The Chosen

Xcor moaned as his contorted body started to sink into the mud that was created from the heat, the forest floor’s layer of frost going springtime.

Now the bastard began to shiver. As his blood started to flow with greater ease, his extremities began to swell and quake, the turgor replaced by a vitality that had to be as painful as getting your skin stripped off with a rusted blade. Hearing the groans and staring down at the slow, twisting movements, V was reminded of flies on windowsills. Not a particularly original analogy, except shit, it was accurate.

“V-v-v-ishous …”

“What.”

Xcor’s eyes were bloodshot and watery as fuck as they looked up at him. “I need you … to know …”

“What.”

It was a while before the bastard spoke again. “It was never her. I accept all responsibility. She was never the instigator, always the victim.”

“You’re a real fucking gentlemale, true?”

“How else would someone like her be anywhere near a male like me.”

“Good point.”

“And in the end, I let her go. I cast her from me.”

V stabbed his cigarette out in the snow. “So I’ll nom you for the Nobel Peace Prize. You happy now?”

“I had to let her go,” the male mumbled. “Only way … I had to let her go.”

Vishous frowned. And then shook his head. But not because he was disagreeing with the miserable piece of shit.

He was trying to get a memory out of his brain. Trying … and ultimately failing.

It was back from what felt like a lifetime ago. He and Jane were standing in the kitchen of her condo, him in front of the stove, her leaning on a counter. The recollection was so crystal clear, V could hear the metal-on-metal sound of him slowly stirring a stainless-steel spoon around a stainless-steel pan, the hot chocolate in there growing ever more fragrant as the heat was transferred up from the burner.

When the temperature had gotten to be just right, he had filled a mug and given it to Jane, and he had stared into her eyes as she had held what he had prepared for her. Then he had wiped her short-term memory clean, taking from her all knowledge of them having been together.

Everything was gone. The sex they’d had. Their connection. Their relationship.

Wiped away as surely as if it had never existed.

At least on her side.

On his? Everything had stuck, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He had been prepared to shoulder all the missing, the years of being without, the separation from the other half that would have diminished him ever after. There had been no other choice for them at that point. She was a human with a life. He was from a species that her kind didn’t even know existed and was involved in a war that could only get her killed.

Of course, then, because his mother had been a tough piece of work, and destiny had a sick sense of humor, there had been even harder trials for the two of them to face …

Even though he fought against the tide, his mind refused to be denied: All at once, that kitchen scene was replaced by an even worse one. Jane shot, bleeding out, dying in his arms. And then he saw the aftermath of him lying in his bed curled up, rather like Xcor was right now, wanting to die himself.

Abruptly, Vishous had to look away from the bastard. And he would have walked away if he could have.

Instead, he gritted his molars and reached back into his jacket with the hand that wasn’t capable of turning cars into burned-out hunks of modern sculpture. With a herculean effort, he cast out his memories and his emotions, ushering those unwelcome visitors from him with all the affability of a bouncer cleaning house before closing.

Buh-bye.

Emotions had no place in the larger scheme of things. They really didn’t.

And neither did recollections of the past.

As Layla stood in the living room of the pretty little ranch, she was in front of a giant clock face that had been mounted on the wall as a decorative element. With curlicue black arms that were as long as her own, and cursive numbers like something out of a Dickens novel, it was both whimsical and elegant—and also functional.

She wasn’t crying anymore. Her cheeks were raw and burning, though, the combination of all those tears and the wiping and the cold having stripped off the first layer of her skin. And her throat was sore. And her fingertips, each and every one, had their own heartbeat from having gotten a taste of frostbite.

Vishous had pulled the ultimate trump card, and he had been right, as usual. If she wanted access to Lyric and Rhamp, the last thing that would work in her favor was her stopping Xcor’s execution.

Especially if she did something crazy … like throw herself in front of a bullet meant for him.

The bottom line, however, was that she would always choose her young over anyone and anybody, even herself—and even Xcor. But oh, the pain of losing that male. It was transformative, really, this agony in her chest, the kind of emotional burden that made her feel like she weighed more and was hindered in her movements—

At first, the sound of a ringing phone barely registered. It was only when the thing fell silent in the kitchen and then promptly started going off again that she frowned and looked around the open archway.

The cell Vishous had left for her went quiet. And immediately began to ring once more.

Maybe it was someone trying to reach him so he could bring her back to see the young?

Rushing across to the table, she checked the screen. It was lit up … with Vishous’s own name.

He was calling himself? Not possible. He was at this moment putting a bullet into—

As her eyes watered and stung, she put her hands to her face. Would the Brother even treat Xcor’s remains with respect? She couldn’t bear to think otherwise—

The ringing stopped. And when it didn’t readily resume, she turned away. It must be a malfunction, some key or button hit due to a shift in body position or something—

The bell sound piped up a third time. Or was it the fourth?

Pivoting back around, Layla frowned and reached out, picking up the cell. Accepting the call, she said—

“Jesus Christ,” Vishous snapped before she could offer anything verbal. “Took you long enough.”

Layla recoiled. “I’m … I’m sorry?”

“Get out here.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Come back to the woods.”

Layla began to pant, a combination of terror and sadness choking her. “How can you be so cruel. I cannot see him dead—”

“Then you better get the fuck out here and feed him. We need to get him out of this forest.”

“What!”

“You fucking heard me. Now dematerialize back here before I change my fucking mind.”

The connection was cut off so abruptly she had to wonder whether he had thrown the phone he’d called her with. Or maybe shot it.

Heart pounding, head spinning, she lowered the cell from her ear and just stared at it. But then she tossed the thing onto the table.

She was out the slider before that phone stopped bouncing across that wood surface.

As she dematerialized and then resumed her form right where she had been standing over Xcor, she found Vishous about five feet away from the other male, smoking with such fervor it was like that hand-rolled between his teeth was his only source of oxygen. Meanwhile, Xcor had been transformed by some source of heat, the snow gone from atop and around him, the ground beneath him puddled and mudded, his flesh no longer gray, but an angry red.

He was alive. And as her presence registered upon him, he moved his head a little and shifted his eyes. “Layla …?”

“What … why …” she stammered.

Vishous slashed his hand through the air, but when he spoke, it was with exhaustion. “No offense, but shut the fuck up, both of you, okay? No questions. You—just feed him. And you—taking her fucking vein and be quick about it. I’m going to be back in about twenty minutes, and the pair of you better be ready for transport.”

With that cheerful little burst of optimism, the Brother ghosted out, disappearing into thin air.

Layla blinked and wondered if this were a dream. And then she jumped into action.

Let us pray Vishous has a lead foot, she thought as she dropped to her knees.