Runner: Book II of The Chosen

by Roh Morgon

  I listen to the pounding of her heart, the quiet sobs as they rip from her chest.

  This was why I didn’t come back, why I shouldn’t have come back. We will both spend our lives remembering these moments filled with grief and unanswerable questions.

  “Mom…” The word tumbles from her lips and I close my eyes to shut it and her out.

  “I’m sorry, Andrea. I never meant for you to see me. You were better off believing me dead.” Opening my eyes, I glance at her anguished face, then at my hat and glasses as I pick them up.

  Before putting them back on, I turn and give her a hard stare. Gut-wrenching pain breaks through the stillness again as I see her flinch at my gaze.

  “You need to forget that I was here. It would be best if you tell no one you’ve seen me, not even your husband.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. That’s just how it has to be. They all think I’m dead. Do you realize what would happen if it gets out that I’m not? What do you think the media would do? Or the police? Or the insurance company?”

  Her eyes widen. But only for a second. Andrea lowers her gaze and her head, then nodding, turns back to face the sea.

  She always been smart, since she took her first breath. Since I gave birth to her.

  “Will I ever… see you again?” She chokes as she fights to get the words out.

  I take a deep breath as I fight to get out my own.

  “No, I don’t think so…” My collapsing chest tells me I need to go, and now.

  Before the bloodtears start, tears I won’t be able to stop.

  I step onto the sand behind her. Wrapping my arms around her, I gently squeeze her as I press my lips into her hair.

  “I love you, Andrea, forever and ever.” Releasing her, I step back and leave.

  Very fast.

  When I turn back to look at her from down the beach, she is still staring out at the sea.

  It seems so wrong to regret my promise to a dying girl, but I do.

  I wish to God I’d never come here.

  I wish none of this had ever happened.

  My memory is now seared with the anger and disbelief twisting Andrea’s features. Her words are indelibly stamped into my mind, words that will echo over and over and over, filled with accusation and pain.

  Like a clip from a horror film, our encounter replays in my head and I cannot erase the images and sounds of my daughter as she confronts the monster who was once her mother.

  “Mom . . .”

  The BMW screams up the 101, its speedometer matching the highway’s number. It weaves in and out of the crawling cars, chased by the scenes unfolding behind my eyes.

  “Mom . . .”

  Just west of Goleta is a turnoff for Eagle Canyon. Jamming on the brakes, I slide the car around and barely make the double turns, then hit the gas again for the short quarter mile to the end of the road. I pull the car off to the side and bail out.

  “Mom . . .”

  I run.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 35

  It’s late afternoon when I stumble out of bed. I’d made it to a hotel last night with barely enough time to get into a room before the sunrise took me down.

  Emotionally hung over, I stare at the blank paper on the desk for what seems like hours. I finally pick up the pen and begin writing.

  A dozen paper balls litter the floor when I stop to take a shower. I quickly wash, dress, and pack, then turn back to the desk.

  Oh, Sandy. I tried.

  But like everything else, I screwed it up.

  And I have only myself to blame for letting both you and Andrea down.

  I’ve failed everyone in my life. And not just failed them, I’ve destroyed them.

  Jaw tight, I read the letter one more time:

  My sweet Andrea,

  I wish I could explain, but I can’t.

  I do want you to know that my disappearance from your life was not my choice.

  But staying out of your life was. It was a decision I made because it was best for you. I know you won’t believe me, but trust me on this.

  My life over the last five years has changed me in ways I can’t describe, but I think you saw that. And because of those changes, it isn’t possible for us to have a relationship. To be honest with you, it would be very dangerous for you and your family for us to even attempt it.

  Please believe me. I would be with you if I could. But I can’t.

  My memories of you have been the only thing that’s kept me from total insanity these last few years. You’ve never been far from my mind.

  I will love you forever.

  Reality sets in with the acknowledgement that I can’t really send this to her. I can’t leave any physical proof that I exist. From what I’d read after first returning to civilization, my disappearance had caused quite an uproar in the news. If it ever became known that I’m still walking the earth, her life would be dumped completely upside down by the investigation and the publicity it would spawn. The circus would be nonstop. And she would bear the brunt of it because I would have to disappear.

  Again.

  There is no way I will allow her and her family to share their lives with a monster.

  I tear up the note into tiny pieces and watch the scraps flutter to the floor.

  The passing oaks and vineyards do little to improve my mood as I head north. In fact, everything here looks so dry and brown, and seems lifeless after the rich, damp greens of Colorado and Montana. I miss my mountain near Colorado Springs, and think of returning there someday. But I won’t do it alone, for Nicolas is too tightly woven into that landscape, and to return without him would only deepen my sense of loss.

  Before beginning my search for him, however, I need to clear my head with some time in the wild. I’m still not used to my new Chosen senses and, as I discovered in Santa Barbara, am easily overwhelmed by the massive amounts of information assaulting my ears and nose. Learning to filter the input and focus on what’s critical is mandatory if I’m going to re-enter the worlds of both human and Chosen.

  The increased strength still surprises me, nearly double what it was before. And speed—I’m fairly certain that I can now duplicate Nicolas’s disappearing act, though I’m unable to confirm it myself.

  I’m sure Andrea could, though.

  My chest aches with the memory of Andrea staring at the horizon, hugging herself. I can only imagine the emptiness she must’ve felt when she turned to see that I was gone, and once again hate myself for not trying to work things out with her.

  But all I felt at the time was the horror of our situation, and my control slipping by the second, and not knowing what would happen if I lost it.

  I no longer trust myself. In some ways, I was better off living with the hunter and the beast in my head. We’d reached a balance of power, yet I still retained the upper hand.

  Most of the time.

  Now, all that power, the violence and stealth and cunning, is mine and mine alone, and I’m finding it to be even more unpredictable than the creatures who once shared it with me.

  And that scares the hell out of me.

  I think about how I came into that power, and the sacrifices it demanded, and shove away the glimmer of regret that accompanies the memory. But it doesn’t take much effort. And I’m not sure why. It’s as though a filter exists between me and my emotions about Sandy, and her loss does not pain me nearly as much as I anticipated. Perhaps because she’s now a part of me and, in some way, not truly gone.

  Or, perhaps Chosen physiology doesn’t permit remorse for one’s victims.

  Either way, I’d expected that she would continue to haunt my thoughts. But to my surprise, she doesn’t. At least not in the way I feared.

  Which is a huge relief.

  Because between Andrea and Nicolas, I have no more room in my life for ghosts.

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER 36

  It’s dark when I drive across the Oakland Bridge into San Francisco.

>   The last month in the Sierra Nevada Mountains has allowed me to get a better handle on my abilities and gain some control over my reactions. But the passage of time has done little to reassure me that reuniting with Nicolas will be any better than the disastrous reunion with Andrea.

  I worry now that he may not welcome me back into his life. That between my constant rejection of him and my present state as a full-Chosen, he’ll want nothing to do with me. Worse, he may even hold me responsible for his fall as the head of his lineage and will seek only one thing from me—my death.

  Yet, I have no choice. I have to find him. And this is the only place I can think of to start.

  Black water shimmers beneath the lights dotting the bay. Flashing brakes and the occasional honk accompany the crush of cars around the BMW as I slowly make my way across the bridge toward downtown. The congestion has already set me on edge. My tolerance for the clamor, stink, and manic pace of cities seems to have withered even further after so much time in the wilderness.

  The plan is to haunt nightclubs catering to the goth crowd, hoping to pick up info about any underground clubs that might cater to my crowd. First, though, I’ve got to find a motel where I can safely lay up during the day.

  And then it’s hunting time.

  But it’s for a far more dangerous prey than I’ve ever hunted, and I can only hope my new Chosen abilities can keep me from getting killed.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 37

  Goths fascinate me. They frequent the clubs in ones and twos, cloaked in black and tattoos and piercings. Charcoal lines encircle their eyes, chrome studs encircle their wrists. Silver-colored chains and safety pins and zippers accent the inky canvas and leather of their clothing. Many favor pale makeup and black-dyed hair. Contacts are popular, featuring reptilian green or feline gold bisected by slit pupils, along with the more common blood red and ice blue.

  I fit right in.

  The small club tonight seems inhabited by a significant number of social misfits, dancing solo in their own little dark pools of isolation to music by Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, and other bands I don’t recognize. The dance floor filled with gyrating bodies forms a sharp contrast to the booths and tables bracketing it, their motionless squatters watching the activity with a practiced air of indifference.

  I’m one of those squatters. The small corner table I’ve staked out for the night is near the entrance where I can keep an eye on the door. Rings of condensation have formed on the stained tabletop around a glass of ice water and a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. The beer to my right is for my nonexistent companion, the water is for me. I pick up the glass and take a sip.

  This is my second weekend here at the Cat Club, and so far I’ve heard no whispers of an underground club, nor sensed the presence of another Chosen. I haven’t been able to bring myself to strike up a conversation with anyone and, despite the furtive looks drifting my way, no one’s had the nerve to approach me.

  Though I slaked the red thirst with a small blacktail buck south of the Bay earlier this evening, I feel wired, like I’ve had too much caffeine. Memories continually assault me, of human blood and its honeyed ecstasy, as if I’d savored its exquisite taste only yesterday. Its tantalizing scent saturates the room, making it difficult to maintain focus. My mouth aches.

  I scan the club again, and a surge of frustration triggers a low growl. I don’t understand why The Chosen haven’t approached me yet. This is Alina’s territory, and it is she whom I’ve come to find. As one of Nicolas’s Elders, I expected she’d sense me, like he did when I first entered Colorado Springs. Her lack of response is puzzling.

  A guy standing at the bar across the room stares at me over the rim of his glass. Not quite as gothed-out as many of the other patrons, he’s wearing a black Bauhaus T-shirt with black jeans. He seems to be debating whether or not to talk to me. I take a drink of the beer to show him I’m alone.

  His decision apparently made, he picks up a leather jacket from the barstool next to him and saunters over. The hunger stirs at the scent of liquid pleasure running beneath human skin and my nails dig into the table.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  He’s tall, medium build, light brown hair neatly trimmed. Deep-set hazel eyes peer down at me from an angular face. Thin lips, framed by a mustache and goatee, offer a half-smile. He’s not bad looking. For a human.

  “Go ahead.”

  He takes the chair across from me and gestures toward the bottle of beer.

  “You need another?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He nods.

  “I’m Ben.”

  “Sonya.” The name still feels strange on my tongue, but instinct tells me it’s safer to keep my real one hidden until I find Alina.

  “You new in town?” He lounges back in the chair, but his nonchalance seems a little forced. Raising his glass, his eyes narrow as he examines me.

  Something tells me he’s run into my kind before. I’m not sure what it is. It’s almost like I can sense Chosen blood within his veins.

  A jolt of electric anticipation surges through my body. I try to stay calm.

  “Been here a couple weeks. Do you come here much?”

  “Sometimes. On weekends when I don’t have anything better to do.” He takes a drink. The ice rattles in the glass from a slight tremor in his hand.

  I glance over the tattoos lining his arms and bite back a smile at the image of Dracula poised open-mouthed over the neck of a terrified woman.

  Then something among the inked figures catches my eye, and as I look closer, a chill ripples across my skin.

  Two pinkish scars, small and rounded, a little over an inch apart. Several other pairs lurk among the colorful murals decorating his forearms.

  Fang marks.

  My gums spasm and my teeth drop into place, anxious to add their own signature.

  A cell phone chimes from his leather jacket. He fishes it out of a pocket and taps on the screen, then his face lights up and he grins.

  “Hey, I gotta go. Nice meeting you. See you around.” He stands and shrugs into his jacket.

  “Uh, sure.” But before I can gather my thoughts to ask for his number, he’s out the front door.

  I jump up to follow him. When I step outside, a steel-grey Maserati sedan with blacked-out windows is pulling away from the curb, and the guy is nowhere in sight.

  As the car recedes in the distance, I want to scream, to say, “Come back! Please, come back!”

  But I don’t.

  Only one thing would’ve sparked that light in his eyes when he received the phone call. That light is one I’ve seen before, up close, intimate.

  It’s the fevered response from a donor who’s about to relish the pleasure of giving himself to a Chosen.

  A flood of emotions rolls over me as I recall my own pleasure at both giving and taking blood, and Nicolas’s savage embraces when he made Chosen love to me.

  Despair slithers through me, molasses-thick, and my body sags beneath its weight. I lean against the side of the building and hug myself, fighting back the bloodtears while the image of bright emerald eyes seeps into my mind.

  Oh God, Nicolas. I miss you so much.

  “Hey, are you all right?” A male voice just a few feet away breaks through my misery. He’s human, and the copper-rich smell of his blood is mouthwatering.

  I wave him off without looking at him and push away from the building. Hands in my pockets, I shuffle along the filthy sidewalk toward my car. The night sounds of San Francisco surround me—distant sirens, the constant hum of traffic, sitcom laughter from TVs in cramped apartments. My sense of alienation increases.

  It’s not just Nicolas I miss. I miss being able to talk with someone without noticing the scent of their blood, without worrying about losing control, without fearing I’ll kill them.

  As much as I hate to admit it, my need for companionship seems to have grown since I finished the Change. Desperation to end this loneliness fuels my se
arch for The Chosen nearly as much as my longing for Nicolas.

  But they are here. I know that now. That tattooed guy’s scent is engraved in my mind, and it’s only a matter of time and patience before I track him down.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 38

  The silver filigree locket looks so innocent and delicate nestled on the white cotton in its little white box.

  But it, and the ammunition I’m placing inside it, will hopefully prove a powerful deterrent against the one trait of Chosen physiology giving me the most trouble.

  It’s a trait I’d long envied, admiring its potential effectiveness for my style of hunting. And when I became full Chosen, in spite of my outward horror, I was secretly thrilled to finally possess my own.

  Fangs.

  Twin daggers of pleasure for me, and piercing death for my prey.

  There’s nothing so satisfying as sinking them into a soft throat, reveling in that burst of passion as they slip into a hot pulsing vein and release its liquid bliss. I feel complete at that moment, the moment of being truly what I was meant to be. They’re more than just deadly weapons in my hunting arsenal. They define what I am in no uncertain terms, and those years of searching for myself and where I fit into the world ended with their aching emergence.

  However, right now, they are a complete pain in the ass.

  They seem to function independent of me, reacting to any stray scent at the most inopportune moments, and refusing to retract when I most need them to. I feel like a teenage boy whose body—specifically one part—has a mind of its own anytime a pretty girl walks by.

  It used to be bad enough trying to control the two creatures in my head. Now I have to deal with the two in my mouth, and they’re proving to be the most difficult to contain.