Chosen

by Kiersten White

  He puts his hands out. “I don’t like this plan at all. It didn’t work in A New Hope.”

  I tie his wrists together, making sure the rope is tight enough to look convincing but loose enough that he can slip out. “They rescued Princess Leia!”

  “Obi-Wan Kenobi died, though, even if it was on purpose. And I’m not really sure who’s who in this scenario. I’m obviously a Han Solo type. You’re maybe a Luke Skywalker. Good hair. Better at fighting than you have any right to be. A bit on the whiny side.”

  “Just for that, I’m declaring you the C-3PO of this mission.”

  “Hey now! That’s not fair.”

  “Whatever you say, 3PO.” I fiddle with my ruined hair in the rearview mirror. I’m not really sure what vibe to go for. Polished and professional? Gritty and tough? Probably the latter, given the visible bruising. And, sadly, I know exactly who to channel. It’s not hard. We have the same face.

  I pull my loose red curls back into a ponytail and grimace in pain as I slip on Artemis’s nicest black leather jacket. She left it behind … on account of it was hidden at the bottom of my closet. With my hair in a severe ponytail and the black leather zipped up, I’m my twin. Stronger. Tougher. Willing to throw her own sister off a moving vehicle in pursuit of her own goals.

  We could have been doing this together. Should have been doing it together. Instead, she’s somewhere with Honora and a truck full of pilfered demons. I should have punched through that windshield after all. Imogen was right again—my instinct was correct. I can’t understand why Artemis is doing what she’s doing. You don’t have to love demons to know you shouldn’t work for zealots and drug dealers.

  I put the car into drive with more force than is strictly necessary. We debated putting Doug in the trunk of the car, but that seemed too mean. Even having his wrists bound is obviously triggering for him after all his years in captivity. Especially after such a recent run-in with Sean’s people.

  I reach over and squeeze his hands. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  “What about Chewie?”

  “Chewie?”

  Doug nods toward the kitten.

  “First of all, we are not naming our new cat Chewie. Second of all, I don’t intend to stay in there long enough for her to miss us. And I’m not letting you out of my sight. You’re only how we get inside. We’re not keeping up the ruse any longer than that. I won’t risk you for anything.”

  Doug swallows audibly, but he nods. “Thanks. I’m sorry for complaining about how you taste so often. I really do trust you.”

  That makes one of us.

  I drive carefully, every nerve on alert. I learned how to drive in the last couple of months, but I don’t technically have a license, which is why we always have Cillian or Imogen drive. The Von Alston address is in a posh, sprawling neighborhood of estates outside the city. It takes ten minutes of winding up a narrow lane before we even get to the gates. The decorative iron flourishes have protective runes and symbols worked in. Not much use now that magic’s dead, but this Von Alston fellow obviously knows his stuff.

  In addition to the runes, there are several cameras, a far less magic-dependent protection. I roll to a stop in front of a control panel. There’s a camera mounted there, and a small television showing the feed of us.

  “May I help you?” a polite voice asks over a surprisingly smooth intercom.

  “I heard you buy exotic animals. I’m looking to sell.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  I reach for Doug’s shirt collar and yank him closer to the camera. “Yeah. Here he is.” I’m met with silence. “Fine, there are other buyers.” I shove Doug back into his seat, mouthing sorry when my head is turned away from the camera, and put the car in reverse.

  The gates buzz and open. “Master Von Alston will see you.”

  “Lucky me.” I put the car back into drive and ease through the gates. They snap shut like a mousetrap behind us.

  After another ten minutes of driving through lush forestland, we emerge into sunlight and I’m convinced we drove out of London and into Jane Austen’s imagination. A massive golden-brick mansion sneers at us with stately disregard. White pillars decorate the exterior, and a series of fountains line an expansive, perfectly manicured green lawn. I half expect to see Mr. Darcy emerge from one of the ponds. “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” I whisper, “that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a demon.”

  Doug snickers next to me. He’s remained carefully limp in case there are more cameras.

  “Oh my gods. What if—what if it actually is Colin Firth? If Colin Firth wants to hunt you, I might let him. Well, I’d let early- to midnineties Colin Firth hunt you. I’ll have to see how he looks in person now.”

  “I can support that.”

  We pass a gatehouse where an armed guard watches us impassively. I assume that means I keep driving. The road leads around the back of the house, where stables have been converted to a series of garages. I pull to a stop, gravel crunching beneath my tires. I’ve parked in an area where it will be easy to pull out for a quick escape. I didn’t see any extra gates or anything, but the entrance gate will need to be reckoned with. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.

  An aged butler comes out a side door with a look on his face like he’s here to clean up after a dog. I try to keep my mouth still as I talk to Doug. “He doesn’t have anything to transport you. Be unconscious. I’ll carry you in. That way I’ll have to go wherever they want to take you, and we can get a look at whether they’re holding anyone else here.”

  Doug raises one cracked patch of skin where his eyebrow should be, then shrugs.

  I climb out of the car and stretch as though this is a normal day’s work for me. “Hey, Jeeves.” Without thinking, I’m not even pretending to be Artemis. I’m channeling the worst person I know: Honora. This morning she would have been the only person I could think of who would willingly sell Doug to someone else. But now I have to add Artemis to that list.

  Grimacing and then scowling to cover the pain in my shoulder, I walk around to Doug’s side of the car and open the door. He half falls out, fully committed to the charade. I drag him free and throw him over my injured shoulder.

  “Stake me,” I hiss. I am only using doors from now on.

  “Is he damaged?” Jeeves asks.

  “I’m careful with merchandise. He’s drugged.”

  “Very well. Follow me. Try not to get …” Jeeves gestures vaguely, then settles on “Try not to get him on anything.”

  Doug tenses in offense, and I shift him to cover.

  “Right, no chaise lounges for the sticky demon. Now can we finish delivery so I can get paid? He’s not exactly a lightweight. And I’d like to talk with the boss about future jobs.”

  “Follow me.” Jeeves turns, the tails on his coat so stiff and formal they don’t even move in the wind. He’d be at home in a period piece on the BBC. Doug and me, not so much. Though that’s one I’d actually be interested in watching. A Demon Dines in Downton.

  I follow Jeeves through a servants’ entrance. The hallways are narrow, paneled in dark wood with faded wallpaper. The lights on the walls look like they were converted from gas lamps. We pass a large, modernized kitchen, then several hallways that lead off in various directions. Finally we come to a narrow stairway. I follow Jeeves up two flights, then down another hall, then down a flight, then up two more, then down another two, then up two more.

  I’m pretty sure we’re going in circles. I keep waiting for a threat, but we haven’t seen a soul except this ancient relic of a British butler, and I’d sooner punch the Museum of London.

  Finally, after going up three flights to the top floor, he leads me to a room at the end of another dim, narrow hall. He unlocks and opens the door. I follow him inside a room that’s been converted to a cell. Half of it is covered with bars, the walls are metal, and everything is bolted to a reinforced floor and ceiling.
/>   “You can set him in there.” Jeeves points to the tiny cell portion, turning to observe me.

  “I’m not putting him anywhere until I get paid.”

  “Very well. Wait here.” He shuffles to the door. As soon as he’s gone, Doug and I will start snooping. Maybe we won’t have to talk to Von Alston at all, which will mean I haven’t disobeyed my mother’s wishes. Everyone wins. And with the pace the butler takes, we’ll have more than enough time to check the house out, rescue any stray demons, and bolt.

  Jeeves steps over the threshold and reaches for the wall to steady himself. The panel he grabs makes a clicking noise. A thick set of bars slams down from the ceiling, blocking the door and locking us in.

  He turns, looking me up and down. “You didn’t perspire.” His teeth are crooked and tea-stained, his smile downright gleeful.

  “What?” I can’t believe this. The room has no window and no other door. Just that idiot butler, grinning at me.

  “I led you around the entire manor carrying at least twelve stone’s worth of demon. And you look as fresh as you did when you got out of the car. You’re not human. Oh, he’s going to be so pleased.” Jeeves clears his throat, trying to regain some of his decorum. “We do not do business with demons. I’m afraid you’ll be joining us instead of getting paid.”

  Doug has stopped pretending to be unconscious. I set him down and take a step toward the bars. “See, here’s the problem, Jeeves.”

  He bristles. “My name is Smith.”

  “Good to know, Jeeves. Here’s the problem. I’m not a demon.” I punch straight through the panel he pushed, grabbing and pulling out the wires. They spark and sputter … and nothing happens with the door.

  “Nuts,” I mutter. It would have been so cool. Jeeves smirks at me.

  “Wait,” Doug murmurs. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I stop where I was about to reach down and try to bend the bars by hand. “Listen, Jeeves. Go fetch your boss. He’ll want to talk to us.”

  Jeeves sniffs dismissively. “I am going to announce your presence, but not because you requested it. I do not work for you.”

  “Yeah, my butler is way better at his job.” I fold my arms petulantly.

  “Handsomer, too. The way he fills out his waistcoat. Mm-hmm.” Doug nods, smiling dreamily.

  “And did you see the dust on this wainscoting? I’m embarrassed for Jeeves just thinking about it. Righto, chap, stiff upper lip and all that. Not every butler can be a good one these days.”

  He harrumphs away.

  “What is wainscoting?” Doug asks.

  “No idea. Why didn’t you want me to rip the door off? I’m pretty sure I can. Or I can go through the wall again.” I rub my shoulder in anticipation of the pain.

  “I’m not defenseless. I can weaponize happiness if I need to. Between the two of us, we can leave anytime. But breaking out right now will draw attention and we won’t get any info. Let’s meet this bloke, get a feel for what’s really going on here and whether he’s the nameless one that has the demonic community so shook up. Maybe he’s reasonable. Maybe he’s not. Either way, we’ll have more info than we came with. Break out now and we detoured for nothing.”

  “Ugh. That all makes sense.” I don’t want it to. I sit in the middle of the floor and pull out my cell phone. I almost dial my mother, then change my mind and dial my safest option. Cillian.

  “Nina?” He sounds bored. “Shop is dead, as usual. How’s things in London?”

  “Um, fine. We got a kitten.”

  “A kitten? No! You didn’t! Oh my god, I’m so excited. What does it look like? I’ve been brainstorming perfect kitten names for years. But I think I need to see it in person first. Don’t they say that? You need to see the baby before you can name it?”

  “Well, they might say that. About babies. But this is definitely a kitten. Orange. Female.” I lower the phone. “The kitten’s going to be okay in the car, right?”

  “It’s not that cold,” Doug says. “She’ll be fine.”

  I switch back to Cillian. “Anyway, I wanted to check in. See how everyone is.”

  “Jade’s a right nightmare. Please take her with you next time. I wasn’t even going to come into the shop today, but I couldn’t handle another minute of her barking orders. Rhys barricaded himself in the library with his grandma. Your mother was sharpening blades in the gym last I saw. Everyone’s fine. Any luck at the convention?”

  “It was … surprising. Sean attacked. I think. Might not have been Sean. It’s complicated.” So very complicated.

  “What? Are you all right? Should I call Rhys?”

  “Nah. I handled it.” Mostly. Not at all, really. “Anyway, we’re making sure Doug’s cousin gets home safely, so we’ll be later than originally planned. Let the others know? I’ll text when we’re ready to head back.”

  “Sounds good.” He pauses. “You sure you’re all right?”

  I pause too. Cillian’s my friend. I could talk to him about Artemis. He won’t judge her. But why am I so worried about people judging her? She’s the one making reckless choices.

  It’s a sister thing, I think. I can be pissed off at her and judge her and we’ll still be sisters. And she knows that. So it won’t stop her from coming home.

  “Oh!” Cillian interrupts my thoughts. “Hermeowone Granger! No. The cat’s a ginger. And I don’t want to name a cat after Ginny. No offense to Ginny. Too bad it’s not a male, then we could make a play on Prince Harry. I’m on it, though. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have the perfect name by the time you get back.”

  “That’s a load off, then. Thanks, Cill.”

  “Cheers!” He hangs up. I pocket the phone, then lean back.

  “They say the truth will set you free,” Doug says.

  “So will ripping this door off its hinges.”

  “So will I,” a pleasantly clipped voice says as a man steps into view and takes us in with a curious glance. He’s white, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, dark eyes as sharp as the lines of his suit. “Assuming you’re in the mood for a game.” He smiles, and though he’s one hundred percent human, all my instincts scream threat.

  “Okay, but I’ll warn you right now, I’m really good at Monopoly.”

  He laughs. “I had something in mind that’s a little more suited to your skills, Slayer.”

  13

  IAN VON ALSTON STIRS HIS tea with a delicate silver spoon. The china is so fine it’s almost translucent, hand-painted with delicate flowers. “None for you?”

  “I prefer root beer. Also, I don’t generally sit down for tea parties with people who are holding my friend captive.”

  He tsks, setting his cup in its saucer. The room we’re in looks like the Queen of England vomited Buckingham Palace’s rejects into it. It tips right past impressive into absurd. A few years ago I would have been afraid to even breathe in a room like this; now, I kind of want to wander around and “accidentally” break things. But he has Doug for the time being, and I need information.

  “You can hardly chide me for my behavior,” he says, “considering you came here under false pretenses. Clearly you had no intention of selling that demon to me. But I’ll give you a chance to get your friends.”

  “My friends?” I raise an eyebrow. Plural. Does he have someone else from the castle? How did he know we were coming here? My heart races, and I look at the entrances and exits to the room. I could grab him, threaten him. I tense, but he raises his hand.

  “Calm yourself. The other Slayers are perfectly well.”

  “The other Slayers. Right. My friends, the other Slayers.” It turns out it’s a good thing we came, after all. I want to ask more questions, but I’m trying to pretend I have any idea what’s going on. So instead, I criticize. “You can’t just take people.”

  “Did you know it’s illegal to bring undocumented animals into the country? They brought a creature all the way from the Himalayas. Imagine what strains of disease they might be introducing. What they might expo
se our beloved country to.”

  “What kind of animal?” I ask, wary. What gets the attention of this dude?

  “The kind that is best hunted on nights like tonight.” He pauses, waiting for something. The look of expectation on his face sours. “A full moon.”

  “My Slayer friends brought a werewolf into the country?” I pick up a teacup to cover my confusion, accidentally snapping the delicate handle off. “Whoops. Slayer strength. You know how it goes.” I smile innocently.

  His left eye twitches. “That cup was hand-painted by King George’s mistress.”

  “Shouldn’t have given it to me, then. You know how Americans feel about King George’s tea.”

  “Not that King George, you imbecile.”

  “I mean, you’ve had one King George, you’ve had ’em all, am I right?” He’s not amused. I wanted to channel Buffy, or Artemis. Hells, even more Honora at this point. It’s hard when you’re trying to project an impression of someone other than yourself. No one is intimidated by Nina the Vampire Slayer. All I’m doing is annoying him. Last I checked, irritating enemies is not among my innate Slayer strengths. Or maybe I’m just special.

  I half wish the seething darkness that keeps popping up at inopportune times would roar to life, but it seems semi-sated by what I did at the demon conference and deeply unconcerned about this sitting room. I set down my teacup. “So you’re hunting a werewolf. And you need me for what?”

  “To be part of the hunt, of course.”

  “Didn’t you already capture him? Seems a little unsporting to capture him, let him go, and then hunt him. Doesn’t your particular brand of wealth prefer birds? Foxes? Much younger women? Go buy an island or something.” I lean back, folding my arms. “Werewolves are people, you know.”

  “You could say the same of vampires.”

  “That’s different! Vampires are always vampires. The person—the soul—is gone. They’re only predators. Werewolves can’t help it, and they’re people most of the time.”

  “Ah, but they’re infectious. You draw a distinction that I don’t think exists between vampires and werewolves; both are victims of a, shall we say, condition that robs them of their humanity and turns them into monsters. That’s bad enough, but they can also infect others. If I had someone with Ebola, would you argue they should be set free to do what they would?”