The Chosen (Black Dagger Brotherhood 15)

She and Lyric and Rhamp would be well and happy there, too. All the flowers and the green grass, the marble fountain, the temples. There would be much to explore as they grew older and more mobile.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “My Lord, it’s perfect.”

“I’ll head home and talk to Qhuinn now. I’m going to put him on rotation at nightfall tomorrow. You come to the mansion then and get the kids.”

Layla lowered her head. “That’s … so long to wait.”

“It’s the way it’s going to be. Qhuinn is highly unstable and I don’t want you there when we present him with the visitation schedule or when you come to take the kids. So the timing is what we’ve got. But I’ll have Beth send you some more pics.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, you haven’t been getting them on your phone?”

“I didn’t bring my cell with me … has she been taking photographs?”

“They all have. There’s a loop and you’re on it—or so I’ve been told. The females wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were missing out.”

“They are so …” Layla took a bracing breath. “That is very kind of them.”

“They know what you’re going through. Or have enough of a sense of it that they’re fucking horrified.”

Layla put her hands to her face. Like that was somehow going to help her hold herself together.

“Come here.”

As the King motioned for her to approach him, she burst out of her chair and ran over. Embracing Wrath was like throwing her arms around a grand piano, everything hard and too big to accommodate.

But the King held her in return, patting her back. “Do me a favor?”

She sniffled and looked up at the hard jut of his chin. “Anything.”

“Be careful with Xcor. Even if he doesn’t kill you physically, he can still ruin you for life.”

Layla could only shake her head. “He already has, my Lord. The damage, I fear, is already done.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

As Throe searched the psychic’s fabric-draped, candlelit office or room or whatever one would call it, he could hear nothing but the drumming beat of his own heart. It seemed as though he was alone, but every instinct in him was telling him otherwise. Tucking his hand into his coat, he palmed the butt of his gun and thought of the trio of humans he’d scared off down on the street.

He rather wished he was facing nothing more exotic than three thugs and a switch.

Swinging his eyes around, he searched for a source of that noise he’d heard, a trigger for his warning instincts, a—

Dearest Fates, what was this?

Nothing was moving in the space. Nothing … at all.

By some trick … or he knew not what … the flames on the candles were utterly stationary, as if they were in a photograph, no wax melting, no unseen drafts teasing at their gold licks of fire, no gentle fingers of smoke rising into the air.

With a feeling of utter dread, he lifted up his arm, pulled his sleeve back, and regarded his Audemars Piguet watch.

The hands, which had been oh-so-functional when he’d left his current abode, were likewise no longer circling their dial.

Falling into ambulation—just to prove to himself he could, he marched across to a window, pulled back the drapery, and looked down at the street. There were no cars coming or going. But then none were to be seen—

Across the way, in the walk-up directly opposite the one he occupied, there were a pair of humans sitting in ratty armchairs watching TV. Their heads were facing each other, and one was in the process of bringing a beer bottle to his mouth.

They were not moving.

Nor was the ad for KFC on the screen.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe …” He closed his eyes and rolled back against the wall. “What manner of insanity is this?”

He thought back to what the female who had sent him here had told him. A psychic downtown. A witch. A human witch who had portals to the other side.

The conversation had started around a dining table beset with high-society females, all nattering on about their “problems” and the solutions to such terrible issues as floors that were stained too light, too dark, too inconsistently, and Birkins that were showing wear on their bottom corners, and oh, what else … lovers who were inconsiderate and hellrens who could not understand the moral imperative that came with Chanel’s new spring/summer collection.

At some point, one of the females had brought up psychics and tarot card readers, and how she’d been helped by this woman herein. How it had been spooky what the human witch had ascertained. How the female had eventually stopped going because “something hadn’t seemed right.”

Who knew that that had been a correct assumption.

Probably the only one the dear girl had of late.

Steeling himself for some sort of attack, Throe waited for some ghostly apparition to materialize out of a darkened corner, or a bat to fly around his head, or a zombie to drag-a-leg out of the back. And would that it be those last two as they were things his gun might be effective against.

When nothing happened, he began to feel foolish. At least until he regarded those candles across the way.

“You will release me,” he said into the still air. “I shall go about my business, bothering you no more.”

He had no idea to whom he spoke. And when there was no answer, he motivated himself, stepping forward toward the circular table. Closing in upon it, he resisted looking into the crystal ball, and checked over his shoulder—

A scratching sound, like a set of nails going across bare wood, drew his eyes to the left.

There was something on the floor.

He was cautious on his approach, and kept his gun up—and it wasn’t until he was nearly upon the object that he recognized the contours for what they were.

A book. There was a book upon the floor, one that appeared to be of great age with a battered leather cover and thick pages that had rough edges.

Kneeling down, he frowned. A scorch pattern surrounded the thing, as if its presence contained heat sufficient to burn the wood fibers beneath its weight.

Was this the noise he’d heard? he wondered. Had its arrival on this plane of existence been announced with that loud slamming sound?

Reaching out, he touched the patterned cover—

With a hiss, he retracted his hand and, as he had done at the door when he had sought to enter, he shook his palm, trying to rid himself of an unpleasant tingling sensation—

The cover threw itself open without notice and Throe shoved himself back, landing on his arse.

As a puff of dust emanated from the parchment pages, he narrowed his eyes. The ink pattern was horizontal and filled with characters, but it was no language he could discern.

He leaned in … only to gasp.

What’er had been written was mutating, the hashes and tags of the ink shifting themselves around until … the text became the Old Language.

Yes, it was the Mother tongue.

And the passages appeared to be about …

Throe lifted his eyes. Looked around. Then, acting on an impulse that suddenly seemed as strong as that of survival itself, he closed the front cover and picked up the tome.

The tingling sensation was no longer unpleasant. Indeed, the volume seemed to be alive in his hand and approving of its holder, rather like a cat might curve and purr itself around an owner’s arm.

And that was when it happened.

All at once, a distant siren sounded out, and as he glanced toward the windows, the candle flames in the corners of the room began to move in the drafts once more.

The door he had entered through let out a creak.

That which had been locked … was now open.

Throe held the book to his chest and bolted for the exit, running as if his life depended upon it. And he did not stop until he was once more down on the street, in the slush and the cold. For a moment, fear dogged him like a predator, but that did not last for long.

Buoyed by the book against his heart, he found that he was smiling when he dematerialized out of the neighborhood.

TWENTY-NINE

After the King departed, Layla went back down into the ranch’s cellar, and she was not surprised to find Xcor up on his feet and pacing as he waited for her to return. nd Lyric and Rhamp would be well and happy there, too. All the flowers and the green grass, the marble fountain, the temples. There would be much to explore as they grew older and more mobile.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “My Lord, it’s perfect.”

“I’ll head home and talk to Qhuinn now. I’m going to put him on rotation at nightfall tomorrow. You come to the mansion then and get the kids.”

Layla lowered her head. “That’s … so long to wait.”

“It’s the way it’s going to be. Qhuinn is highly unstable and I don’t want you there when we present him with the visitation schedule or when you come to take the kids. So the timing is what we’ve got. But I’ll have Beth send you some more pics.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, you haven’t been getting them on your phone?”

“I didn’t bring my cell with me … has she been taking photographs?”

“They all have. There’s a loop and you’re on it—or so I’ve been told. The females wanted to make sure you didn’t feel like you were missing out.”

“They are so …” Layla took a bracing breath. “That is very kind of them.”

“They know what you’re going through. Or have enough of a sense of it that they’re fucking horrified.”

Layla put her hands to her face. Like that was somehow going to help her hold herself together.

“Come here.”

As the King motioned for her to approach him, she burst out of her chair and ran over. Embracing Wrath was like throwing her arms around a grand piano, everything hard and too big to accommodate.

But the King held her in return, patting her back. “Do me a favor?”

She sniffled and looked up at the hard jut of his chin. “Anything.”

“Be careful with Xcor. Even if he doesn’t kill you physically, he can still ruin you for life.”

Layla could only shake her head. “He already has, my Lord. The damage, I fear, is already done.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

As Throe searched the psychic’s fabric-draped, candlelit office or room or whatever one would call it, he could hear nothing but the drumming beat of his own heart. It seemed as though he was alone, but every instinct in him was telling him otherwise. Tucking his hand into his coat, he palmed the butt of his gun and thought of the trio of humans he’d scared off down on the street.

He rather wished he was facing nothing more exotic than three thugs and a switch.

Swinging his eyes around, he searched for a source of that noise he’d heard, a trigger for his warning instincts, a—

Dearest Fates, what was this?

Nothing was moving in the space. Nothing … at all.

By some trick … or he knew not what … the flames on the candles were utterly stationary, as if they were in a photograph, no wax melting, no unseen drafts teasing at their gold licks of fire, no gentle fingers of smoke rising into the air.

With a feeling of utter dread, he lifted up his arm, pulled his sleeve back, and regarded his Audemars Piguet watch.

The hands, which had been oh-so-functional when he’d left his current abode, were likewise no longer circling their dial.

Falling into ambulation—just to prove to himself he could, he marched across to a window, pulled back the drapery, and looked down at the street. There were no cars coming or going. But then none were to be seen—

Across the way, in the walk-up directly opposite the one he occupied, there were a pair of humans sitting in ratty armchairs watching TV. Their heads were facing each other, and one was in the process of bringing a beer bottle to his mouth.

They were not moving.

Nor was the ad for KFC on the screen.

“Dearest Virgin Scribe …” He closed his eyes and rolled back against the wall. “What manner of insanity is this?”

He thought back to what the female who had sent him here had told him. A psychic downtown. A witch. A human witch who had portals to the other side.

The conversation had started around a dining table beset with high-society females, all nattering on about their “problems” and the solutions to such terrible issues as floors that were stained too light, too dark, too inconsistently, and Birkins that were showing wear on their bottom corners, and oh, what else … lovers who were inconsiderate and hellrens who could not understand the moral imperative that came with Chanel’s new spring/summer collection.

At some point, one of the females had brought up psychics and tarot card readers, and how she’d been helped by this woman herein. How it had been spooky what the human witch had ascertained. How the female had eventually stopped going because “something hadn’t seemed right.”

Who knew that that had been a correct assumption.

Probably the only one the dear girl had of late.

Steeling himself for some sort of attack, Throe waited for some ghostly apparition to materialize out of a darkened corner, or a bat to fly around his head, or a zombie to drag-a-leg out of the back. And would that it be those last two as they were things his gun might be effective against.

When nothing happened, he began to feel foolish. At least until he regarded those candles across the way.

“You will release me,” he said into the still air. “I shall go about my business, bothering you no more.”

He had no idea to whom he spoke. And when there was no answer, he motivated himself, stepping forward toward the circular table. Closing in upon it, he resisted looking into the crystal ball, and checked over his shoulder—

A scratching sound, like a set of nails going across bare wood, drew his eyes to the left.

There was something on the floor.

He was cautious on his approach, and kept his gun up—and it wasn’t until he was nearly upon the object that he recognized the contours for what they were.

A book. There was a book upon the floor, one that appeared to be of great age with a battered leather cover and thick pages that had rough edges.

Kneeling down, he frowned. A scorch pattern surrounded the thing, as if its presence contained heat sufficient to burn the wood fibers beneath its weight.

Was this the noise he’d heard? he wondered. Had its arrival on this plane of existence been announced with that loud slamming sound?

Reaching out, he touched the patterned cover—

With a hiss, he retracted his hand and, as he had done at the door when he had sought to enter, he shook his palm, trying to rid himself of an unpleasant tingling sensation—

The cover threw itself open without notice and Throe shoved himself back, landing on his arse.

As a puff of dust emanated from the parchment pages, he narrowed his eyes. The ink pattern was horizontal and filled with characters, but it was no language he could discern.

He leaned in … only to gasp.

What’er had been written was mutating, the hashes and tags of the ink shifting themselves around until … the text became the Old Language.

Yes, it was the Mother tongue.

And the passages appeared to be about …

Throe lifted his eyes. Looked around. Then, acting on an impulse that suddenly seemed as strong as that of survival itself, he closed the front cover and picked up the tome.

The tingling sensation was no longer unpleasant. Indeed, the volume seemed to be alive in his hand and approving of its holder, rather like a cat might curve and purr itself around an owner’s arm.

And that was when it happened.

All at once, a distant siren sounded out, and as he glanced toward the windows, the candle flames in the corners of the room began to move in the drafts once more.

The door he had entered through let out a creak.

That which had been locked … was now open.

Throe held the book to his chest and bolted for the exit, running as if his life depended upon it. And he did not stop until he was once more down on the street, in the slush and the cold. For a moment, fear dogged him like a predator, but that did not last for long.

Buoyed by the book against his heart, he found that he was smiling when he dematerialized out of the neighborhood.

TWENTY-NINE

After the King departed, Layla went back down into the ranch’s cellar, and she was not surprised to find Xcor up on his feet and pacing as he waited for her to return.