Chains of Fire by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online

belt.
    The sky was clear, the moon was bright, and the headlights skimmed over the mountainous terrain, twisting like ice dancers performing a tango. Snow blanketed the icy road, driven by the wind to pile against the trunks of the evergreens and on the banks the plows had piled on the sides of the pavement.
    Samuel drove like a maniac over the snow-covered road, but she didn’t care. She trusted his driving, and she felt his urgency. His tight face, his intent gaze, his taut body—he was ready to fight any way he had to, with his mind and with his fists.
    “Tell me everything,” she said.
    He did, including the part where he probed the other guy’s mind, forced him to tell him the child’s location. She didn’t say a word of reproach. She saw the blood that stained the scarf on his head. She knew very well it had to be done that way to save the child.
    But he said, “What!” in that voice that snapped at her composure.
    “Nothing, Samuel. You did exactly right.”
    “All right then.” He slowed, turned off the headlights, drove using the moonlight.
    “If it’s bright enough to drive, they’re going to see us coming whether we have the headlights on or not,” she said.
    “We passed the drive to the château half a mile back.” He pulled over to the side of the road. “Give me thirty minutes.” He pointed at the clock in the dash. “That’ll make it twelve fifteen. Then drive in, headlights off, and I’ll bring the kid out.”
    “Why don’t we go in together?”
    “Right.” He laid on the sarcasm. “You’re going to be very helpful to me in your Parda spike-heeled strappy sandals.”
    “It’s called Prada. And these are Jimmy Choo. What if you get done early?”
    “I’ll call you.” He handed her his cell.
    She weighed it in her hand. “What if you don’t come out?”
    “Call the cops. And”—he handed her a small, loaded revolver—“use this if you have to.”
    She clicked off the safety. “Believe me. I will.”

Chapter 7

    S amuel opened the car door. The wind whistled in, biting at her. At him.
    “Sammy,” she said.
    He looked back at her.
    “Be careful.”
    He nodded, got out, and headed back up the road.
    Isabelle climbed over the console into the driver’s seat. She adjusted the mirrors, eased the car around to face the right direction, removed the voluminous mink and placed it in the back for the child. She examined his phone; it was a smartphone with lots of apps. . . . She played two games of Boggle. And checked the time.
    Only fifteen minutes had passed. It was midnight. She knew from experience the next fifteen minutes would drag, second by second, while she worried about Samuel. And about the child.
    This was the trouble with being a physical empath. When she touched someone who was hurt, she took on his or her injury. If the injured person had a gunshot wound, she developed a gunshot wound, drawing the pain and the shattered skin, muscle, and bone into herself. Using her gift, she healed her patient—and exhausted herself.
    So when she reversed the process and tried to hurt that person, she felt the injury like a shock to her system. The anguish echoed back and forth, amplified by her cruel intentions, and she had to fight her own ability to heal.
    Consequently, she wasn’t worth spit in a brawl.
    Samuel said she had been given the directive from the Powers That Be that she should not exchange blows. The other Chosen agreed.
    Even Isabelle agreed.
    But she didn’t have to like being left behind during a fight.
    Ten minutes left.
    She drove the car to the edge of the château’s driveway.
    Five minutes.
    Samuel’s phone rang.
    She snatched it up.
    “Come on. Come in. Door’s open.” His voice was gruff.
    She tossed down the phone and, with meticulous care, drove up the steep, winding driveway.
    Why had Samuel sounded so worried? The child wasn’t dead already, was he? On those rare occasions when the Chosen Ones failed, when they lost a child to the Others,