The Chosen

Picking a window that was closest to the archway back into the foyer, he moved the curtain aside and looked out into the courtyard—or what little he could visualize of it. The snow was coming down so hard he could barely see two feet past the mansion, and clearly it had been falling for a while like this. In the security lights, it was as if a heavy white tarp had been thrown over everything, the contours of the rooftop of the Pit, the great pines of the mountain, the cars parked on the far side of the fountain, filed down by a foot of what had come from the sky—

At first, the figure didn’t register, its white robe and hood indistinguishable from the white-out landscape. But then he recognized a hole in the pattern of snow gusts, the swirling cascade moving around a figure.

Who was staring at him.

In a cold rush, all the blood left his head.

“Selena?” he whispered. “Is that—”

“It’s the wrong time of year for this kind of storm,” Xhex murmured by his side.

Trez jumped so high, he nearly hit the ceiling. And immediately, he looked back out through the glass.

The figure was gone.

“Trez?”

At that moment, the bell at the vestibule rang. Trez turned and ran out of the billiards room, hitting the heavy door, cranking it open—

The Chosen Layla reared back, the white hood she’d pulled over her head falling off her blond hair, her white robing dropping all kinds of snow at her feet.

“I’m allowed to be here,” she said as she put her palms out like he was going to point a gun at her. “I’m permitted. Ask the King.”

Trez sagged in his own skin and closed his eyes for a second. “No, yeah, no … of course. C’mon in.”

As he stepped aside, he didn’t know why she’d be so defensive—or why she’d be out on a night like tonight. But he didn’t dwell on any of that.

He was a little too distracted copping to the fact that when he’d seen her out there … he’d immediately assumed that it was his Selena, come to see him, back from the dead.

Which was crazy. Really fucking nuts.

I’m not sure how giving you contact with that female is going to help either one of us.

“Oh, shut up—” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” the Chosen Layla asked.

“Shit, sorry.” He scrubbed his face. “I’m talking to myself.”

Yeah, because he wasn’t going insane or anything. Not at all. Nah.

For the love of God, he needed to pull himself together before he crazied himself right off the planet.

THIRTY-FIVE

As Layla entered the mansion and looked around the foyer, she marveled at how fast what had been home now felt unfamiliar: After all the time she’d spent at the Brotherhood’s estate, she knew its rooms and elevations, its people and rhythms, as well as she did those of the Sanctuary. Now, however, as Trez left her and she regarded the resplendent foyer with its multi-colored columns and crackling fire and twinkling crystal sconces, it seemed to her as though she were standing in a museum or a palace she had never visited before.

Then again, home implied you were welcome. And she really wasn’t anymore.

“Yay! You’re here!”

As Beth came across from the dining room and gave her a big hug, Layla was so happy to see a smiling face.

“Did you get my pictures?” the Queen asked.

“I didn’t have my phone, but I can’t wait to see them.”

What Layla really wanted to say was that she couldn’t wait to see her young. She didn’t care about photos, she wanted the real thing and now—except she didn’t want to be rude, and she certainly wasn’t going up to the second floor without an invitation. God only knew where Qhuinn was—

Right on cue, as if the universe were determined to put them in the same space, Qhuinn appeared at the head of the grand staircase. And dearest Virgin Scribe, he was dressed for war, his body wrapped in black leather, his weapons strapped on his chest and his hips, his lean face a study in aggression.

Instantly, he looked at her, and his eyes narrowed like he was assessing a target. And then he came down the red carpeted steps like he was on a mission.

Beth immediately stiffened, and Layla moved back, in case he was going on the attack, her back bumping into the carved wood of the vestibule’s inside door. But instead of rushing at her, Qhuinn just kept going, stalking into the dining room, his shitkickers punching into the floor.

Even after he had departed, it was like he’d left flaming footprints in his wake, his fury lingering like a bad smell.

This was not good for the young, Layla thought as she brought a trembling hand to her hair. The two of them had to do something about this breakdown in their relationship, but she feared that although she’d like to imagine Qhuinn softening with time, she had a feeling he wasn’t going to.

“Come on,” Beth said quietly. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Layla nodded and fell in behind the Queen. The fact that she was being escorted to the second floor was not lost on her, but with each step up, her heart leapt with anticipation that she was going see Rhamp and Lyric. It also sank with sadness, however. As a sense of alienation dogged her, she reflected that another era of her life had ended almost before it had begun: She had not realized that, even in the midst of her guilt and anxiety over Xcor, she had had a happiness here with the young—as well as expectations of raising them with Nalla, L.W., and Bitty.

All that was over now.

But, she reminded herself, what was left to hang onto was the fact that she could at least see her own young. That had not been a foregone conclusion before Wrath’s decision.

When they reached the top, Layla lost her stride at the sight of the closed doors to Wrath’s study, and she had to gather herself so she could proceed onward to the hall of statues. Halfway down that corridor, she hesitated again, but this time, it was for Beth to open the door to the room that Layla had once thought of as her own—and in the split second that took, she dimly noted that down on the floor there was a folded, paint-spotted drop cloth next to some paint cans, a drywall bucket, and some brushes. Her stomach clenched as she guessed what they were for.

The bullet holes in the wall.

But then the way was clear and she was running across to the bassinets.

“My loves! My loves!” Eyes full of tears, she didn’t know who to focus on first, her head going back and forth and back and forth. “Mahmen is here!”

Some paranoid part of her worried that they would have forgotten her already, or perhaps become angry, even in their infant states, that she might have deserted them of her free will—which she had certainly not. She needn’t have worried, however. At the sound of her voice, both sets of eyes opened and arms started to pinwheel. Bending down, she took the hold from her hair and let its weight cascade around Lyric first, and then Rhamp.

As her young cooed and reacted to her scent and voice, she felt a joy race through her, her chest swelling with love, all of her worries briefly ceding to a happiness that was undimmed by anything worldly.

“They are so happy to see their mahmen.”

Layla looked over her shoulder at the female voice. “Cormia!”

She was indeed very well pleased to see the other Chosen, and the two embraced tightly. Then they stepped apart and Beth spoke up.

“We have everything ready up in the Sanctuary.”

Cormia nodded. “I have just returned from taking supplies to the private quarters and I believe you’ll find everything you need. I was wondering if you’d like me to help you get one of them up there so you don’t have to make two trips?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you.” Layla gave into a compulsion to smooth her white robing, her reliance on the kindness of the other females making her teary. “I … ah, I am very grateful for your help. Perhaps you will take Rhamp?”

“Absolutely!”

As Cormia gathered her son, Layla picked up Lyric and held the warm, vital young to her heart. “Shall we?”

Right before she dematerialized with the other Chosen, she glanced into the far corner of the room … to those bullet holes up so close to the ceiling. She was willing to bet they were going to be gone by the time she returned twenty-four hours from now.