The Chosen

Except then their leader had been captured or killed.

To this night, they knew not which it was, and ne’er was Xcor to be seen again, evidently. Fates knew they had tried to find him, whether it be the remains or the male himself, and ending the search was difficult. But with nothing else to go on, and the Brotherhood continuing to hunt them, it was the better choice to return from whence they had come.

Abruptly, an image of Throe came to mind and Zypher frowned.

Alas, there had been one other who had been lost. Throe, their second in command for all intents and purposes, had been kicked out of the group when his ambitions for the throne had proven more enduring than Xcor’s. That incompatibility of goal had torn the two of them apart—and thus, the male who shouldn’t have been with them anyway had departed, nothing save a footnote in their history. Indeed, Throe, a former aristocrat who had once been ridiculed and conscripted into service as payment for a debt, but who had then proven himself over time, was gone from their ranks, perhaps killed by lessers or the others of his station with whom he had conspired. Or mayhap he lived among the blue bloods still, accepted once more unto his fold and scheming anew.

None of them cared about his loss as much as Xcor’s, however.

For truth, as Zypher stared out over the city, it would have seemed inconceivable when they arrived on these shores that they would leave without the two who had been partners in all the ways that mattered. But there was one truism that ruled o’er both the quick and the dead: Destiny ran upon its own course, with individual choice and predilection and prediction being, nine times out of ten, naught of consequence.

“Our purpose now is …” He let that drift.

Balthazar cursed. “We shall find another, mate. And we shall do it where we belong.”

Yes, Zypher thought, so they would. Back in the Old Country, they had a castle that they owned free and clear, and a staff of doggen who worked its land, providing sustenance and wares and produce to sell in the surrounding villages. The superstitious humans in the region stayed away from them. There were women and a few females to bed. Mayhap they would find some slayers, after all—

Fates, it sounded too fucking awful. A step backward instead of forward.

Yet they could not stay here. The first rule of conflict was that if you wanted to live, you didn’t engage with a more powerful enemy—and the Brotherhood, helmed by the King as they were, had tremendous financial resources, facilities, and armaments. When there had been a possibility of deposing Wrath, it had been a different scenario. But with the Bastards possessing only four fighters, no clear leader, and no agenda?

Nay. It wasnae good.

“On the morrow, then,” Balthazar said. “We depart.”

“Aye.”

Zypher truly wished they were bringing Xcor’s body back with them, however. “We will search for him one last time,” he announced to the wind. “For this, our final night, we shall endeavor to find our leader.”

They would make one more attempt—and even though the outcome was not likely to be different from all the others, the effort would help them make peace with the collective sense that they were deserting their dead.

“Let us off unto the hunt, then,” Balthazar said.

One by one, they dematerialized, into the cold darkness.

As soon as Vishous left the safe house, Layla took a deep breath—but the exhale didn’t do a damn thing for her.

Staying where she was, at that table in the kitchen, she listened to all the absolutely-nothing for a while, and then she stood up and walked around the first floor, going in and out of the cozy rooms. In the back of her mind, she had a thought that the ranch truly was a perfect little nest, the kind of place a female alone could feel secure in.

Was she even going to get the chance to have the twins come here?

Anxiety made it hard to breathe and she went to the sliding glass door that V had put to use. Pulling it open, she stepped outside, and as her slippers crushed the crunchy top layer of snow on the porch, she tried the whole deep-inhale thing again.

This time, as she let out air, her breath was a cloud that drifted off over her head.

Her cheeks, raw from all the crying and the wiping of tears, burned in the cold, clear air, and she looked up to the heavens above. There was a thick cloud cover blocking out the twinkling stars, and more fresh snow on the lawn, suggesting that the weather had been blustery and marked with flurries during the day.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Layla—

Everything stopped for her. From her heart rate to her breathing to even the thoughts in her messed-up brain, it was like her inner power grid blew its fuse and she became as the inside of the house behind her: utterly still and empty.

Turning to the east, she drew a breath in until her ribs strained from the effort, but she was not attempting to scent anything. She was trying to hold her lungs immobile in her chest—and if she could have paused her heart and the functions of her organs, she would have.

The echo of her own blood was so faint, it was difficult to determine whether or not it was a mistake on her part, a misapprehension of what was actually occurring. But no … she was in fact picking up a whisper of her own life source in the direction of the north … actually, the northwest.

Now her heart thundered.

“Xcor …?” she whispered.

The signal, such as it was, was not coming from where the Brother-hood’s compound was located. It was too far west for that. It was …

She looked back at the slider she’d come out of. Hesitated. Except then she thought of Vishous, and everything he’d said.

Unsure of exactly where she was going, she shut her eyes and dematerialized out a short distance, re-forming in a children’s park that she had spotted when she had been driven in the night before.

As she stood beside the empty swings and jungle gyms, she stilled herself anew.

Yes … there—

Behind her, a metal creak made her wrench around. But it was naught save the wind pushing at one of the swings, its chain links protesting at the disturbance.

Lowering her lids once more, she concentrated on her destination, and tried not to get ahead of herself.

As she flew forth in a scatter of molecules, she heard Vishous’s voice in her head.

We don’t get to pick who we fall for … you were not wrong in loving him, true? That part, no one can blame you for … and you’ve suffered enough.

He never hurt you, did he. There has to be something in him that isn’t evil.

This time, when she resumed her form, the beacon she was homing in on was even stronger, and her trajectory was spot-on. So she proceeded another half mile. And then a distance even longer, to the last ring of suburban neighborhoods before the farmland started. After that? She went even farther, penetrating the forested lands that were the beginning of the Adirondack Park.

Her last leg was but three hundred yards, and as she came back unto her corporeal being, it was with a tree branch right in her face.

Pushing the bare limb out of the way, she looked around. The snow was thicker herein, the breeze lesser, the terrain rocky. Shadows were everywhere—or mayhap that was her nervousness making it seem that way.

Close … so close by. But where precisely?

Layla turned slowly in a circle. No one was about, and neither were woodland animals moving around.

It seemed unlikely that Xcor would have spent a full day out here and still have survived—although … there had been a snowfall and that big storm was on its way. Perhaps there had been sufficient cloud cover? It wasn’t a gamble one would have ever taken unless one were out of other, safer options, but if he were incapacitated in some way?

After all, if he were dead, she wouldn’t have picked up on anything.

Cranking her head around, she frowned as something atypical in the landscape caught her eye.

There was something … over there … to the left of an oak so tall and thick it had to be at least a hundred years old.

Yes, it was a mound of sorts that seemed out of place on the forest floor.

Gathering her robing, she took one step … and then another …

…toward whatever it was.

SIXTEEN

Salvatore’s Restaurant was a staple on not just the Caldwell, but the whole East Coast’s, eating scene, a long-standing throwback to Rat Pack days when three-martini lunches, mistresses, and Don Drapers who knew how to dress were the norm. In the modern era, much had changed in the outside world … not much had changed under its roof. The red flocked wallpaper of the entrance foyer was still in place, as was the rest of the Godfather decor with all the heavy carved wood and the linen tablecloths. Throughout the multiple serving areas and the back bar, the seating arrangements were exactly as they had been opening night way back when, and the waiters and waitresses still wore tuxedoes. On the menu? Only the best authentic Italian food west of Sicilia, the recipes prepared exactly as they should be and always had been.