The Chosen

by Theresa Meyers

  China smiled. This was going to be easy as pie. She hiked a bit above where Monica and Remington hid with the horses before she let the heat shimmer through her and her shape smudged into that of a mountain lion. Shots continued to ring out, keeping them pinned down, unable to go forward in the canyon and unwilling to go back.

  China in her mountain lion form padded down to where the others waited and went up to Remington and huffed, rubbing her cheek against his thigh.

  Monica jumped, pressing herself against the rocks. She crossed herself and kissed her hand. “Please tell me that’s China and not a pet mountain lion that’s followed us.”

  “Rawrr,” China growled.

  Remington grinned at the first mate. “It’s China. Mountain lions don’t generally have gray eyes.” A small curl of pride welled up inside her that he’d noticed that about her. She blinked at them both and chuffed softly.

  Remy turned and looked down at China. He had the crazy urge to pet her fur to see if it was as silky as her normal hair. It certainly was just as golden. But this was no housecat, and he didn’t know enough about shifters to know if they still maintained all their human instincts when they transformed. It was better to play this one safe.

  He looked into her familiar silver eyes. “Find out where they are, and we’ll make a plan from there.”

  She growled low in her throat, the rumbling sound of it pricking his skin into gooseflesh. It was the sound of a wild animal, powerful and close enough to bite. He figured that was a grudging agreement, but it could have been her grousing about the idea. It was hard to tell.

  She padded away, her golden shoulders rolling as she stalked up the rocks, the darker tip of her tail swishing, an animal on the hunt. She looked back over her shoulder only once before she sped off and disappeared into the darkness.

  Monica inched closer and kept her voice low. “Are you sure you can trust her?”

  He flicked his gaze to Monica before returning it to scan the top of the mountains. “No.”

  From above them there was the rattle of scree tumbling down the rocks. Remington and Monica both shifted their gazes up a moment too late.

  Pop. Ping. Rock chips flew, nicking his face. A hot trickle of blood streamed down his cheek. Dammit. They were getting closer. But in the night with the deep shadows cast by the rocks, it was damn near impossible to discern movement. The horses shied and whinnied, making it hard to control them. He narrowed his eyes, trying to improve his vision. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of Marley’s special goggles about now with all those fancy changing lens and scopes.

  Click, click, click.

  From the sudden itch climbing up his scalp Remy knew there were three cocked guns pointed at them. He turned and saw the glint of moonlight on steel.

  They were barrel facing barrel in the narrow confines of rock. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. A true Mexican standoff.

  “I don’t have to miss you, gringo. I could have shot you in the head.”

  Remington gave a silent prayer of thanks for small favors. A bandito with a conscience.

  “Put down the guns. Kick them to me. And raise your hands.” Remington slid a sideways glance at Monica and saw that she was already complying. He did the same grudgingly, flicking his gaze up for a moment to the hills, looking for a flash of golden coat, but saw nothing but moon-streaked darkness.

  The banditos moved down the rocks toward them, their guns still poised to shoot. “What is it you want?” Monica asked.

  The bandito leader pinched her cheeks between his hands, making her mouth squeeze into a pucker. “With you, chica, there are several things, but mostly we want your horses and whatever you have of value. Then we will ransom you.”

  Remington, his hands on his head, huffed out a dry laugh. “That’s not going to get you much. We’re on our own. There are no relations to write to.”

  The leader’s dark brows drew together, and in one swift motion he butted Remington in the side of the head with the end of his rifle. Monica gasped. Pain exploded in Remington’s temple as streaks of light and stars filled his vision, and he toppled over to the dirt. He tried to breathe through the fire.

  The leader kicked him in the ribs to roll him over, then stuck the cold metal of the barrel against his cheek. “Talk out of turn again, and I start cutting off pieces.” He gave a vicious smile, his teeth a flash of bits of yellowish white in the night.

  “Bind them. Get them up. Take the horses back to camp.”

  Remington was dragged to his feet, stripped of his other revolver and ammunition belt, and his hands were lashed behind him with rope. They did the same to Monica, only the man who worked on her bindings stopped for a moment to reach out and grasp one of her breasts and squeeze it. Monica cursed and kicked out at him with her foot, landing a solid kick to his knee. The man yelped and backhanded her across the mouth hard. Her head snapped to the side.

  Remington’s blood boiled. He hated men who treated women like worthless trash. His fingers itched for a trigger to pull. Damn. Where the hell was China?

  The banditos marched them down the trail, horses tied pack-style in a line behind the last bandito, then up the hills along a winding animal track until they reached what looked like a semi-permanent camp. The smell of unwashed bodies, woodsmoke, and charred meat became stronger in the air. Shacks created from stacked rock, with roof coverings made from salvaged Saguaro ribs, sat clustered around a large central campfire surrounded by boulders for seats. There were eight more men in the camp. All of them peered with dark eyes at Monica and Remington as they were summarily marched into the middle of the rough clearing.

  A corral had been created from a cave blocked with barbed wire stretched across posts of dried wood. The horses shifted and pawed, sensing the tension in the air.

  “Put them in the cell,” the leader called out. “Pietro, you look through their packs, and Manuel, put their horses with the others.” The men shuffled off away from the warmth of the fire to do his bidding.

  They were put in a makeshift cell. Really it was more of an outcropping of rock that formed the roof and three sides of a cramped space, blocked along the entrance by a door made of wooden boards and leather hinges. There was barely room to sit, and the ceiling was too low, at least for him, to properly stand.

  The moment the cell door was latched in place, Monica started to wriggle against her bindings. “Well this is a fine kettle of fish you’ve gotten us into.”

  “Me? How am I responsible for the banditos?”

  She glared at him. “If you hadn’t been so busy kissing with your Darkin mistress, I wouldn’t have had to double back, and we wouldn’t have been caught in the canyon. So it is your fault. Both of you,” she said with asperity.

  “She’s not my mistress,” he muttered.

  “You telling me that because you want me to think it’s true or because you wish it were?” she shot back at him, but Remington was only half listening to her complaints. He had better things to focus on. Like how to get them the hell out of this. He used the sharp edge of the stone behind him to cut through the bindings at his wrists. The banditos had taken his guns, but not the knife tucked down into the side of his boot, which he couldn’t manage with his hands tied behind him. If he could get out, he could slit the throat of one, take his gun, and get them their horses and packs.

  The low sound of the men’s voices was abruptly cut off by high-pitched male screams. Remington shot up from his crouch between the outcropping of rocks and smacked his head on the rock ceiling. Shooting stars whizzed across his vision, and for a moment his world wobbled with a case of vertigo. He rubbed at the spot on his head. It was swollen. Clearly his head was still tender from the blow the leader had given him.

  Monica shot up too and turned shaking, her hands behind her. “We have to stop her! Hurry and untie me.”

  A cold feeling slid through his gut like icy water from a high mountain stream as he pulled the small knife from his boot and started hacking away at Monica’s bi
ndings. The dark made it difficult. He didn’t want to slice her hands, but he was trying to be quick.

  The shrieks and agonized screams rose in intensity, accompanied by hair-raising growls, and the unmistakable sound of bodies slamming into the ground, and the sick, wet sound of flesh tearing.

  China was killing those men.

  Every Hunter instinct within him urged him to rush in and defend them, but the other half of him, the one focused on the mission to reunite the Book at all costs, hesitated. Those men were an obstacle to their path. Remington held the knife tighter. He should have tried to reason with them before letting China go forth as a Darkin bent on defense via destruction.

  Monica ripped the loosened ropes from her wrists and started shoving and kicking against the cell door.

  He frowned in the darkness. “It’s too late.”

  “You can’t mean that.” The disapproval in Monica’s tone was clear.

  “You don’t know China.” Remy tried for a no-nonsense tone. “She’s obeying a primitive instinct to protect. Besides, we can’t kill her. I need her.”

  The screams cut off, leaving the camp ominously quiet.

  “Yes, but banditos or not, they are human.” Monica insisted, her voice getting higher and higher. “She’s . . . not. Hunters and Darkin aren’t meant to mix. You know that. It’s you who’s crossed the line. You need to reevaluate your priorities.”

  Acid swished uncomfortably in his stomach. He wished he could. Remington closed his eyes for a moment and let out a heavy sigh. She was right, but there was more than one side to all of this. This wasn’t simply black and white, human versus Darkin.

  From what he’d witnessed, China was clearly on the human side of the equation when it came to taking down Rathe. At least she seemed to be. God, these kind of mental gymnastics wrecked havoc on him. They made him mentally and physically tired when he hadn’t even moved a muscle.

  He opened his eyes and turned in Monica’s direction, willing her to understand the gravity of what they faced. “Yes, but I doubt those banditos would have been so kind in how they handled you once they’d killed me.”

  Monica frowned, her throat working as she swallowed hard. “True. But that doesn’t make it right.”

  “This isn’t about right or wrong. Unless I have her to help me break through whatever Darkin protections there are in the temple and get back Elwin’s piece of the Book of Legend, all of humanity can kiss its ass good-bye. Rathe will win. That’s not an option. In this case we side with the Darkin shifter.”

  For a moment they just stared at one another. Monica’s mouth pressed into a firm line, and she gave him a single, curt nod. She didn’t like it, but she accepted it. When it came to battling Darkin, the loss of a few to save the many was sometimes the best they could do.

  “The only way we’re going to get that door open is to take a run at it together,” he said.

  They both squeezed as far back as they could in the cell. Remington glanced at her. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”

  In unison they ran at the door, butting it with their shoulders. It cracked at the assault, but didn’t give way.

  Monica rubbed at her arm. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  They ran at the door once more, and this time it tumbled outward, landing them on top of it in the dirt.

  A cloud of dust rose up around them, and he and Monica both coughed and swung at the swirling dirt, trying to breathe and see what was happening.

  “Dear Mother of God,” Monica rasped as she stared at the shambles of the camp and what was left of the banditos. “What kind of monster are you working with, Jackson?”

  Chapter 11

  The stink . . . the blood . . . the slaughter . . . the sheer brutality of the kill made Remington’s stomach churn as he took in the destruction China had wrought. Bloody gore splattered the rocks surrounding the camp. Men, their throats ripped out, their bellies torn open and innards glistening in the moonlight, lay scattered in the narrow confines between the shacks and the fire pit where the coals glowed red.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to keep the cold fury within him at bay. This was the very kind of thing he was born, raised, and trained to defend against, and yet he couldn’t summon sympathy for the men. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He tugged Monica’s shoulder. Her eyes were slightly dilated, and her breathing was off. Perhaps she hadn’t seen this violent a scene before. Perhaps she was just stunned at the ferocity of it. But for Remington times like this caused him to drain of all emotion. He became cold inside. Dead. There was only the mission. No feeling. No thought. “You get our horses. I’ll see where our packs are and if there’s anything useful we can take.”

  Monica stared at him, dumbfounded. “She murdered them!”

  “They died in battle,” he argued calmly. “And there was only her against many of them. I’d say the odds were in their favor.”

  Monica’s face hardened. “Look at what she’s done. Do you really think her help will be worth it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The soft shuffle of a leather shoe over dirt turned Remington’s head. China was back. Her shirt was blood spattered, her face and hands a mess, smeared with red, and she looked bone tired—somewhat dazed, her feet barely lifting off the ground.

  He pulled off his jacket and handed it to her. “Here, use this. Let’s see if we can find you some water to clean up.” China slumped down and leaned against a rock, clutching the jacket to her chest. She was still breathing hard.

  “I’m getting the horses,” Monica grumbled, then spun on her heel and headed off to the corral.

  Remington crouched down beside China. There was enough blood that he wasn’t certain she’d made it through the battle unscathed. “Are you hurt?”

  Her head lolled to the side, and she gazed up at him. “I hate blood. Did Colt ever tell you that?”

  Remington shook his head. His emotions began to return as he focused on her rather than the carnage around him. “If you hate it, then why’d you kill them?”

  “They weren’t going to let you and Monica go. I heard them. They were going to have their way with her and kill you both. It was only a matter of time. What I did, I did for you.”

  The words hit Remington with the force of a sucker punch. And the emotions he’d bottled away came back with a rush. He didn’t know what to say. If there’d been any doubt about China’s loyalty he laid it to rest right then and there. She’d more than proven herself.

  A canteen hit the dirt with a thud beside him. He glanced up and saw Monica there with the horses. “There’s your water. Get her cleaned up, and let’s get out of here. We’ve only got a few hours before daylight.”

  Remington found their packs, and took out her worn chambray shirt, and tore off a strip off it. He wet it from the canteen and handed it to China.

  She took it from him, her eyes troubled. “Thank you. I’m sorry—”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t be sorry for doing what needed to be done. We’ve all had to do battle before. And what’s at stake is far bigger than this.”

  China bit her lip. “I don’t think Monica feels the same.”

  Remington crouched down beside her. “There are some Hunters, and their families, who can’t accept Darkin, no matter what is done to prove some Darkin are not our enemies. I know you want to get rid of Rathe. I know that look I saw in your eyes. We’re on the same side in this quest, you and I. And I won’t forget it.”

  Her pale pink lips turned up into a slight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Neither will I.”

  It took them another ten hours to reach Caborca. The city spread out in the valley below. The open-air markets lining the streets were bright and alive with activity, even in the wee hours of the morning. Vendors were setting up stacks of fresh melons and bright green ears of corn, their silks still pale and golden. Chickens squawked in the cage at the butcher’s stall, and a goat tied to the post of his cutting block bleated loudly. The smel
l of roasting chilies, fresh spices, and cooking corn wafted in the air, making their trail dinner seem long ago and far away. China’s stomach rumbled loudly.

  “I sent a messenger bird to my father regarding our arrival. He’ll be expecting us,” Monica informed Remington. She hadn’t said a word to China since they’d escaped the bandito camp. “He usually sends me up to talk with Diego before a shipment leaves and again when it returns. Our next trip was supposed to begin today. I’m back late as it is.”

  “Do you think he’ll let me into his home?” China asked.

  Monica flicked a glance in her direction. “It’s hard to tell. He’s a Hunter, so there’s a natural aversion to your kind, but he’s also been reciting the prophecy of the Chosen to me since I was a child. He might be so thrilled to meet Mr. Jackson that he won’t care if you’re a member of his party.”

  That hardly seemed encouraging, China thought. But they had little enough choice in the matter. If they were to reach the temple where the piece of the Book was hidden according to Diego, then they’d have to get there by the fastest means possible. And since she hadn’t seen any other airships beyond the one the vampires had hovered in while over Tombstone, and the rail lines were sporadic, the submarine seemed the fastest way.

  They were all dog tired and hungry. Remington didn’t think imposing on Captain Nation’s hospitality a good idea, so he arranged for rooms at a hotel nearby in town. After a good meal, and a hot soaking bath with lots of soap, followed by a siesta, China felt almost human again, which was really as close as she ever got.

  A knock sounded at her hotel room door. Given their situation she was overly cautious and cracked the door only enough to peer at who was on the other side. She let out the breath she was holding and couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Opening the door wider, she grinned. Remington Jackson was a fine-looking man, and he cleaned up very nicely. Although she eyed his pristine, stiff, starched appearance with some amusement.