The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  "Layla, there is naught that you could do to upset me."

  She rushed through her words, speaking the syllables quickly, but clearly. "Up in the Sanctuary, where the Chosen dwell, there is a great library of lives. And in those stacks, in those volumes, the details of all the males and females of the species are kept, the passages written by the sacred scribes after they witnessed in the seeing bowls all the events, good and bad, that have e'er transpired down upon the earth. It is an entire chronicle of the race, the battles and the celebrations, the feasts and the famines, the sadness and the joy...the deaths and the births."

  As she paused, he was aware that his heart started beating faster. "Go on."

  Layla took a deep breath. "I was seeking to know more. About you."

  "You looked at my record."

  "I did."

  Xcor cast aside the blanket she had draped upon him and stood, pacing forward and back. "Why did you bother to ask me about my past, then? Why force me to say--"

  "Not everything is in it."

  "You just said it was."

  "Not feelings. Not your thoughts. And I didn't know about..." She cleared her throat. "I knew you had gone into the war camp, but what precisely transpired there had not been recorded."

  He stopped and turned toward her. She was blissfully naked, her spectacular body bare to his eye in the warm bedroom, only her long, lovely blond hair covering her. She was nervous, but not cowering, and once again, he wondered why in the hell someone like her would have anything to do with a male like him.

  What was wrong with her, he wondered.

  "So what did you read about me?" he demanded.

  "I know who your father--"

  "Stop." As he put his palm forward, sweat broke out on his upper lip and across his brow. "You must stop there."

  "I'm so sorry," she said as she reached for the discarded blanket and pulled it around herself. "I should have told you. I've just--"

  "I'm not angry."

  "You aren't?"

  He shook his head and meant it. "No."

  After a moment, he went over to the pants he'd had to borrow and pulled them on. Then he did the same with the T-shirt he'd been wearing when he'd been shot. Moving the hem around, he inspected the hole in the fabric where the bullet had grazed him and then he checked his skin. Healed up.

  The result of Layla's Chosen blood.

  "I know what you're going to ask," he said remotely.

  "Well, do you want to know?"

  His bare feet started walking again, taking him from one end of the room to the other and back once more. "You know, I had this fantasy...when I was a young lad. Well, I had several of them. I used to conjure them up when the nursemaid kept me chained outside the cottage during the night--"

  "Chained?" Layla said weakly.

  "--to pass the time. One of my favorites was imagining who my father was. I pictured that he was a great warrior on a fierce steed, and that one evening, he came out of the woods and took me away on the back of his saddle. In my idle dreaming, he was strong and proud of me, and we were of like kind, seeking nothing but honor and goodness for the species. Great fighters, side by side."

  He could feel her eyes boring into him, and he didn't like it. He felt vulnerable enough. But as with removing a bullet lodged in skin, one had to finish the job.

  "It kept me going. To the point that, even after I turned myself in at various orphanages, I never could stay in them because I always worried he might come to that cottage and find that I wasn't there. Later, when my path crossed with the Bloodletter's and he told me that lie to get me to join him? That he was my sire? I was so desperate that I recast myself to fit that evil male and made one of the biggest mistakes of my life." He shook his head. "And when I discovered the falsity? I felt betrayed, but it was also a return to where I had been as a child. I've lived with the rejection of my parents all my life. They have had a century or two to rethink what they did and try to find me, but they have chosen not to. To discover now what either of their names are, or what happened to them, or where they live? It will change nothing, for them or me."

  Layla's beautiful eyes were shining with tears, and he could tell she was trying to be strong for him.

  He wished he had not once again put her in that position.

  "I'm not mad at you," he said as he went over and kneeled before her. "Never."

  He put his hands on her thighs and forced a smile. He wanted to reassure her, ease her conscience and her mind, but his own emotions were in a great upheaval. Indeed, talking with her had opened up a Pandora's box of the past, and all manner of images were flashing through his brain, memories from childhood, and then the war camp, and still afterward with his fighters, crowding like invaders at a gate, threatening to overtake everything about him.

  This was why the past must stay buried, he decided, and why truths long left unrevealed must remain as such. To bring them forth solved nothing and only created a dust storm that would take much time to settle.

  The good news? He'd told his males he would meet them at four a.m., and that gave him an excuse to firmly end this conversation. So what if it was only just after two. He was going to need some time alone to compose himself.

  "I must go."

  "To find your fighters."

  "Yes."

  She seemed to take a bracing breath. "Will you put your bulletproof vest back on? In case of more slayers?"

  As Xcor stood back up, he made a dismissive motion with his hand so as to reassure her. "Yes, but do not worry. They're almost non-existent the now. I can't remember the last time I saw one."

  --

  First Meal with Blay's parents was, at least on the surface, a picture-perfect breakfast scene: You had a couple in love, two beautiful kids, and a pair of grandparents in a kitchen that was out of an old-fashioned ladies' magazine.

  The reality, however, was not even close to perfection.

  As Qhuinn sat back in his chair, he took his coffee mug with him and set it on his stomach. Not a good idea, given what was doing in his guts. To make the elder Lyric happy, and pay respect to all her hard work, he'd sucked down four eggs, six pieces of French toast, three cups of coffee, and an orange juice. Oh, and three frozen After Eights.

  Which had been ingested on the Monty Python Thin Mint Theory. So yes, it was entirely possible that he was going to explode all over this beautiful kitchen, with its maple paneling and its wooden floor and the copper pans that hung as decoration over that island.

  "More French toast?" Lyric asked him with a smile.

  When she held the platter out to him, his gag reflex hit the playback button and he nearly refunded all that nice food she'd cooked right onto the leftovers.

  "I think I'll take a breather before seconds."

  Or was that more like eighths?

  "You certainly packed it away, son," Blay's dad said as he, too, sat back. "Been a while since you had a good meal? What's Fritz feeding you guys over there, kale and tofu?"

  "Oh, you know." Actually, it's been a little hard to eat given that my mate has essentially moved out. "Busy, busy."

  "You work too hard," Lyric said as she repositioned her namesake in her arms. "Doesn't he? Your father works way too hard."

  Little Lyric let out a coo that was timed perfectly--if the kid's aim was to melt her grandmother.

  "She looks so much like Layla." Lyric glanced at her hellren. "Doesn't she? She's going to be so beautiful when she grows up."

  Rocke nodded and toasted both Qhuinn and Blay with his mug. "Good thing you boys know your way around a gun."

  Blay spoke up. "She's going to learn her own self-defense. So she can take care of herself and--"

  As he stopped abruptly and looked out the windows, Qhuinn murmured, "That's right. And you're going to teach her. Aren't you, Blay?"

  When the male didn't reply, Lyric looked at Qhuinn. "I'm hogging your daughter, aren't I? You haven't held her all night."

  The female went to turn the young around,
and as Qhuinn saw those features that were a spitting image of her mahmen, he recoiled--and recovered fast.

  "Actually, I'm good. But thanks."

  He made a show of leaning away and talking to Rhamp, who was in Blay's dad's arms. "And we're going to teach you to fight, too. Ain't that right, big guy?"

  "Are you really going to put him into the war?" Lyric said. "I mean, perhaps he could find another way in this world--"

  "He's the son of a Brother," Blay cut in as he stood up. "So he's going to be what his father is."

  The male picked up his plate and his mahmen's and headed for the sink.

  "Oh, here, Qhuinn take her," the female said.

  Qhuinn shook his head. "Would you mind putting her into her carrier? I'm going to help with the dishes."

  "And you," Blay's dad murmured to his mom, "need to get off that foot. Up to bed. Come on."

  "I need to tidy up."

  "No," Blay said firmly. "You cook, I clean, remember?"

  "Listen to your son, Lyric."

  As another of the couple's genteel, respectful arguments started, Qhuinn set about desperately trying to catch Blay's stare while they moved platters and plates, pitchers and mugs over to the island.

  Blay was having none of it. In fact, the guy seemed livid for some reason--though he hid it well as his parents got ready to pair off and get Lyric settled in bed.

  As Blay's mom gave Qhuinn a hug, he more than returned the favor. "I'll come again soon."

  "You better. And bring my grandbabies, thank you very much."

  Blay's dad swept her up into his arms. "I'll be down to help in a minute, boys."

  "Or," Lyric said, "you can watch a little television with your mate."

  "This mess needs to--"

  "They're grown males. They'll take care of it just fine. Come on, there's a show on the next mass extinction I've wanted to watch with you."

  "Just what I've been looking for," Blay's dad said with dry affection.

  As the two went off for the stairs, Qhuinn could have sworn Lyric gave him the nod of, I've got this. You take your time--

  "You want to tell me what the hell is going on here?"

  Qhuinn recoiled and stopped in the process of heading back to the table to pick up the napkins. "I'm sorry?"

  Blay leaned against the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. "You haven't looked at her all night. You won't touch her. What the hell is going on?"

  Shaking his head, Qhuinn said, "I'm sorry, I'm not following--"

  Blay jabbed his finger at the carriers. "Lyric."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Bullshit."

  As Blay glared at him, Qhuinn felt his exhaustion return tenfold. "Look, I'm not--"

  "I know I'm not her parent, but--"

  "Oh, God, not that again." He let his head fall back on his spine and stared at the paneled ceiling. "Please, not again--"

  "--I'm not going to stand here and let you ignore her just because she looks like Layla and you can't stand the Chosen. I'm not going to have it, Qhuinn. It's not fair to your daughter."

  It was on the tip of Qhuinn's tongue to tell the guy that he didn't understand, but yeah, no. He wasn't going that route.

  Blay jabbed a finger across the way. "She's a good baby, and as long as you don't fuck up the next twenty-five years or so, she's going to turn into a spectacular female. And I don't care if I'm not on their birthing charts and have no right to them--"

  "No offense, but enough with that. It doesn't hold water anymore."

  As Blay's eyes narrowed like he was getting good and ready to blow a gasket, Qhuinn reached into the diaper bag and put a sheaf of papers on the granite countertop.

  Sliding them across at the guy, he said, "I've taken care of all that."

  "What?"

  Exhaling long and slow, Qhuinn dragged himself over to the table and dumped his weight in a chair. Fiddling with a crumpled napkin, he nodded at the documents.

  "Just read 'em."

  Blay was clearly in the mood to argue, but something must have reached him, some kind of vibe, or maybe it was Qhuinn's expression.

  "Why?" the guy demanded.

  "You'll see."

  As the other male picked up the papers and unfolded them, Qhuinn tracked each and every nuance of that handsome, familiar face, the twitches of the brow, the tightening--and then loosening--of the mouth and jaw, the utter shock and disbelief that replaced the anger.

  "What have you done?" Blay asked when he eventually looked up.

  "I think it's pretty self-explanatory."

  As Blay went on a reread, Qhuinn stared at the pair of carriers, at the babies in them, at the two sets of eyes that were starting to droop.

  "I can't let you do this," Blay said finally.

  "Too late. That's the King's seal at the bottom."

  Blay came across to the table and seemed to fall into the chair his mother had been sitting in. "This is..."

  "You have my parental rights. You're now their father legally."

  "Qhuinn, you don't have to do this."

  "The hell I don't. I'm putting my money where my mouth is." He pointed at the paperwork. "I declared myself incompetent and unfit--and what do you know, when you discharge a firearm in your kids' bedroom, that's an easy argument to win. And Saxton did the case law research. We took it to Wrath and he approved it."

  Not readily, of course. But at the end of the night, what could the King do? Especially when Qhuinn explained the point of it all.

  "I can't believe..." Blay shook his head again. "What does Layla have to say about this?"

  "Nothing. It's got nothing to do with her."

  "She's their mahmen."

  "And now you're their father. Tell her if you want, or not. I don't care." As Blay frowned, Qhuinn tossed aside the napkin and sat forward. "Look, I'm their sire forevermore. My blood is in their veins. Nothing and no one will ever change that. I'm not giving away the fact that I sired them or the reality that I will always be in their lives. What I am doing is giving you a legal say-so. When I lost my damn mind in that damn bedroom? That was emotion." He pointed at the documents again. "That is reality."

  Blay just started at the paperwork. "I seriously can't believe you did this."

  Qhuinn got to his feet and started strapping in the kids, Rhamp first. When he turned to Lyric, he tried to be quick. Tried not to look her in the face.

  As an unsettling emotion percolated through him, he shook it off. "I have to let Layla take them at nightfall tomorrow. I'm supposed to be out in the field and so are you--I checked the schedule. So unless you want to change it, I'll see you at the mansion tomorrow night before we all go out."

  He paused before he picked up the carriers. "Unless you want to come with me now."

  When Blay shook his head, he wasn't surprised.

  "Okay, I hope I'll see you tomorrow. Come earlier if you want to hang with your kids before she takes them."

  He knew better than to suggest that Blay might like to see him.

  With a quick lift of the twins, Qhuinn turned on his heel and headed for the front exit. As he went down the hall, he hoped that Blay might have a sudden epiphany and come racing to the front of the house.

  When that didn't happen, he opened the door and let himself out.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The delays were unacceptable. Unfathomable. Impermissible.

  As Throe extracted himself from his lover's arms, he was ready to scream. First of all, he'd been unable to find all the ingredients for the spell or whatever he was doing, in the pantry the night before. This meant he'd had to go out--in the hellren of the house's Bentley, no less--to town to try to find black licorice and saffron and black candles.

  Attempting to locate those candles in Caldwell at two a.m. had driven him mad.

  He'd hit three open-all-night supermarkets and none of the stories had had them. And he'd tried a CVS. Two of them, actually. Nothing. And then, by the time he'd gotten back, Little Miss Stamp
Her Louboutins and Pout went on a full bender of hysterics.

  He'd nearly walked out on her. But it had been getting close to dawn by that time, and besides, he'd still needed the damn candles and the motor oil.

  After watching her turn a relationship talk into performance art for at least two hours, he'd had to fuck her three or four times. Then had come the crying jags and the godforsaken regrets and recriminations. Followed by declarations of love that he didn't buy for a second.

  By the time he'd been able to get free and go find a doggen to give a directive to, it had been four in the afternoon.

  The doggen hadn't come back until six, and First Meal had been interminably long--and now, finally, after another round of sex, he was free: She was out like a light and going to stay that way because he'd slipped her seven Valium from the prescription bottle she kept in her bathroom.

  The pills had been quite undetectable in the espresso she'd had with what the humans would have called breakfast.

  Getting to his feet and moving quickly in her dim bedroom, he found his silk robe, covered himself, and rushed to the door. Out in the corridor, his footsteps bounced with an anticipation that he more typically possessed only when approaching a new lover.

  And indeed, when he was at long last back in his own suite, he raced to the bed, cast the pillows aside, and brought his book to his heart.

  As it warmed to the contact, he smiled. "Aye, it was too long. Aye. But here we are. Let us work the now."

  It seemed appropriate to keep the lights off, as he felt as though he were doing something in secret, something sacred--or perhaps those were the wrong words.

  He didn't much care for the right ones: Dimly, in the back of his mind, he knew this was evil, this stuff. And verily, as he sat in the southernmost corner of the bedroom and placed The Book upon the carpet, it seemed that all was dark and full of shadow.

  Yet he would not dwell on that. He would focus only on his goal.

  "I have my faith and my faith has me," he murmured as The Book flipped itself open and the pages began to fly. "I have my faith and my faith has me..."

  When it found its proper place, the pages began to glow as if sensing his eyes needed assistance. "How kind of you," he said with a caress of its wide-open spine.

  Down on the parchment, the symbols in the Old Language appeared, and he performed a quick review of the task ahead. Right, the ingredients. He needed the--

  A rattling sounded out from beneath the bed. And then also in the closet.