Storm of Visions by Christina Dodd Page A

with him for one golden moment before she remembered her hostility and turned away.
    “Lucifer is a fallen angel, and that is a powerful being. But he is not in charge of this world or any other.” Irving spoke slowly, weighing each word as if it were gold. “Mr. Faa, unless you accept that, you’re going to have a difficult time with your role in the organization. The Chosen Ones who succumb to hopelessness are those who succumb to the blandishments of the enemy.”
    Samuel was a lawyer. He exuded power in the way he dressed, the way he talked, and in his person. He did not appreciate their amusement, or having the matter spelled out by a ninety-three-year-old man. His dark eyes flashed with resentment, and Caleb made a note to keep an eye on him, too.
    In this room, the only people he trusted were Jacqueline and himself, and he knew given the chance, Jacqueline would put a knife through his heart.
    But at least she had good reasons. Personal reasons.
    Aleksandr cleared his throat twice before he managed to croak out, “Are you saying the Chosen Ones can switch sides?”
    “Yes, indeed.” As if pained, Irving placed his hand on his chest. He looked down toward the table, and whispered, “Any of you can break your word and betray us.”
    “Has it happened before?” Jacqueline asked softly.
    He looked up as if surprised to see her there. “Not often.” His voice was slow and soft. “Not often, but it does happen, and whenever it does . . . it is a failure for which I pay, and pay, and pay.”
    A chill crawled over Caleb’s skin. For the first time in Caleb’s memory, Irving’s mind seemed to be wandering. He was old, but he had always seemed so sharp, so intelligent. Had he been fooling them all?
    Or . . . had Caleb been seeing what he wanted, an infallible leader of the Chosen Ones?
    In fact, was the old man in the early stages of dementia? Of Alzheimer ’s?
    Was he the one who had somehow given up the security of the Gypsy Travel Agency to the enemy? Had he caused the murder of so many gifted men and women?

Chapter 11

    I n all the time Jacqueline had known Irving, she’d never thought of him as old. But right now, his voice was low and shaky, his hands had a tremor, and the skin under his eyes drooped as if he was sad and weary. “Irving, you can’t assume that responsibility for all time. You can’t protect everyone. Besides . . . that means the Others can come to our side, also.”
    “Yes. It has happened. But seldom, so seldom, and we don’t ever really trust them, do we?” Irving stared into Jacqueline’s face, pleading for something. For insight or kindness or . . . understanding.
    She glanced at Caleb, at McKenna, at Martha, not comprehending this sorrow that seemed to weigh so heavily on Irving.
    Caleb shook his head slightly. He didn’t know, either, and for all that she wore her dislike of Caleb and his methods like a badge of honor, she believed him.
    But McKenna stepped forward. “Sir, I hate to interrupt so lively a discourse, but should I serve the after-dinner refreshments here? Or would you prefer to take them in the comfort of the library? The library is warm and cheerful; I’ve lit a fire, and there’s the pool table should the young people wish to play, and of course, there is a table for poker and other gaming indulgences.”
    Jacqueline fought the tug of amusement. McKenna was ever the stern Celt, disapproving of gambling in any form. Yet tonight, he was willing to suggest “gaming indulgences” to lift Irving’s spirits. Grasping Irving’s hand, she said, “McKenna is right. Let’s go to the library. On such a night, this room is too large and gloomy.”
    Irving tottered to his feet. “Those of you who work out on a regular basis should know that I have a thoroughly equipped gym down in the basement. I keep towels and workout garments. Just ask McKenna should you wish to indulge.”
    “Thank God,” Samuel pronounced. “I’m going to go nuts stuck in here if I