this incredibly impressive collection of antique manuscripts and artifacts. But he needs someone who understands what he’s got, someone who can help him out.”
“I don’t do appraisals.” She managed to sound snooty and insulted.
“It’s been appraised—world-class stuff.” He baited the hook. “The Smithsonian would be proud to add his collection to theirs.”
“Really.” Clearly, she didn’t believe him.
“I’m not an authority like you, or him”—a lie; he knew more about valuable antiquities than almost anyone in the world—“but Irving has had the money and the contacts to build his collection. I’ve seen Egyptian scrolls, European illuminated prayer books, Tibetan prayer wheels, early Incan quipu—”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
He finished with the assurance, “All bought legitimately or given to him by friends.”
She was right to be skeptical. The market for finding, stealing, and selling antiquities was huge and lucrative, and the scholars who actually worked in the field lamented the loss of important data. The pieces couldn’t be studied if they were moved from the excavation sites in the jungle or the desert into private libraries and personal museums by thieves willing to risk danger and death for a profit.
And some collectors would do anything to complete their collections, including stealing from each other, from public museums, or even from the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library. . . .
“Actually, Irving is the one who was wondering about the prophecies, and since I knew Dr. Hall was one of the world’s foremost experts . . . and he passed his torch to you. . . .” Aaron hoped the combination of temptation, guilt, and competition would work on Rosamund.
But she stood with her arms crossed.
“But you can’t come; you’ve got a date.” He hoped he disarmed her with his sad resignation, because he didn’t have any intention of failing.
“That’s right. I’ve got a date.” She sounded fiercely determined.
He turned away, dragging his feet a little, then snapped his fingers and turned back. “I’ve got an idea. Why not go with me now?”
“These are still working hours.” She looked so horrified, he might have suggested scribbling in crayon on the Magna Carta.

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