The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Sacrifices, though. For certain, he'd turned into a bit of a whore, fucking these females in exchange for shelter, lodging, and sartorial necessities worthy of the venerable legacy of his bloodline. But he'd had it with slumming it after his years under Xcor.

  If he never saw another cheap sectional sofa with empty pizza boxes on it again, it would be far too soon.

  As it stood now, the sex was a small price to pay for all he got in return--and besides, all would be worth it when he was the one on the throne.

  Reaching the far side of the road, he jumped the snowbank and stomped his loafers free of slush. "A psychic, though," he muttered. "A human psychic."

  Approaching the door, which was painted purple, he nearly turned away. This whole thing was beginning to feel like an ill-conceived practical joke.

  How else could his presence here be explained--

  The three human males who rounded the corner next to him announced their arrival in three different ways. First, he caught a whiff of the cigarette the one in the middle was smoking. Then there was the cough of the guy on the left. But it was the chap on the right who really sealed the deal.

  The guy stopped dead. And then smiled, revealing an incisor made of gold. "You lost?"

  "No, thank you." Throe turned back to the door and tried the handle. It was locked.

  The three men came closer, and God, had they never heard of aftershave? Cologne? Indeed, it appeared that shampoo might be a foreign concept to the happy little group.

  Throe took a step away from the stoop so he could regard the windows above. They were darkened.

  He should have called for an appointment, he decided. Rather as one would a barber. Or an accountant--

  "You wanna know your future?"

  This was spoken quite close to his ear, and as Throe glanced over, he found that the trio had closed in, forming a necklace of sorts around him.

  "That why you here?" The one with the gold tooth smiled again. "You superstitious or some shit?"

  Throe's eyes flicked over them. The one with the cigarette had put it out, though the thing had been but half smoked. And the COPD candidate wasn't coughing anymore. And he of the 14k incisor had slipped a hand inside his leather coat.

  Throe rolled his eyes again. "Do carry on, gents. I am not for you."

  The leader who'd been doing all the talking threw his head back and laughed. "Gents? You British or some shit? Hey, he's Brit. You know Hugh Grant? Or that guy who pretends to be American on House? What's his name--asshole."

  On asshole, the guy outed what appeared to be a rather nice switchblade.

  "Gimme your money. Or I'll cut you."

  Throe could not believe it. His favorite suede shoes were ruined, he was being forced to deal with humans, and he was standing in front of a tenement more suited for the consumption of crack than any sort of legitimate business.

  Right, this was the last time he took the counsel of a glymera sweetheart who had been drunk at the time. Without that female's rather boozy advocacy for this so-called psychic, he would have been, at this moment, on the right side of the railroad tracks, all the way across town, sipping on a sherry.

  "Gentlemen, I shall tell you this but once more. I am not for you. Carry on."

  The switchblade got thrust into his face, so close that his nose was in danger of a trim. "Gimme your fucking money and your fucking--"

  Oh, humans.

  Throe descended his fangs, put up both his hands into claws...and roared at them like he intended to rip all three of their throats out.

  The retreat was rather delightful to watch, actually, and cheered him a bit: Those three dumb-asses took one look at certain death and decided that their dubious social skills were required elsewhere. In fact, they couldn't have staged a more competent and complete retreat if they had consciously set their minds to such a thing.

  Gone, gone, gone, skidding their way back around the corner from whence they came.

  When Throe faced the door once more, he frowned.

  It was open an inch, as if someone had come down and freed its lock.

  Pushing the weight open, he was utterly unsurprised to find a black light overhead and a set of stairs painted purple before him.

  "Hello?" he called out.

  Footsteps were on the ascent, crossing over the landing above his head.

  "Hello," he repeated. Then muttered, "Is this deliberate mystery truly necessary."

  Stepping inside, he clapped his feet upon a black mat to once again clear snow from his loafers. Then he proceeded in the wake of whomever was ahead of him, taking the shallow steps two at a time.

  "Aaaaaand 'tis purple once again," he said under his breath as he came around that landing and proceeded up to the only door on the second floor.

  At least he knew he had reached his destination. A palm motif was upon the panels, the black outline of the fingers and the lifelines done with a casual hand, not anything that was stenciled properly or even done by an artist.

  Dearest Fates, this was ridiculous. Why would that drunken female know anything about reaching out to the Omega? Through a human portal, no less.

  And yet even as he hesitated, he knew he was going to follow this encounter to its probable dead end. His problem, of course, was that he was looking for a way to power and finding none of particular ease. He did not want to believe that the glymera was truly the lost cause it appeared to be. After all, if they were unable to provide him with a platform from whence to assume Wrath's role, where else could he marshal supplies, troops, or things of that nature?

  Humans were no great help. And he continued to believe it was best that that other invasive species not know of the existence of vampires. They had subjected all else to their whims and survival, including the very planet that supported their lives. No, they were a beehive not to be stirred.

  So what did that leave him with? The Brotherhood was a foregone conclusion. The Band of Bastards was now not an option. And that left him with but one other avenue to explore.

  The Omega. The Evil One. The Scribe Virgin's terrible balance--

  The door opened with a creak that was right out of a haunted house.

  Clearing his throat, he thought, In for a penny, in for a pound. Or, in his case, in for the replacement cost of his Ferragamos, which was about fifteen hundred dollars.

  "Hello?" he said.

  When there was no response, he leaned in a little.

  "Hello? Are you accepting..." What was the appropriate term? Clients? Nut jobs? Gullible losers? "Would you be able to chat for a moment?"

  He went to put his hand on the panel and immediately frowned, taking it back and shaking the thing out. It had felt as though a slight electrical charge had gone into his palm.

  "Hello?" he repeated anew.

  With a curse, Throe walked into the dim interior--and presently recoiled at the smell. Patchouli. God, he hated patchouli.

  Ah, yes, incense burning over there on a table full of rocks and stones. Lit candles in the corners. Great swaths of cloths in different colors and printed patterns hanging from the ceiling.

  And of course, she had herself a little throne with a circular table in front of it...and a crystal ball.

  This was too much.

  "Actually, I think I'm in the wrong place." He turned away. "If you'll excuse me--"

  The crash that came from across the space was loud enough to ring in his ears and leave him jumping out of his own skin.

  Pivoting back around, he called out, "Madam? Are you all right?"

  When there was no reply, he was struck by an overwhelming feeling of paranoia. Glancing around, he thought...leave. Now. Take thee from this place.

  All was not well here.

  At that very moment, the door he had come through slammed shut and appeared to lock itself.

  Throe rushed over, grabbed the knob, and tried to twist it back and forth. It did not move, and neither would the panels give when he attempted to wrest them from their jamb. He pounded hi
s fist until it hurt--

  Throe froze, the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he was prepared for he knew not what. But something was in the room with him...and it was not of this world.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Over at shAdoWs, as Trez stood on the edge of the dance floor, his eyes were supposedly on the crowd in front of him. In reality, he was seeing nothing. Not the purple shooting laser beams or the clouds of smoke from the machines. Certainly not the humans who were packed in against each other like spoons stacked in a silverware drawer.

  The decision to leave, when it came to him, followed the pattern of the night: It arrived from out of nowhere and he was powerless against the imperative.

  Heading around to the bar, he found Xhex with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed on a couple of meatheads who were demanding another round even though they were well over the legal limit--and probably high as well.

  "Good timing," she muttered over the din of music and sex. "You know how much you like watching me sweep the floor with humans."

  "Actually, I gotta go. I may not be back tonight, is that okay?"

  "Hell, yeah. I've been telling you to take a break for how long."

  "Call me if you need me?"

  "Always."

  Uncharacteristically, Trez put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze--and if the gesture surprised her, Xhex hid it well. Then, turning away, he--

  His head of security caught his wrist and stopped him. "You want someone to go with you?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  Her gunmetal gray eyes went over his face, and the focus in them made him feel like she could see down into his soul. Fucking symphaths. They made intuition a bad thing, at least when it came to guessing other people's moods.

  "Your grid's off the charts, Trez. Come on."

  "What?"

  Next thing he knew, she had hitched ahold of his arm and was marching him into the back, where the working girls changed and the deliveries were accepted.

  "Honest, I'm fine."

  Even as he protested, she all but shoved him out the rear door of the club, and then her phone was in her hand and she was texting.

  Trez threw up his arms as he did the math. "Don't bother iAm--Xhex, seriously, you don't need to--"

  His brother literally dematerialized only a second after Xhex lowered her phone, dressed in his chef's whites and his toque, a dish towel in his hand.

  "Okay, this is ridiculous." Trez cleared his throat so his voice sounded more convincing. "I'm perfectly capable of getting myself where I need to go."

  "And where is that?" iAm demanded. "A rooming house across town? Maybe to the third floor? What was that apartment number--and don't tell me you didn't look at that fucking resume."

  "You wanna clue me in on what the hell you're talking about, boys?" Xhex glanced back and forth between them. "And maybe explain to me why a male who's been half dead from mourning these last months is suddenly carrying his own bonding scent?"

  "Nope," Trez interjected. "We don't feel the need to explain that at all."

  A quick glare in his brother's direction--and Trez wondered whether or not he was going to have to throw down out here. But iAm just shook his head.

  "Long story," the good chef muttered. "Come on, Trez, let's get you home."

  "I can dematerialize."

  "But will you, that's the question."

  "You don't have time for this," Trez said as the guy made like he was going over to Trez's BMW.

  Which, yes, was the same model and year as his brother's. They'd gotten a deal on the dual bitches, so sue them.

  And oh, snap, iAm had somehow managed to remember to bring the damn key. Like he'd planned this, maybe even with Xhex.

  Mental note: Get that fob back from the guy. And if he couldn't, buy a new fucking car.

  "Come on," iAm said. "Let's go."

  As the pair of them stared at him like he'd grown a horn in the middle of his forehead, Trez considered dematerializing off on his own, leaving iAm with no one to chauffeur and Xhex by herself with her mental-health theories about his "grid," whatever that was. But something in the back of his mind happened to agree with them. Much as he hated to admit it.

  So yeah, like the good little idiot he was, he got in shotgun, and even did up his seat belt--and iAm didn't waste any gears as he got them on the Northway and headed out of town at a dead run.

  "You went over to her apartment, didn't you."

  Even though Trez's head had started to pound, he turned on SiriusXM. Kid Ink was talkin' "Nasty," and Trez closed his eyes--and thought of that kiss. Had he lost his fucking mind? His shellan hadn't been dead for three months and he was making out with some stranger?

  And see, this was what had been bothering him, the reason he'd had to leave the club. Being around all those humans sucking face in front of him and fucking in the private bathrooms that he'd built for expressly that purpose had made what he'd done with Therese loud as a Vegas billboard--and the guilt that had curled into his gut was like having food poisoning.

  He was totally nauseous and bloated, light-headed and weak.

  iAm canned the radio. "Did you?"

  Turning his head away, Trez measured the cars in the slow lane--that he and his brother were passing like the damn things were parked on the shoulder. "Yeah. I did. She lives in a dump. It's not safe. You are going to hire her, right?"

  "No, I'm not fucking hiring her."

  Trez shifted his focus from the other midnight traffic to the apartment buildings that were nestled in tight to the highway as the city made its transition from urban to suburban. In countless windows, he saw people walking from room to room, or sitting on sofas or reading in bed.

  Right now, he would have traded places with any one of them, even though they were humans.

  "Don't ding her an opportunity on account of me." Trez rubbed his eyes and blinked to clear the spots in his vision. Damn night driving always fucked him up. "That's not fair."

  God, he couldn't believe he'd kissed another female. When he'd been with Therese, when she had been up against his body and staring into his eyes, it had been easy to convince himself she was Selena reincarnated. But with distance and time came logic: She was just a stranger who looked like the female he'd lost.

  Shit. He'd put his mouth on another female's.

  Trez looked over at his brother in an attempt to quit thinking about what he'd done. "I mean it, iAm. If she's qualified, then give her the job. She needs to get out of that horrible place she's staying in--and I won't bother her. I'm not going back there."

  "Well, I don't want you not coming to the restaurant because of her, either."

  Trez refocused on the road ahead, but the headlights from the opposite side of the highway made his head swim. Rubbing his eyes again, he felt his stomach roll.

  "Hey, do me a favor?"

  iAm glanced over. "Yeah, anything. What do you need?"

  "Pull over."

  "What--"

  "Like right fucking now."

  iAm wrenched the wheel and hit the shoulder, and before the car even came to a stop, Trez was popping his door--which triggered the anti-roll mechanism and ensured the wheels completely locked up.

  Just like that female had said.

  Leaning out as far as he could, Trez vomited what little there was in his stomach, which was actually nothing but bile. And as he retched and gagged, and then felt another wave coming on, he cursed as he realized the spots in his vision were getting organized into an aura.

  Migraine. Stupid, fucking migraine.

  "Headache?" iAm said as a semi rumbled past them.

  This wasn't safe, Trez thought as the cold licked into the BMW's interior. They should have gotten off at an exit--

  He answered his brother's question by throwing up some more, and then he collapsed back in the seat. For no apparent reason, he looked down at his white slacks and noted there were scuff marks from where he'd passed out a
nd hit the ground.

  This was why you didn't go blanco.

  "What can I do?" iAm asked.

  "Nothing." He shut the door. "Let's keep going. I'll try and hold it--but can we turn down the heater?"

  He didn't remember much about the trip back to the mansion, his time spent monitoring the aura's evolution from a tight collection of sparkles at the center of his vision to its spreading its wings and flying off the periphery of his sight. But the next thing he knew, his brother was helping him out of his seat and escorting him like an invalid up to the mansion's grand entrance. Once they were inside, the foyer, with all its colored columns, gold leafing, and goddamn crystal sconces, was enough to make him nauseous again.

  "I think I'm going to be--"

  Fritz, the doggen butler, presented him with a barf bag at exactly the right moment. A barf bag. A hospital-grade, bright-green barf bag.

  As Trez bent double and held the circular opening to his mouth, he thought a couple of things: 1) who the fuck went around with barf bags on the ready; 2) what the hell else was the male carrying in that penguin suit of his; and 3) why did it have to be bilious green?

  If you were going to make something for people to throw up in, why did you have to make the damn thing the color of pea soup?

  A cheery yellow, perhaps. A nice, tidy white.

  Although considering the shape his pants were in...

  When Trez finally straightened, that telltale anvil-sitting-on-one-half-of-his-head had started to kick in, and his thought patterns had begun to take on the convoluted weirdness that came along with his migraines.

  "Help me upstairs?" he mumbled to no one in particular.

  It was not a surprise that iAm took charge and got him to the new room he'd been staying in since Rhage, Mary, and Bitty had taken over the suites on the third floor.

  Across the way. Onto the bed. Flat on his back.

  As usual, getting off his feet offered only a slight reprieve, a brief moment where his stomach settled and his head took a breather--and then things came back a hundredfold worse.

  At least iAm knew exactly what he needed. One by one, Trez's loafers were removed, but his brother knew that the socks had to stay on because Trez's extremities lost circulation and got cold during the headaches. Then the belt and the slacks were pulled off and the duvet taco'd around him. Suit jacket stayed on and so did the shirt. Taking those from his body would have required too much shifting around and likely triggered more throwing up.