The Chosen

“Which is why we work.” Abruptly, Qhuinn’s voice grew reedy. “You’re my home, Blay. You always have been. Even with Lyric and Rhamp in my life, I’m lost without you, and yeah, I can get pissed off in the middle of a conversation like this, but I’m still man enough to admit that I’m nothing if you’re not with me.” He cleared his throat. “And FYI, I’m going to fight for you, for us, so I’ll ask you again. What’s it going to take? Blood? Because whatever I need to do to get you back, I’m going to do it.”

As Assail let out another scream, Blay closed his eyes, exhaustion coming over him like a death shroud. “Yeah, sure, fine,” he muttered. “Blood. It’s going to take blood. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go look after my mother.”

“I’m showing up with the young tomorrow night at your parents’.”

“I won’t be there.”

“That’s your decision. And I’ll respect it. But I mean what I say. No matter what it takes, I’m going to prove that I love you and I need you and I want you—and that those kids are yours.”

With that, the Brother turned away and strode off down the concrete corridor, his head high, his shoulders back, his step even—

“Son?”

Blay jumped and turned around to his dad. “How is she? The X-ray done yet?”

“She’s asking for you. Dr. Manello says they might have to operate.”

Shit. “Of course.” He put his arm around his father’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s figure this out together—”

“Are you and Qhuinn okay?”

“Peachy. Just peachy jim-dandy,” he said as he pushed the exam room door open. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s just focus on Mom, okay?”

FORTY-THREE

Throe had long heard that one could make a bomb out of common household materials. That one could quite readily produce a highly explosive unit with naught more than items found in most kitchens.

Yet, although this was true, as he proceeded down the formal stairs of his lover’s hellren’s mansion, he was almost disappointed at the ubiquitous nature of what he was seeking. However, with his book under his arm, and a welcomed clarity of purpose in his mind, he told himself his faith would be rewarded, his purpose served, his goal achieved.

Even if this seemed a bit anticlimactic.

And again, at least he was focused now.

Such strange business that previous confusion had been, he thought as he came down to the first floor’s foyer, the crackling fire in the marble hearth offering warmth and light, the crystal chandelier overhead twinkling as if real diamonds had been strung from the ceiling. Pausing, he looked into the sitting room beyond and approved of the silk sofas and the candelabra, the textiles that hung around the long, narrow windows, the jewel-like colors that had been chosen by someone with a very good eye and a very deep pocket.

On the opposite side of the grand open space, as was tradition, the study of the house’s first male gleamed of power and distinction, the wood paneling and leather-bound books, the broad desk with its leather blotter and matching chair, the stained glass windows, lending such an impression of aristocratic entrenchment that a sense of nostalgia warmed the center of his chest. There had been so many years since he had lived like this, so many hovels in between. And further, there had also been crassness and vulgarity, death and blood, sex of the most base kind.

It had not been the life he had once seen for himself, and indeed, as much as he had once felt tied to the Band of Bastards and their leader, now he believed that his time with them had been naught but a bad dream, a fated storm that had passed through his destiny on its way to wreak havoc on some other poor sod’s existence.

This was where he belonged.

In fact, of all the places he had been in in the New World, this mansion suited him best. It was not the largest of his female friends’, but it was appointed with the very best accoutrements, at a standard he himself would have chosen for his abode—

What he would soon choose for his abode, he corrected himself, when he o’ertook the race—

“You will not last with her.”

Throe pivoted on his heel. The hellren of the house, an elderly vampire of some eight hundred years, came creeping out of the formal bathroom that was off the library, the sound of a flushing toilet announcing his presence more than his dwindling scent or thinning voice.

“I beg your pardon,” Throe murmured, even though he had heard perfectly well.

“She will not last with you any longer than she has with the others. You will be back out on the streets by the New Year.”

Throe smiled, particularly as he noted the cane that the male required in order to ambulate. For a moment, he entertained the notion that the thing slipped out from under the grip of that arthritic hand, and the male lurched off balance, falling to the hard marble floor.

“I think you vastly underestimate my appeal, old male.” Throe shifted his hold on The Book, bringing it unto his chest. Funny, it seemed to tingle against his heart. “But that is not a topic for polite conversation, is it.”

Gray hair, bushy eyebrows, tufts of whiskers growing out of ears … oh, the indignities of age, Throe thought. And the inevitable erectile and sexual dysfunction. After all, Viagra could help only so much. Even if the cock could harden thanks to pharmaceuticals, if the rest of the body was as toothsome as a rotten deer carcass, what else could a young female do other than take a more palatable lover?

“She is out, you know,” the male said in his wobbly voice.

Why didn’t they have the walking cane equivalent for speech, Throe wondered idly. A little speaker to project things better? Perhaps with a knob to add bass along with volume.

“She is, yes,” Throe intoned with a smile. “I sent her out to find another female so she and I could play with a toy. We’ve done this before—and she will come back and bring me what I want.”

When the male stuttered as though shocked, Throe leaned in and dropped his words to a whisper, as if he and her hellren were in on a secret together. “I believe you will find that happening with some regularity from now on. You must realize, kind sir, that I am not like the others she has entertained in the past. I tell her what to do and she does it. Which rather differentiates you and I, as well, does it not?”

The old male recovered his composure and wagged that cane. “You’ll see. She’s done this before. I am the one she can’t live without because I can support her. You, as a drifter, a con artist, and a fallen aristocrat, most certainly cannot.”

Well, Throe mused, perhaps one has mis-guessed the phlegmatic nature of this particular mate. No matter, however.

Throe inclined his head. “Believe what you will. It never changes reality, does it. Good evening.”

As he headed off toward the butler’s pantry, the hellren said with some volume, “Using the servants’ door, are you. Quite appropriate. You used to be a member of the glymera, but that is no longer true—and hasn’t been since your blooded family removed you from their estate and their lines of ancestry. Such a pity. Unless you look at it from their point of view. Disgraces must be excised or they threaten the entirety.”

Throe stopped. And slowly turned back around.

Narrowing his eyes, he felt a familiar anger curl around his gut, a viper that liked to strike out. “Be of care, old male. I shall tell you once more, but never again—I am not like the others.”

“You are a gigolo. You trade your body for food and shelter like any common whore. A fine suit does not change the stink of the flesh upon which it rests.”

Dimly, Throe was aware of The Book becoming hot against his sternum. And he felt a temptation to give in to his rage like never before.

But then he remembered what he had come downstairs for. And what he would do up in his bedroom when he had assembled what he required.

Now he smiled again. “You are lucky I need you.”

“You better remember that. And so should she.”

“We shall, I promise. Especially, while your shellan comes for me.” Throe continued on, leaving the hellren to whate’er he would do for the rest of the night—and what a party that would be. Due to his mobility problems, he spent most evenings in the rear library that led into the solarium, propped up like a statue whose base was broken.