The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Around its neck? A handwritten sign that read: THE BOSS WAS HERE.

  "Motherfucker."

  Shifting his legs off the side of the bed, Trez gave his heart rate a chance to get under two hundred BPM, and then it was bathroom time. The good news was that the migraine seemed to be solidly in his rearview, the anvil that had been on the right side of his head gone, his stomach growling for food.

  After a shower, and a shave, and a fresh set of clothes, he was ready to do what he should, which was head to shAdoWs and see what was doing.

  Instead, he got his cell phone and dialed his brother. iAm answered on the first ring.

  "How you feeling?" the guy asked.

  "I'm alive."

  "This is good."

  "Well?"

  "Well what?" When Trez didn't fill in the obvious, iAm started muttering things that began with the f-word. "Trez, seriously, leave it, would you?"

  "Not gonna. Will you please hire that female?"

  There was a long period of silence--which Trez inferred was all about iAm hoping against hope that he was going to see the light. But Trez didn't give a shit. He was going to wait it out, and he was going to get his way, and Therese was going to get the job at Sal's.

  "Fine," iAm bitched. "I'll give her the job. Are you happy now?"

  No, not even close. "Yeah. Thanks, man. You're doing the right thing."

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

  Trez closed his eyes and remembered the feel of Therese's lips, her taste, the scent of her traveling across the cold air into his nose...his soul.

  A spike of nausea cleared all of that out of his mind. "It's going to be fine. I'm not going to bother her."

  "Yeah. Right."

  After Trez hung up, he shot a glare over at the angel effigy in the corner. "Lassiter," he said out loud. "Come on, I know you're here somewhere."

  He waited, expecting the angel to come through the door. Break free of the walk-in closet. Slither out from under the bed. The guy was always around, whether you wanted him or not.

  But he should have known better. Ten minutes, and absolutely-no-angel later, it seemed kind of fitting that the one time he wanted the bastard to show up, the fucker played ghost.

  Pulling on a fresh suit jacket, Trez left his room and took out his phone again as he headed for the grand staircase. He texted Xhex as he went on the descent, and was surprised when he got a ping right back. Usually she'd be checking the liquor in--

  Oh. Got it. Snowstorm, club closed, no one going anywhere in the city.

  As he hit the foyer, he crossed over the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom and zeroed in on the billiards room--where, like, three quarters of the Brotherhood were milling around with pool cues and booze in their hands.

  Butch came over to him, the former human cop looking sharp as hell, as usual. "You going to join us? You want a drink?"

  Before he could answer, Xhex came around from behind the bar. "Yeah, I made the call about closing. The bouncers were phoning me, saying they couldn't get across town, the bartenders, too. No working girls. The only thing that showed up was the liquor delivery and the DJ, although the latter was only on the premises because he got too wasted last night and had to crash in the back."

  Trez gave Butch a no-thanks and turned to Xhex. "I don't think we've ever been closed on a Thursday night."

  "Firsts come when you least expect them."

  "Is the snow really that bad?"

  "See for yourself."

  As she nodded to one of the eight paned floor-to-ceiling windows, Trez used that as an excuse to break away from the conversation and begin his graceful exit from the room and the household at large. It wasn't that he didn't love the Brothers. It was just, in this post-migraine tender-zone, all the talk and the laughter, the smacking of pool balls, the J. Cole and Kendrick Lamar, were over his limit.

  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.r />
  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.

  They would not be forgotten, however.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to remember the last time she had gone up to the Sanctuary. Oh, indeed.

  It had been a month ago...when she had found out who Xcor's father was.

  --

  Annnnnd she had his scent on her, too.

  As Qhuinn marched through the dining room, he was furious, but at the same time, not at all surprised: Wrath had given Xcor a free pass, and Layla had been in the outside world for twenty minutes, so yes, of course, the pair of them had met up. Probably banged all day.

  Meanwhile, her kids were here without their mother.

  "Hope you had a great frickin' time, sweetheart," he muttered as he stormed along.

  The door to the garage was in the way back of the house, on the far side of even the mudroom, and he had to go doggen dodging through the kitchen to get there. He was halfway to goal when, hey, hey, what do you know, Tohr came in from the staff stairs.

  Neither of them made eye contact. They both just continued onward, falling into line and entering the shallow room that was full of spare coats, snow boots, hats, and gloves. On the far side, Tohr opened the way into the unheated, barn-y garage beyond and then shut them in together.

  The air was cold and dry and smelled vaguely of fertilizer and gasoline. And as the motion-activated lights came on, there was a whole lot of perfectly tidy and concrete going on, drums of birdseed and rock salt all lined up, the riding mowers parked in a row, Weed Eaters, hoes, and shovels hanging on racks. High above, the rafters were made of old wood, and sturdy as the mountain the house had been built on, and across the way, sixteen coffins were stacked one upon the next, as if they were nothing but moving boxes from U-Haul.

  The fact that Tohr strode over and stood right by them seemed apt.

  When the brother spoke, his voice was quiet, but deep as the lowest point in Hell. "I have no intention of letting this go."

  No reason to define this, was there.

  Qhuinn shook his head slowly. "Me, either."

  "I don't know when Wrath turned into a fucking Millennial." Tohr started pacing around. "But maybe he should get off the throne and start sharing Snapchats about how everyone needs to forgive and get along. Throw a fucking bunny face on himself and do a guided meditation on unity. This is insane."

  The brother stopped and put his hand on one of the coffins, his jaw grinding hard and hollowing out his cheek.

  Tohr shook his head. "Sometimes you have to take care of the King even if he doesn't want you to."

  "I agree."

  "Sometimes matters have to be taken into different hands."

  "I totally fucking agree."

  Tohr's navy blue eyes looked over. "The field is a very dangerous place."

  Qhuinn flexed his hands into fists. "People get hurt out there all the time."

  "Lessers. Humans. They can do a lot of damage even to trained fighters."

  As Qhuinn nodded, he recognized that while they were coming at it from two completely different perspectives, they'd certainly arrived at the same damn place. Xcor was going to die out there while he was supposedly looking for his boys. Whether it was Qhuinn's bullet or Tohr's, the fucker was going down.

  "Is this a race, though," Qhuinn interjected. "Like, the first to catch the bastard wins the prize of slaughtering him?"

  "No. We work together and keep this between us. Whoever gets him presents him like a meal to be communally consumed."

  As Tohr put his palm out, Qhuinn grasped it without hesitation. "Deal."

  The other brother nodded as they released their palms and dropped their arms. "Let's go, then," Tohr said. "He'll be searching for his fighters even though it's snowing badly because he's going to want to gather his troops ASAP. We'll find him somewhere in the field tonight."

  With the plan in place, the pair of them headed back for the mudroom and geared up with white-on-white parkas. Then they exited the mansion through a side door that led out into t
he rear garden. Or tried to. The second they opened the panels, they were both slammed in the face with the kind of sleet and snow that made lesser mortals seek fireplaces and hot toddies. But fuck comfort.

  They were going to take care of this situation, and keep the solution to themselves.

  No one had to know one goddamn thing about this.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Xcor waited until he sensed Layla had fully dematerialized away from the ranch, and then he went on a search mission of the little house, quickly moving through all the closets and drawers and possible hiding places in the bedrooms. His assumption was that if the Brothers ever stayed here, they would keep weapons where they slept--but ultimately, he found nothing.

  Frustrating.

  He did locate adequate outerwear for himself, however. There was a coat closet on the way to the door out into the garage, and therein he found a parka and snow pants that were big enough to fit him, as well as a pair of ski gloves and a skullcap. Unfortunately, they were all black, and in the snow, they were going to make him stand out like a sparkler in the pitch dark--but beggars, choosers, and all that.

  There was, however, something else in there that made up for the potentially dangerous eye-catch of it all.

  After gearing up, he headed out into the garage, to the Range Rover in which they had evac'd from the forest the night before. The SUV looked as if it had been through a salt bath, great white streaks all down its sides and up its front grille and hood. No keys, and he wasn't surprised. Vishous would have taken them with him.

  The vehicle was unlocked, however, and what he was hoping to find turned out to be in its back compartment: From an emergency box, he took three red flares, and tucked them into the parka, securing them by zipping up the front of the puffy jacket.

  And then he went back inside, engaged the security system, and quickly departed through the slider in the kitchen. He didn't expect Layla to come back during the night, but in the event that she did return, he wanted her in a house that had been at least nominally secured. Further, he had no way to lock up the place behind himself, assuming he wanted to reenter and spend the day here.

  Which he wasn't sure would be the case.

  Out on the porch, the weather conspired a great assault against him, the snow falling in heavy bands that came with blustery winds, as if there were storms within the storm. Visibility was poor, and he was willing to bet there would be few humans out. This would work in his favor.