The Chosen

by J. R. Ward

  Yes, she thought. The one who had always felt a little lost had found her footing and her voice.

  And it turned out both were that of a lion.

  Tohr shook his head. "You're crazy. You're really...totally out there, you know that. You're willing to sacrifice your young, your chosen family, your home, your relationship with Qhuinn and Blay, your King--anyone who's ever been there for you--all for a male who committed a war crime that was most likely one of the least offensive of all the things he's done over the course of his life. So, fine, you want to know what my Wellsie would say about this? I'll tell you. She'd say that you're a traitor, and a betrayer, and that you should never see those young again because the first thing you do with children is protect them from harm."

  Okay. She was done arguing in the hypothetical here.

  "I'm warning you right now, Tohrment--you need to ask yourself what you're really doing here." Layla shook her head again. "Because you're going rogue. You want to talk about betrayal? I'm very certain that Wrath went back and told all the Brotherhood what he was doing with Xcor and the Band of Bastards and what he hoped to accomplish. And you're not following orders, are you. Does that make you a traitor, too? I kind of think it does. So maybe you and I should get matching bestie armbands or something."

  "Fuck you, Layla. Hope you enjoy your life with that asshole of yours. I mean, I can only guess after all this posturing that you're going to the Old Country with him--if he lives long enough to make the trip. Yeah, female like you, you'll leave those young behind and just head off with your lover. And you know what? It'll no doubt be the only time in my life when I think desertion of a person's kids is a great idea."

  "You stay away from Xcor."

  "You are not in a position to give orders, female." He laughed in a hard burst. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe this is all over someone like him. Who the hell is that piece of shit anyway--"

  "He's your fucking brother," she snapped. "That's who he is."

  FIFTY-FOUR

  There were times in life when you could be in a car accident without even being behind the wheel. Or on a road. Or in any kind of motorized conveyance whatsoever.

  As Layla's words left her mouth and entered Tohr's brain for processing, he felt a spinning sense of being out of control, and then, yes, there was a shock of impact as he realized, yes, she had just said that. Yes, she did just mean that. Yes...she was still looking him in the eye.

  He's your fucking brother.

  "You lie," he heard himself say.

  "I do not. It's in the library up in the Sanctuary. Go read it for yourself."

  "I have read my book. There is no mention of a brother--"

  "It's in your father's volume. Xcor is the blooded son of the Black Dagger Brother Hharm. Just as you are."

  Tohr stumbled over to the old couch in front of the cold hearth and fell down on the hard cushions. "No."

  "As I said, go up there and read it for yourself. And then process the fact that not only are you going against one of Wrath's direct orders, you'll also be killing your closest blood relative."

  He had no idea how long he sat there. He was too busy sifting through his old life, before he had come to the New World, for any snippet or telltale sign, any clue...or...anything.

  "How could I not have known?" He shook his head. "How could something like this have been kept quiet?"

  "Xcor was rejected by his mahmen at birth. His father, your father, did the same."

  "Because of his lip."

  "Yes. From what I understand, he lived with a nursemaid who hated the sight of him and treated him terribly until she left him." There was a pause. "He told me he was chained outside of the place where he stayed. Like a dog."

  Tohr closed his eyes.

  And as if Layla sensed his changing mood, her voice grew less strident, less angry. "He doesn't know about you. As far as I'm aware, no one does."

  Tohr looked up sharply. "You're keeping this from him?"

  "No, he knows I have the information. But he says he doesn't want it. That it doesn't change the past and won't impact his future."

  "This...it doesn't alter what he did."

  "No, but I'm hoping it will alter what you do."

  Tohr fell silent. And as he stared off into space, it was hard to categorize his emotions into neat bundles like shock, sadness, anger, grief. Hell, was shock even an emotion? And shit, he couldn't even figure out why he felt anything. It wasn't like he'd been all father/son tight with Hharm, so why would finding out his sire had had yet another son matter? And as for Xcor? Not like there was any connection there.

  Other than the proclamation he had to kill the bastard.

  Which Layla was right, had been rescinded.

  Lifting his head, he focused on the Chosen. Layla was staring at him from over by the door, her face as composed as a portrait even as her eyes were a little too shiny from their argument.

  From their knock-down-drag-out fight.

  "I'm sorry," he said remotely. "For what just happened between you and me."

  She shook her head sharply. "I'm not going to apologize for who I love. In fact, I'm grateful this destiny is mine. If I had fallen for another, I wouldn't have been forced to be this strong--and there is nothing wrong in this world or the next in finding out your own power."

  Amen to that, he thought.

  "You do the right thing, Tohr," she said. "Do you hear me? You make this right, and you make sure Xcor is not hurt out there."

  "I can't control the whole world."

  "No, but you can control yourself. It's a lesson I'm just learning."

  --

  Layla returned to the ranch right away. As she entered through the slider, she closed herself in and listened. Xcor wasn't back yet, and this was good. She didn't want him to know what she had deduced about who had shot him, or for him to know that she had confronted a Brother on his behalf.

  And then there was the whole thing about her revealing the information about his father.

  Dearest Virgin--um, Oversexed Lassiter--she hoped Tohr kept his mouth shut. But she had done what she had to in order to get a cease-fire out of the Brother.

  A male who knew the pain of losing his shellan and unborn young was not going to kill his blooded brother. He just wasn't.

  Going down into the basement, she went into the bathroom with the idea of taking a shower. But she stopped as she saw herself in the mirror over the sink. She was still dressed in the Chosen robe she had put on after Xcor had left her, the white folds as familiar to her as her own hair, her own body.

  Reaching up to the tie, she loosened the sash, parted the two halves, and shucked the weight from her arms and shoulders.

  As she held the robing in front of her, she thought of the many years she had spent wearing the uniform. Even after Phury had freed them all, she had still used the robes more than regular clothes. They were convenient, easy to move around in, and comforting in the manner a young might cling to a favorite toy or snuggie.

  They were also a symbol.

  Not just of the race's past, but of her own.

  Layla was careful as she folded the thing, respectful with her hands. And then she placed it on the marble counter and stepped back.

  In her heart, she knew she would never put one on again. There would be other sartorial constructs, she was sure, that would remind her of them: long dresses, long coats, even a blanket wrapped around the torso and dragging on the legs.

  But she was a Chosen no more, and not just because the Scribe Virgin Herself was no more.

  The thing was, when you served another, when you lived a role determined by someone else...you could not go back to that constriction once you found out who you truly were.

  She was a mahmen. She was a lover. She was a proud female, a strong female, a female who knew right from wrong, family from stranger, good from evil. She had lived through two birthings and stood up to a Brother just now, and she would take on the King if she had to. She was fallible and could
get confused and might well flounder from time to time.

  But she would survive. That was what the strong did.

  Meeting her eyes in the mirror, she looked at her face for what felt like the first time. She had spent all those years waiting in the Sanctuary to be called into her role as ehros, her existence at once totally dictated and yet groundless, for there was no Primale to pleasure. And then she had bumped and bounced around on earth after she and her sisters had been freed, tiptoeing timidly in the unfamiliar ways of modern life. There had been the desperate needing with Qhuinn, and then the anxiety as the young had grown within her--during which her life had been split in half with Xcor. Following that? The birth that had nearly killed her and now the agony of the disintegration of her family unit...and the pending loss of Xcor.

  Yet she was still alive and she was here. Looking at herself in the mirror.

  And for the first time in her life, she respected what she saw.

  Bowing to her reflection, she said softly, "Pleased to meet you."

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Annnnnnd buh-bye.

  As Vishous deleted yet another YouTube video, he thought, yup, like shooting fish in a barrel. And if it were any easier to hack into these accounts, you'd get popcorn and Milk Duds for free with your efforts. Next. And...next. And...next.

  In a way, he had Jo Early, a.k.a. Damn Stoker, to thank for the efficiency of all this. Her links section was a treasure trove of content in multiple destinations posted by a good dozen or so people. So after he was finished with his broom in the YouTube-iverse, he was going to do Insta and then Facebook.

  Zuckerberg's little sandbox was going to be a little more difficult to hack, and as with the other two, there were multiple accounts on the platform, but he'd get through them.

  And next. And next...

  Man, this user, vamp9120, was a heavy-volume kind of guy. Lot of content that was tied to him.

  V really should have stayed on top of this shit better. Then again, he'd been busy living life instead of sublimating his issues through sports and the Internet.

  When Bruno Mars came on satellite, he switched the channel to Shade45. It wasn't that he didn't think "24K" was magical, but the whole upbeat club shit was not on his playlist tonight. Jeezy/Bankroll Fresh's "All There." Fucking perfect. And as it bumped out the speakers, he took another drink from his Grey Goose and ice, and debated taking a break so he could hand-roll some more of his Turkish tobacco. After that, he was going to grab another bottle from the half dozen he'd ordered from Fritz. And then come back here to--

  "What the fuck?" he barked.

  Leaning in toward his screen, he frowned at the image that was on it. "Wait, I remember this, true?"

  Yeah, he was talking to himself. It was what you did when your roommate, who was off rotation like you were, was banging his female down the hall--and you were a lame ass in an office chair in the front of the house.

  Rewinding the video, V watched again as the action unfolded. The footage had been taken from a relatively high viewpoint in a building downtown, as if the asshole with the cell phone had been looking out a third--or maybe a fourth-floor apartment. The focal point was on an alleyway below--and a figure that was walking forward.

  Into a hail of bullets.

  The figure was Tohrment. The bullets were coming from a slayer that was crumbled in the far corner. And the scene was straight-up suicidal.

  V hadn't been there to witness the sheer stupidity firsthand, but he sure as shit had heard about it from multiple fighters. It was back when Tohr had been losing his mind, and determined to show everyone exactly how much of a death wish he had. Yes, he was shooting back at the lesser, his gun up, all kinds of lead pumping out of its muzzle...but he'd had no vest on, nothing covering him, and twelve different kinds of vital organs that should have been hit.

  FFS, if he had wanted to get shot, the only way he could have been more successful was if he'd turned his own weapon on himself and pulled the trigger.

  And yet he'd survived--

  "Hold up...what is that?"

  Abruptly, Vishous rubbed his eyes. Leaned even closer to the monitor. Wondered if the footage wasn't in the grassy knoll camp.

  Adjusting the contrast on his screen, he ran the shit back again. And once more.

  Someone else was shooting from the building across the way. Yeah...there was a figure up there on the roof and they...uh-huh, they were leaning right over and plowing a bunch of bullets into that slayer who was trying to kill Tohr.

  It hadn't been a brother, that was for sure. V could pick out his own fighters in a fog bank a mile away, and it was easy to isolate them in this case even though the footage was a little grainy. Besides, there was no way one of their own would have been anywhere than right on the ground with the brother.

  So who the fuck was up there? Not a human. There was no way one of those rats without tails would have gotten involved in that kind of business in that kind of way. No dog in the fight, so why risk the arrest? They were more likely to call 911 and take cover--

  As his cell went off, V jumped--and shit, he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. Especially over a phone call.

  But given what wheels he had set in motion...

  He watched as his hand reached out for his phone. He'd put it facedown on his desk, and turning the screen over took a degree of courage.

  When he saw who it was, he snapped back to all business. "My Lord," he said with relief as he answered. "What can I do you for?"

  Wrath was to the point, one more reason to like the guy. "I need you. Now."

  "Roger that. Where are you?"

  "I'll be in the foyer in five minutes."

  "Tell me that we're not going to Disney World and I'll be there."

  "No, this is not vacation time."

  "Good."

  As V hung up, he went to delete the footage and close out, but something told him to save the shit, so he did. It wasn't like he didn't have space on his hard drive.

  Goddamn him, he was so fucking relieved to have something to do.

  Just like earlier in the evening, he didn't tell anyone he was leaving, but this time it was because Butch and Marissa were busy getting busy. But he did shoot his best friend a text--and then he thought about texting Jane.

  In the end, though, he just put his cell down, armed himself, and left.

  --

  Xcor was hanging up the house phone and starting to take off his borrowed parka when Layla ascended from the basement.

  The instant he saw the tension in her face, he had regrets. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know I'm late."

  She seemed surprised, and then simply shook her head as she came up to him. "I'm glad you're back. I was worried."

  As her eyes lifted to his, he hated the sadness in them, especially because he knew he was the cause--and not for the first time since he left her earlier did he despise himself and the positions he put her in.

  "Come here," he whispered as he drew her against him.

  Cradling her into his chest, against his heart, he rested his chin on the top of her head. And he would have been content to stay like that forever, but he had things he had to tell her.

  "My love," he said, "Wrath is--"

  At that very moment, the slider opened and cold air rushed into the little kitchen. The Blind King was the first through the door, and Vishous was right on his heels.

  "You rang," Wrath said dryly. "And hello, Chosen."

  "Just Layla, please." As Layla spoke, they all looked at her.

  "What?" the King asked.

  "I am just Layla, please, my Lord."

  The King shrugged. "Whatever you like. So Xcor, do you have an answer for me?"

  "Aye." Xcor glanced at Vishous, who watched every move he made with those diamond eyes. "And I fear you are not going to like it."

  "They said no, huh. Pity." Now the King looked at the Brother. "Guess this means we're going to war."

  This was uttered casually, as if it were naught
of consequence, and Xcor had to respect the attitude. Warriors fought. It was what they were bred and trained for. If the Brotherhood thought that conflict with a band of five soldiers was of any particular note, they needed to retire their daggers.

  "No," Xcor interjected, "they did not say no. But they will not give you the oath."

  Vishous spoke up, his voice low, aggressive. "What the fuck does that mean?"

  Xcor addressed Wrath. "They have sworn their oaths to me. I have sworn mine to you. They will follow you, but only because that is where I have placed my fealty. They will be led by no other than myself. That is the way of it."

  "Not good enough," the Brother Vishous snapped. "Not by half, asshole."

  Xcor ripped off his glove and flashed his palm. "It was a blood oath. And those males will die for you, Wrath. Upon my orders."

  "That's goddamn right," Vishous barked. "When we slaughter--"

  "Enough," Wrath cut in.

  There was a tense silence, and Xcor could feel Layla stiffen beside him. He would not try to tell her to go, however. She would not depart from him any more than his soldiers would.

  Standing a'fore the King, Xcor met Wrath straight in the eye, even though the male was blind. Indeed, he had nothing to hide, no fight to present in this instance, no subterfuge or agenda to bring forth. And no matter the outcome tonight or any other, it was good. He was not afraid of death; the Bloodletter had taught him that. He had also discovered what love was, and she was standing next to him. Thus he was prepared to go forward with calm resolution, according to a fate that was out of his control.

  So this was what peace felt like, he thought as he took off his other glove. When he reached for Layla's hand it seemed apt that it was not with the one he used a dagger with.

  "You believe this," Wrath remarked. "You honestly do."

  "Aye. I have been through the war with these fighters of mine. They have followed me across the ocean--"

  "Are they prepared to follow you back there?" Vishous muttered. "In body bags?"

  "Aye, they are." Xcor looked at the Brother. "But they have no war with you if I have none."

  Wrath crossed his arms over his chest, and Xcor had to respect the sheer size and musculature of the male. He was enormous and deadly, and yet his brain civilized him.