The Chosen

The things he had gathered from the pantry and the market, the kitchen and the garage, migrated of their own volition across the Oriental carpet, the jumble of spice packets, that glass bottle of red wine vinegar, the plastic Coke container he'd filled with motor oil from the vintage Jaguar, and all the other provisions, moving in jumpy, skippy fashion toward him. The black candles were the last of the lot, and halfway across, they broke free of their boxes and rolled forth unto him like logs, clearly preferring freedom over containment.

  All of it formed a circle about him, rather as if they were schoolchildren eager to be called upon.

  "Well, such a convenience is this--"

  A clattering noise brought his head around. Something was making noise in the bureau drawer, the sharp, rat-a-tat-tat like a knocking.

  With a frown, Throe got up and went across. When he opened the appropriate drawer, he saw that one of his daggers, from his old life, was begging to get out.

  "And you, too."

  As he gripped its handle, and felt the hilt against his palm, he thought of his fellow fighters. He thought of Xcor.

  The triggered sadness he felt was unexpected, but not unfamiliar. When he had first conceived of the plan to overthrow Wrath, he had stunned himself with his boldness and become half-convinced it was madness. But then he had reached out within the glymera, and found support, commitments, and resources to fight again the "improvements" that the Blind King had been making.

  None of which served the aristocracy.

  Riding that wave of alienation and dissatisfaction, and then manipulating it to further inflame the glymera unto his will, he had gotten addicted to the sense of power. Indeed, he'd enjoyed such a thing once prior, back before everything had fallen apart with the tragedy of his sister and him ending up with Xcor and the Band of Bastards. In the Old Country, before his destiny with that group of rogue fighters he had been a male of station and worth, not a servant of anyone--and he realized now that all of his animus against Wrath came from wanting to return from whence he had fallen.

  A bit of an overcorrection to try to secure the throne for himself, he supposed. But one could not be faulted for reaching for the stars, no?

  Refocusing on his book, Throe reread the directions. Twice. And then he took the copper pot and made a paste of the spices and the vinegar and that oil in it. The smell was unpleasant, but needs must and all that--and when that was done, he took one of the candles and coated it in the stuff, ensuring that all but the wick had been attended to. Then he palmed what was left, turned the pot over, and made a pile of it on the bottom. Standing the candle up in the little mound he'd created, he finished by rolling back the carpet, transferring his strange sculpture over to the bare floor, and making a little trail of the paste down the side and off about six inches from the pot.

  With a quick scan, he double-checked that he'd done everything correctly thus far.

  Blood was required next, and he provided it by streaking the blade of the steel dagger across his palm. The pain was sweet and the sanguine rush fragrant in his nose. Holding the wound over the candle, he allowed it to drip down the shaft, but was careful to leave the wick dry. More was required on the smudge over the floorboards.

  With a lick of his palm to stop the bleeding, he took a gold cigarette lighter and flipped the top open, striking the flint with a flick of his thumb. Then he lit the candle.

  The flame that caught hold was beautiful in its perfect simplicity, the translucent yellow light forming a teardrop shape at the head of the wick.

  Mesmerizing, really.

  Throe watched it for a while, and saw in its sinewy dance the movements of an erotic female.

  A voice entered his head, from where he knew not: I am waiting for you, my love.

  Shaking himself, he rubbed his eyes and felt his fear renew. But there was no going back--nor did he want to abandon this ritual or whatever it was. He was going to return to who and what he had been, and he was going to command the race with an army that followed him and him alone.

  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 he
r, 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.

  "Yup. Oh, I love Kent Jones."

  "Me, too." He paused at the main road they'd tried the night before. "Hey, I know a great all-night diner. It's nothing fancy--"

  "I'm not a fancy kind of female. Basic is way okay with me."

  "You're not basic."

  Funny how that statement, coming from a male who was dressed like that, who looked like that, who was handling this fine automobile as he did, felt pretty much as though she'd been given the Miss America crown, a Nobel Peace Prize, and the keys to Buckingham Palace all at the same time.

  Okay, fine, maybe that was hyperbole, but her chest was suddenly singing and her head was bubbly as a glass of champagne.

  "So how was your first night on the job?" he asked as if he wanted to fill the silence.

  Clearing her throat, Therese started to answer the question on the surface, leading with her three mistakes, but he was so easy to talk to, pretty soon she was going deeper than that.

  "I was so worried I wasn't going to be good enough. I really need the job, and the other two I was looking at didn't pay as well."

  "Do you need an advance or something? I could loan you--"

  "No," she said sharply. "Thank you, though. I came into the world alone and I will deal with my problems alone."

  As his head turned her way sharply, she dialed it back. "I mean, I don't want to be a burden on anyone."

  Oh, bullshit. The truth was, she wasn't going to allow herself to be vulnerable anymore to anybody for any reason. But that was going to sound waaaaaay defensive and weird in the current context.

  "So how about that Syracuse game," she said. "We were checking our phones in the kitchen while we were waiting on service."

  "Oh, my God, I was glued to my phone, too. That zone defense was insane..."

  And he's into college hoops, she thought with amazement. This male was seriously, like, a unicorn.

  The diner turned out to be a whole lot of awesome, the front part of the establishment a converted railcar, the rear a proper restaurant with tables. The vibe was very New York, with the waitresses something you might have seen on Seinfeld back in the day, all wearing matching, cheerful unis, with attitudes like you'd broken into their houses and defecated on their living room sofas.

  Fantastic.

  "So the specialties here are pies, coffee, and the potato wedges," Trez said as they sat in the back right next to an exit sign. "And french fries. They do a good hamburger, too. Oh, and the chili is great."

  As he opened his menu, his eyes roamed around. "I forgot, they also make a mean Reuben. Also the roast beef."

  Therese cradled the menu to her chest and just smiled. "Any chance you missed First Meal?"

  His black eyes flipped up to hers. "What? Oh, ah, yeah, I was opening tonight."

  "Do you own a restaurant?"

  "No, a club. Well, two."

  Tilting her head, she nodded. "You know, I can see that. You look sleek and sophisticated."

  Their waitress barreled up to the table with a pair of waters that she all but threw at them. "What do ya want to eat."

  Trez indicated to her. "Therese?"

  "The Reuben. Definitely the Reuben. I don't have to look at the menu."

  "Fries or chips," came the bitchy demand.

  "Fries, please. Thank you."

  The waitress looked at Trez. "You."

  None of the woman's statements were questions. It was more like what a mugger would say as he put a gun in your back and wanted your wallet.

  Trez put the menu aside. "Cheeseburger. American. Medium. Fries. Two apples, two Cokes, and a refill on the soda before dessert. Check, please, cash no change."

  The waitress flicked her eyes in his direction. Then she nodded like she was knuckle-pounding him in her head. "That's what I'm talking about."

  As the woman walked off, Therese laughed. "Clearly, you know your way around the fema
les."

  "At least human ones who are serving at close to two in the morning and have another four hours before they can go home, at any rate."

  They chatted until the woman came back with the Cokes and then didn't miss a beat as they were left alone again.

  "Oh, yes, I've always been a hoops fan. Spartans all the way. Huge Izzo fan." Therese took a test sip of her soda and had to sit back with a moan. Oh, the ice cold, and the sweet, and the carbonation. "This is seriously the best Coke I've ever had."

  "Long night, probably thirsty." He smiled. "Perspective is everything."

  True. And then there was also the fact that this amazing guy was sitting across the table from her.

  "How is it you're not mated," she blurted.

  As his eyes popped, she thought, oh, crap. Had she said that out loud?

  Abruptly, that dark stare went elsewhere, roaming around the interior full of empty tables and chairs. There were only two other couples in the place, both at the counter in front, and Therese was almost certain that if they had not been within eyeshot, he would have gotten up to pace.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "That's none of my business."

  "It's, ah, it's okay. Yeah, I guess you could say that love just didn't work out for me."

  "I can't imagine why any female would leave the likes of you." With a wince, she closed her eyes and shook her head. "Okay, I'm going to stop talking now. I keep putting my foot in it."

  As he sat back, that smile returned for a second. "I find your candor refreshing, how about that?"

  "Hey, I have an idea. I like to be proactive about things, so can we just chalk this whole meal up to my being exhausted? You know, excuse everything that comes out of my mouth in advance? I think we'll both feel better about this when it's over."

  "You have nothing to be embarrassed about."

  "Wait for it. The food hasn't even arrived yet."

  "I like honesty."

  "You do? Well, you're in luck with me. My parents always said..."

  As she let that drift, he murmured, "What?"

  Therese shrugged. "Oh, you know, that I don't have a filter."

  "Are they back in Michigan?"

  "No."

  "Have they passed?" he asked with a frown.

  How to answer that one. "Yes," she said. "My mahmen and father are dead."

  "Oh, God, I'm so sorry." He seemed so very sincere, his lips thinning, his brows dropping. "That's got to be so hard."

  "It's why I came to Caldwell."

  "Fresh start?" When she nodded, he made a move like he was going to put his hand over hers. But then he stopped himself. "It can be hard to go on when you're the one left down here."