The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  "Perfect," the male said in a low voice. "That's just perfect."

  TWENTY

  As Vishous stood over Layla and Xcor, he was losing his goddamn patience. Which was kind of like a thief ditching his scruples: not a lot to let go of. But whatever.

  "Layla," he commanded, "get the fuck out of here. Right now."

  From Xcor's vantage point on the forest floor, the enemy fighter said, "Leave, my love."

  "And do it proper, true." V couldn't believe he was backing up that fucker on the ground. "Go all the way back to the safe house. He'll know how far you go, and I will ask him."

  "Please spare him," Layla said as she rose to her full height. "Please..."

  V slashed his gun through the air with impatience. "Worry about your kids, female. Not the likes of him."

  In the end, Layla did what was right--because at her core, she was a female of worth: After a last lingering stare at the bastard she loved, she nodded once and closed her eyes. It was a while before she dematerialized, but that was to be expected. Emotions were running high. At least in the two of them.

  V? Tight as fuck, thank you very much.

  When the Chosen was gone, V focused on the piece of shit at his feet. "She out of here?"

  Xcor shut his lids. "Yes, she is away a vast distance. She has honored your request."

  "You lie to me, and you're only screwing her."

  "Truth is the only currency for me the now."

  "Well, ain't you a rich sonofabitch."

  As Vishous knelt down, his boots and jacket creaked in the cold.

  "I am ready," Xcor mumbled.

  V flashed his fangs. "I don't give a fuck how you are, asshole. And I don't need your permission to put a bullet in your head."

  "Yes, you are correct." The male met V's stare steadily. "You are in charge here."

  With his free hand, V took out a hand-rolled and put it between his front teeth. And he meant to light it. He really did. Yup...he was just going to light it and then put a fucking lead slug into Xcor's frontal lobe on the exhale.

  Yup. Uh-huh...

  Yeah.

  Some moments later--hell, maybe it was better measured in years--he put his gun away and removed his lead-lined glove, pulling the thing free finger by finger. The glow his curse let out was so bright he got a Mr. DeMille close-up on Xcor, and V's first thought was shiiiiiit, he better hurry up if he wanted to kill the fucker. Bastard made Vincent Price look like the poster child for a tanning franchise.

  Bringing up his deadly little friend, V lit the end of the hand-rolled with his middle finger and inhaled.

  What the fuck was he doing here?

  Or not doing, as was the case.

  Hello? he wanted to say to his nut sac. Granted, there was only one ball in there, but usually aggression was not a problem for him.

  And yet here he was, completely surrounded by him not shooting Xcor in the skull.

  Bad, bad, bad...this was bad.

  And then things got worse.

  Without allowing himself to think about what he was doing, he extended his curse over the naked, dying male, and ordered the energy to flow out of himself and into Xcor. In response, waves of heat pulsated over the almost-corpse, the snow not so much melting from the body as withering away like paper curling back from open flame.

  Xcor moaned as his contorted body started to sink into the mud that was created from the heat, the forest floor's layer of frost going springtime.

  Now the bastard began to shiver. As his blood started to flow with greater ease, his extremities began to swell and quake, the turgor replaced by a vitality that had to be as painful as getting your skin stripped off with a rusted blade. Hearing the groans and staring down at the slow, twisting movements, V was reminded of flies on windowsills. Not a particularly original analogy, except shit, it was accurate.

  "V-v-v-ishous..."

  "What."

  Xcor's eyes were bloodshot and watery as fuck as they looked up at him. "I need you...to know..."

  "What."

  It was a while before the bastard spoke again. "It was never her. I accept all responsibility. She was never the instigator, always the victim."

  "You're a real fucking gentlemale, true?"

  "How else would someone like her be anywhere near a male like me."

  "Good point."

  "And in the end, I let her go. I cast her from me."

  V stabbed his cigarette out in the snow. "So I'll nom you for the Nobel Peace Prize. You happy now?"

  "I had to let her go," the male mumbled. "Only way...I had to let her go."

  Vishous frowned. And then shook his head. But not because he was disagreeing with the miserable piece of shit.

  He was trying to get a memory out of his brain. Trying...and ultimately failing.

  It was back from what felt like a lifetime ago. He and Jane were standing in the kitchen of her condo, him in front of the stove, her leaning on a counter. The recollection was so crystal clear, V could hear the metal-on-metal sound of him slowly stirring a stainless-steel spoon around a stainless-steel pan, the hot chocolate in there growing ever more fragrant as the heat was transferred up from the burner.

  When the temperature had gotten to be just right, he had filled a mug and given it to Jane, and he had stared into her eyes as she had held what he had prepared for her. Then he had wiped her short-term memory clean, taking from her all knowledge of them having been together.

  Everything was gone. The sex they'd had. Their connection. Their relationship.

  Wiped away as surely as if it had never existed.

  At least on her side.

  On his? Everything had stuck, and he wouldn't have had it any other way. He had been prepared to shoulder all the missing, the years of being without, the separation from the other half that would have diminished him ever after. There had been no other choice for them at that point. She was a human with a life. He was from a species that her kind didn't even know existed and was involved in a war that could only get her killed.

  Of course, then, because his mother had been a tough piece of work, and destiny had a sick sense of humor, there had been even harder trials for the two of them to face...

  Even though he fought against the tide, his mind refused to be denied: All at once, that kitchen scene was replaced by an even worse one. Jane shot, bleeding out, dying in his arms. And then he saw the aftermath of him lying in his bed curled up, rather like Xcor was right now, wanting to die himself.

  Abruptly, Vishous had to look away from the bastard. And he would have walked away if he could have.

  Instead, he gritted his molars and reached back into his jacket with the hand that wasn't capable of turning cars into burned-out hunks of modern sculpture. With a herculean effort, he cast out his memories and his emotions, ushering those unwelcome visitors from him with all the affability of a bouncer cleaning house before closing.

  Buh-bye.

  Emotions had no place in the larger scheme of things. They really didn't.

  And neither did recollections of the past.

  --

  As Layla stood in the living room of the pretty little ranch, she was in front of a giant clock face that had been mounted on the wall as a decorative element. With curlicue black arms that were as long as her own, and cursive numbers like something out of a Dickens novel, it was both whimsical and elegant--and also functional.

  She wasn't crying anymore. Her cheeks were raw and burning, though, the combination of all those tears and the wiping and the cold having stripped off the first layer of her skin. And her throat was sore. And her fingertips, each and every one, had their own heartbeat from having gotten a taste of frostbite.

  Vishous had pulled the ultimate trump card, and he had been right, as usual. If she wanted access to Lyric and Rhamp, the last thing that would work in her favor was her stopping Xcor's execution.

  Especially if she did something crazy...like throw herself in front of a bullet meant for him.

  The
bottom line, however, was that she would always choose her young over anyone and anybody, even herself--and even Xcor. But oh, the pain of losing that male. It was transformative, really, this agony in her chest, the kind of emotional burden that made her feel like she weighed more and was hindered in her movements--

  At first, the sound of a ringing phone barely registered. It was only when the thing fell silent in the kitchen and then promptly started going off again that she frowned and looked around the open archway.

  The cell Vishous had left for her went quiet. And immediately began to ring once more.

  Maybe it was someone trying to reach him so he could bring her back to see the young?

  Rushing across to the table, she checked the screen. It was lit up...with Vishous's own name.

  He was calling himself? Not possible. He was at this moment putting a bullet into--

  As her eyes watered and stung, she put her hands to her face. Would the Brother even treat Xcor's remains with respect? She couldn't bear to think otherwise--

  The ringing stopped. And when it didn't readily resume, she turned away. It must be a malfunction, some key or button hit due to a shift in body position or something--

  The bell sound piped up a third time. Or was it the fourth?

  Pivoting back around, Layla frowned and reached out, picking up the cell. Accepting the call, she said--

  "Jesus Christ," Vishous snapped before she could offer anything verbal. "Took you long enough."

  Layla recoiled. "I'm...I'm sorry?"

  "Get out here."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Come back to the woods."

  Layla began to pant, a combination of terror and sadness choking her. "How can you be so cruel. I cannot see him dead--"

  "Then you better get the fuck out here and feed him. We need to get him out of this forest."

  "What!"

  "You fucking heard me. Now dematerialize back here before I change my fucking mind."

  The connection was cut off so abruptly she had to wonder whether he had thrown the phone he'd called her with. Or maybe shot it.

  Heart pounding, head spinning, she lowered the cell from her ear and just stared at it. But then she tossed the thing onto the table.

  She was out the slider before that phone stopped bouncing across that wood surface.

  As she dematerialized and then resumed her form right where she had been standing over Xcor, she found Vishous about five feet away from the other male, smoking with such fervor it was like that hand-rolled between his teeth was his only source of oxygen. Meanwhile, Xcor had been transformed by some source of heat, the snow gone from atop and around him, the ground beneath him puddled and mudded, his flesh no longer gray, but an angry red.

  He was alive. And as her presence registered upon him, he moved his head a little and shifted his eyes. "Layla...?"

  "What...why..." she stammered.

  Vishous slashed his hand through the air, but when he spoke, it was with exhaustion. "No offense, but shut the fuck up, both of you, okay? No questions. You--just feed him. And you--taking her fucking vein and be quick about it. I'm going to be back in about twenty minutes, and the pair of you better be ready for transport."

  With that cheerful little burst of optimism, the Brother ghosted out, disappearing into thin air.

  Layla blinked and wondered if this were a dream. And then she jumped into action.

  Let us pray Vishous has a lead foot, she thought as she dropped to her knees.

  She didn't bother talking to Xcor. She yanked the sleeve of her robe up to expose her wrist, scored her vein with her own fangs, and then put the source of strength and nutrients to Xcor's mouth.

  But he refused to part his lips. Even as the life force he so desperately needed wetted his mouth, he denied its entrance.

  Mutely, he stared up at her and shook his head from side to side.

  It reminded her of that moment when she had first met him under the maple tree in the meadow. He had tried to deny her then, too.

  "No offense," she muttered, "but fucking drink."

  She had no idea why Vishous had decided to spare the life of his enemy. But she was not about to argue with what seemed to be happening--or take the reprieve for granted. Hell, the Brother might well decide to change his mind again and come back with his gun. Or his dagger. Or reinforcements.

  When Xcor as yet still refused her, she reached down with her free hand and pinched his nose hard. "If you love me, you will save yourself the now. Do not so willingly put your death on my conscience."

  As he just lay there, seemingly content to suffocate, she started to plot ways of prying his teeth open. Except then he gasped a little--and that was all it took.

  A drop or two must have entered his mouth, because he moaned in a different way, his torso arching, his legs sawing as if a great need had struck him.

  And then he let out a predatory hiss--

  --and bit her so hard she had to hold back a curse.

  Now he partook, great swallows draining her so fast she knew she had to be very careful. There was a good chance he could kill her by mistake, his hunger capable of overpowering every other instinct in him, including the one that wanted to protect her.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, she wished she knew what Vishous had planned for them--but sometimes in life, it was best not to look too far ahead. All she had to do right now was feed Xcor and keep him warm whilst Vishous came back with some kind of vehicle.

  And after that? She did not know.

  Brushing Xcor's hair from his forehead, she met his crazed eyes and was struck by an intense need to pray. Giving into the reflex, she began to recite quatrains she had known since her birth up in the Sanctuary, the ancient, sacred words marching through her head, the rhythm of the Old Language forming a drumbeat that reverberated down in the center of her chest.

  Too bad there was no one up there to hear them anymore. But what did it matter? Vishous was the only savior she and Xcor had--and God knew, she would take what she could get.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "Oh, I forgot," Trez muttered. "iAm's car is a stick."

  As he stood outside the staff exit of Sal's, he frowned at the BMW M6 and tried to think how he was going to keep this take-me-to-Havers thing going--

  The female who'd made him faint snatched the key fob out of his hands. "No problem. I'm good with a clutch."

  Therese clicked off the security alarm, opened the driver's side, and slid into the leather seat like she owned the sports car. "Well, come on. I can't put you in the passenger seat myself. That's a job you're going to have to do."

  Her smile was easy, but not simple. In fact, nothing about her was simple for him, not the way she moved, or the sound of her voice, or the fact that she filled out those black slacks of hers perfectly.

  Just like Selena would have.

  Oh, and yeah, iAm's warning kept bugging him in his head: This is not your dead mate coming back to you.

  With a curse, Trez went around the trunk of the sedan. As he got in, he looked over at the female. God, her profile was--

  "Um, can you shut your door? This particular model has an anti-rolling mechanism. I won't be able to go anywhere until you do--plus let's face it, it's about the draft. Brrr."

  Trez flushed and did the job with the handle. And then he tried to look relaxed as she started the engine, cut the fan down on the heater, and threw them in reverse. With a perfectly executed K-turn, they were off, weeding their way around to the main part of the lot and heading for the four lane road beyond.

  "You're going to have to tell me where to go."

  As she spoke, she looked so beautiful in the peachy glow of the dash, her straight nose, those full lips, that strong jaw, the stuff that he had been trying to re-create in 3-D from his 2-D memories.

  He spoke without meaning to. Without intending to. "I've missed you--"

  His voice cracked at the same moment she shot him a look of shock. "I'm sorry? What?"

  Shit, what
had just come out of his mouth?

  "Ah...yeah, wow, I'm really not making sense at all over here." He gave her an apologetic smile--that was really fucking sincere. "Maybe I really do need a doctor."

  As they came up the parking lot exit, she smiled once more. "Well, the immediate question is, do you want Google Maps? The nav system on this car? Or do you know where we're headed."

  Trez got caught up in staring at her face again, and as the sight of her got wavy, he had to wipe his eyes in what he hoped was a quick move she wouldn't notice.

  "You really are hurt," she murmured. "Do you need an ambulance?"

  And that was when she touched him. It was, once again, a simple thing that was not simple at all: She just placed her warm, soft palm over the back of his hand, the one that was resting on his thigh--and in the process, gave him the chest equivalent of a heart attack.

  "I should tell you to go," he said hoarsely.

  "Yup, I agree. Left or right?"

  Closing his eyes, he told himself to pull his shit together and listen to what his brother had said. This female, whoever she was, was not his Selena. And it was grossly unfair to her, and to his mourning process, to interject himself into a stranger's orbit simply because of some accident of appearance.

  She had a slight Detroit accent, for godsakes, something Selena had obviously never had. And Selena had never worn her hair like that, or had clothes like that--

  "What did you say your name was?" the female asked. "Do you want me to get your brother? Hello? Are you...have you passed out on me again?"

  When he finally spoke, the words came out of him fast and sloppy--exactly the way he fumbled with the door mechanism and jumped out of the car: "I'm sorry. I gotta go. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry..."

  As he stumbled back from the door, which he'd left open, he managed to catch a slick of ice with his heel--

  And go ass-over-idiot for a second time in her presence, landing in a heap.

  At least he kept consciousness this time, though.

  Whoo-hoo, his ego crooned. Baby steps, you lame motherfucker, baby steps.

  The female was out and around to him quicker than a breath, and as she slipped and slid, and then landed right on him, Trez wanted to scream.

  He didn't.

  Nope. As she fell on top of him...he put his arms around her and fucking kissed her.