Lucy needed her.
She neared the wreckage and saw Lucy straight away. She couldn’t stop her stomach from clenching, her throat from choking. She couldn’t stop the sobbing that exploded from her chest.
Do it. Ethan. Don’t . . . don’t . . . I’m going to die, Ethan.
And then the young girl’s eyes met Lysette’s.
Tell my Dad . . . tell him I’m sorry . . . I do love him.
Lysette couldn’t stop crying. Her knees buckled. Lucy lay in Ethan’s arms, the heavily-cloaked vampire not caring that his exposed hands were on fire. He held the body of the girl he loved, cradled her gently, and he cried along with her.
Lucy lay broken, a piece of metal the size of a steering wheel jutting out of her stomach. Eyes fluttering, she barely moved. But Lysette could hear her thoughts. Ethan couldn’t.
“She keeps saying ‘do it’. To you. Do you know what that means?”
Ethan sobbed harder and then nodded. “I . . . think so.”
Lysette wiped the tears away. Little Lucy’s eyes flickered once more, pinning her own.
I died when I pushed my mother away. I love my dad so much, but it’s not enough . . . not enough to be whole again.
Lysette sniffled. “You didn’t push her away. She left you because she couldn’t fucking hack it.”
Lucy blinked. She paused. The word-train of self-hurt, of self-blame, stopped streaming through her head for one precious moment.
Then she died.
THIRTY FOUR
Lysette rushed forward, feeling the girl’s spirit fail.
“Do it!” she screamed at Ethan. Whatever the hell it was. “Do it!”
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He bent forward, fangs lengthening and sank them into Lucy’s neck. He drank from her. Then he slit his own wrists and held the pouring blood to her lips, forcing them open and letting the thick liquid teem down her throat.
Lysette pulled up, horrified.
“She meant . . . she meant . . . oh no.”
Behind her, screeches and shrieks blasted forth. By pure reaction she turned to see dozens of demons, including Abaddon, rip through the top of the plane, tearing the metal with their claws and teeth. They rose in a huddle, a black beating heart of madness, and they held Marian Cleaver in their midst.
Lysette barely had any emotion left within her, yet still she screamed.
The demons ripped at Cleaver’s body, shredding him. But then Lysette realized that they had only shredded his big duster coat and Cleaver had managed to wriggle out of it, plummeting back down to the floor of the plane.
Score for Cleaver!
But he left the artefact with the demons, and Abaddon, seemingly satisfied and already taking fire from newly assembled army units, screeched a command and led the pack of flying demons up into the skies. Within seconds they were out of sight, leaving a mass of death, flames and heartbreak in their wake.
Lysette turned back to Ethan. “What will happen?”
The boy stared sadly at her. “Within a day she will reawaken—as a vampire.”
Lysette could only curse herself. The shock and horror was overwhelming, impossible to take in. The young girl, Lucy, was gone forever. What would take root in her poor body?
And what of Logan? The most powerful of the Chosen.
What would he do when he found out?
THIRTY FIVE
I was just bidding farewell to the crazy dino hunters, wondering why I was absolutely certain that we would cross paths with them again—when I got word of Lucy’s plane. At first it was bedlam, sheer hell.
They were under attack. The F16s saved them. More demons flew in through the clouds. More F16s joined the battle to contend with them.
Then the crash. The hell of it all. The long, long minutes of not knowing. I listened with all my heart and soul, all my love, faith and feeling at the forefront of my mind, as the F16 pilots and the guys stationed on the ground radioed in what was happening.
Lucy’s plane hit hard, I knew that. The pilots died. Demons swarmed it. My heart and my life was in my mouth. My friends were arrayed all around me, listening hard. We knew we could never make the airport in time to help. It was up to the guys on the ground.
Belinda grasped my hand. Tanya Jordan had tears in her eyes, and I knew she was thinking of Lucy. Cheyne and Giles looked as strained and terrified as I’d ever seen them. Even Natalie put a hand on my shoulder.
We all prayed for our friends. New and old. Family and colleagues. Soldiers and pilots. We prayed.
Then the demons were gone, stealing the artefact from Cleaver’s grasp.
I waited some more, shaking, sweating, grinding my teeth, until someone came on the line and told us they’d spoken to Lysette Cohen. It seemed Lucy was unresponsive as yet, but she’d be okay. She wasn’t lost to us.
That was all I needed to hear.
THE END
Chosen 3
Heroes
(The Third Part Of The Chosen Few Trilogy)
By
David Leadbeater
CHAPTER ONE
Ken Hamilton was in hell.
Literally and physically.
The tournament was resuming, having already claimed Eliza’s life. Milo was wounded. Only he and Felicia lived. It didn’t look good. He doubted he’d seen worse odds, even on a Friday night around frisky ’Frisco. The crowd bayed and howled for blood, the noise swelled. Feet stomped so hard on the bleachers it could be mistaken for thunder. And these demons – these assembled fiends – they bleated and hooted, squawked and whistled. They barked and wailed louder than all the seals that used to gather at Fisherman’s Wharf. But none of it made him feel like he was back home.
Quite the opposite.
Earlier, the guards had dragged him out of his cell, pushing him toward the arena where the Devil held sway. Ken had seen Felicia in front of him, her body bent and aching from a night spent in a tiny cage. The denizens of hell found great pleasure in forcing the uninhibited, freedom-loving lycan into the smallest of cages, knowing it was the worst nightmare she could ever imagine. Ken had stopped and steadied her, helped her walk along a dusty path and tried to ease her hurts. The guards had allowed them to walk together.
A few minutes later they’d emerged into the arena. The crowd cheered and bayed for blood. Today, one of them would die. The other would lose their soul. It was a good day in hell.
All light, good deeds and thoughts of better days were lost. There was only now, trapped in hell with no chance of escape and no rescue coming. They were prisoners in the pit, the worst place of the first hell, the Kingdom of Lucifer, the Devil himself.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Not for Ken.
At first, upon entering hell, they had been a great team. Eliza, the perfect, leather-clad vampire, one of the finest fighters of her kind. Milo, a great, hulking man-mountain and world-class chef. Felicia, the spritely, bubbly lycan he’d begun to fall for. And Ken, the blonde-haired, surf-loving Californian carrying the Lionheart blade. They were forced to fight for the Devil’s pleasure against some of the vilest creatures imaginable. Eliza had died from a bite she’d given Dementia, killed by the poison that flooded from the wound. Milo had then fought, cowed by terrible grief – his leader gone. He’d taken a harsh beating but had ended up venting his anger on the beast that taunted him, breaking it apart.
Now, they faced a semi-final. And it was Ken versus Felicia.
Talk about hell. This is it.
How do I fight the woman I . . .?
He caught himself. His head lowered, he didn’t hear the howling crowd. He’d known Felicia for a short while now, first at the house of Aegis in York and then at the battle of Miami Beach, and more recently in their trek down the seven levels of hell. Back in York, he’d found it hard to focus on one female. Ken, a self-proclaimed ladies’ man, had been surrounded by more available females than he could properly process. There had been the beautiful Belinda, the lovely Lysette, the human conk that was Cheyne, the . . .
He stopped himself before he got carried away. After York, life had been a blur of victory and death, heartache and shock. They’d defeated the World-Ender, Gorgoth, only to find out that Emily Crowe had been using that summoning as a distraction to invoke the hierarchy of demons to earth so they could collect seven lost artefacts and perform a ceremony that would summon the Devil himself.
It hadn’t been a good moment, Ken reflected.
The Chosen had split. Some to remain “up top” and seek five of the seven artefacts and the hierarchy demons themselves. He had elected to follow the demon-bitch Dementia into hell and seek the two artefacts down there. He and Dementia had a score to settle. They’d crossed paths several times, and she’d killed his friend, Ryan. He’d been hoping for a hard reckoning.
Now, though, how could they possibly get out of this? How could they win?
The rules were clear – he was to fight Felicia to the death.
Dementia would fight Milo in the other semi-final.
It was a conundrum, one of those things that made Ken’s head hurt. The only conundrum he’d ever been able to solve was whether to choose the first growler that showed an interest before he was too drunk to care, or hold out for something more promising.
But Ken had changed. The shallow, sun-blasted surf-boy inside him wasn’t calling the shots anymore. Instead, a caring, thoughtful man with a heavy, aching heart had taken his place. When he became Chosen, a world of responsibility had landed on his shoulders. He’d shouldered it though, just as well as he’d borne the awesome sword that Cheyne had given him. He loved the new power, embraced it. He could and would fight to save the human race.
Ken looked up.
He stood at the center of a round, dirt-floored arena. Rows and tiers of seats made up the walls, which were filled with noisome, vile creatures. They jeered and screamed at him. They leered. They spat. Some had horns, others tentacles. Some carried spears and swords. Others had crossbows or rocks or even man-made machine guns. They fired bullets at the red-tinged skies. Ken let his gaze drift across them before coming to rest upon a sight he wished he’d never beheld.
Lucifer sat on a platform, raised up on an obsidian throne. Since Ken had first set eyes on the Devil, his visage had been constantly shifting. He had a thousand guises and appeared to enjoy adopting each and every one of them.
Now, he wore the horrible mien of the horned beast. The grinning red face, the bald head, the bearded chin. Ken hated the sight of that evil smirk.
The Devil threw his hands toward the skies. “It is time!”
Ken cleared his throat as the crowd quietened. He looked around the arena, still searching for the escape route he knew wasn’t there. There were only two exits, one opposite him sealed by a large, pointed portcullis. The second was the one he’d entered through, which was guarded by twelve ugly-looking demons carrying swords and shields. They never once took their fiery eyes off him.
That left one more thing: The person standing in front of him.
Felicia had finally worked out the knots in her body and managed to stand upright. The bow of her back had straightened. To Ken, she was a shadow of the woman who had fought in Miami, who had killed a hierarchy demon and playfully suggested they get together. Her blond hair was dirty, her sparkling blue eyes dulled. Her bubbly nature was gone. She stood defeated already, feet covered in churned up dirt and blood. She didn’t look at him.
“Felicia,” he said quietly.
She stared at the ground as if she’d spotted a hidden route back home. She stared so hard even Ken took a quick look.
“Felicia?”
Her frame shuddered. He recalled her saying that a lycan lived for freedom. Their best days were when they ran unfettered through woods and fields, and loped across empty, rolling hills. In truth, they desired little else.
“If you want to live. If, one day, you want to return to unchained freedoms you have to fight. And win.”
It was the most selfless thing he could say. He didn’t want her to die or give up. Felicia seemed to see him for the first time. Her eyes focused and her lips formed a tiny, tight smile. She nodded.
“Fight,” the Devil said. “And if you don’t fight well you will both suffer eternal torment.”
Ken cast around, still playing for time. “Don’t I get a weapon? My sword? She’s a friggin’ werewolf, man.”
The Devil shrugged. “Throw him something.”
Behind, the guards were laughing. Ken saw his sword, the Lionheart blade, lying at the Devil’s feet. He looked down when something long and thick barked his shins. He stooped to pick it up. “A stick?” he asked incredulously and then stared at Felicia. “What do you want me to do? Throw it for her?”
Felicia leapt forward. Ken hastily brought the stick up. To be fair it was thick and gnarly, capable of doing some damage. He doubted it would provide much more than a snack for a she-wolf though.
As would he.
Felicia, still in human form, darted in, staying low. Ken stepped aside. The blonde whirled at the last moment, kicking out and catching him across the knee. Ken went down but scrambled back up. Felicia was already on him. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, her face hung just above his.
“Fight,” she said. “You will win. I can’t exist down here.”
Ken shoved her away, rose and tried to gather his power, the power of the Chosen. It felt harder without the sword and a legitimate opponent to strike. He wondered briefly if it only worked against the sinful and the immoral. If so, he was shit out of luck.
Felicia darted in again. Ken smashed the stick over her head and then against her face. She responded with an uppercut that staggered him. Ken tasted blood in his mouth. For the first time he became aware of the hooting crowd, the cries for rending flesh and spilled blood. Felicia hit him head on, in the chest. He went flying backward, skull bouncing off the ground.
A flood of power surged through him. As she came in again, frighteningly fast, he rolled and elbowed her in the face. Felicia fell to the ground. Ken rose fast and crouched, muscles lit anew.
When Felicia turned again, he saw that she’d started to transmogrify.
Oh, fuck me.
She was changing into the wolf, the same wolf that had murdered a hierarchy demon, literally torn its throat out. He watched her muscles ripple as her vertebrae stuck up out of her back, face elongating, teeth lowering. She snarled. Ken backed up. The crowd bellowed. Even the Devil shouted for death.
Ken saw her coming. He was quicker now. He saw her hind legs push into the sand, her shoulder muscles bunch, he saw the leap. He snapped to the right to avoid it, but was also quick enough to see that, as she passed him by swiping at the air, she retracted her deadly claws.
Ken felt the air move with her passing. She’d missed by millimeters. She landed on all fours and spun, churning up plumes of dust. Instantly she came again, lunging for his lower extremities. Ken dropped to his knees and grabbed her by the head, flinging her to the side. They rolled and tussled; scratched and bloody. Ken’s clothing ripped. Felicia snarled and bit at his face. The arena rolled around and around with them, first a sea of twisted faces and then a fiery sky, then the ground and a quick glimpse of guards.
Ken flung her away, rising fast. Felicia halted the roll with her hind legs, digging them into the dirt. Ken was very aware the wolf was fighting at three-quarter pace and ferocity.
The calls of the crowd intensified. Finally, it seemed the Devil realized if he let it go on this way there would only be one winner. Felicia was well-equipped with deadly tools. Ken had nothing.
A moment later something flashed through the air. It caught the red light of the skies and the fire of the flickering torches. It landed at Ken’s feet, distracting him as Felicia raced forward once more. Ken picked up the object and swung it at her onrushing head. It connected hard, sending her sprawling and rolling. Ken realized he was holding a small shield and leapt after her. She twisted in the sand. He brought the shield up, holding the edges, and prepared to
bring it down with all his power, targeting the weakest part of her body – her neck.
Then, the wolf-eyes caught his. There was no savagery in them.
Do it, she seemed to be saying.
Felicia had surrendered, given up. The fight and all thoughts of freedom had gone.
Ken arrested his strike.
To give himself a moment, he looked up at the Devil as he had seen gladiators do.
Felicia twisted on the ground. She wasn’t wounded. She was pretending to be stunned. Her paws and claws scrabbled ineffectually at the dirt, her head lolled. Saliva ran between her upper and lower jaws.
The Devil gave Ken the thumbs down.
“Fight,” Ken said, looking at the powerful beast at his feet. “There might be a chance if you fight until your very last breath.”
The wolf couldn’t speak, but her eyes spoke volumes. Ken knew she’d given up. But more than that. This was what she wanted.
Ken raised the shield once more, gripped the edges tight and closed his eyes. He’d never cried in front of anyone before, but he was about to. Water leaked from his eyes. The flames flickered all around. The crowd hollered and whooped. They threw bones and talons and even eyes at him. The Devil’s visage was the most hopeless, the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen.
Ken took a deep breath and then brought the shield down with a heavy swing. Its edge bit hard, powered by every ounce of his strength.
The shield dug into the dirt and sand inches to the left of Felicia’s neck. It stuck there, quivering as Ken stood up.
He turned to the Devil and held up a hand. Gradually the crowd quietened and silence reigned across hell’s arena.
“A bargain,” he said. “Take me instead of her. Take my life and set her free. Do to her what you would do to a winner. But take me and do whatever you wish. Take my soul.”
The Devil leaned forward. “A soul bargain? If I agree, you will owe me everything, anytime I wish to collect.”
The Chosen Trilogy Boxset Page 42
