The Chosen (Black Dagger Brotherhood 15)

Oh … heated floor. Heated marble floor.

After so much suffering, first from the head injury and strokes he had had, and then those frigid twenty-four hours in the forest, Xcor faltered as he felt a pleasing warmth emanate up from the bare soles of his feet.

Closing his eyes, he swayed in the darkness, every instinct he had screaming for him to lie down on the marble and rest. Except then he thought of the mess he had tracked into this house, all that mud and filth.

Snapping back to attention, he flipped on the light switch by the bathroom’s door—and promptly cursed and shielded his face with his forearm. As his retinas adjusted, he would have preferred not to look at himself in the mirror over the sinks, but that was inevitable as he lowered his arm.

“Dearest Fade,” he whispered.

The male staring back at him was nearly unrecognizable. The gaunt, pale, bearded face, the hollowed-out ribs and gut, the loose skin that hung under his jaw, his pecs, his arms. His hair was jagged, having grown out in strange patches, and there seemed to be dirt and blood in every one of his pores, all over his body.

Fates, when one was generally clean, a brisk hand towel applied o’er a sink with plenty of soap could do as a freshen-up. In his current condition? He required a commercial car wash. Mayhap an industrial hose.

The idea of Layla seeing him thus made him cringe and he readily turned away from his reflection, cranking on the shower in its glass partition. The hot water came up quickly, but before he stepped under it, he opened a couple of cabinets and drawers. The toothbrush and toothpaste he found were very much appreciated, as were the soap, shampoo, and conditioner.

He also took a fresh razor and shaving cream into the stall with him.

The simple act of brushing his teeth nearly made him cry. It had been so long since his mouth had tasted fresh. And then the shave … ridding himself of the scratchy growth across his cheek, jaws, and chin made him grateful to the company which had made the razor. And then the shampoo. He did that twice, and let the conditioner sit as he scrubbed all of his skin with soap.

There was no reaching his back fully, but he did the best he could.

When he finally stepped out, there was a wool blanket’s worth of condensation on the mirror. A benefit, verily, given how he loathed his reflection. Drying off, he wondered where he could find some clothes—and indeed, he found them in the closet in that bedroom: Black nylon pants long enough for his legs, with a pull string that ensured they fit his now-withered waist and hips. A black T-shirt that was wide enough for the bones of his shoulders, but that bagged all over the rest of him. A sweatshirt that had something written across the front.

He didn’t find any shoes, but this was more than he could have hoped for.

As he stepped from the bedroom, he expected to have to go upstairs.

The trip was unnecessary. The Chosen Layla was sitting in the padded armchair beside the sofa, a tray with steaming soup, a plate of crackers, and a tumbler of iced tea on the low table in front of the TV.

Her eyes went to his, but didn’t stay there. They traveled down him as if she were surprised he had had the strength to shower and get dressed.

“I brought you food,” she said softly. “You must be so hungry.”

“Aye.”

And yet he found himself unable to move. For indeed, he had planned on saying good-bye to her up in the kitchen.

He could not stay here with her. Much as he wanted to.

“Come sit down.” She indicated where he had been lying before. And of course, she had tidied up that mess, the dirt that he had left wiped off by some manner of sponge or paper towel. “You have to eat something.”

“I must go.”

Layla bowed her head, and as she did, the highlights in her blond hair caught the illumination of the fixture overhead. “I know. But … before you do.”

In his mind, he heard her voice say, Make love to me.

“Please eat this,” she whispered.

TWENTY-FOUR

Vishous was in a nasty fucking mood when he got back to the Brotherhood mansion, and the very biggest part of him just wanted to go to the Pit and crack open a bottle of Grey Goose. Or six. Maybe twelve.

But as he re-formed in the courtyard, and stood in the cold wind by the fountain that had been drained and tarped for winter, he knew that as much as he wanted to escape the situation he’d voluntarily put himself in, he couldn’t bail on the mess he’d created.

Striding forward, he hit the stone steps up to the great entrance of the mansion, and checked out the gargoyles perched so high above on the roofline. What he wouldn’t give to be one of those inanimate bastards, nothing to do or worry about but sitting up there and occasionally having a pigeon shit on your head.

Actually, that probably sucked.

Whatever.

Yanking the door open, he stepped into the vestibule and shoved his mug into the security camera. When Fritz opened up and did that cheery greeting thing the butler always did, it was all Vishous could do not to snap at the poor doggen.

Up the grand staircase. Three at a time.

And then he was in front of the closed double doors to Wrath’s study. On the far side of them, he could hear voices, quite a good goddamn volley of talk as it turned out, but sorry, not sorry, what he had to report was paramount to just about anything other than Armageddon.

He knocked loudly and didn’t wait for an answer.

Wrath’s head snapped up from behind the ancient desk his father had used, and even though those blind eyes weren’t visible thanks to the wraparounds, V could feel the glare.

“You need a copy of Emily Post shoved down your throat?” the King snapped. “You don’t come in here without an invitation, asshole.”

Saxton, the royal lawyer and expert on the Old Ways, glanced up from his vantage point at Wrath’s elbow. A lot of paperwork was in front of the pair of them. Along with a couple of ancient texts. Sax didn’t say anything, but given the way the guy’s typically perfect coif was messed up, it was a good extrapolation that they were trying to hammer out custody issues for Qhuinn and Layla.

And yup, the Queen was over on one of the spindly French settees by the fire, her arms crossed on her chest and a frown deep as a ravine in the middle of her forehead.

“I need a minute with you,” V said to Wrath in a low voice.

“Then you can come the fuck back when I tell you to.”

“This is not going to hold.”

Wrath sat back in the massive carved throne that had been his father’s and his father’s father’s before that. “You want to give me a subject matter?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

There was a period of silence in the elegant pale blue room, and then Wrath cleared his throat and looked in the direction of his shellan. “Leelan? Will you please excuse us for a moment?”

She got to her feet. “I don’t think there’s anything further to say. You’re going to split the custody equally and Layla gets those kids at sunset tonight. I’m so happy when you and I are in agreement. It really cuts down on the tension.”

With that, she walked out of the study with her head held high and her shoulders back—while, over at the desk, the King put his head in his hands like his skull was pounding.

“It’s not that I disagree with her,” he muttered as the doors were shut with a slam. “I’m just not looking for any more fucking guns to go off in my fucking house.”

That last word was said with a whole lot of volume.

But then the King dropped his arms and looked across at V. “Can my lawyer stay?”

“No, he cannot.”

“Great. Something else to look forward to.”

Saxton started packing up his papers and books, but the King stopped him. “Nope. You’re coming right back. Wait outside.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Saxton bowed even though the King couldn’t see him, but that was the way of the guy, always classy, always proper. And as he went by V, even though the interruption’s timing sucked, he bowed again.

Good male. Probably still in love with Blay, but what could you do.

On that note, V thought back to his conversation with Layla at the safe house and then all those happy little memories of his own that had swamped him in the forest. Man, he was really fucking tired of romance and true love and all that bullshit. ellip; heated floor. Heated marble floor.

After so much suffering, first from the head injury and strokes he had had, and then those frigid twenty-four hours in the forest, Xcor faltered as he felt a pleasing warmth emanate up from the bare soles of his feet.

Closing his eyes, he swayed in the darkness, every instinct he had screaming for him to lie down on the marble and rest. Except then he thought of the mess he had tracked into this house, all that mud and filth.

Snapping back to attention, he flipped on the light switch by the bathroom’s door—and promptly cursed and shielded his face with his forearm. As his retinas adjusted, he would have preferred not to look at himself in the mirror over the sinks, but that was inevitable as he lowered his arm.

“Dearest Fade,” he whispered.

The male staring back at him was nearly unrecognizable. The gaunt, pale, bearded face, the hollowed-out ribs and gut, the loose skin that hung under his jaw, his pecs, his arms. His hair was jagged, having grown out in strange patches, and there seemed to be dirt and blood in every one of his pores, all over his body.

Fates, when one was generally clean, a brisk hand towel applied o’er a sink with plenty of soap could do as a freshen-up. In his current condition? He required a commercial car wash. Mayhap an industrial hose.

The idea of Layla seeing him thus made him cringe and he readily turned away from his reflection, cranking on the shower in its glass partition. The hot water came up quickly, but before he stepped under it, he opened a couple of cabinets and drawers. The toothbrush and toothpaste he found were very much appreciated, as were the soap, shampoo, and conditioner.

He also took a fresh razor and shaving cream into the stall with him.

The simple act of brushing his teeth nearly made him cry. It had been so long since his mouth had tasted fresh. And then the shave … ridding himself of the scratchy growth across his cheek, jaws, and chin made him grateful to the company which had made the razor. And then the shampoo. He did that twice, and let the conditioner sit as he scrubbed all of his skin with soap.

There was no reaching his back fully, but he did the best he could.

When he finally stepped out, there was a wool blanket’s worth of condensation on the mirror. A benefit, verily, given how he loathed his reflection. Drying off, he wondered where he could find some clothes—and indeed, he found them in the closet in that bedroom: Black nylon pants long enough for his legs, with a pull string that ensured they fit his now-withered waist and hips. A black T-shirt that was wide enough for the bones of his shoulders, but that bagged all over the rest of him. A sweatshirt that had something written across the front.

He didn’t find any shoes, but this was more than he could have hoped for.

As he stepped from the bedroom, he expected to have to go upstairs.

The trip was unnecessary. The Chosen Layla was sitting in the padded armchair beside the sofa, a tray with steaming soup, a plate of crackers, and a tumbler of iced tea on the low table in front of the TV.

Her eyes went to his, but didn’t stay there. They traveled down him as if she were surprised he had had the strength to shower and get dressed.

“I brought you food,” she said softly. “You must be so hungry.”

“Aye.”

And yet he found himself unable to move. For indeed, he had planned on saying good-bye to her up in the kitchen.

He could not stay here with her. Much as he wanted to.

“Come sit down.” She indicated where he had been lying before. And of course, she had tidied up that mess, the dirt that he had left wiped off by some manner of sponge or paper towel. “You have to eat something.”

“I must go.”

Layla bowed her head, and as she did, the highlights in her blond hair caught the illumination of the fixture overhead. “I know. But … before you do.”

In his mind, he heard her voice say, Make love to me.

“Please eat this,” she whispered.

TWENTY-FOUR

Vishous was in a nasty fucking mood when he got back to the Brotherhood mansion, and the very biggest part of him just wanted to go to the Pit and crack open a bottle of Grey Goose. Or six. Maybe twelve.

But as he re-formed in the courtyard, and stood in the cold wind by the fountain that had been drained and tarped for winter, he knew that as much as he wanted to escape the situation he’d voluntarily put himself in, he couldn’t bail on the mess he’d created.

Striding forward, he hit the stone steps up to the great entrance of the mansion, and checked out the gargoyles perched so high above on the roofline. What he wouldn’t give to be one of those inanimate bastards, nothing to do or worry about but sitting up there and occasionally having a pigeon shit on your head.

Actually, that probably sucked.

Whatever.

Yanking the door open, he stepped into the vestibule and shoved his mug into the security camera. When Fritz opened up and did that cheery greeting thing the butler always did, it was all Vishous could do not to snap at the poor doggen.

Up the grand staircase. Three at a time.

And then he was in front of the closed double doors to Wrath’s study. On the far side of them, he could hear voices, quite a good goddamn volley of talk as it turned out, but sorry, not sorry, what he had to report was paramount to just about anything other than Armageddon.

He knocked loudly and didn’t wait for an answer.

Wrath’s head snapped up from behind the ancient desk his father had used, and even though those blind eyes weren’t visible thanks to the wraparounds, V could feel the glare.

“You need a copy of Emily Post shoved down your throat?” the King snapped. “You don’t come in here without an invitation, asshole.”

Saxton, the royal lawyer and expert on the Old Ways, glanced up from his vantage point at Wrath’s elbow. A lot of paperwork was in front of the pair of them. Along with a couple of ancient texts. Sax didn’t say anything, but given the way the guy’s typically perfect coif was messed up, it was a good extrapolation that they were trying to hammer out custody issues for Qhuinn and Layla.

And yup, the Queen was over on one of the spindly French settees by the fire, her arms crossed on her chest and a frown deep as a ravine in the middle of her forehead.

“I need a minute with you,” V said to Wrath in a low voice.

“Then you can come the fuck back when I tell you to.”

“This is not going to hold.”

Wrath sat back in the massive carved throne that had been his father’s and his father’s father’s before that. “You want to give me a subject matter?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

There was a period of silence in the elegant pale blue room, and then Wrath cleared his throat and looked in the direction of his shellan. “Leelan? Will you please excuse us for a moment?”

She got to her feet. “I don’t think there’s anything further to say. You’re going to split the custody equally and Layla gets those kids at sunset tonight. I’m so happy when you and I are in agreement. It really cuts down on the tension.”

With that, she walked out of the study with her head held high and her shoulders back—while, over at the desk, the King put his head in his hands like his skull was pounding.

“It’s not that I disagree with her,” he muttered as the doors were shut with a slam. “I’m just not looking for any more fucking guns to go off in my fucking house.”

That last word was said with a whole lot of volume.

But then the King dropped his arms and looked across at V. “Can my lawyer stay?”

“No, he cannot.”

“Great. Something else to look forward to.”

Saxton started packing up his papers and books, but the King stopped him. “Nope. You’re coming right back. Wait outside.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Saxton bowed even though the King couldn’t see him, but that was the way of the guy, always classy, always proper. And as he went by V, even though the interruption’s timing sucked, he bowed again.

Good male. Probably still in love with Blay, but what could you do.

On that note, V thought back to his conversation with Layla at the safe house and then all those happy little memories of his own that had swamped him in the forest. Man, he was really fucking tired of romance and true love and all that bullshit.