The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Closing his eyes, he dematerialized...

  ...and re-formed in a neighborhood about fifteen miles to the southwest.

  As he came into his corporeal body once more, he was in a cul-de-sac of two-story colonials, the houses at a more expensive price point than the ranch, but very far from mansion status. All around, there were lots of lights on, whether it was in living rooms or bedrooms, on garage corners or in trees, but with the thickly descending flakes, the illuminations were isolated, carrying not far at all.

  Leaning into the wind, he walked the rest of the way, his heavy boots shuffling powdery snow out of his path, his hearing going in and out of acuity depending on the direction of the gusts. The specific property he was after was in the back, and like the others, it too had lights on inside. Stopping out in front, he watched through the windows as a lanky human male, of some fifteen or sixteen years, strode into the sitting room and said something to a middle-aged human female who was sitting before a lit hearth and talking on a cell phone.

  Xcor went up the pathway that was no pathway at all, the snow falling with such density that no one was attempting to plow or shovel prior to the storm's cessation. When he got to the front door, on which an evergreen wreath had been affixed, he reached out and tried the brass handle.

  It was unlocked, so he opened things up and walked right in.

  Everything went in slow motion in the sitting room. The young male looked over his shoulder, and then leapt back in alarm. The older female jumped to her feet, whatever hot beverage she had been consuming from a mug going flying.

  Xcor shut the door as the son took cover behind the mother.

  Coward.

  And yet he felt a stab of some emotion he did not wish to entertain as the mother shoved the boy further to the rear of her, even though he was taller than her and probably a little stronger.

  "Wh-what...what do you want?" she asked.

  As a strand of brown hair flopped in her face, she blew it out of her eyes; her hands were too busy holding her son in relative safety.

  "There's--" Her voice squeaked. "My purse is in the kitchen on the counter. Take what you want, there's...I have jewelry, upstairs. Just please...don't hurt us."

  Xcor regarded the high color in her cheeks and her trembling form from what felt like a vast distance. Then he glanced around. The furniture had changed since he and his bastards had stayed under this roof, the sectional sofa gone along with the perpetual layers of pizza boxes and duffel bags, weapons and ammunition, boots and knives.

  "I have not come for your money," Xcor said in a low voice.

  She closed her eyes briefly, her face abruptly going white.

  "Nor have I come for you." Xcor held up his palm because he knew they would both focus on it. "I am not a defiler of females or young."

  As the eyes of the humans locked on what he had raised, he went into their brains and froze everything about them, such that all they did was blink and breathe. Meanwhile, down on the floor, the cell phone, which the mother had dropped, was still engaged, a panicked voice coming out of a tiny little speaker and demanding someone answer.

  'Twas a good guess that talking to a vampire would not assuage whoever it was of their fear.

  Leaving the human who was getting worked up to their exercise for the evening, Xcor stomped both of his boots on the mat to get most of the snow off of them, then took the stairs two at a time. Up at the top, he went into the master suite, which had been nicely redecorated in an elegant white and blue scheme.

  No more hideous ruffles and frills. And gone, too, were the rosebuds that had peppered the pink bathroom.

  However offensive to the eye it had all once been, he spent no time appreciating the improvements in decor. He proceeded directly to the tall, narrow closet beside the shower where the towels would have been kept had he had any when he had stayed here--

  Oh, of course, now the shelves were filled with precisely folded, bright white terry-cloth stacks.

  Dropping down on his knees, he pulled out cleaning supplies at the bottom, exposing the tile floor that, blessedly, the homeowner had left as was. The panel he had previously created was one foot by one foot and all the way in the back, and he had to strip off his gloves to locate the lip and free the thing with his fingertips. Then he stretched his arm out and dipped his hand into the hidden space.

  The pair of semiautomatic forties were exactly where he had left them.

  So, too, the box of ammunition.

  Xcor replaced the top of the secret compartment only because it made the amount of mental shit he had to tidy up in those humans downstairs a little less.

  Leaving the bathroom, he strode by the bed, and then paused in the doorway. Glancing back, he thought of the time he and his males had spent in the house.

  And was surprised by how much he wanted to see them again.

  The descent took no time at all, and then he was back on the first floor with the mother and son. They were still standing together, the female shielding what she loved and sought to protect with the very body she had brought it forth unto this world with.

  He delved into their minds once again. "You heard a noise. You went outside to check. It was nothing. When you returned, your wet boots left water on this mat. Odd night. Probably the wind. Good thing it was nothing."

  Xcor dematerialized outside, and he stood for a moment to watch them reawaken, the pair of them looking at each other like they couldn't figure out why their hands were clutched together. And then the mother reached up to her temple and rubbed at it as if her head hurt, and the young male glanced around and cracked his neck.

  They both looked toward the door.

  As the female bent over and picked up the phone, Xcor took himself on his way once more.

  --

  The Sanctuary was indeed a sacred place of peace and tranquility, and as Layla sat out by the Scribe Virgin's fountain with both of her young, she took a deep breath. The three of them were arranged on a soft, thick blanket, and the temperature was perfect, the air as gentle and warm as bath water. Overhead, the milky white sky was bright, but not glaring, and the white marble of the courtyard glowed as if from within.

  Lyric and Rhamp had made the trip like champs, and Cormia, as if sensing that Layla wanted some private time with them, had departed readily once the twins were settled out here by the sparkling water and the blooming tree that was full of new songbirds.

  Tucking her feet under her, she dangled a yellow tulip over one young and then the other...and then she brought it back to the first.

  "Isn't this beautiful? Tulip...this is a tulip."

  Indeed, the petals were as the green grass and the blue water were: resplendent and mysteriously jewel-like in their coloring. It was something about the light here, the way it came from nowhere and fell with no particular angle--or mayhap there was some sort of sacred magic at work.

  And it was funny. She could tell that her precious ones were gathering strength from the energy herein, their cheeks growing pink, their eyes shining with an extra healthy brightness, their movements more coordinated.

  Yes, she thought. They had her blood in them for sure. Even Rhamp, who looked so much like Qhuinn it was eerie, was very obviously her son. Members of the Chosen always did better when they came here to recharge.

  So maybe this was a good thing--

  A strange sense that she was being watched made her twist around. But there was no one in the colonnade, and nobody in the open archway into what had been the Scribe Virgin's private quarters. No one anywhere, as it were.

  She remembered when things had been so very different, when Chosen had borne and raised the next generations of Chosen and Brothers here and had served the Scribe Virgin, adhering to her schedule of worship and rest and celebration. There had been joy and happiness, purpose and fulfillment--although there had been such sacrifices.

  And no color. Anywhere.

  Layla reached out and stroked Lyric's soft cheek. Much as she still revered the Scri
be Virgin and the traditions that had been so valued and respected, she was glad that her daughter would not be forced into a role that had no way out and was solely in service of others.

  Yes, as much as she missed the old days and the old ways, and as sad as she was to have this marvelous place so empty and lifeless, she had no regrets.

  She was of the generation who knew both servitude and liberation, and the latter was certainly not without its difficulties and tragedies. But at least now she had a sense of who she was as an individual, and she had desires that were her own and unlegislated by anyone else. She also had two young who were going to be free to choose who they wanted to be and where they wanted to go in life.

  It was always better to follow a bumpy course of one's own than a smooth but intractable trail set by another.

  The former was harder, yet far more vital. The latter was like a living death...except you didn't know you were dying because you were in a coma.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As Vishous pounded down the underground tunnel away from the training center, he approached the door that led up into the mansion...and kept right on going. The Pit, which was the aptly named carriage house where he and Butch stayed with their shellans, was another two hundred yards up, its subterranean entrance exactly the same as the big house's, all kinds of codes and locks preventing people who weren't supposed to be getting in or out from getting in or out.

  After punching in the correct sequence on a keypad, the deadbolt sprang loose, and then it was home sweet home.

  The layout was a not-much, just a living room in front with a galley kitchen off to the side, and a short hallway that led to two bedrooms lined up back to back. He and Jane had the first one, Butch, Marissa, and the cop's wardrobe had the second--although there wasn't enough room for all those goddamn clothes. In the cramped corridor, there were rolling stands full of suits and shirts on hangers. Also a row of shoes on the floorboards that, as far as V could tell, were the same fucking loafer, just in different leathers and skins with different hardware.

  Motherfucker was in a serious rut with the footwear. Then again, how much could you really do with a men's shoe?

  As V shut the door behind him, he stalled out by the racks of Canali and Tom Ford. Everything was quiet, Marissa at Safe Place, Butch playing pool back at the big house, and Jane...

  With a curse, V headed for the kitchen. The Grey Goose bottles were right where he liked them, under the counter next to the deep drawer where Butch kept the Fritos, the Parmesan Goldfish, and the Milanos.

  Those were the only snacks the guy ever ate.

  Funny, it hadn't dawned on V before now, but Butch was a rut kind of guy. He liked what he liked, and wasn't interested in innovation.

  SOB would probably faint if you offered him a bagel chip. And forget about multi-grain crackers or foofy melba toast.

  Old school, the cop was, and even though V would never say it, it was part of why he loved his best friend. When you were a couple of centuries old, you learned that the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. So yeah, sure, you could waste a lot of time and taste buds trying to re-create a new version of what was already working, but that was grossly inefficient: There was, quite literally, a maximum amount of happiness that could come from a snack cracker or finger food. Wading through a bunch of shit that didn't quite make it, just so you could go back to what you'd liked in the first place, was a human move.

  Shit, you could see it all over their culture, from "fashion," which was simply a reactive, fifteen-minutes-of-fame carousel of ugliness from season to season, to entertainment where you ended up with great swaths of the same, to technology and all its planned obsolescences and needless innovation.

  Which culminated in Apple saying it was "courageous" for doing away with a headphone jack. In its dumb-ass cell phone.

  Yeah, real Purple Heart stuff there, boys. Presidential Medal of Freedom. Maybe they were going to put themselves on a stamp, once they bought the American government.

  Opening a cabinet, V took out a tumbler, filled it full of ice...and then went to the top rim with vodka.

  You want courage? he thought. How about you do away with yourselves, humans. There was a plan.

  Not that he was bitter or anything.

  Nah.

  Over at his desk, he sat down in front of his bank of PCs, eased back in his ass palace, and one by one, signed into all his computers.

  It had been a long time since he'd had a night off to himself, and as he checked in with his security cameras, and monitored the Brotherhood's various properties in and around Caldwell, he was reminded of why.

  The last thing in the world he wanted to do was sit here like a fucking loser with his Lenovos and his Goose, all alone while everybody else was doing their thing.

  But his brain was still scrambled from all the Xcor shit. He was also bone-tired--but didn't want to sleep. He needed to feed--and had no interest in taking a vein. He had to eat--and wasn't hungry. He wanted to get drunk--and that wasn't happening fast enough.

  Pushing back in the chair, he focused on getting the alcohol into his bloodstream, taking big swallows that singed his throat and swirled in his gut.

  As he started to make progress on his goal, he thought about Jane just now in her clinic. How when he'd gone to see her, she'd been knee-deep in crisis, Assail screaming in that room of his, Manny asking her questions about something, Ehlena coming to her with a drug order issue.

  V had stood on the periphery and admired his mate's purpose. And commitment. And passion.

  God, Assail.

  Those screams were something else, a reminder that addiction was nothing to fuck around with. Sure, you started down a chemical highway just so you could keep yourself in your life. But the next thing you knew, you were in a rubber room--literally--in restraints because you had tried to tear your own face off with your fingernails.

  By the way, pass the vodka.

  Reaching across his desk, he grabbed his bottle and pulled a refill. The ice was getting low in his glass, but after this load, he wasn't going to care that the shit was room temperature.

  At least Assail had his Jane on the job, and she sure as hell was trying to give him the best treatment in his withdrawal she could. The question was whether the psychosis would ever lift. It had been a month since the male had last shoved white powder up his nose, so he might just be a wasteland in the aftermath. Sometimes that happened with vampires and the coke.

  'Course, the former dealer probably hadn't known that when he'd started doing so much of the shit. But there were a lot of times in life when you were dancing with the devil and had no idea evil was your partner. And you didn't find out until it was too late.

  That was how destiny worked. Curses, too.

  As V took another slug of numb-in-a-bottle, he found himself thinking about that hot chocolate again, the stuff he'd served Jane way back in the beginning. Or rather...way back in the first of their endings.

  He'd always assumed that the last finale they had would come when he died. But as he sat here in an empty house, and tried to recall the last time they'd spent any meaningful group of hours together...he had to wonder.

  Payback was a whiner, he supposed. When he and his brothers were out in the field, fighting for the race, they weren't thinking about all the mates and females who were holding down the fort back at home. They were just trying to do their job and stay alive.

  The same was true down in that clinic. Jane wasn't thinking about him right now. She was working with Manny to salvage what was left of Assail's brain. She was helping Qhuinn's brother Luchas regain mobility and mental health after horrible abuse at the hands of the Lessening Society. Every night, she handled all manner of injuries, from the chronic to the acute, from the Band-Aid to the life threatening, with tireless focus and devotion to her patients.

  So it wasn't that he didn't get it.

  And it wasn't that he didn't love her. Shit, she was smart. She was tough. She was...proba
bly the only female he had ever met that he would consider his equal--and no, that wasn't a misogynistic statement. He didn't think any males were his equal, either.

  Which was what happened when you were the son of a deity, he supposed.

  He absolutely could not see himself with anyone else but his Jane. The trouble was, he was devoted to the war. She was devoted to her job. And in the beginning, when everything was new and fresh and the impetus to be with each other had been an itch that had to be scratched or they would go mad, they had made the time.

  Now?

  Not so much.

  But it was fine, he thought as he sat forward and refocused on the lineup of monitors. Neither one of them was going anywhere.

  It was just...he was beginning to worry the same was true of their relationship.

  A sudden image of Layla putting her body in front of Xcor and shielding his dying flesh with everything she had, popped into his head and wouldn't leave. Jesus, in that moment, she would have taken a bullet for the motherfucker. A dumb move, sure, and one she would have regretted the instant she thought about her young...but in that split second, she had been motivated by love.

  And Xcor, in turn, had meant what he'd said when he'd begged for her to be sent away before he was killed. That bastard had been dead fucking serious...and really fucking in love.

  V frowned as he realized that that sonofabitch and he had something in common, didn't they. They'd both been through the Bloodletter's war camp.

  Dollars to nut sacs, they'd lost their virginity in the same way.

  So, yeah, maybe they should get a set of bestie tattoos or some shit.

  "For fuck's sake..."

  More with the Grey Goose...until he needed a second refill. And he forced himself to get out of his head and focus on the images on the screens in front of him, all those interior and exterior shots of various rooms, whether it was the Audience House, that little ranch Layla and Xcor were love-shacking in, the other three homes they owned in Caldie, Sal's Restaurant, or the mansion and its grounds.

  Only the mansion was showing signs of life. The other places were shut down because of "Snowmageddon," as the reporters were calling it.

  As he watched his brothers play pool and laugh, he noticed that the vast majority of them had their shellans by their sides. The females of the household all had their separate, independent existences, but on a night like tonight, when their males were off the clock of the war, they made spending time with their loves a priority.