Storm of Visions by Christina Dodd Page B

disapproval of male seers. This is the first time the directors have tried to bring one in.”
    Zusane waved her hands around Tyler, close to his skin, but never touching.
    Tyler preened, flattered by her attention.
    She frowned.
    He spoke to her, smiling all the while. Brought her gaze up to his.
    And after a tense pause, she laughed and relaxed.
    “Martha would tell us that because of the lack of talent this year, they had to stoop to trying out a male seer,” Aaron said to Charisma.
    “Yes. I think you’re right.” Charisma shivered. “Spooky, isn’t it, to think we’re the weakest group since the Chosen Ones were formed.”
    “I don’t really know what difference it makes,” Aaron said indifferently. “It’s not like we have to do anything but what we’re good at.”
    Charisma shot him a cautious, sideways glance.
    Remembering the directors’ slick description of his duties, he mulled and realized—they were paying him well, promising him protection, and if they were telling the truth, they asked very little in return. “What can go wrong?”
    “In ordinary times, a job at the Gypsy Travel Agency is dull.” Charisma positively sparkled with reassurance.
    He wasn’t buying it. “In extraordinary times?”
    “Ohhh . . . I suppose you could say that in the past, extraordinary times have been . . . exciting.”
    “Is that a euphemism for ‘dangerous’?” He’d joined up to get away from “dangerous.”
    “You really ought to read that book,” she told him.
    “As soon as I get out of this circle,” he promised.
    Zusane stood between Isabelle Mason and Samuel Faa, and her frown returned and deepened. She threw her arms out in a wide, encompassing gesture. Her sequins shimmered in the fluorescent light. Her fingers, manicured with red, formed wide stars. “Never in my experience have I sensed something like this.”
    From outside the circle, Aaron heard a ripple of amusement.
    Zusane paid no attention. “There is something very wrong with this combination, a whiff of something rotten, and until I can discover what is wrong, I cannot release this team.”
    The laughter in the subway grew, and Aaron did a quick check. The New Yorkers were pointing at this suit-wearing, dangerous-looking Italian guy carrying a long-legged jean-clad blond girl. He had her in a fire-man’s lift, she was kicking and shrieking, and the odd couple was headed straight for them.
    Didn’t that just figure? Because right now, this subway station was the epicenter of oddness.
    Relentlessly, Zusane plowed on. “Each of you, come close so I can discover the discordance. . . .” She caught sight of the Italian and the girl. Her voice trailed off. Melodrama fell away from her like a discarded cloak. She tapped her toe. She narrowed her eyes. She looked like a shrewish wife—or a disapproving mother.
    The Italian strode forward, ignoring the laughter, ignoring the blonde’s kicks to his ribs. He kept his gaze fixed on the circle.
    Just outside the chalk line, he dropped the girl to her feet, steadied her with his hands on her arms, and looked down at her, demanding . . . something.
    The girl almost flamed with fury. “I won’t!” she shouted at the guy.
    The guy didn’t move. He simply stared at her.
    Zusane glared at her.
    The girl set her jaw and said, “I won’t!” again. But the words were softer now, almost dreamy. Perspiration popped out on her forehead, and she lifted her hair off her neck. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, a slow, hypnotic motion, and Aaron could almost see her consciousness fade.
    Everyone in the circle, everyone outside it, watched, spellbound by anticipation.
    Drawn by a certainty he couldn’t explain, Aaron looked at Zusane. She leaned forward, hand on her chest, yearning etched on her face.
    She loved the girl, but she wanted something from her. Or maybe . . . she wanted something for her.
    In that instant, the girl snapped back to place, to the moment. She pushed at the