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I’ve seen . . . I’ve seen . . .” Zusane tilted her head. Her eyes became unfocused. Her body remained, but Zusane—her personality, her self —was no longer here. Beneath the expertly applied cosmetics, her complexion changed from pale to a light green, and her mouth worked helplessly.
    “What’s wrong with her?” Charisma whispered.
    “I don’t like this,” Aleksandr muttered.
    “Mother?” Jacqueline gripped Zusane’s hand. When she did, her eyes fluttered closed and she paled, too.
    Zusane shrieked. Shrieked so loudly, Jacqueline jumped, opened her eyes, and shook her head as if waking from a trance.
    “Look out!” Zusane screamed. She writhed. She flung out her arms. “Look out! It’s going to blow! There’s a bomb! Run! ”

Chapter 8

    I n Zusane’s whole lifetime of convenient visions and relentless overacting, Jacqueline had never seen her behave like this.
    “Oh, God. Oh, God!” Zusane’s gaze was fixed, her eyes wide and horrified. “Look. Look! It’s blown up!”
    “Mother!” Zusane was scaring Jacqueline, scaring her to death. “This bomb. Where is it?”
    Zusane shouted, “Fire! Fire! Oh, my God! The relics. They’re gone. The carnage! Look at the bodies. Blood. So much blood!”
    Jacqueline tried again. “Is it here ?”
    “It’s gone. It’s—fire! Fire! ” Zusane broke into a sweat and whimpered as if the flames burned her skin.
    “Mama, please. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Jacqueline wrapped her arms around Zusane, trying to contain her violent gestures, her wild thrashing.
    Nothing stopped Zusane. Nothing—no consoling murmurs, no reassuring pats—comforted her. Although Zusane was shorter than Jacqueline, she was solidly built and strong, and her struggles would leave bruises. But Jacqueline couldn’t leave her alone. She might hurt herself. She might break the circle, and Jacqueline knew all too well how dangerous that was.
    The other Chosen looked as if they didn’t know whether to lend a hand or run away.
    Desperately, Jacqueline glanced toward Caleb.
    Zusane’s shrieks had penetrated outside the circle, for he’d discarded his thin veneer of civilization. His eyes were fierce slits, his mouth compressed and his nostrils flared. The bodyguards had their weapons drawn, and Caleb gave orders that put them into high alert. Turning, he prepared to leap into the circle.
    Martha body-tackled him.
    Caleb threw a punch, realized at the last second who had brought him down, and barely avoided breaking Martha’s face.
    Martha held Caleb, talked fast, while Caleb stared into the circle. He wasn’t really listening, Jacqueline could tell, but he, too, understood the power of the circle.
    Zusane began to sob in deep, wrenching sounds that were all the more painful for lacking tears. “They’re all gone. They’re gone. Everything is gone. What will we do? What will we do?”
    The subway passengers turned and stared, hearing a commotion, but not quite able to see the figures inside the circle.
    “Are we safe?” Isabelle asked.
    “Inside the circle, we are,” Charisma answered. “It’s protected by—”
    “Chalk?” Isabelle looked remarkably calm, but her voice cracked with strain.
    “Enchantment,” Charisma whispered doubtfully.
    “Fire . . . gone, all gone . . .” Zusane’s voice was fading.
    “Mother. Talk to me. Where’s the fire? Who’s gone? What’s happened? ” Frantic to get through, Jacqueline shook her.
    Zusane blinked once. Twice. Like a marionette on strings, she turned her head in little jerks. She looked at her daughter. She saw her—and collapsed into her arms.
    Beneath her mother’s limp weight, Jacqueline staggered and went down.
    The men leaped forward. Tyler clutched at them; then under the combined load, his grip failed. Aaron and Samuel caught them a split second before their heads hit the concrete floor.
    Jacqueline freed herself from Zusane’s clutches, then ordered, “Lay her down.”
    Gently, the men placed Zusane,