The Chosen

The good news? The angel just walked off into the billiards room, not even tweaking that Qhuinn was half naked and nauseous at the base of the stairs.

So there was some grace and mercy left in the world, it seemed.

Yeah, except then came Qhuinn’s trip up to the second floor. The ascent required the use of the balustrade and a lot of molar grinding, but after several months, if not years, of climbing, Qhuinn made it. At the top, he was relieved to see that the doors to Wrath’s study were closed. What wasn’t so hot? The fact that there were a lot of voices going back and forth behind those panels.

He could just imagine what the topic was.

Continuing on to the hall of statues, he went down to the bedroom Layla had stayed in, and found himself wanting to knock even though his kids were in there. Manning up, he grabbed the knob of the new door and twisted so hard his wrist felt like it was going to snap off the bottom of his arm.

As he opened things up, he stopped.

Beth had her back to him as she leaned over Lyric’s bassinet, the Queen murmuring all kinds of lovely things as she settled the infant into the soft cocoon.

When his presence registered, it was not a surprise that Beth crossed her arms over her chest and squared off at him like he was the enemy.

“Thanks for taking care of them,” he said as he limped in.

“You look like hell.”

“I feel worse.”

“Good.” When he cocked an eyebrow at her, the Queen shrugged. “What do you want me to say? That it’s okay you kicked Layla out of this house?”

“She did that to herself, not me.”

God, his head was thumping, that conversation with Blay going around and around in his brain like a race car stuck on a closed track. So, yeah, talking about that Chosen was really awesome right now.

“Just so you know”—the Queen put her hands on her hips—“I think Layla’s rights should stay in place, and I think you and she need to work out a fair visitation schedule where these babies go and stay with their mahmen overnight.”

“They’re not leaving this house. And Layla can’t be here. The situation is what it is.”

“You’re not in charge.”

“Yeah, well, neither are you,” he said with exhaustion. “So why don’t we just drop it at that.”

Beth checked on Rhamp, and then came forward. Meeting him directly in the eye, she said, “This is not about your butt hurt, Qhuinn. These two kids need the both of you, and that means you are required to act like an adult even when you don’t feel like it. You do not have to see Layla, but they do.”

Qhuinn went over to the bed and sat down, because it was either that or he was going to go throw rug on the floor at her feet. “Treason, Beth. Against your mate. This is not a case of a parent forgetting to feed ’em once, or getting ’em off their sleep schedule.”

“You don’t need to tell me who shot my husband,” Beth snapped. “Just like I don’t have to tell you that it’s up to Wrath—and not anybody else—to forgive or not, punish or don’t. This is not fucking about you, Qhuinn. Get your head out of your ass, do what’s right for your children, and work on your damn temper.”

As she marched out of the room, he was absolutely positive that but for Lyric and Rhamp, she would have slammed that new door hard enough for the sound to echo in the Fade.

Putting his head in his hands, he nearly vomited on his bare feet.

Jesus, he was only in a frickin’ hospital gown.

Yeah, ’cuz with all the shit going on, what he was wearing was such a big deal. Then again, when you were surrounded by things that you couldn’t control, couldn’t make right, and didn’t want to deal with, what covered your ass was a welcome vacation for your pea-sized brain.

Dropping his arms, he got to his feet and went over to the bassinets. He picked up Rhamp first, holding his blooded son in his palms and carrying the young over to the huge bed. Placing the infant close to the pillows, he quickly brought Lyric over and stretched out with them both.

Rhamp fussed a little. Lyric was chill.

Before long, both of them were asleep in the crooks of Qhuinn’s arms. But there was no rest for him, and not just because his body hurt all over.

Yet the insomnia made no goddamn sense. He’d gotten what he wanted: Layla was out of the mansion, and no matter what Beth said, Wrath was going to do the right thing and cut the Chosen off from his young. Also, Blay was bound to come around. They’d been through worse things and had always arrived on the far side of the conflict better and stronger together.

Plus he had his young safely with him.

In spite of all that, however, Qhuinn felt like someone had hollowed him out on the inside, nothing left in between his ribs, his pelvis empty of its contents, his skin a useless bag with nothing really to do.

He closed his eyes. Told himself to chill out. Relax.

Within seconds, his lids were open. And as he stared at the ceiling, at the bullet holes he’d put in the corner, he ached in the place where his heart should have been.

Made sense. That vital organ of his was way on the other side of Caldwell, at Blay’s parents’ new house, the one the male’s mahmen didn’t like because everything in it worked and the floorboards didn’t creak when you walked on them.

Without his heart, Qhuinn was an empty vessel. Even with his young beside him.

So, yup, that hurt. He was just surprised by how much.

FIFTEEN

The Caldwell Insurance Company building was some seventy stories high and located in the financial district, serving as a landmark amid the other sleeker but shorter skyscrapers. According to its cornerstone, it had been constructed in 1927, and indeed, compared to its more modern neighbors, it was a glorious grande dame in the company of lesser harlots. With sets of gargoyles marking its three different stages of elevation, and an ornate crown of carvings and Latin phrases at its top, the CIC was a monument to the city’s greatness and longevity.

As Zypher formed on its rooftop, the wind whipped his hair straight back from his face, and his eyes watered from the cold rush. Far below, the lights of the city sprawled outward in an earthbound halo that was bisected by the Hudson River.

One by one, the others in the Band of Bastards joined him: Balthazar, the wild one; Syphon, the spy; and Syn, who stayed on the periphery like a source of evil waiting to trip up someone’s happy destiny.

Familiar, they all were unto him, these males with whom he had fought side by side for over two hundred years. There was naught that they had not shared: bloodshed, of their own and of the enemy’s; females, of the vampire and the human variety; locations, both here and in the Old Country.

“So ’tis the morrow, then,” Balthazar commented into the wind.

“Aye.” Zypher traced the highway down below with his eyes, noting the white headlights of the oncoming traffic, the red taillights for outgoing. “On the morrow’s eve, we leave.”

The lot of them had been here in the New World for but a short while, and they had accomplished naught of what they had sought when they had traveled from across the ocean. They had originally come in search of slayers, as the numbers of the enemy back home in the Old Country had shrunk to almost nil and terrorizing humans was fun only to a point. But upon arrival, they had discovered a similarly decimated population here. Ambitions had soon broadened, however. Xcor had wanted to be King, and necessary alliances had been formed with aristocrats in the glymera who wanted the Council to take on more power.

The coup had failed.

Even though they had managed to put a bullet in Wrath’s throat, the King had not just survived the assassination attempt, he had risen to an even greater height of power—and that had put the Band of Bastards at a critical disadvantage.

And then the fundamentals had changed, at least for Xcor.

Once the Chosen Layla had entered their leader’s life, none of anything else seemed to matter to the male—and that had actually been viewed as a benefit to the group at large. Xcor’s nature had long been aligned with a cruelty that had inspired fear and thus respect. After that female? The fighter’s hard edges had been filed down such that he became far easier with which to deal—and in turn, the Bastards had been more productive, as they were not constantly monitoring what Xcor’s mood was.