Chains of Ice (37 page)

The last thing he remembered was the surprise of seeing John get loose from his bonds. Gary remembered flying through the air, hitting the wall, rolling down the stairs. The fear, the agony of bones breaking, then . . . nothing.

Where was he?

He could hear voices nearby. But who?
The Chosen Ones? The Others?

Osgood?

A chill formed on his skin.

Not Osgood.
After this failure, anything was better than Osgood.

Gary remained perfectly still, eyes closed, straining to listen, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.

“Back again . . .”

“Should have been a little nicer to us the first time . . .”

“I told you a miracle like that would never last . . .”

“It’s a tragedy he had to end this way. If only he would have cooperated, what a contribution to medical science he could have made!”

Women’s voices, all of them. Three were eerily familiar. The fourth was cool, clinical.

But women . . . Gary was relieved. He could charm them or, if they were venal, he could overcome them. It was time to make his move.

He tried to open his eyes.

He couldn’t.

He tried to move his hands.

He couldn’t.

He tried to speak.

They must be restraining him! He must be drugged!

Because no matter how he struggled and fought, the women just kept chatting over the top of him as if he had all the life of a wooden plank.

“Where’s he been?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like he sent us a Christmas card.”

He heard wheels on a floor. Something metal rattled near his ear.

“From the shape he’s in, he’s lucky he lived through this.”

“Lucky?” A snort.

“All right. He’s lucky he can’t feel anything. Is that better?”

I can feel things!

Something cold touched his arm on the skin inside his elbow.

He recognized the smell. A sharp, stinging scent . . .

Something bit him there.

That cool, clinical voice again. “Please remember, it’s been well documented that some coma patients can hear and understand conversations although they can’t respond.”

Coma?

“Yes, Doctor.”

Doctor?

“Do you have any special orders about the IV, Doctor?”

IV?

A digging pain in his arm.

Then Gary heard it.

Drip.

An eternal, slow, agonizing pause.

Drip.

Another pause.

Drip.

Gary screamed . . . but he never made a sound.

John nodded his head. “Um-hm.” He was texting, not paying attention to the two women.

“At least now we’re going against traffic.” Taking off one of her bracelets, Charisma slid it over Genny’s arm.

The pain in Genny’s head began to ease.

John put away the phone. “Everyone’s meeting us at the hospital. Jacqueline is bringing the other two leather bags.”

“I hope that’s all of them,” Charisma said.

He glared at her.

“What?” Charisma spread her hands. “It’s a legitimate concern!”

“That’s all of them,” Genny said.

“How do you know that?” Charisma wasn’t challenging her; she seemed genuinely curious.

“It’s developing a warmth and a glow. I think it knows that it’s going to join the others.” The silence in the cab grew profound as John and Charisma contemplated the leather sack Genny held in her hand.

Charisma bent forward and looked at John. “I thought you said she wasn’t gifted?”

“The
rasputye
must have affected her more than I had realized.” John took the sack and put it in Genny’s coat pocket.

“What does Isabelle say about Irving?” Charisma turned to Genny and explained, “Isabelle’s our empath. She can touch a person, take on their illness or hurt—if it’s not too bad, anyway—and help them heal.”

“I see.” Idly, Genny wondered how Isabelle’s gift would manifest in her own newfound sight. How would a healer look to her?

Tenderly, John wrapped his arm around Genny’s shoulders and shifted her close to him.

At once, she felt a low-level buzz of warmth. “I think you and John are healing me, too.”

“No, we can’t do that. But the right stones can ease your pain and I think John can share energy.” In the flash of the streetlights, Genny saw Charisma grin. “Think of us as really effective aspirin.”

“I’ll do that. Now—what about Irving?”

“Irving won’t let Isabelle cure him,” John said.

“He’s unconscious!” Charisma paused. “Isn’t he?”

“He is, but you know Irving has the strongest will of any man I know. He’s blocking her.” They passed over the bridge into Manhattan, and John said, “Not much longer now, Genny. Hold on.”

“I’m fine.” She was actually feeling a little floaty, as if she’d been given drugs; and she must have gone to sleep, because the next thing she knew, the lights at the hospital shone in her eyes.

John helped her out of the cab. Then John and Charisma put their arms under Genny’s and navigated their way upstairs.

As soon as the elevator opened on the waiting room, a tall man in a dark business suit joined them, walked with them, and shot words like weapons. “Everyone’s here. You’re the last to arrive. The medical staff let us all go in Irving’s room. Isabelle says he’s dying. That creepy woman Dina is beside the bed and she won’t let anyone take her place. Isabelle says Dina’s the only thing that’s kept him here so long. Isabelle thinks he’s waiting until everyone arrives to pass on.” He scowled at Genny. “
What’s
wrong with her?”

“What does it look like, Samuel?” Charisma snapped. “She’s been tortured.”

“Oh, for the love of . . . can’t we just have a quiet deathbed scene without even
more
drama?” Samuel strode on ahead.

“Mr. Sensitivity?” Genny asked.

John laughed gruffly. “Exactly.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Charisma said, as if that explained everything.

They made their way past the nurses’ station to the door, still swinging from Samuel’s arrival.

“Is this all of you?” A woman in scrubs stood; she looked both annoyed and worried. “Listen, I am sorry for the loss you’re facing, but there are a lot of really sick people on this floor. No matter what happens, keep it quiet.”

Charisma stopped and rubbed her shoulder, read her name tag and said, “We will, Makayla. We promise. Thank you for letting us be with him now.”

Under Charisma’s ministrations, Makayla visibly relaxed. “So many old people die alone because there’s no one left. . . . Well, go on.” She waved them on with the chart in her hand. “Remember—quiet!”

John guided Genny into the hospital room stuffed with people—thirteen of them, now that John, Charisma, and Genny had arrived.

Jacqueline and her husband, Caleb, stood shoulder to shoulder.

Aaron and Rosamund held hands.

Aleksandr was sprawled in a chair, a hand loosely held over his face.

Isabelle stood on one side of the bed, Dina on the other.

Samuel leaned against the wall, as close to Isabelle as he could get.

Their support team, McKenna and Martha, sat in chairs at the foot of the bed.

The newcomers got nods and whispered greetings, but the focus, of course, was the bed.

Since John had left, Irving had lost ground. His eyes were sunken into his head, his skin looked paper thin, and his hands, resting on the sheets, clearly showed the bones, the veins, and the arthritis that plagued him.

Tears welled in Charisma’s eyes, and she made her way to join Isabelle at the side of the bed.

Martha rose and came to John’s side. In a low voice, she said, “John,
she
must be made to leave.”

“Who?” he asked.

She gestured toward Dina. “Her, of course.” “Apparently, Irving wants her here.”

Genny tugged at his arm.

“Are you insane? That’s
Dina
. She is one of the Others, and she has spent her life seeking vengeance on Irving for what he did to her!” Martha said.

That got John’s attention. “What did he do to her?”

Martha glared at him, folded her lips tightly over the secret. Then in a furious whisper, she burst out, “Dina’s probably in his brain right now tormenting him as he dies!”

Genny tugged his arm again. “John? Listen . . .”

John patted her hand. “One minute.” He had only a few minutes ago suffered an attack on his own brain, and he would not have Irving suffering the same fate. To Martha, he said, “Isabelle said Dina was the reason he was hanging on.”

“Because he loves her?” Martha’s disdain scorched the air.

“I don’t know. Does he?” John asked.

“John?” Genny’s grip on his arm slipped. “I’m sorry, but I’ve lost my oomph.” She collapsed.

John whipped around and caught her as she fell. Aleksandr vacated his chair.

John slid her into the seat.

Genny’s eyes were closed, her complexion the color of parchment, and her head hung as if it was too heavy to lift.

Isabelle came at once to her side.

Samuel followed.

“Can you help her?” John asked.

Isabelle clasped Genny’s hand, stroked her arm, knelt beside her and cupped her face. And staggered. “John, she has a concussion!”

“Avni slammed her forehead into the wall.” If Avni wasn’t already dead, he would kill her again.

“Somebody struck the back of her head, too.” Isabelle closed her eyes. “Let me work on that first. Next I’ll take care of the worst of the burns.” Then, although nothing had been said, she ferociously turned on Samuel. “I’ll be fine. It’s what I do. Stop growling!”

If John had had a smile in him, he would have smiled at those two. Instead, he watched as Isabelle spoke softly to Genny, got her permission to heal her, then with a sure touch worked her magic.

When she was done, Genny straightened, her eyes clear and thoughtful as she met Isabelle’s gaze. “Thank you. I am well.”

“Get some rest tonight.” Isabelle started to rise.

Samuel grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

“I can stand up by myself,” Isabelle snapped.

“You’re tired after the mission today,” he answered.

She took a patient breath. “We are all tired.”

Taking her arm, he turned it until the pale evidence of a burn was clearly visible. “And you have just exhausted yourself to heal Genny.”

“I didn’t heal her. She healed herself. I simply helped.” She yanked herself free of his grip and strode back to the head of the bed.

“Whew, didn’t see that coming,” Genny whispered.

But John heard her. “We’re all hoping they settle what’s between them before they explode.”

“And rip off each other’s clothes.” Genny stroked her arm where a pale scar matched the one on Isabelle’s arm.

For the first time since he’d seen Genny tied to the chair, her color was good, her gaze steady—she looked strong and healthy.

She looked like the Genny who had loved him, fought him, left him behind. Like the woman he had mourned and missed for over two years.

Lust kicked him in the gut.

To hell with Samuel and Isabelle. If there were any clothes to be ripped, he wanted them to be Genny’s.