The Chosen

Throe took a step away from the stoop so he could regard the windows above. They were darkened.

He should have called for an appointment, he decided. Rather as one would a barber. Or an accountant—

“You wanna know your future?”

This was spoken quite close to his ear, and as Throe glanced over, he found that the trio had closed in, forming a necklace of sorts around him.

“That why you here?” The one with the gold tooth smiled again. “You superstitious or some shit?”

Throe’s eyes flicked over them. The one with the cigarette had put it out, though the thing had been but half smoked. And the COPD candidate wasn’t coughing anymore. And he of the 14k incisor had slipped a hand inside his leather coat.

Throe rolled his eyes again. “Do carry on, gents. I am not for you.”

The leader who’d been doing all the talking threw his head back and laughed. “Gents? You British or some shit? Hey, he’s Brit. You know Hugh Grant? Or that guy who pretends to be American on House? What’s his name—asshole.”

On asshole, the guy outed what appeared to be a rather nice switchblade.

“Gimme your money. Or I’ll cut you.”

Throe could not believe it. His favorite suede shoes were ruined, he was being forced to deal with humans, and he was standing in front of a tenement more suited for the consumption of crack than any sort of legitimate business.

Right, this was the last time he took the counsel of a glymera sweet-heart who had been drunk at the time. Without that female’s rather boozy advocacy for this so-called psychic, he would have been, at this moment, on the right side of the railroad tracks, all the way across town, sipping on a sherry.

“Gentlemen, I shall tell you this but once more. I am not for you. Carry on.”

The switchblade got thrust into his face, so close that his nose was in danger of a trim. “Gimme your fucking money and your fucking—”

Oh, humans.

Throe descended his fangs, put up both his hands into claws … and roared at them like he intended to rip all three of their throats out.

The retreat was rather delightful to watch, actually, and cheered him a bit: Those three dumb-asses took one look at certain death and decided that their dubious social skills were required elsewhere. In fact, they couldn’t have staged a more competent and complete retreat if they had consciously set their minds to such a thing.

Gone, gone, gone, skidding their way back around the corner from whence they came.

When Throe faced the door once more, he frowned.

It was open an inch, as if someone had come down and freed its lock.

Pushing the weight open, he was utterly unsurprised to find a black light overhead and a set of stairs painted purple before him.

“Hello?” he called out.

Footsteps were on the ascent, crossing over the landing above his head.

“Hello,” he repeated. Then muttered, “Is this deliberate mystery truly necessary.”

Stepping inside, he clapped his feet upon a black mat to once again clear snow from his loafers. Then he proceeded in the wake of whomever was ahead of him, taking the shallow steps two at a time.

“Aaaaaand ’tis purple once again,” he said under his breath as he came around that landing and proceeded up to the only door on the second floor.

At least he knew he had reached his destination. A palm motif was upon the panels, the black outline of the fingers and the lifelines done with a casual hand, not anything that was stenciled properly or even done by an artist.

Dearest Fates, this was ridiculous. Why would that drunken female know anything about reaching out to the Omega? Through a human portal, no less.

And yet even as he hesitated, he knew he was going to follow this encounter to its probable dead end. His problem, of course, was that he was looking for a way to power and finding none of particular ease. He did not want to believe that the glymera was truly the lost cause it appeared to be. After all, if they were unable to provide him with a platform from whence to assume Wrath’s role, where else could he marshal supplies, troops, or things of that nature?

Humans were no great help. And he continued to believe it was best that that other invasive species not know of the existence of vampires. They had subjected all else to their whims and survival, including the very planet that supported their lives. No, they were a beehive not to be stirred.

So what did that leave him with? The Brotherhood was a foregone conclusion. The Band of Bastards was now not an option. And that left him with but one other avenue to explore.

The Omega. The Evil One. The Scribe Virgin’s terrible balance—

The door opened with a creak that was right out of a haunted house.

Clearing his throat, he thought, In for a penny, in for a pound. Or, in his case, in for the replacement cost of his Ferragamos, which was about fifteen hundred dollars.

“Hello?” he said.

When there was no response, he leaned in a little. “Hello? Are you accepting …” What was the appropriate term? Clients? Nut jobs? Gullible losers? “Would you be able to chat for a moment?”

He went to put his hand on the panel and immediately frowned, taking it back and shaking the thing out. It had felt as though a slight electrical charge had gone into his palm.

“Hello?” he repeated anew.

With a curse, Throe walked into the dim interior—and presently recoiled at the smell. Patchouli. God, he hated patchouli.

Ah, yes, incense burning over there on a table full of rocks and stones. Lit candles in the corners. Great swaths of cloths in different colors and printed patterns hanging from the ceiling.

And of course, she had herself a little throne with a circular table in front of it … and a crystal ball.

This was too much.

“Actually, I think I’m in the wrong place.” He turned away. “If you’ll excuse me—”

The crash that came from across the space was loud enough to ring in his ears and leave him jumping out of his own skin.

Pivoting back around, he called out, “Madam? Are you all right?”

When there was no reply, he was struck by an overwhelming feeling of paranoia. Glancing around, he thought … leave. Now. Take thee from this place.

All was not well here.

At that very moment, the door he had come through slammed shut and appeared to lock itself.

Throe rushed over, grabbed the knob, and tried to twist it back and forth. It did not move, and neither would the panels give when he attempted to wrest them from their jamb. He pounded his fist until it hurt—

Throe froze, the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

Glancing over his shoulder, he was prepared for he knew not what. But something was in the room with him … and it was not of this world.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Over at shAdoWs, as Trez stood on the edge of the dance floor, his eyes were supposedly on the crowd in front of him. In reality, he was seeing nothing. Not the purple shooting laser beams or the clouds of smoke from the machines. Certainly not the humans who were packed in against each other like spoons stacked in a silverware drawer.

The decision to leave, when it came to him, followed the pattern of the night: It arrived from out of nowhere and he was powerless against the imperative.

Heading around to the bar, he found Xhex with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed on a couple of meatheads who were demanding another round even though they were well over the legal limit—and probably high as well.

“Good timing,” she muttered over the din of music and sex. “You know how much you like watching me sweep the floor with humans.”

“Actually, I gotta go. I may not be back tonight, is that okay?”

“Hell, yeah. I’ve been telling you to take a break for how long.”

“Call me if you need me?”

“Always.”

Uncharacteristically, Trez put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze—and if the gesture surprised her, Xhex hid it well. Then, turning away, he—

His head of security caught his wrist and stopped him. “You want someone to go with you?”

“I’m sorry?”

Her gunmetal gray eyes went over his face, and the focus in them made him feel like she could see down into his soul. Fucking symphaths. They made intuition a bad thing, at least when it came to guessing other people’s moods.