Chosen (30 page)

And I remember.

I remember the first time I saw him—at Glory’s, a face like an angel. I remember the first time we made love. It was frenzied, passionate, our desire so intense, the bloodlust so high, we barely made it out of our clothes. I remember other times when we went slow, making love the way humans do. Enjoying our bodies and letting simple tactile senses, touch, smell, drive us to the edge. We gave each other so much pleasure. I am glad ending it this way spares him pain.

I wonder what he is remembering. His thoughts are cloaked in shadow, growing dimmer. When I try to reach him, I catch a flash of unfamiliar faces. His parents, perhaps, and his sister and brother the way they must have been the last time he saw them. So long ago.

And then even the shadows are gone. I don’t stop until I feel the last flutter of his heart, savor the last drop of his blood as it flows out of his body into mine. I know it is the last because of the texture and taste. Lifeblood is mead and tastes of the earth and life. This is water and tastes of tears and death.

I, the human Anna, hold him for a long moment when it is over. I wish I felt sorrow. A part of me is devastated at what I am capable of. At what I’ve done. A part of me knows this is my nature. I can’t fight it. I’m not sure I want to anymore.

Turnbull approaches me first. He offers his hand to help me to my feet. At this moment, I will accept nothing from him, not even the simplest act of courtesy. I close Lance’s eyes, already filmed and cloudy, and stand up and away.

When I look back down, it is no longer the Lance I knew, but the husk of an elderly man. His skin sags, his hair thins to long, silver tufts. His face morphs into a gaunt mirror reflecting the rictus of death. Was it only a week ago when we were in Palm Springs and he told me his story? It was 1925. He was born in South Africa in 1925.

I turn to face Turnbull. “I want his body shipped to his family in South Africa. There is a woman in Palm Springs who will know how to reach them. I will see you get the information. Will you take care of it?”

“Yes.”

He is uncomfortable, as if unprepared for this outcome. When I look around at the others, the same expression of incredulity is mirrored on the faces staring back at me.

They all expected me to lose. Even Turnbull.

“Don’t I get a big gold belt? Or at least a trophy?” Sarcasm is the only way I have to give vent to my outrage. It’s either that or tear Turnbull’s head off.

Chael is the first to speak.
This was an unfair pairing. You obviously had history with this one.

The vampire had retreated at Lance’s death, now she’s back. And thirsty again for a taste of this one’s blood.
Wasn’t that the point, Chael?

I step up to him.
Lance wasn’t a good enough fighter? Then let’s you and I have a rematch. I have no history with you.

There is a stirring among the others, a collective gasp. No one has ever challenged one of the thirteen. The surprise quickly turns to a thrill of anticipation. Lance was disposed of too quickly. There is still bloodlust to be satisfied.

Chael feels the group’s enthusiasm swirling around him like sand in blowing wind. They want him to accept the challenge. Put this upstart in her place.

He also feels the depth of my fury.

He addresses them like a teacher admonishing unruly students.
There is no contingency in the Grimoire for a second challenge. We are bound by the outcome of the first. It is so written.

He says it like he is disappointed but can do nothing but abide by the rules. Rules he, moments before, called “superstition.” The smell of him tells me something different. It is acrid and sharp. The smell of a coward.

At that moment, I know. As old and revered among vampires as these thirteen are, they are jealous of their lives and not quick to put them in danger.

In that respect, they are no different than humans.

I
DON’T KNOW WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT. Frey said there would be some kind of induction ceremony. I wonder if it will involve secret handshakes and funny hats.

I want to go home. I want to see Frey.

I want to forget what I just did.

Lance is still in my heart and in my head. I did what I swore to do after Biarritz. I wish I felt more a sense of satisfaction. Instead there’s emptiness and sorrow.

At least his family will know that he is gone. They can bury him, and he will have something to show for having lived—even it’s only a piece of marble.

The fastest way to get out of here is to move this freak show along.

“Turnbull, what happens now?”

He is talking with two humans who appeared a moment ago. Summoned, I suppose, to take care of clean up. They have a gurney upon which they place Lance’s body. They cover it with a shroud of black velvet.

Turnbull sees me watch as they wheel it out. He says, “As soon as we have the necessary information, we will see that his body is returned to his family.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” At least Adele will be spared the shock of hearing about Lance’s death for the first time from a stranger. She already knows. It was part of his escape plan.

Turnbull takes my elbow. “We will adjourn to the library. There the ceremony will continue.”

The others must have been waiting for me to lead them from this chamber of horror. As soon as Turnbull and I pass through the door, they follow. Quiet. Subdued. Still not over the shock that the fate of the world for the next two hundred years is in the hands of someone so inexperienced. My question is of a different nature. How did they plan to control Lance? Had he won, he would have been the one making the decisions.

I think about his relationship with Underwood and have my answer. The only difference is that this time it would have been Chael pulling the strings, I’m sure.

Lance was weak. Chael made the mistake of thinking because Lance had been a vampire longer than me, he had more cunning, more guile. I wonder what they promised Lance to get him to face me. Or what they threatened him with. I watch Chael as he takes his place once more among the tribal heads. He should have paid more attention. Learned from history.

Avery and Underwood underestimated me, too.

Turnbull assumes emcee duties, his words pulling me out of my own thoughts.

He bows toward me. Then, one by one, the others follow suit. Some bow stiffly, a small display of resistance. Some bow deeply, not caring one way or the other who is leading them. Chael inclines his head but not his body. He’s the one likely to present the petition Frey warned me about.

He’s the one likely to continue to cause trouble.

I acknowledge his pretentiousness with a nod of my own. He may be a thousand years old, but he refused to fight me. My confidence is undaunted by this posturing.

Turnbull waits for the circle to be complete. Then he waves a hand toward the door.
We will adjourn for an hour.
He glances at his watch
. We will meet back here at one a.m., when petitions will be heard. Refreshments are available in the living room.

He waits until the exodus is complete and closes the door behind him so we have privacy.

“Refreshments?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“These old-time vampires don’t go anywhere without a blood host along. I’m sure there are extras if you’d care to partake.”

I flash on this evening—Frey and then Lance. “I’m fine, thanks.” It sounds as though I’m turning down a glass of wine or a martini instead of human blood from a live host. When did I become so jaded?

I’ve come around from behind the desk, and he and I take seats in the circle. He draws a breath, exhales slowly and with deliberation. “I know this wasn’t easy for you. I told Chael what he did was despicable—bringing in a challenger with whom you had personal history. He even knew you two had had a falling out. He still thought Lance could beat you.”

He seems to have something else on his mind. I can guess what it is.

“I was telling the truth about Williams. I had nothing to do with his death.”

He meets my eyes, taking measure, considering the person he sees here and the person he helped in Denver. “I believe you. You may be hotheaded and arbitrary, but you tell the truth.”

I smile. “That again? You still believe what Warren Williams told you about me?”

He laughs. “More than ever. You challenged one of the thirteen. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

There’s something different about Turnbull. Something I hadn’t noticed before for obvious reasons. I was facing a fight to the death. Now, however, I know exactly what it is. When I saw him in Denver, his hair was darker and his build was different—thicker through the middle. A disguise technique he used so he could stay in his home in Durango. A new look for each generation.

“Hey, you’ve lost weight!”

He laughs. “Didn’t need the body padding here. It’s a relief to be rid of it for a while.”

We lapse into silence. I wonder if I should try to reach Frey on his cell. Let him know I’m still among the living—so to speak. The evening isn’t over yet, though. Maybe I’d better wait until it is.

Turnbull sits with me. At first, we don’t speak. Neither of us opens our thoughts to the other, but I’m not uncomfortable with it. After a few minutes, though, my mind turns back to a familiar theme, and it occurs to me that Turnbull may be the only one willing or able to answer the hundred questions I have about what just happened.

I’m not sure how to begin, but asking, “Turnbull, what exactly am I?” seems as good a place as any.

He raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“The Chosen One. How did it come to be? Who chose me? Why? Before becoming vampire, I was a single woman from an upper-middle-class background. I had—have—a loving family. I work an unconventional job, sure, but what qualities elevated me to the head of a tribunal of the most powerful creatures on earth? Everyone is sure of
what
I am, no one can tell me
why
.”

Turnbull shakes his head, and I have the sinking feeling he’s not going to be any more help than Frey.

“You don’t know, either, do you?”

“I’m sorry, Anna,” he says. “There isn’t much I can tell you. It’s like any belief passed down from one generation to the next. There are forces at work beyond the realm of our understanding. I suppose the
reason
there is a Chosen One is pretty obvious. If vampires were allowed to run roughshod over humanity, the world would erupt in chaos. I have to believe that whoever or whatever is behind the grand design recognized this. It placed the burden of decision making on the shoulders of one. How that one is determined is a mystery. But that
you
are the one was recognized by Avery immediately. And by many others who came in contact with you before this gathering made it official.”

“How are the tribal heads picked then? How were you picked?”

He smiles. “At last a question I can answer. There is a right of succession. Avery picked me as his successor just as he was picked centuries ago. It’s the first duty of a tribal head, to pick one to come after him.”

“And have you? Picked a successor?”

“Not yet. It would have been Warren Williams.” A shadow passes over his face. “You never told me who is responsible for his second death.”

“It was a sorcerer. Julian Underwood. He has paid. He is dead.”

Turnbull releases a breath.

We are silent for a few moments before I ask, “What happened to the last Chosen One?”

I expect the answer to be obvious. Staked or beheaded. Turnbull raises his shoulders. “I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask. This is my first gathering, too. Would you like me to find out? Among these old souls, I’m sure someone has the answer.”

“No.” There’s no hesitation in my reply. “I think I’d rather not know what fate has in store for me.”

W
HEN THE DOORS OPEN AGAIN AND THE TWELVE file in to take their seats, it’s obvious how they spent their hour. The smell, the heat radiating from vampire bodies only warmed by feeding and sex fills the room like some exotic incense. I have a mental image of the human hosts in the other room lying sated and replete, the detritus of a Roman orgy.

Turnbull asks petitioners to rise and present their requests. There are only two. Chael and Brianna, the female from Australia. Chael waves Brianna to go first.

Brianna is a small woman, compactly built, with a ruddy complexion and curly red hair. She looks to be in her thirties, which is to say, she was in her thirties when she was turned. I have no idea how long she has been vampire. She has handed her petition to Turnbull, who in turn passes it to me.

I don’t bother to look at it.
Tell me,
I say.

She glances to Turnbull.
As he mentioned at the beginning of this gathering, I am here because of the death of the one before me, Aiden. He was in the six hundred fortieth year of the second life. He was a benevolent man, well loved by those in our community. He should not have been taken from us.

Her thoughts falter as she is caught in a wave of emotion.

By the hand of a Revenger, was it not?
I prompt gently.

I want to move things along. I want to go home. Weariness has been a constant companion for the last few days, and it threatens to swamp me now. Both physically and mentally, I am exhausted. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep my thoughts hidden from the constant prying of thirteen powerful, probing and inquisitive onlookers.

Still, I wait for Brianna to gather herself and continue. At last, she does, with a small bow.
My apologies. Aiden was more than a friend and mentor to me. We were lovers, sealed for the last two hundred years. So it is of particular importance to me that I be allowed to avenge his death.