The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Had he even gotten the address right?

  Shit. Yes, he had.

  She shouldn't be here, in this nest of grubby humans. For godsakes, was she staying aboveground with just drapes between her and the sun during the day?

  What was she thinking?

  As Trez strode across the street, he worried it wasn't a choice.

  When he got to the entrance, he looked through the chicken-wire glass panels. It was hard to see clearly because the damn things hadn't been cleaned in a decade or two, but on the far side, there appeared to be a "lobby" of sorts with lights out in the overhead fixtures, a carpet that could have counted as tile for all its nap, and a wall of mailboxes where half the little portals were broken and lolling like the tongues of dead animals.

  It was the building equivalent of a colon...dank, windowless, with brown sludge staining the walls.

  "You need in?"

  A human male who smelled like old booze and cigarettes pushed his way past, opening the door with a swipe card and keeping on his merry way.

  As Trez contemplated his own entry, he had some thought that it would be better for both him and Therese if he let this shit go. Let her go.

  But he went inside anyway.

  There were a couple of hardies in the far corner, nodding off like they had recently injected themselves, and their bloodshot eyes passed over him with the marked lack of enthusiasm characteristic of H addiction. No bliss anymore for them. You only got that in the beginning during the rose-colored part of your relationship with opiates.

  The elevator was out of service, a half-assed caution tape tied in several places across its closed panels, a handwritten sign taped cockeyed with a Band-Aid to the wall. The sight of it made him think of the Otis in The Big Bang Theory--and he was willing to bet this place's bad boy had been broken longer.

  There was only one set of stairs and they were cramped and smelled like urine. And as he made his ascent to the third floor, the noises he heard along the way were not any more optimistic and lighthearted than the rest of the dump: yelling, coughing, loud music from bad speakers, thumps like someone was banging their head into the wall repeatedly.

  Jesus Christ.

  On the top floor, he looked left and right. It went without saying that there wasn't a little plaque telling people which way for which apartments. Oh, yeah...of course. Right in front of him, at eye level, there was a bald stain on the cracked wall where one had been ripped off.

  'Cuz you could repurpose something like that. For a dinner plate. Or a level to help cut your drugs on.

  She stayed in 309, and it turned out to be down on the left.

  Goddamn, he hated the number of her apartment. He didn't like threes or nines in sequences. Four-oh-two was a good number. Eight-oh-four. Two-twenty-four.

  He was a divisible-by-two guy. He didn't like threes, fives, or nines.

  Seven was okay, he thought as he came to stand at her door, but only because two together equaled fourteen.

  Thirteen was the bane of his existence.

  "You looking for that girl?"

  Trez cranked around. Directly across the hall, a guy in a wife-beater and a shitload of tattoos was lounging in the doorway like he owned the place, a real King of the Douche Bags. He had a handlebar mustache, bags under his eyes like canvas sacks, and cologne courtesy of the crack he'd been smoking.

  "You her pimp or something?" The human stretched his neck and then scratched over his jugular. "How much is she? She's fresh--"

  Trez closed the short distance between them, grabbed the guy by the face, and forced the piece of shit back into his den of self-destruction.

  As Trez kicked the door shut behind the two of them, the John-who-wasn't-gonna-get-none started flapping his arms like he was trying to take flight--and hello, roommate on the couch.

  Trez used his free hand to pull out his gun and point it to the other guy across the room. "Shut the fuck up."

  The junkie over there just put his palms high and shrugged, like people being manhandled and Glocks getting popped were part of his daily life--and he was not about to get involved in anyone else's shit.

  Trez shoved the propositioner against the wall, keeping a palm lock on that face. "You don't go near her. If you do, I'm going to take all your drugs and flush them down the toilet in front of you. And then I'm going to kidnap you and drop you off at county hospital downtown where they're going to hold you against your will while the court decides what rehab to mandate you into. Do you hear me? You fuck with her and I'm going to inject your sorry ass into the system--and the next time you see any kind of a hit is ninety miserable fucking days from now."

  After all, you didn't threaten someone like this with a gun. They were already dead, for fuck's sake.

  Nah, you tortured them with the thought of third-party-enforced sobriety.

  And no, Trez didn't feel an obligation to help either of these rats without tails. Killing yourself with chemicals was a God-given right of both species, and he was not interested in interfering in the course of somebody else's addiction. He was, however, more than happy to use any weakness to his advantage.

  He glanced over at Couch Man to make sure the sonofabitch was hearing this, too. "I have her apartment rigged. I know where she is every second of the day." He smiled tightly to keep his fangs to himself. "You two or anyone around here get near her, I'm going to know."

  Then he refocused on the one he had a hold on, squeezing those features so hard the man's dumb-ass mustache merged with his eyebrows, like a Muppet whose operator was having a hand spasm.

  When Trez finally let go, the bastard's face was all Halloween mask, swollen and misshapen, the 'stache off angle like a pair of glasses that had been broken.

  Trez looked pointedly at the couch again.

  "Yeah. Sure," the guy over there said. "You got it. She no for no one."

  TWENTY-THREE

  Sooner or later, when one stole to survive, one thieved from the wrong sort. And Xcor made that mistake in his twenty-sixth year, in a thicket of woods three hundred and sixty lochens from the cottage that first his nursemaid, and then, after some comings and goings, he himself had abandoned.

  It was fate at work, he would later suppose.

  What initially drew his attention, as he progressed through the night alone, was the scent of the beef stew. Indeed, he had been long used to searching out sustenance, sticking to shadows with such competence and constancy that he had begun to think of himself as one. It was best that way. Other eyes upon him never went well.

  In truth, prior to his transition, he had had a hope that his defect would magically fix itself. That somehow, the change would repair the split in his upper lip, as if his gestation required that last spurt of growth before he was in his proper order. Alas, no. His mouth remained as it was, curled up. Ruined.

  Ugly.

  So aye, it was wisest to stay in the shadows, and as he currently took cover behind the stout trunk of an oak, he regarded the glow of a fire far off in the forest as a possible meal or source of supplies.

  Around the crackling flames, he saw people--males--and they were carousing in the shifting orange light. And there were horses, tied a ways off.

  The fire was large. They obviously cared not if they were discovered, which suggested they were fighters, and likely to be heavily armed. They were also of his species. He could catch their scents in the mix of the smoke, the horse flesh, the smell of mead and woman.

  As he planned his approach, he was grateful for the heavy cloud cover that kept the moon at bay and deepened the shadows to pitch black. Provided he stayed out of reach of that illumination, he might as well have been wearing a cloak of invisibility.

  Closing in, the flames made him think of that cottage he had stayed his first two decades in. He had departed from it after his nursemaid first had left him, finding the orphanage that footmale had spoken off. But he had not been able to stay away for long, thoughts of his sire's possible return making him seek out the structu
re anew. Over the years, he left again for certain periods, typically the winter months when the wolves were hungry; however, he always went back there.

  His sire never did come.

  And then the time for his transition had arrived. In the village, there had been a whore who regularly serviced males of the species, but because of his ugliness, he had had to barter the cottage and everything in it in exchange for her vein.

  When he had walked away from the site the following evening, with those hateful raspberry brambles and the encroaching forest with its wolves, he had taken a final look over his shoulder. His nursemaid had never returned to check on him, but he had not expected to see her again. And it had been more than time for him to stop pretending his father might seek him out.

  With Xcor relinquishing his shelter to another, he became truly adrift in the world.

  He took only one thing with him: the collar that had been around his neck until he had used a hatchet to sever its hold upon him. He'd had to work on the leather for hours, his then-young arms lacking the strength to be more efficient. But his nursemaid had left behind only so much water, and very little food, so he'd had to get free.

  Fortunately, hunting and killing had been skills that had come naturally to him.

  So, too, had stealing.

  He had hated it at first. But he had always taken no more than he needed, whether it be food, clothing, or elements of shelter. And it was amazing what one could sacrifice in terms of morals when it came to survival. It was also incredible how one could devise methods for avoiding the sun in a forest of trees, and staying ahead of wild animals...and finding ways to pay for the veins of whores.

  The forests of the Old Country became his refuge, his home, and he stayed within them, keeping to himself. Which was to say that he steered clear of the lessers who stalked through the pines and caves, and avoided the vampire fighters who sought them and engaged with them and slaughtered them. He further kept away from the war camp.

  That was no place for anyone. Even he, who tried to avoid all and sundry, had heard snippets of the depravity therein, and the cruelty of the warrior who ran it.

  Refocusing, he closed his eyes...and dematerialized up into the tree's thick branches. And then he ghosted o'er to the next one, likewise staying far from the ground, like a monkey.

  When one was by oneself with no aid e'er coming, one adapted with an eye toward safety, and both vampires and humans alike tended to be far more concerned with what was on their level, rather than what was over them.

  Not much farther forth, he did regard the makeshift camp from a vantage point of a mere ten yards away, and ten yards well above. The vampires were indeed fighters, well-armed and thick of shoulder, but they were drunk and passing a human woman around like a tankard of common ownership. The woman was willing, laughing as she made herself available to each in turn, and Xcor tried to imagine participating in such debauchery.

  No.

  He cared not for sex, at least not that sort. Indeed, he remained a virgin, for the whores had always demanded far more than he could pay for what was betwixt their thighs--and besides, he was not that interested in such well-plowed fields.

  Looking toward the stand of horses, he thought, yes, he would invade there. He would not take a steed, no matter how valuable in the open market, as he did not want to be responsible for another living thing. He had enough difficulty keeping himself alive and fed. Weapons, however, he could use. He had three daggers upon him, and one gun that he did not use. Cumbersome, it was, and then there was the inconvenience of keeping it supplied with bullets. The aim was lesser as well: He could throw a knife with better accuracy. Still, it seemed wise to have at least one upon his person.

  Mayhap he could lift another good dagger, one sharper than his dullest? Some meat? A bladder of water?

  Aye, those would be of benefit.

  Xcor dematerialized down to the ground, crouching behind yet another pine. Their steeds were on the edge of the firelight, the heads of the quarter horses lolling in repose, their saddles packed with necessaries and other property.

  He made not a sound as he moved through the undergrowth, the second skins of his moccasins cushioning his weight and masking noise.

  The horses pricked their ears and craned their thick necks to regard his presence, one making a whinny of inquiry. He was not worried. He was long schooled in scattering himself into the night even in times of duress, and further, the fighters were otherwise occupied.

  Xcor was fast and sure as he went through the saddle of a roan that was easily sixteen and a half hands high, flipping up the heavy leather flaps, digging into satchels and sacks. He found clothing, grains, smoked meat. He took the meat, putting it into his cloak, and moved on to the next steed. No weapons, but there was a lady's garments with the scent of blood on them in one burlap sack.

  He wondered if the female had survived the rutting. He thought perhaps not--

  The fight by the fire exploded without preamble, all well until it was not, two of the males leaping up and going at each other, locking hand to throat, their bodies dancing in circles as they each attempted to muscle the other into submission. And then something was on fire, the portion of an outer coat catching a lick of the open flame and bursting into orange and yellow heat.

  The fighter did not care, and neither did his opponent. The horses spooked, however, and as the one that Xcor was attempting to raid balked, his hand got wedged in one of the saddle bags, the torque and pressure rendering him trapped.

  Such that as the quarter horse spun around, so, too, did he.

  Within sight of them all.

  The change in the camp was instantaneous, the woman cast aside in a heap, the argument amongst comrades forgotten, the interloper a target for them all. And as yet Xcor stayed attached to the mincing horse, dancing around sharp hooves, trying to rip his hand free.

  The warriors solved that problem for him.

  Xcor was tackled upward and that was enough to change the angle of his wrist. His arm was suddenly his own once more and good timing in that. He was pummeled in the face by a fist the size of a boulder, but at least it sent him in a trajectory away from the churning steed.

  Unfortunately, he spun directly into the path of another of the fighters, and Xcor knew that he had to establish the upper hand fast or be o'erpowered. There was little hope on that score, however--these males were experts in conflict, punches and kicks flying too quick for him to dodge or counter, his breath knocked from him over and over again.

  Indeed, he had experience grappling with fists prior to this. But that had been with humans and civilian vampires. What he faced the now was a different foe altogether.

  Blows continued to rain upon his head and his gut, coming quicker than he could parry them, harder than he could withstand, as he was passed around like that woman had been, going from one to the other to the next. Blood flew from his nose and his mouth, and his sight went bad as he whirled around, trying to protect his vital organs and his skull.

  "Bloody common thief!"

  "Bastard!"

  A fist pummeled him in the side and he thought he could feel something burst therein. And it was at that point that his knees went out from under him and he landed into the leaves and dirt.

  "Stab him!"

  "Not done yet," came a growl.

  The boot caught him under the ribs and he went into a flying roll that took him all the way to the fire. He was so stunned that he lay where he stopped on his back, unable to gather his wits sufficiently to cover even his face or curl into a defensive ball.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, he was going to die. And likely in the flames that were already singeing his shoulder, hand, and hip through his clothes.

  One of the fighters, who had a heavy beard and smelled like a dead goat, leaned over him and smiled, revealing tremendous fangs. "You thought you could take from us. From us?"

  He grabbed the front of Xcor's cloak and jerked his torso up off the ground. "From us!"

/>   The warrior slapped him with an open palm so hard that it was like getting broadsided with a plank of wood. "Do you know what we do with thieves?"

  The others had gathered around in a semi-circle, and Xcor thought of the wolves in the forest, back when he had lived with his nursemaid. A pack of deadly predators, these males were. A terrible force by which to be caught and toyed with. A quick route unto the Fade.

  "Do you?" The warrior shook him like a rag doll and then dropped him hard. "Allow me to tell you. We cut your hands from you first, and then we..."

  Xcor didn't dare look away from the face looming above him. But in his peripheral vision, he saw a log that was half in and half out of the flames.

  Inching his hand over, he took hold of it and waited for just the moment when the male glanced over at his compatriots with evil mirth.

  Quick as lightning, Xcor swung the log hard and caught the warrior in the head, knocking him senseless to the side.

  There was a moment of shock from all and sundry, and Xcor knew he had to act with alacrity. Keeping hold of his weapon, he snagged one of the daggers that had been strapped to his victim's chest and then he was up on his feet.

  Now he attacked.

  There was no bloodcurdling cry from his mouth. No grunting. No growling.

  No true memory of what exactly he did. All he knew, all he was aware of, was something unleashing within him. Whate'er it was, he had had hints of it before, some kind of energy source that was other than anger, other than fear, powering his body and mind. And as it reared within him, all at once, his limbs took o'er his mind, functioning independently, knowing better than his consciousness where to aim, what to do, how to move. His senses likewise parted from his brain, elevating themselves to a higher level of acuity, whether it was hearing to detect someone about to jump him from behind, sight to notice another coming from the left, scent to inform him of a further attack from the right.

  In the midst of all this, his mind was utterly removed. And yet free to extrapolate and thus begin to refine his performance.