The Chosen

“I can’t do this … I can’t do this job … it’s not me …”

“What is happening?” she breathed with terror. “What did you do down below?”

In reply, the words that came out of him were mumbled, so indistinct she had to bend closer to try to decipher them: “The war has to end. And there is only one way to destroy the Omega. It was foretold. The prophecy must be realized and that can happen but one way.”

As his eyes met hers, fear turned her cold. “What did you do?”

“The lessers must be eliminated. They have to kill all of them and then take out the Omega. The war has to end.”

“What did you do!”

“They are my family,” the fallen angel choked out as he covered his face with his hands. “They are my family …”

As a horrible thought dawned on her, she said, “Tell me you didn’t—”

“The slayers must be eliminated. Every single one of them. Only then can they go after the Omega …”

Layla fell back on her bottom and put her hands to her cheeks. The Brothers and the Bastards in one place. An oath of loyalty given and accepted.

Such that if the Lessening Society would show up, the two previously opposing sides would fight their common enemy together.

“Will any of them die?” she demanded of the angel. “Who is going to die?”

“I don’t know,” he said in a broken voice. “That I cannot see …”

“Why did you have to do this?” Even though he had already shared the reasoning. “Why?”

As her eyes began to water, she thought about going down to earth. But she couldn’t depart from the young. “Why now?”

Lassiter stopped mumbling, his eyes fixating on the milky white sky above them—to the point where she wondered if he couldn’t see what was happening down below.

Leaving him as he was, she crawled over to where Lyric and Rhamp were blissfully asleep, utterly unaware of what might well be changing the course of their lives forever.

Lying down with them on the soft blankets she had folded up so they would be warm and cozy, she let her tears do what they would.

She would have prayed.

But the race’s savior was not in any kind of condition to hear requests. Besides, it was clear that he already knew what she would have begged for—and shared her fears.

It was also obvious that of all the gifts he could grant and powers he had, ensuring that no Brother or Bastard fell in the fighting was not among them.

SIXTY-FOUR

In the end, the battle at the warehouse proved that wars were ultimately subject to the same rules about beginnings, middles, and ends as everything else on the planet.

The harbinger of it being over was not silence. No, nothing was silent in the cold, man-made cave. There were too many groans and broken shuffles across the concrete floor, the battlefield strewn with bodies moving and not, the air thick with gun smoke and blood.

“Is it over?”

As Wrath spoke, Tohr loosened his hold on the King a little. But not by much. He had his arms and legs wrapped around the other male’s huge body, the pair of them wedged into a corner formed thanks to the only delineated space in the tremendous, bare interior: The King’s back was to the juncture of walls, and Tohr was a mortal shield protecting vital organs even though Wrath was wearing a bulletproof vest.

They didn’t always do the trick, after all.

And Wrath’s life was nothing that anybody was prepared to gamble with.

“Is it?” Wrath demanded. “I don’t hear any more fighting.”

Tohr’s head had been cranked to the side, and as he straightened it a bit, his neck cracked. Looking around, he tried to identify bodies, but there was no making sense of the carnage. There were twenty-five dead, maybe more, on the cold concrete floor, and there was both black and red blood everywhere.

He truly feared there had been casualties in the Brotherhood—

From out of the masses of bodies, a lone figure stood up.

It was covered in blood and moving badly. And it had a gun. But things were too smoky to tell whether it was a slayer or a brother or a Bastard.

“Fuck,” Tohr breathed.

He didn’t want to get up to fight and leave Wrath defenseless, because the guy was just stupid and pissed off enough at the ambush that he might well try and take up arms again—

The whistle that echoed up was like a benediction.

And Tohr whistled right back.

Vishous turned in the center of the battlefield and started limping over; his gait was bad and one arm hung at a horrible angle. But he was tougher than all that, and determined to get to his King—

It was not Vishous.

As the figure got closer, Tohr realized … it was Xcor. Xcor was the one coming over.

When the Bastard was in range, it was obvious he was very badly injured, all kind of red stuff leaking from wounds that seemed to affect almost every part of his body.

“We must get the King out,” the Bastard whispered in a hoarse voice. “I will go scout.”

“Wait,” Tohr said as he grabbed for the male’s arm. “You’re hurt.”

“And you are the shield of our King. It’s too dangerous for him to be left unattended. If I die, it will not matter. If he dies, all hope is lost for the race and the Omega wins.”

Tohr stared up into his blooded brother’s eyes. “If you can get outside, there’s help. Four blocks over to the west. They were told not to come unless someone called on them. We didn’t want to sacrifice the doctors.”

Xcor nodded. “I will return.”

And then in an unbelievable show of will and strength, the male ghosted into the thin air. In spite of the fact that he was brutally wounded.

“We’re going to have to buy that motherfucker a gold watch or something,” Wrath muttered.

“Isn’t that what you get when you retire?”

“You think he’s fighting again after this shit?”

Tohr waited. And waited. And waited. And tried to contain his panic that people he loved were dead or dying around him and he was tending to none of them.

He told himself that as long as he didn’t hear any bullets or anything, Xcor might have made it to the—

The sound started off faintly, a growl in the distance. And then it grew louder, and louder … and louder still until the roar was so close it shook the flimsy walls of the warehouse—

The black Mercedes S600 exploded into the interior about twenty feet from where Tohr and Wrath were huddled together, debris going everywhere, sheets of metal knocking Tohr on the head and shoulders.

As Xcor burst out of the backseat, Fritz lowered the driver’s side window, his wrinkly, sagging face full of concern. “My Lords, do jump in. I fear the human police will be coming soon.”

Tohr went to get up, but his knees gave out from cramps.

Xcor was the one who grabbed the King and all but threw him into the backseat.

“I’m getting really fucking tired of being manhandled like this!” Wrath hollered.

Tohr was next on Xcor’s list, the Bastard taking hold of him with astonishing strength and going javelin on him.

But Tohr wasn’t having it. He knew exactly what was coming next.

Snagging the Bastard’s arm, he dragged the male in with them and yelled, “Hit it, Fritz!”

The doggen with the NASCAR lead foot punched the accelerator, wrenched the wheel, and with a tire-screeching hard turn, swung them around so the door shut itself. And then they were exiting through a different panel, going all Fast & Furious as the Mercedes plowed through the warehouse’s outer wall again and hit the snow on the far side like it stole something.

Xcor’s eyes were wide with shock as they bounced around the backseat. “You didn’t have to save me.”

Tohr thought about things for a second. And then decided, Fuck it. Who knew how many were dead back there and whether Xcor was even going to live, given his injuries? Whether Fritz would be able to get them out of downtown, to safety?

“I wasn’t about to leave my brother behind.”

At first, Xcor was determined to reinterpret the words spoken unto him. Surely there was some translation problem, although it certainly appeared that English had been uttered.