The Chosen

Leaning down, he put his palm in the trail of paste.

“I have my faith and my faith has me—”

With a decisive stab, he drove the point of the blade into the back of his hand, piercing the flesh, slicing through bone, burying the tip in the floorboards.

Panting through the pain, he gritted his teeth to keep from yelling out as his vision flickered.

When it came back online, he blinked and looked at the dagger. Looked at the flame. Looked at …

Nothing special happened. Not one damn thing.

He waited a little longer, and then started cursing. What bollocks was this?

“You promised me,” he snapped at The Book. “You told me this would …”

Throe let the sentence drift as something caught his eye.

He had been searching in the wrong place. It was not the candle, nor the flame, not the palm nor the knife where he found what he had created.

No, it was in the shadow that the hilt and shaft of the weapon threw in the candle’s illumination that was the thing: From out of the black outline cast upon the floorboards, something was boiling up, taking shape … emerging.

Throe forgot all about the smell and the pain as he watched an entity emerge before him, the contours of it fluid as water, its body formless and faceless and transparent as it rose from the shadows thrown, growing bigger and bigger—

Actually, it was a shadow.

And it appeared to be looking at him, waiting for a command.

Its size ceased to increase when it reached the dimensions of a fully grown male, and it waved gently from side to side, rather like the candle’s flame, as if it were tethered to the floor … tethered right at the spot where the dagger’s point pierced through Throe’s own flesh.

With a grimace, Throe yanked out the knife and took his hand back.

In response, the entity floated about a foot off the ground, a balloon on an invisible string.

Falling back on his arse, he just sat and stared at it. Then he took the bloody blade of the dagger by the tip … and threw it so the weapon struck the shadow point first.

There was a hiss and sizzle, but the knife landed on the floor beyond as if it had passed through naught but air.

Clearing his throat, Throe commanded, “Pick up the dagger.”

The shadow swirled around and the weapon was retrieved from the floor, gripped by an offshoot of the larger whole that was an arm of sorts. And then the entity simply waited, as if prepared for another command.

“Stab that pillow.”

When Throe pointed at the bed, the thing moved with lightning speed, so fast eyes could barely track it, its body elongating and then snapping to like a rubber band.

And it stabbed the precise pillow Throe had focused on, even though there were eight lined up against the headboard.

Then the entity simply waited by the bedside, doing that balloon thing where it waved gently above its base.

“Come here,” Throe whispered.

The compliance was magical. The power undeniable. The possibilities …

“An army,” Throe said with a smile that made his fangs tingle. “Yes, an army of these will do very well.”

FIFTY-TWO

Standing in the staff room at Sal’s, Therese was tired, but satisfied by the end of the night. As one a.m. rolled around, and she had her tables reset and her tips collected and a backup tux to take home with her, she was happy with the way things went. She’d screwed up three orders, but not badly: One side had been incorrect, a roast beef slice had been medium instead of medium rare, and she’d confused a semifreddo with a tiramisu.

She’d had eight four tops, a six top, and three couples. Which had been an amazing haul for tips. This kept up and she was going to be out of that rooming house by the middle of January. All she needed to do was save up for a security deposit and first month’s rent for something halfway decent and she was good to go—no moving expenses; it wasn’t like she owned much.

“So it is done.”

As Emile came up to her, she smiled at him. “Yup, and I’m still standing.”

“You did well.” He smiled back. “We’re going out. Would you like to join us?”

“Oh, thanks, but I’m exhausted. Maybe next time?”

He took his things out of his locker, the flannel coat and the scarf simple, but of good quality. “It’s a date—I mean, not a date. You know.”

She nodded in relief. “I know. And that’s perfect.”

“Until tomorrow, then, Therese.”

Emile said her name in the French fashion, and on his tongue, it sounded exotic and fancy. And she did take a minute to note the color of his eyes. So blue.

“You ready, E?”

The human woman who spoke up from the doorway was in her late twenties and had an edge to her voice, her stare, her body. Liza? Lisa? Something like that. She had dark hair that was ombre’d, dark eyes that had enviable natural lashes, and legs that made that set of jeans she’d changed back into a work of art.

She hadn’t shown much interest in Therese, but it was clear who she was looking out for. “Well?”

Emile nodded. “Ready. Bye, Therese.”

Liza/Lisa/whatever just turned away.

“Bye, Emile.”

As Therese closed her locker, she draped the replacement tux over her forearm. She’d left on the one she’d served in and put her street clothes in her backpack because she just too tired to change. All she wanted to do was go to bed and close her eyes, because if there was one thing she knew about waitressing, it was that the next shift was going to come faster than her feet stopped pounding if she didn’t rest up.

She had to admire those humans who were out for a good time.

Turning to leave, she—

Stopped dead.

“It’s you,” she whispered as she looked up, way up, into the face of the male who had been on her mind constantly since the night before.

Trez, the Shadow, the owner’s brother, the … devastatingly attractive fantasy-in-the-flesh she had been preoccupied with, filled the doorway like none of the humans could have, his broad shoulders taking up all the vacant space, his incredible height bringing his head almost to the top of the doorway. He was dressed in a dark gray suit that brought out the deep color of his skin and a blindingly white button-down shirt that seemed to glow blue like moonlight on snow.

His face was more handsome than she remembered.

And that made her wonder if that lower lip of his was even softer than she recalled.

“I tried to stay away,” he said in a low voice. “I made it over twenty-four hours.”

She slowly lowered her backpack to the bench. “Well … hi.”

Trez shifted his weight and put his hands into his pockets. “You have anything to eat?”

“Ah, no. I mean, I tried the dishes at the start of the night, but … no.”

“You want to catch a quick meal with me?”

“Yes.”

The fact that she didn’t hesitate probably made her look desperate. She didn’t really care, though: When you were deliberately overriding what was good for you, you didn’t want to leave much time for introspection.

“Come on.” He nodded over his shoulder. “I brought my car.”

As they walked through the kitchen, she kept her head down. She had some sense that his brother, Sal’s owner, wasn’t going to appreciate this—and the guy was cooking right over there at the stove. Then again, eyes up or lowered, there was no way they were being inconspicuous.

When they got to the rear staff door, Trez held the thing open for her, and she was not at all surprised that there was an identical BMW parked right by the exit—just a different color. She was also not surprised that he came around and helped her into the passenger seat.

As he got in, the car interior seemed much smaller, and she didn’t mind that because, God, that body. And jeez, he smelled good, the scent of his cologne, or perhaps it was just him, tantalizing her nose.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked as he started the engine and put them in reverse.

Sirius/XM was on The Heat channel, and she smiled. “We like the same music.”

“Do we?” he said as he brought them around to the patron part of the parking lot.