Chosen (18 page)

S
ILENCE. UTTER AND COMPLETE.

I sit up, thrust away the leathery shell that was Julian Underwood.

My teeth are bared. My eyes sweep the shocked faces surrounding me. Twelve of them. Men and women. Stinking of sex and that cloying smell. Incense. Underwood’s cologne. The same.

They are all naked, the women with potbellies and sagging breasts. The men with flabby arms and shrinking members. When their eyes meet mine, they step back, press against the wall of—

I look around. We’re in a cave.

I look again.

Where is he?

“Lance!”

The name rips from the bowels of my belly, full of anger and the bitterness of betrayal.

There is no answer.

I jump from the rock bier on which I’d been tied. It is elevated, surrounded by candles—some sort of ritualistic altar upon which I was to be joined with Underwood.

For what purpose?

Is this the fate of the Chosen One? Is this what it means? My destiny was to be raped by a madman in front of a delusional sect of . . . I don’t even know what they are.

There is a woman standing at the head of the altar. She is clutching a thurible, the kind used in churches, by its silver chain. Incense curls up from the bowl, polluting the air around us. When her eyes meet mine, the thurible crashes to the floor. The incense flares and burns out.

I grab her by the throat before she can flee. “What are you?”

She blinks at me as if not understanding the question.

I shake her. “What are you?”

She goes limp in my hands. When I release my grip, she falls to the floor, her neck at an odd angle.

I reach for the man next to her. He does not flinch or try to get away. He lowers his eyes and bows his head.

“Mother,” he whispers. “Mari.”

“No.” I bark out the word. “No. Who the fuck are you people? Why did you bring me here?”

He looks puzzled at the question. “You are the goddess. We are your servants. We are Sorginak. Here to do your bidding. Here to serve.”

He speaks accented English. The emphasis on the last syllable in each word produces a singsong effect that I recognize. It’s a French accent.

I throw a scathing look toward Underwood’s desiccated corpse. “And who is he?”

“He is—” A pause, a shudder. “He was Maju. Your husband. He—we—have waited five hundred years for your return.”

The words of the chant fill my head. I realize now why I was able to understand. Three years of high school and four of college French. It wasn’t French, not the French I remember, but obviously a dialect.

I release the man. For he is a man. Nothing more. “How do you know of five hundred years? You are mortal.”

He takes one step back, head still bowed. “Our line has served you since the beginning. We will serve you until the end.” He gestures toward the body of the woman at his feet. “We are yours to do with as you will.”

Rage still cuts through me, turning my thoughts red with the bloodlust. These pathetic, deluded creatures would have watched as Underwood raped me, watched while indulging their own sick fantasies. I want to tear at their throats, one after the other, and drink until there is nothing left but husk.

Instead, I turn my back to them. Pick up the coverlet of red silk that had been thrown over me and wind it around my body like a sarong.

When I face them again, the human has regained a tenuous hold. With the return of reason, comes something else.

The realization that it was Lance who delivered me to Underwood.

“Where is the other?” I ask.

“He has gone.”

I close my eyes. Allow one moment of grief to wash over me.

Lance.

When I open them again, I grab the man nearest me and shove him forward. “Get me out of here.”

Wordlessly, the procession moves through the cave. I follow behind. Watching. Probing the air with my senses. Underwood’s blood feels thick, polluted in my veins. I’ve tasted evil. I will need an infusion of clean blood to rid myself of the poison.

I think of Lance. His scent hangs in the air. He passed this way recently.

Lance.

No. No sadness. Only bitterness. Only the desire for revenge.

His blood will do nicely.

When we come to the mouth of the cave, the man who has led us stops. Turns to me. He bows his head.

“I am Zuria, high priest in your service. Descendant of Maju. He has been the guide for five hundred years. With him gone, you must give us instructions. What do you want us to do, Goddess? We are powerless without direction.”

I look around at the men and women gathered around me, their faces wreathed in shock and sadness. Wretched. Dismal creatures with sagging flesh and stooped shoulders.

I try to dredge up some feelings of compassion. Nothing stirs within me but contempt. They were willing to watch, hell, they were
participating
, in Underwood’s assault.

I ignore the question. From our vantage point, I still cannot see anything outside the cave but darkness. I can hear something, though, the ocean. “Where are we?” I ask.

He points toward the cave entrance. “We are near the city of Biarritz. In the cliffs above the shoreline.”

“Biarritz? In France?”

He nods. “Basque country. Home of the Sorginak.”

Since my parents moved to France, I’ve spent more than a little time on the web teaching myself about a country that has become their home. I know the Basque region spans the border of Spain and France on the Atlantic coast. Something else floats to the surface of my mind, too.

Lance. Telling me that Underwood was born in Basque country. That he called Underwood’s father a Sorginak witch.

How did they get me here? How long have I been out?

The little circle of humans has not moved. They stare at me with big eyes. Waiting.

I look away. Spy piles of clothes scattered amid the rocks. My jeans, T-shirt and tennis shoes among them. Without a word, I scoop them up, move behind a rock to get dressed. Awareness that hands belonging to the creatures outside no doubt stripped me of my clothes sparks another flare of anger. If I don’t get away from them soon, I may not be able to wait to purge Underwood’s blood. Even from behind the rock, the vampire inside senses the clean blood pounding through the veins of those standing a few feet away. She asks why we hesitate, and I don’t have a good answer. The fact that they are human is not enough. They were one with Underwood.

When I step from behind the rock, the others are still there, too, but like me, have dressed. The women wear baggy, shapeless dresses of cotton, the men trousers and loose-fitting shirts.

Time to get some answers. I address the one who called himself Zuria.

“What do you call yourselves?”

“We are Sorginak.”

“Are there many of you?”

He waves a hand. “This is the circle. The protectorate. There are not many who follow the old ways anymore. Even our children have no interest. Your coming was to be the spark.”

“The spark?”

“The resurgence of traditional Basque ways.”

I don’t know what that means. I don’t
want
to know what that means. I only want to go after Lance. Which calls up another question.

“How did I get here?”

He frowns as if I should know. “Maju. Brought you here across the sky on his chariot of fire. You and the younger man.”

Chariot of fire? That this man really believes this shit in the twenty-first century trips another spasm of barely containable anger. The vampire within me writhes to be set free, to exact revenge. I have to close my eyes a moment to plea with vampire to be patient, to assure her that she will have an opportunity to vent her wrath soon.

When she is quieted, I face Zuria again. Even with the effort to suppress it, my voice shakes with frustration. “You didn’t find it strange that I, your so-called goddess, came to you drugged? And that the man who called himself my husband had me bound to that altar and was about to rape me?”