Watcher: Book I of The Chosen

by Roh Morgon

  That isn’t helping either. I love that smile.

  He steps behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders, and looks at my reflection.

  “You will leave them speechless. You are a queen, and they will bow down at your feet.”

  I smile, thinking about facing that roomful of Chosen, and feel anticipation run through me, almost as though for a hunt.

  Nicolas studies my expression in the mirror and, moving to my right side, takes my hand and slips it under his arm, resting it on the inside of his elbow. We both look in the mirror at the regal couple standing before us and his eyes momentarily flash red.

  “We make a formidable pair. They have no chance, and they will know it. And they will see that we know it as well.” His expression shifts, becoming dark and dangerous, and I am thrilled to accompany this magnificent being.

  “Shall we?” He raises his eyebrows, and I offer a small, feral smile, my own eyes a crimson match to his.

  “Ah, perfect,” he says, and we leave our reflections and walk out the door.

  CHAPTER 29

  My hand still in its place on Nicolas’s arm, we walk into the dining hall with its long ornate table full of seated guests. As we enter, The Chosen stand. The males, wearing tuxedos, bow, while the females in elegant gowns drop into deep curtsies. I try not to stare as we walk past them to the other end of the room. A mixture of tall and short, light-haired and dark, they are all trim and very attractive.

  Tension fills the room as they hold their poses. Nicolas guides me to the head of the table and we remain standing next to his chair as he looks over the assemblage.

  “Thank you,” he says, finally releasing them from their courtesies. They straighten as their gazes stray to me.

  “Please welcome Miss Martin,” Nicolas continues. The Chosen again bow and curtsy briefly in my direction.

  Nicolas assists me into the seat to the left of his, then takes his own, and with a flurry of quiet movement, the others return to theirs.

  Éva, wearing a bare-shouldered gown in deep gold, is sitting across from me on Nicolas’s right. She gives me a brief approving smile as she nods to me. I nod back, then look at Nicolas.

  He glances at me and the corners of his mouth quirk. “Johan,” he says, his voice slightly raised, “will you please bring us the wine?”

  Burgundy draperies covering a doorway at the side of the room briefly sway, but no one appears. I watch the doorway for a moment, then slowly scan the table, taking care not to let my gaze linger too long on any of the guests.

  They are all pale, beautiful, and elegant, and emanate an energy not unlike Éva’s. All Elders, then. This is the Council of which she spoke.

  There are eight of them, including Éva—four females and four males. It’s interesting to watch their glances toward Nicolas, then toward me. Bewilderment slips across several faces and conversations spring up among them in a low hum.

  The drapes at the doorway flutter open, admitting another Chosen, but he’s dressed as a servant and carries a tray containing several decanters of wine. The servant, Johan I assume, sets the tray on a stand near Nicolas, then goes back through the doorway, returning seconds later with a tray full of wineglasses, which he sets on a second stand. He then becomes perfectly still, apparently awaiting further instructions.

  I notice that his energy is very different; muted, one-dimensional, and almost non-existent in comparison to the others. Is he newly changed? He seems slightly tense and, darting his gaze to me, quickly drops it. I wonder what he senses of my energy. Does he question why one as young as me is in the company of all these Elders?

  “Johan, I set aside a special bottle in the warmer. Will you please bring it, along with an opener?” The conversations stop as Nicolas speaks, but then pick up again as he goes silent.

  “Éva, how was your afternoon with Miss Martin? Did you enjoy yourself?” Again, the quiet buzz instantly stops. Several of The Chosen shift forward a little in their chairs, their attention fixed on Nicolas and Éva.

  “It was delightful. I found we have a number of things in common.” She smiles at him and nods at me.

  Yeah, what we have in common is Nicolas.

  There’s a faint ripple along the table as the others remark among themselves on the fact that Éva has already met me. I wonder if this gives her an advantage over them.

  Johan reappears carrying a bottle of wine and an opener. He sets them on the decanter tray and steps back, becoming a statue again.

  “Johan, please.” Nicolas chooses a glass and moves it to the edge of the tray. Johan pours a small amount of wine from each of the decanters into the glass. Nicolas nods again to him, and Johan picks up the glass and drinks it down all at once.

  Testing for . . . poison? Is Nicolas reassuring his guests, or himself, that the wine is safe?

  Nicolas watches Johan for a long moment, then reaches over, picks up the corkscrew and the bottle, and opens it. He then selects another glass, pours the wine into it, and with a slight smile, hands it to me. As I take it, I become aware of another stir along the table.

  When I glance at Éva, she is very still, and her eyes carry a slight warning. I continue to hold the glass and watch as Nicolas signals Johan to begin pouring the decanters. He quickly fills a glass and sets it in front of Nicolas, who raises it and slowly breathes in the aroma like any human connoisseur. I detect the scent of blood, human blood, yet it also looks and smells like wine, only spicier.

  Interesting. I check my glass, but there is no trace of blood—just fine red wine.

  Nicolas nods to Johan, who pours the rest of the glasses, setting the first of these in front of Éva. Johan then delivers a glass to the female sitting to my left and continues to distribute them down the table, alternating from side to side. Apparently there is a hierarchy at the table, with those sitting nearer to Nicolas having a higher status.

  When everyone has wineglasses in front of them, Nicolas reaches over and takes my hand, then with a nod to me, he stands and I do the same. He picks up his glass and I follow his lead as everyone else at the table rises elegantly to their feet, their own glasses in hand.

  Nicolas raises his glass.

  “To the Blood.”

  As one, the other Chosen raise theirs and echo his words.

  “To the Blood.”

  “And to the Game.”

  “To the Game,” they repeat as a single voice.

  His emerald eyes tinged in red, he takes a drink, and the others follow suit. He surveys the table, his gaze locking momentarily on each pair of eyes—eyes that lower in submission to him.

  Power radiates from him in thick, heavy waves, and I see a Nicolas I have not seen before.

  This one commands obedience with nothing more than his fierce attention and veiled promises of swift retribution should he receive anything but the highest respect.

  Even the golden-haired Chosen across from me lowers her gaze and bows her head in subservience to him when he turns that attention to her. Éva holds her position until he sets down his glass.

  “Please, sit.” Nicolas motions everyone to their seats, then with a soft smile at me, assists me into mine and takes his. The others visibly relax and settle into their chairs.

  “Éva, would you please introduce our guests to Miss Martin?” He takes another sip of his wine and leans back in his chair.

  “Yes, Nicolas.” Éva’s golden-eyed expression is formal as she glances at me. “Miss Martin, I would like to present Miss Alina Dăneşti of San Francisco.” Éva gestures to the petite, dark-haired beauty next to me. Her violet eyes shine as she murmurs a quiet “welcome” in an accent not unlike that of Nicolas and Éva.

  The male sitting next to Éva is Lorenzo de’ Medici of Chicago. His stocky build and darker coloring, along with his accent, remind me of Alfonso. Robert Williams of Los Angeles towers over Alina from his seat on the other side of her. With his sun-bleached hair and blue-green eyes, he could be a surfer poster boy if it wasn’t for his milk-white sk
in.

  Geneviève d’Orléans, from New Orleans, her dark hair cut short in a trendy bob, welcomes me in French. Elizabeth Wilson of Vancouver, a smaller, more delicate version of Robert, nods her greeting.

  I recognize the Spanish in which Juan de Oñate Cortés of Mexico City warmly greets me, and I return his greeting in kind. Miguel Corte Real of Rio de Janeiro, his light-brown eyes gleaming, welcomes me in a language that sounds similar, but not really. Portuguese, perhaps?

  They are all very gracious as they address me. Their accents lead me to believe that most of them may originally be from Europe. But they all have the bearing of nobility and I imagine they were probably lords and ladies in their human lives.

  When the introductions are done, conversations spark up around the table. Nicolas leans over to talk quietly with Éva.

  Alina, the Chosen seated on my left, looks at me curiously.

  “So, Miss Martin, where are you from?”

  I glance at Nicolas and Éva, but they appear to be deep into their discussion.

  “The West Coast.”

  “Where exactly?”

  I can’t help but notice Robert, sitting on the other side of Alina, quietly sipping his wine as he listens in.

  “Southern California, in the Glendora-Azusa area,” I lie.

  It’s a well-practiced lie. Where I’m originally from—a small town in the northernmost part California—is only one part of my past that I refuse to share with anyone, especially a Chosen.

  “Southern California. That’s Robert’s district.” Alina turns to smile at him, but his glance at me is less than friendly.

  “Do you ever visit the Bay area?” she asks, her attention back on me.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then you will have to let me know the next time you are in town.”

  “Yes. Yes, I will do that.” I nod and glance at Nicolas, wishing he would rescue me.

  “So how long—”

  “Alina.” Nicolas interrupts. “How are things in San Francisco?”

  I lean back as they talk, relieved to be spared from further questions and, sipping my wine, discreetly observe the interactions among the various Chosen.

  Johan walks quietly along the table, refilling the glasses. I watch his deference toward the others and wonder how much time he will spend as a servant, or if he even has a chance for upward mobility.

  When all the glasses have been refilled, Nicolas once again stands and picks up his. The others all hasten to their feet, and as I tense to stand and join them, Éva quietly hisses, a look of warning in her eyes. I stay seated.

  “I’d like to make a toast.” Nicolas raises his glass in my direction.

  “To my future Queen,” he says.

  Future Queen?

  Stunned silence hangs in the air for a split second.

  “To the Queen,” the others belatedly respond, raising their glasses in salute to me.

  What the hell? As enamored as I am by him, I didn’t agree to this. At least not yet.

  Determined to maintain my mask of confidence, I keep my eyes on Nicolas and accept the acknowledgment with a slow nod. He smiles and flicks his gaze to my glass. I raise it next to his, and in unison, we take a sip, followed by the rest of The Chosen.

  I stand, suppressing my shock and anger with everything I’ve got.

  “It has been a pleasure to meet all of you. I look forward to becoming better acquainted.” I let my gaze sweep around the table. “I would also like to thank our host for arranging this gathering before I retire for the evening.”

  “To Nicolas, the King.” I raise my glass in his direction.

  “To the King,” they repeat in a myriad of tones and accents.

  As one, The Chosen raise their glasses and drink in tribute to their leader.

  Nicolas gives me a sidelong glance, his eyes flashing red in admiration.

  He holds his hand out to me. I set down my glass, step out from the table, and place my hand in his. The Elders immediately fold into bows or drop into curtsies as Nicolas parades us past the table and out of the room.

  He walks me down the hallway and into the library. As soon as the door is closed, I release his hand, walk over to the fireplace, and plop down into one of the chairs.

  “You were magnificent—” Nicolas begins, but I cut him off.

  “Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning?” My low tone only underscores my anger.

  “Because if you knew beforehand, your fragile self-confidence may have interfered with your performance. As it was, it was perfect. I could not have asked for any better.” His gloating smile goads me further. My resentment grows as I realize he set me up.

  “So do they really call you ‘king’ or did I just embarrass them into it?”

  “They need to be reminded periodically of exactly who I am, and you did that beautifully. You were so natural and sincere there is no way they could think I put you up to it. Even Éva was surprised.” He chuckles. The smug look on his face infuriates me.

  “And ‘queen’? Tell me you’re not serious, that it was just a matter of expression. That it was all just part of this Game that you and the others play.” I glare up at him.

  “Ah, but it was not. I am serious.” His smile fades.

  “Then why do I feel so used?”

  I take a breath, but the anger is spinning out of control anyway. I slowly stand and face him.

  “Don’t you think you should have asked me first, in private, before announcing to the world that I am to be your queen, or whatever? Or do male Chosen just take whomever they want for a mate without asking her?” I hiss between my teeth, trying to keep my voice low. “And how presumptuous of you to assume that I would say yes!”

  “You have not said no as of yet,” he says, his tone shifting from arrogance to anger.

  “You are absolutely right. I haven’t. So there’s no time like the present to begin.” I take a deep breath. “No. No, I will not be a pawn in your Game, to manipulate and use against the other pawns in whatever twisted power struggle it is that you all seem to love.”

  My vision has now gone completely crimson, and suddenly the beast roars from my belly. I clench my jaw and glare at Nicolas as I stride past. He reaches out to grab my arm and I snarl and yank it back in a swirl of crimson silk. His eyes redden in fury. I can see him debate whether to stop me, but I keep walking, and he remains where he is. I reach the door and hesitate, but it’s too late. The beast is rampaging inside me and I need to leave.

  Slipping quietly through the door, I run up the stairs. As I tug the gown off over my head, the fragile silk tears. I rip the earrings out of my ears and pull open the catch on the bright blue necklace. I try to undo the bracelet, but I’m too out of control, and it breaks, sending blue sapphires and white diamonds bouncing across the polished wooden floor.

  I throw my clothes on, my stuff into my bag, and turn to leave. The door opens, and Éva walks in, closing it behind her.

  “I tried to warn him,” she says quietly.

  “You knew about this?” I say through my teeth.

  “Not until this evening. I told him you might rebel, that you are too used to independence to be used in such a manner. He did not believe me. He is not accustomed to anyone defying him, and so was unable to consider the possibility of your reaction. I am sorry.” The sadness in her tone seems genuine.

  “So am I. He didn’t even ask me . . .” I stop, and my jaw tightens as the hurt joins the anger.

  “Then do not leave. Wait here and calm down. He needs to attend to the others for a short time.”

  “No. We need some time apart. This has all been too fast, so fast I haven’t even had time to think.” Trembling with rage, I start to walk past her, but she steps in my way.

  “Do you not realize the honor he paid you tonight? That to pour your wine, and hand you your glass, he elevated you higher than himself? I have never seen him serve anyone in public, and neither have the others. They were astounded when he did that.”
Jealousy flares in her eyes.

  “I . . . I . . . these things are all too subtle for me. I don’t want to do this if I am to be as in the dark as everyone else.” I take a breath. “Thank you, Éva, for everything you’ve done to help me. But I need to re-evaluate. And I need to hunt, so I’m leaving now.”

  “Hunt?” She looks puzzled. “But—”

  “Don’t ask. You don’t really want to know.” I walk around her and to the door.

  “Please, Sunny, don’t leave. Nicolas—”

  “Nicolas will be fine. He’s managed to survive over five hundred years, and I’m sure this is nothing more than a bump in the road to him. There will be others. With him, there always will be. I’m not blind.”

  “No, but right now you are being incredibly pig-headed and stupid. I ask again—” Her voice is now as laced with anger as mine.

  “Good-bye, Éva.” I open the door and walk out.

  I go down the stairs two at a time and slip out the front door, closing it softly behind me. I run around the side of the house and am relieved to see my car parked at the end with nothing blocking its path.

  Once inside, I’m further relieved to find my keys in the ignition where Alfonso had left them. I start the car and ease it down the driveway. As I pull up to the gates, they swing apart, and my getaway is clear. I head down the hill, and once I get some distance from the house, I hit the gas and waste no more time.

  As I speed up the pass, I shake my head ruefully at the fact that I’m escaping from the evening, just as I feared. But that my escape would be from Nicolas rather than the party is not what I’d anticipated.

  The Beamer screams up my driveway and I park, grab my bag, and head into the house. I quickly change into hunting clothes and the beast in me howls in expectation.

  I leave the house and head straight up the mountain, breathing in the cold, pine-scented air. I stop partway up and let loose a deep roar, announcing to all that I am back, on my mountain, and that they best cringe at my passing.

  It’s going to take a whole herd to make me happy tonight.