The Chosen

by Theresa Meyers

  Remy tightened his grip on his reins. “You have an awfully low opinion of humans.”

  “Don’t have a much better one of Darkin.”

  That surprised him. He was beginning to wonder if China really had loyalties to anyone or anything besides herself.

  They rode on in silence. China didn’t see much point in making conversation with him. The more he found out about her, the less likely he was to trust her. And the more likely he was to stumble across the fact that she was related to his arch nemesis. More important, she needed his trust if she was going to get her hands on the Book and hand it over to Rathe.

  Her new clothes weren’t nearly as soft and comfortable as the old ones she’d been wearing. They had too much store starch in them. A few dunkings and they’d be right as rain, but for now they made her feel suffocated. She also wasn’t certain she liked wearing a skirt. Even with it being a split skirt, she wasn’t used to the wash of air she got against her lady bits now and again. That just didn’t happen in well-fit britches. Not that she’d tell Remington.

  There was a comfortable wedge of wariness in between them. Ever since he’d seen her with Colt, he’d backed away a bit, which gave her room to breathe. When Remington focused the full force of his attention on her, it seemed to suck all the air out of her lungs. No, this was far easier—on both of them.

  As the dark blue bowl of the sky became rimmed with purple, and finally bruised a darker color, she looked at him, really looked at him. Remington Jackson was exactly the temptation she didn’t need. Her shifter eyes could detect far more light in the darkness than mere human eyes, giving her excellent night vision.

  His big, blatantly male body rolled easily with the steady walk of the horse beneath him. Remington had the dark good looks, the intelligence, and the air of danger about him that was as addictive as any opiate, but it was cleverly cloaked in civility. In so many ways he was more dangerous to her than Colt.

  Colt had been wild and reckless, but their relationship had been equal parts of mistrust and mutual physical attraction—never anything serious. He was a womanizer, and she knew it. It wasn’t as if she’d ever thought that Colt would give up his life as a confirmed bachelor Hunter to settle down with a Darkin. Was. Not. Going. To. Happen. He just wasn’t made that way.

  But Remington was a far different man. That veneer of civility promised, if not in words in implication, that he’d do right by a woman—in short he seemed more the type to settle down with one woman once he’d made up his mind to. And for some reason that was so much more alluring to her than it should be.

  He was more than just her type; he was exactly the kind of man that intrigued her most. Strong. Polished. Unattainable. Maybe it was because she’d seen her mother struggle for so long by herself. Maybe it was because she’d always felt as if she were set adrift in the world of the Darkin—part of it, but utterly alone without family or friends to cling to in stormy times.

  In fact, looking at him objectively, if it hadn’t been for her miserable experience with Colt, she’d probably have already found a way to wrap Remington around her little finger. If she wanted to. If she could.

  She wasn’t a succubus, and she couldn’t throw a glamour to gain a man’s compliance like a vampire. If she wanted him, she’d have to resort to old-fashioned womanly wiles. Or powerful Darkin binding magic—the kind that worked both ways.

  “How long do you think it’ll take to get there?”

  He glanced at her, his blue eyes clear in the moonlight. He smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness. “Likely all night and a good part of the morning. Why, you petering out on me?”

  She took it as a jab to her pride. Shifters, even among Hunters, were known for their stamina. “’Course not. Just trying to figure out when we’re going to eat next.”

  He chuckled. “You shifters really need to eat a lot to keep up your strength, don’t you?”

  China sniffed. “At least we don’t need as much sleep as you humans.”

  “Touché.”

  “I’m not touchy.”

  Remington shook his head and chuckled. “You always this prickly, China?”

  She looked at him full on. “No, sometimes I’m worse, especially when I’m hungry.” She dug her heels into her horse, pushing it into a trot so she could move ahead of him on the trail.

  He clicked to his horse and quickly caught up. “I don’t know a single animal alive that doesn’t get ornery when it’s hungry.”

  “Are you calling me an animal, now?”

  He slid her a sideways glance. “No. You’re too smart for that.”

  China decided to change tactics. He was obviously used to being around prickly people and that didn’t push him away any. She feigned shock, placing a hand over her heart. “I do declare, Mr. Jackson, was that a compliment I heard?” The subtle, sugar-sweet tone of her voice made him raise one brow.

  “Perhaps,” he answered with caution in his tone. “But I wouldn’t take it as a sign of acquiescence if I were you.”

  China changed the subject. “You ever met Diego? Might be good to know exactly who we’re looking for.”

  “Just once, when I was young, before Winn bowed out of Hunting for the Legion.”

  Thoughts tumbled around over one another in China’s head like stones crumbling off of a bank, one overtaking the next until it was a jumble. She knew powerful little about the Jacksons beyond what Colt had told her. And when he wasn’t busy hustling or stealing, or killing Darkin, he was gambling, drinking, or womanizing—which left no time for just sitting and talking.

  So she’d done some research of her own, talking to fellow Darkin, those that would talk to a marked one—the name for those Darkin unfortunate enough to be physically branded by Rathe as his personal property.

  Some said that the three Jackson brothers were the Chosen—three Hunter brothers in the Darkin lore prophesied to bring a balance back to the world between Darkin and humanity, so that neither wiped the other out completely. She really didn’t care much either way about balance or prophecy. She did however care a great deal about being on the winning side no matter what it took. What she saw was an opportunity to gain Rathe’s approval for good. And when it came to an archdemon lord, that wasn’t an opportunity that came around every century.

  “What’d he look like?”

  Remington pulled his hat from his head and scratched his scalp. “You know I don’t really remember much. He was one of those people who are easy to forget. Nothing overly distinct about them.”

  “Then how will we know if we’ve found the real Diego?”

  He threw her a knowing smile. “Don’t you worry; I’ve got ways of telling.”

  “And do these secret Hunter skills extend to detecting Darkin as well?”

  He gave her a secretive smile. “Of course.”

  She couldn’t help herself and smiled back. “And exactly how does that work?”

  “Would you like a demonstration?”

  Her heart thudded harder in her chest. China wasn’t sure she actually said yes, or anything at all for that matter, but she did nod her head.

  Remington brought his horse to a standstill, and China came to a stop alongside him. He dismounted and gallantly offered his hand to assist her from her horse, even though they both knew she didn’t need it.

  After several dusty hours of traveling, the night air was cool, crisp, and clean. In a word, romantic. The cloying sweet aroma of cactus flowers seasoned the night, and out in the desert a lone coyote bayed at the moon. His call was met by yips and howls from others who joined him in singing to the night.

  Remington gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead as he locked his eyes on hers. “A well-trained Hunter uses all his senses when detecting a Darkin.”

  “Such as?” she asked, her voice soft and a little breathless.

  “He can smell a Darkin.” He bent low, his nose lightly skimming a trail along her neck, right beneath her ear. She heard him inhale and felt the b
rush of air as his chest expanded, nearly touching hers. Her knees wobbled a bit.

  He pulled back and gazed deeply into her eyes. “He can see a Darkin by looking for that telltale glint in the eye.” His warm hands slid over her upper arms, and he turned her just slightly, so the moonlight caressed her face.

  “Anything else?”

  His devastating smile flashed white in the darkness. “A great Hunter can even taste a Darkin.” He leaned in, his mouth gently sealing over hers in a searing kiss that rocked her to her toes. Her whole body responded to the intimacy of his touch, and while it was innocent enough, it made her yearn for far, far more.

  She’d told herself once, and she’d say it again—Remington Jackson was trouble.

  Remington let himself get so caught up in the sensations that his common sense had to reel him back in. She smelled sweet and felt both soft and sleek beneath his touch. But it was the kiss that knocked him for a loop. Until that moment he’d still been in control of the situation. Of himself.

  Her lips were honey on rose petals, slick and sweet and oh, so soft. And when they parted, he tasted the flavor of her mouth. He’d been wrong, so very wrong to think a Darkin female might taste worse than a human one. China McGee tasted like vanilla ice cream. She wound him up in knots so tight, it took every ounce of willpower he had to release his hands on her and step away.

  Both of them were breathing hard. Her luminous eyes were dilated at the centers, big and dark, and rimmed in brilliant silver.

  “If we’re going to make Nogales by noon, we ought to get going,” he said absently. Part of him already regretted that he hadn’t kissed her longer. But it was better that than to let the physical stray into some emotional connection and begin sharing true Hunter secrets with her. “That would conclude my demonstration.”

  China bit her bottom lip, her teeth worrying the soft pink fullness. Now that he’d kissed her, he knew precisely the texture of her there and how slick and warm her lips could be. “You’re very convincing.” Her voice was a bit breathless.

  He turned away from her and found something to occupy his hands, checking the cinch and buckles on his tack. “Do you need a moment to take care of anything before we mount up again?”

  She nodded and handed him the reins of her horse, then hurried off between the rocks. He didn’t follow. Didn’t even try.

  China McGee was temptation, pure and simple.

  They rode on through the night, and as the dawn broke golden over the mountains, the sky becoming a paler blue, they spied Nogales. Thankfully it was closer than he’d thought. They’d make it before noon.

  The sleepy little village was no more than a few squat adobe houses clustered together around a central well. The smell of freshly cooking beans, onions, and peppers spiked the air with a delicious scent that made his stomach rumble. What he wouldn’t give for a stack of freshly made tortillas and a bowlful of good beans. A few chickens scratched in the shade, and a dog lay panting just outside the front door of a home, but there was nary a person in sight. It seemed eerie, as if the people had simply evaporated and left everything behind.

  “Where is everyone?” Remington asked.

  “Exactly what I was wondering,” China responded in a hushed tone.

  He spied a pale wisp of white smoke coming from a hole in one of the adobe houses. Someone was home in this village; they just weren’t open and friendly to visitors. He dismounted and went over to China, grabbing the bridle of her palomino. He intentionally lowered his voice so only she could hear it as she dismounted. “There’s people here. They’re hiding out. Watch yourself.”

  She gave him a barely perceptible nod and pulled out the revolver she had holstered at her hip.

  Slowly they walked through the village, looking first in the half-opened door of one house and then another. By the time they reached the fifth house, they were across the small square from their horses. “Hay alguien en casa?” Remington called out, hoping whoever lived here would be more willing to show themselves to the gringos if they knew they could communicate with them.

  Before they’d had time to turn around in the doorway, a chorus of clicks sounded as multiple guns cocked and pointed at them. “Put your hands up on your heads and slowly turn around, gringos.” The deep, gravely male voice sounded as if it had choked on dust for years.

  They complied, and Remington took care to keep his face and manner as calm and unruffled as possible. There was no reason to increase the tension already sparking in the air. “We’re looking for Diego Mendoza.”

  “There’s lots of people who look for Diego. What’s your business with him?”

  “He worked with my father, Cyrus Jackson. I’m here to see him about a map.”

  The older man who seemed to be leading the others spat out a dark stream of tobacco juice into the dirt. He squinted one eye against the brightness of the sun as he looked them over. “Who’s the Darkin?” he said with a jerk of his head in China’s direction.

  “She’s my scout. I’ll need one where I’m headed.” At least Colt had said as much. Diego might know where to find the missing piece of the Book, but only a Darkin could gain access to it.

  The old man chuckled. “You don’t need a Darkin to show you the path to Hell, boy. A Hunter can find that all on his own in good time.”

  Remington struggled to maintain his control when the old man shifted the aim of his rifle to China’s head. “Diego will know why she’s here.”

  The old man’s gun lowered a notch. He glanced back at the group of men gathered on his right and nodded. One of them took off running to an adobe house set apart from the others and came back a few minutes later. “Diego says he’ll see you.”

  They were led at gunpoint to the adobe house. “How do you know Diego and your father weren’t enemies?” China whispered as they walked.

  “I don’t.”

  Chapter 8

  The dim interior of the adobe house momentarily left Remington sun blinded, and his hand automatically went to his gun. It came up empty. His hand reflexively fisted at the loss. Their weapons had been confiscated while they were marched at gunpoint to what he supposed was Diego’s home. Their welcome party was still behind them, now blocking their only means of escape, guns pointed at their backs.

  At least they hadn’t separated him and China. He glanced at her, and she seemed more curious than upset. Perhaps she could see better in the dark room than he could.

  As his eyes adjusted he could see the place, no bigger than fifteen-feet square. Slats of light from the shuttered windows slashed across a dirt floor pounded flat and hard from the wear of many feet.

  A single bed covered with a colorful, handwoven wool blanket, a small table, a couple of chairs, and a chest of drawers on which sat a chipped enamel washbasin took up pretty much all of the floor space, leaving little room to maneuver. The place smelled of cooked meat and beans, gun oil, and the pungent tang of strong alcohol.

  A bent figure, hand resting on his cane, stood in the shadows beside the table. Remy noticed out of the corner of his eye the abandoned, half-eaten plate of food and the liquor bottle. But his attention was fixed on the elderly, white-haired man dressed in light clothing who at first glance looked more like one of the locals than a Hunter ready to fight.

  “Diego Mendoza? I’m Remingt—”

  “Where’s Cyrus?”

  Remington reached up to remove his hat and found the cold rounded muzzle of a gun pressing into his back. He realized he’d been rude to interrupt breakfast uninvited, but that didn’t warrant the gun. Obviously Diego was expecting trouble.

  “Easy now,” Remington murmured. He slowed his actions so they couldn’t be mistaken. As his eyes adjusted the man’s features became clearer. His face, tanned by the sun into a wrinkled brown leather, sported a wide jawline obscured by a scraggly salt and pepper beard. Thick white hair was combed straight back. Deep-set dark brown eyes peered at him from beneath bushy black brows. Diego was older than Pa. Or perhaps they’d be
en the same age, but Pa hadn’t lived long enough for Remington to have a memory of him like this.

  “Cyrus has been gone for five years. I’m his middle son, Remington.”

  He found the tip of the cane, which he realized was actually the barrel of a rifle, pointed in his face. “If you’re really Cy’s boy, then tell me why he named you boys what he did.”

  “He named us after his favorite hunting guns. Winchester, Remington, and Colt. Ma didn’t like it, but she couldn’t fault him for it because those guns had saved him so many times.”

  “And what branch of the Legion are you descended from?”

  “Cadel, the lion of the Legion.”

  Diego nodded and lowered the tip of his cane/gun. “If your father is gone, why are you seeking me out, boy?”

  Remington swallowed hard against the dust coating the back of his throat. The smell of Diego’s breakfast tweaked his nose and made his belly grumble. It had been a long ride all night through the desert, and a hot meal sounded divine. He resisted the urge to glance at the half-finished plate of beans and tortillas on the table. First things first.

  Pa had always taught them duty came before one’s personal needs. Winn followed the advice to the letter, Colt rarely, and Remy did when it suited him. China shuffled her feet as she stood beside him but kept quiet. At least she knew enough not to attract unwanted attention as a Darkin in a Hunter’s home. Smart girl. He glanced at her for a moment, then turned back to Diego.

  “We’re searching for the southern European portion of the Book of Legend—the one that came to the Kingdom of Navarre with Elwin, then was brought to North America by the Spanish searching for Aztec gold. My pa believed you knew where it was located and what it would take to get it.”