The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  So if he were a golfer, he'd be out of the irons and into his driver.

  With a groan, he initiated the process of heaving himself over and stretching his arm as far as he could. Pretty close to goal. Closer. Annnnd...almost.

  After a couple of batting passes and some fondling with the tips of his fingers, he finally managed to grab the old-fashioned receiver from its cradle. Even managed to get it over onto his chest without dropping the damn thing.

  Getting it up to his ear was a piece of cake, too.

  But oh, fuck from the dialing.

  He had to remove his IQ--er, IV. Messy, but necessary, the open port on the machine leaking clear shit onto the floor as his blood seeped out of where the tubing had been plugged into the crook of his elbow. Who cared. He'd mop it up...when he could stand without hurling.

  For a moment, as he stared at the phone's twelve buttons in their neat little square, he couldn't remember the digits. But desperation made his memory far more acute than it had any right to be and he recalled the pattern more than the order of numbers.

  One ring. Two ring. Three--

  "Hello?" a female voice said.

  --

  The light from the sun was, like, ninety-seven percent gone from the sky when Blay opened the door and stepped out onto his parents' new back porch. Cold, really cold, the air so dry his sinuses felt sandblasted.

  Man, he hated December. Not just because it could get this frigid, but because it meant that there were, like, four more months to go before the weather eased and you didn't feel like you needed to parka-up every time you went outside.

  Putting the cigarette between his lips, he fired up his Van Cleef & Arpels gold lighter--the one from the forties that Saxton had given him when they'd been dating--and cupped his hand around the cheery orange lick of flame. The first inhale was--

  Pretty fucking awful.

  A coughing fit overcame what was supposed to have been a blissful reunion between two old friends: his lungs and nicotine. But he recovered quickly, and within three puffs, he was back in business, the familiar tingle in his head making him feel lighter on his feet than he actually was, the smoke down the back of his throat like a masseuse's stroke over his esophagus, each exhale something close to chiropractic all the way down his spine.

  He'd heard that smoking was a stimulant? And the little buzz in his frontal lobe put paid to that idea. But it was weird how everything about the bad habit calmed him out: The potential for relaxation had started to coalesce the instant he'd found the old, unopened pack of Dunhill Reds in a bedside drawer in his room upstairs, and had culminated in this, his first moment of semi-peace since he'd shown up here twelve hours ago, ostensibly to check on his mother's bad ankle.

  He tapped the cigarette over the crystal ashtray he'd balanced carefully on the porch rail, and then it was back between the lips, back with the inhale, back with the exhale.

  Focusing on the snowdrifted meadow out behind the house, he felt sorry for his mom. She had had to leave their true family home when lessers had attacked the place--an episode that, although he could have lived without it, had proved even accountants like his dad and civilian females like his mom could be ass-kickers if they needed to. But, yeah, no staying there anymore following something like that--and after floating around and bunking in with relatives for a while, his parents had finally purchased this new colonial out where the farms and vacant stretches of land were.

  His mother hated the house, even though the appliances were new, the windows opened and closed easily, and none of the floorboards creaked. Then again, maybe all of that was what made her dislike it, but what could you do--and this was not a bad spot. Ten acres with good trees, a great wraparound porch, and, for the first time, central air.

  Which you didn't need in upstate New York except for, like, the last week in July and the first week in August.

  And during those fourteen or so hot nights, you were really glad you had it.

  As he stared at the frozen pond with its whisker-sticks of cattails and s-curve snowdrifts, he let his mind wander to all sorts of non-controversial musings about real estate and HVAC systems and bad habits that weren't actually that bad.

  God knew it was a hell of a lot easier than what had kept him up all day.

  When he'd arrived the night before, close to dawn, he hadn't had the heart to tell his parents what had happened. The thing was, when Qhuinn had maintained that he, Blay, was not a father to those two kids, the guy had also erased any grandparental rights his mom and dad thought they had, too. So, yeah, no, he wasn't going to explain why he'd--

  The creak of the door behind him turned him around. "Hi, Mahmen," he said, tucking the cigarette behind his back. Like he was a fucking pretrans doing something wrong.

  Still, good boys liked to make their moms happy, and Blay had always been a good boy.

  His mahmen smiled, but her eyes flicked to the ashtray, and come on, like she couldn't catch the scent in the air? And it wasn't that she'd ever tell him to stop, except she was like Qhuinn. She wasn't a fan, even though there was no cancer risk to worry about.

  "You have a phone call." She nodded over her shoulder. "There's an extension in your father's study if you'd like a little privacy?"

  "Who is it?"

  He asked this to buy some time, even though it was pretty clear who was calling--but she didn't seem to mind. "It's Qhuinn. He sounds...a little off."

  "I'll bet he does."

  Blay went back to looking out over the pond. Back to the smoking, too, because he was suddenly twitchy.

  "I haven't wanted to pry, Blay. But I know there has to be something going on between you two, otherwise, he'd be here, as well. I mean, your Qhuinn never misses a chance to come and eat my food."

  "Will you tell him I'm not here?" He tapped the cigarette over the ashtray again even though there wasn't much on the tip. "Tell him I just left. Or something."

  "Too late. I said you were right out here on the porch. I'm sorry."

  "It's all right." Steadying the ashtray, he stabbed out the Dunhill. "Do you mind if I leave this out here? I'll clean it up before I leave."

  "Of course." His mahmen stepped aside and then waited with the door held wide. When he didn't come over immediately, she seemed sad. "Whatever it is, you two can work it out. Being new parents can change things, but it's nothing that you won't adjust to."

  Well, apparently only one of us is a new parent, so...

  Blay walked across and kissed her cheek. "The study? You sure Dad doesn't need it?"

  "He's up in the attic. I think he's alphabetizing our luggage, as odd as that sounds."

  "Nothing is odd when it comes to Dad and organization. Is it by color or make?"

  "Make first and then color. Who knew those Samsonite monstrosities from the seventies could live this long?"

  "Cockroaches, Twinkies, and Samsonite. That'll be what's left after nuclear war."

  It was so much warmer inside, and as he went into his father's work space, his Nikes squeaked over the freshly stained and finished pine floors. Turning on the overhead fixture, he was confronted by a whole lot of in-its-place. The desk, across the way, was nothing fancy, just a nice piece from Office Depot with black legs and a honey-brown top, and on it, there was a phone and an old-school calculator with a humpback of white tape roll. The chair was black and leather and puffy, and the desktop computer was a Mac, not a PC.

  Better not tell V, he thought as he closed himself in.

  There were a number of windows, all with heavy drapes that were still pulled, evidence that his dad hadn't clocked in yet at the consulting firm he'd started. Telecommuting was a godsend for vampires who wanted to make cake in the human sector, and it was particularly applicable if you were an accountant who ran numbers for a living.

  Sitting down behind his father's command central, Blay picked up the receiver and cleared his throat. "Hello?"

  There was a click as his mother hung up at the kitchen or in her sitting room or wherev
er she'd answered the call. And then there was nothing but static coming over the line.

  "Hello...?" he repeated.

  Qhuinn's voice was so hoarse it barely registered. "Hey."

  Long silence. Not a surprise. Blay was usually the one who pressed for communication when there was a rough spot, mostly because he couldn't handle distance between them and Qhuinn always found it tough to open up about "feelings." Inevitably, though, the male would give in, and they'd talk through whatever it was like adults--and then Qhuinn would want to service him sexually for hours, as if the guy wanted to make up for his interpersonal-relating weaknesses.

  It was a good MO. Usually worked for them.

  But not tonight. Blay wasn't playing that game.

  "So I'm sorry," Qhuinn said.

  "For what." The pause that followed suggested that Qhuinn was thinking "you know what" in his head. "And yes, I'm going to make you say it."

  "I'm sorry for what came out of my mouth when I was upset. About Lyric and Rhamp and you. I'm really sorry...I feel like shit. I was just so fucking mad that I wasn't thinking straight."

  "I believe that." Blay ran his fingertips over the adding machine's pad with its numbers in the center and its symbols around the edges. "You were really upset."

  "I couldn't believe that Layla had put them at risk like that. It made me fucking mental."

  Now was Blay's cue to agree, to affirm that yes, anyone would have been upset. And that was not hard to do. "She did risk their lives. It's true."

  "I mean, can you imagine life without those two?"

  Why, yes. I've spent most of the day doing that.

  As a lump formed in his throat, Blay coughed into his fist to clear it. "No, I cannot."

  "They're the most important thing in my life. The two of them and you."

  "I know."

  Qhuinn exhaled like he was relieved. "I'm so glad you understand."

  "I do."

  "You've always gotten me. Always."

  "This is true."

  There was another silence. And then Qhuinn said, "When are you coming back? I need to see you."

  Blay closed his eyes against that seductive tone of voice. He knew exactly what was going through Qhuinn's mind. Crisis averted, time for sex--and that was not an unpleasant hypothetical in the slightest. But come on, Qhuinn was an orgasm upright in a pair of shitkickers, a dominating, irrepressible force of nature on the horizontal, capable of making a male feel like the single most desirable anything on earth.

  "Blay? Wait, is your mahmen okay? How's her ankle?"

  "Better. She's hobbling along. Doc Jane said just another night or two, and then she can get out of the boot. It's healing well after the fall."

  "That's great. Tell her I said I'm glad she's doing well."

  "Oh, I will."

  "So...when are you coming home?"

  "I'm not."

  Long silence. "Why?"

  Blay ran his fingertips over the numbers on that keypad, in proper order--first ascending, from zero to nine, then descending. He didn't press hard enough for anything to show in the light-up section or for the roll of paper to get with its program and start printing.

  "Blay, I'm honestly sorry. I feel like shit. I never want to hurt you, ever."

  "I believe that."

  "I wasn't in my right frame of mind."

  "And that's my problem."

  "Look, I can't believe I got out a gun and pulled that trigger. I want to throw up every time I think about it. But I've calmed down now and Layla's out of the house. It was the first thing I asked when I came around. She's out and the young are safe so I'm okay."

  "Wait, came around from what? Were you hurt after I left?"

  "I, ah...it's a long story. Come home and I'll tell you in person."

  "Did they take Layla's rights away?"

  "Not yet. They will, though. Wrath's going to see my side. He's a father, after all."

  That lump in Blay's throat came back, but not as bad. No cough needed. "Layla should still be able to see those kids on the regular. They need their mahmen, and whether you like it or not, she should be in their lives."

  "What are you saying, that she and Xcor take them to McDonald's for fucking fries and a Coke?"

  "I'm not going to argue with you. It's not my business to, remember?"

  "Blay." Now came the impatience. "What else do you want me to say?"

  "Nothing. There's nothing to--"

  "I'm back in my right head now. I know that I was wrong to yell at you like that, and--"

  "Stop." Blay went for the Dunhill pack, but then put it back into the pocket of his button-down shirt. Not like he was going to light up in the house. "The fact that you've calmed down? Good, maybe it'll help you be more rational when it comes to Layla. But here's the thing, when people are that mad, they speak the truth. You can apologize all you want for being angry and screaming at me and all that shit. What you will never be able to take back, however, is the fact that in that moment, in that split second, when you didn't have the capacity to sugarcoat, or smooth over, or be nice...you put out there, for all to hear, what you actually believe. Which is that I'm not a parent to those young."

  "You're so wrong. I was just pissed off at Layla. It didn't have anything to do with you."

  "Your words had everything to do with me--and listen, it's not like I don't get it. You're those kids' biological father. That's something no one can take away from you or change--that's sacred, a reality that was determined the second Layla became pregnant thanks to you. And that's why the idea that you're going to expect Wrath to pretend from last night onward that Layla shouldn't be in their lives is bullshit. She's in their blood, just like you are--and yes, she made a really bad call when she was pregnant, but the kids came out on the other side fine, and she hasn't left them for a second since she gave birth. You know damn well she's about them, not anyone or anything else, and that includes Xcor. You strip her of her rights? You're just doing it to be cruel because she scared the shit out of you and you want to teach her a lesson and make her suffer. And that's not a good enough reason to take her away from Lyric and Rhamp."

  "She consorted with the enemy, Blay."

  "And he didn't actually hurt her, did he. Or your kids." Blay cursed. "But that's none of my business--"

  "Will you stop throwing that in my fucking face!"

  "I'm not saying it to piss you off." Abruptly, his eyes started to water. "I'm saying it because it's my new reality and I'm trying to get used to it."

  He hated the roughness in his voice--especially because Qhuinn knew him too well to miss it. And on that note..."Listen, I've got to go--"

  "Blay. Stop this. Let me come see you--"

  "Please don't."

  "What's happening here?" Qhuinn's voice got tight. "Blay. What are you doing here?"

  As Blay leaned back in his father's office chair, he closed his eyes...and the image of Lyric cradled against his chest was like a sword slicing through his heart. God, he could recall every single thing about her: her wide, beautiful, myopic eyes that had yet to settle on a color, her rosy cheeks, her dusting of blond hair.

  He could remember smiling down at her, his heart so full of love that his body felt like a glorious balloon, overinflated, but in no danger of bursting.

  Everything had seemed more permanent when the kids had come, like Qhuinn and he, already set in concrete, had added steel ropes around each other and pulled the lengths in tight.

  He wasn't sure what was worse: losing his place in the young's lives, or no longer feeling that security.

  "I've got to go," he said abruptly.

  "Blay, come on--"

  As he put the receiver down on the cradle, he didn't slam it. Didn't pick up the entire unit and hurl it into the precisely ordered shelves of books on economics and accounting rules.

  He wasn't mad.

  Getting angry about the truth was just stupid.

  It was better to spend your time adapting to it.

  Far
more logical, even if it made tears come to your eyes.

  FOURTEEN

  "Seriously. All I'm going to do is take a shower and then stare out the window some more. That's it."

  When Vishous didn't say anything, Layla turned around in the chair she'd been in for the last hour. He, too, was where he had last been, in this tidy kitchen with her, leaning up against the granite countertops by the stove, smoking quietly. The safe house they had inhabited overday was a lovely ranch that was small enough to feel cozy, but big enough for a little family. Everything in it was done in variations of pale gray, with carefully chosen accents of buttercup yellow and cheerful blue--so instead of being gloomy, it felt light, airy, and modern.

  In other circumstances, she would have loved everything about the home. As things were, it felt like a prison.

  "Come on, Vishous. Do you honestly think I'm going to show up at the mansion's front door and demand to be let in? And it's not like I have the key or anything." When he still didn't reply, she rolled her eyes. "Or no, you're worried I'm looking for another opportunity to piss off our King. Because you can see how well that's working for me at the moment."

  Vishous shifted his weight from one shitkicker to another. Dressed in black leathers, a muscle shirt, and about fifty pounds of guns and knives, he was like a wraith in the wrong place in this picture-perfect house. Or maybe it was the right place. He'd certainly been a harbinger of doom since last night--and as roommates were, he was about as much fun as her current mood.

  Layla nodded at the cell phone in his black gloved hand. "Go to your meeting. That's what that text was, wasn't it."

  "It's rude to read people's minds," he muttered.

  "I'm not in your skull. Your expression simply makes it obvious that you want to go and feel trapped here with me. I don't need a babysitter. I'm not going anywhere. The King has my young under his roof, and unless I play by his rules, I will never see them again. If you think I'm bucking him in any fashion, you're out of your damn mind."

  As she turned back to the window, she was aware that she was cursing, and she didn't give a shit. She was worried about Lyric and Rhamp, and going on no sleep and no food.

  "I'll send someone else." There was a tapping sound like Vishous was texting back. "Maybe Lassiter."

  "I'd rather be alone." She pivoted around again. "I'm getting tired of crying in front of an audience."

  Vishous dropped his arm. Whether it was because he'd sent whatever he'd been composing or was agreeing with her, she didn't know--and she didn't really care.