The Chosen

“Wh-what … what do you want?” she asked.

As a strand of brown hair flopped in her face, she blew it out of her eyes; her hands were too busy holding her son in relative safety.

“There’s—” Her voice squeaked. “My purse is in the kitchen on the counter. Take what you want, there’s … I have jewelry, upstairs. Just please … don’t hurt us.”

Xcor regarded the high color in her cheeks and her trembling form from what felt like a vast distance. Then he glanced around. The furniture had changed since he and his bastards had stayed under this roof, the sectional sofa gone along with the perpetual layers of pizza boxes and duffel bags, weapons and ammunition, boots and knives.

“I have not come for your money,” Xcor said in a low voice.

She closed her eyes briefly, her face abruptly going white.

“Nor have I come for you.” Xcor held up his palm because he knew they would both focus on it. “I am not a defiler of females or young.”

As the eyes of the humans locked on what he had raised, he went into their brains and froze everything about them, such that all they did was blink and breathe. Meanwhile, down on the floor, the cell phone, which the mother had dropped, was still engaged, a panicked voice coming out of a tiny little speaker and demanding someone answer.

’Twas a good guess that talking to a vampire would not assuage whoever it was of their fear.

Leaving the human who was getting worked up to their exercise for the evening, Xcor stomped both of his boots on the mat to get most of the snow off of them, then took the stairs two at a time. Up at the top, he went into the master suite, which had been nicely redecorated in an elegant white and blue scheme.

No more hideous ruffles and frills. And gone, too, were the rosebuds that had peppered the pink bathroom.

However offensive to the eye it had all once been, he spent no time appreciating the improvements in decor. He proceeded directly to the tall, narrow closet beside the shower where the towels would have been kept had he had any when he had stayed here—

Oh, of course, now the shelves were filled with precisely folded, bright white terry-cloth stacks.

Dropping down on his knees, he pulled out cleaning supplies at the bottom, exposing the tile floor that, blessedly, the homeowner had left as was. The panel he had previously created was one foot by one foot and all the way in the back, and he had to strip off his gloves to locate the lip and free the thing with his fingertips. Then he stretched his arm out and dipped his hand into the hidden space.

The pair of semiautomatic forties were exactly where he had left them.

So, too, the box of ammunition.

Xcor replaced the top of the secret compartment only because it made the amount of mental shit he had to tidy up in those humans downstairs a little less.

Leaving the bathroom, he strode by the bed, and then paused in the doorway. Glancing back, he thought of the time he and his males had spent in the house.

And was surprised by how much he wanted to see them again.

The descent took no time at all, and then he was back on the first floor with the mother and son. They were still standing together, the female shielding what she loved and sought to protect with the very body she had brought it forth unto this world with.

He delved into their minds once again. “You heard a noise. You went outside to check. It was nothing. When you returned, your wet boots left water on this mat. Odd night. Probably the wind. Good thing it was nothing.”

Xcor dematerialized outside, and he stood for a moment to watch them reawaken, the pair of them looking at each other like they couldn’t figure out why their hands were clutched together. And then the mother reached up to her temple and rubbed at it as if her head hurt, and the young male glanced around and cracked his neck.

They both looked toward the door.

As the female bent over and picked up the phone, Xcor took himself on his way once more.

The Sanctuary was indeed a sacred place of peace and tranquility, and as Layla sat out by the Scribe Virgin’s fountain with both of her young, she took a deep breath. The three of them were arranged on a soft, thick blanket, and the temperature was perfect, the air as gentle and warm as bath water. Overhead, the milky white sky was bright, but not glaring, and the white marble of the courtyard glowed as if from within.

Lyric and Rhamp had made the trip like champs, and Cormia, as if sensing that Layla wanted some private time with them, had departed readily once the twins were settled out here by the sparkling water and the blooming tree that was full of new songbirds.

Tucking her feet under her, she dangled a yellow tulip over one young and then the other … and then she brought it back to the first.

“Isn’t this beautiful? Tulip … this is a tulip.”

Indeed, the petals were as the green grass and the blue water were: resplendent and mysteriously jewel-like in their coloring. It was something about the light here, the way it came from nowhere and fell with no particular angle—or mayhap there was some sort of sacred magic at work.

And it was funny. She could tell that her precious ones were gathering strength from the energy herein, their cheeks growing pink, their eyes shining with an extra healthy brightness, their movements more coordinated.

Yes, she thought. They had her blood in them for sure. Even Rhamp, who looked so much like Qhuinn it was eerie, was very obviously her son. Members of the Chosen always did better when they came here to recharge.

So maybe this was a good thing—

A strange sense that she was being watched made her twist around. But there was no one in the colonnade, and nobody in the open archway into what had been the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters. No one anywhere, as it were.

She remembered when things had been so very different, when Chosen had borne and raised the next generations of Chosen and Brothers here and had served the Scribe Virgin, adhering to her schedule of worship and rest and celebration. There had been joy and happiness, purpose and fulfillment—although there had been such sacrifices.

And no color. Anywhere.

Layla reached out and stroked Lyric’s soft cheek. Much as she still revered the Scribe Virgin and the traditions that had been so valued and respected, she was glad that her daughter would not be forced into a role that had no way out and was solely in service of others.

Yes, as much as she missed the old days and the old ways, and as sad as she was to have this marvelous place so empty and lifeless, she had no regrets.

She was of the generation who knew both servitude and liberation, and the latter was certainly not without its difficulties and tragedies. But at least now she had a sense of who she was as an individual, and she had desires that were her own and unlegislated by anyone else. She also had two young who were going to be free to choose who they wanted to be and where they wanted to go in life.

It was always better to follow a bumpy course of one’s own than a smooth but intractable trail set by another.

The former was harder, yet far more vital. The latter was like a living death … except you didn’t know you were dying because you were in a coma.

THIRTY-SEVEN

As Vishous pounded down the underground tunnel away from the training center, he approached the door that led up into the mansion … and kept right on going. The Pit, which was the aptly named carriage house where he and Butch stayed with their shellans, was another two hundred yards up, its subterranean entrance exactly the same as the big house’s, all kinds of codes and locks preventing people who weren’t supposed to be getting in or out from getting in or out.

After punching in the correct sequence on a keypad, the deadbolt sprang loose, and then it was home sweet home.

The layout was a not-much, just a living room in front with a galley kitchen off to the side, and a short hallway that led to two bedrooms lined up back to back. He and Jane had the first one, Butch, Marissa, and the cop’s wardrobe had the second—although there wasn’t enough room for all those goddamn clothes. In the cramped corridor, there were rolling stands full of suits and shirts on hangers. Also a row of shoes on the floorboards that, as far as V could tell, were the same fucking loafer, just in different leathers and skins with different hardware.

Motherfucker was in a serious rut with the footwear. Then again, how much could you really do with a men’s shoe?