Chosen (12 page)

“Does the driver get to pick the radio station?” EcKland asked.

Nathan pretended to consider, then said, “Maybe when we’re closer to Alexandria.”

He hated the radio. It reminded him of the differences between him and most of the other Chosen. Unlike them, he’d spent his whole life in the compound, so he’d never heard any of the pop songs growing up, and unlike Drew, who’d come to the compound even earlier than Nathan had, he had never been able to catch up.

He remembered when Julia has asked him, incredulously, if he had ever been to school. The look on her face still filled him with shame.

Nathan stared out the window, struggling to control his emotions. He couldn’t afford to indulge any of them. They were travelling to Alexandria, then to Switzerland. What happened there depended on Julia, and whether he could get her to agree to leave the rebel stronghold. If he couldn’t… Well, there would be a use for the hundred some odd Chosen who were, group by group, Land Rover by Land Rover, plane by plane, making their way to St. Moritz over the next few days.

Enough to infiltrate the traitors’ base, subdue them, and destroy their powerful, demonic allies.

Enough to capture…The One.

Nathan felt only dread.

Two days previous, Adam had made his report—not to Nathan, but directly to The Three. They had summoned Nathan, then, the first time they’d spoken to him since descending into their…Nathan could only think of it as a pit.

It was deep, and accessible only by a terrifying tunnel barely large enough for one person to walk through. The tunnel originated below a boulder in one of the incense-laden meditation chambers, where it was guarded by several of the compound’s fiercest and most gifted guards. Torches flickered along the pressed-dirt walls, and when Nathan walked, his gray shoes made a snickering sound against the floor, which grew damper as he traveled lower and lower. The path was all curves, but unlike the tunnels at the compound, which were designed for easy navigation—after one traveled them a while—these paths seemed designed to confuse.

When the tunnel spit Nathan out in a wide, square antechamber, his fingers ached from clenching his fists, and his mouth felt too dry. He’d beheld The Three before, but each time was as unpleasant as it was exhilarating. 

Even standing in the empty, dirt-carved room, Nathan could feel their crushing power. Their unimaginable giftedness. Their raw might. He felt a thrill at serving such wise, beneficent beings; then the fear was back on him, and he had to force himself to move forward.

The only exit from the antechamber was a small, square hall; the ceiling came so close to Nathan’s head, it sometimes brushed his chestnut-colored hair. Dirt crumpled off the walls, forming small dust clouds he could see only by the light of an occasional torch.

After what felt like an eternity, he heard lapping water.

Déjà vu
clawed at him, the familiar sensation of his mind racing in anxious preparation for encountering The Three—a preparation that was always wholly inadequate. A few more steps and he was at the top of a wide, flat staircase that disappeared in fog.

A little like The Three’s realm in the compound, this place threw his senses off; like there, he could see, against the room’s dim, amber light, the writhing reflection of water. But unlike at that place, here he couldn’t tell exactly where it was. There were stairs, and there was fog…and somewhere below, there must be water.

He took the stairs slowly and found himself thinking of Meredith. It was happening with more frequency, and over time a strong urge to learn of her wellbeing had built into almost panic. Had she made it safely out of the pyramid? He’d asked one of the guards, a pony-tailed woman named Elsbeth, if she had seen Mer among the dead; Edan knew she secretly thought Meredith’s antics were funny.

Elsbeth had told him no, but it wasn’t good enough. Not nearly.

Eventually the fog lifted, and the stairs ended at a flat, endless, jet black lake. Without the fog, he could clearly see the domed ceiling, stretching hundreds of yards above; the water, flat though it was, reflected off the hard packed dirt, squiggles of light that cast the vast room in shadows.

There was nothing in front of him. Nathan swore there wasn’t, but his eyes deceived him, because an instant later, The Three appeared, seated on their same, tiered throne.

The eldest was elevated between the left and right, his thin white beard rolling down the tiny stairs that led to his lofty perch. His eyes were as always lost in the wrinkles of his face. The brothers, on either side, looked almost as old. Their faces were just as lined, but they were able to see—they stared directly at him, their dark eyes unblinking.

Nathan bowed before them, kissing the ancient one’s beard.

“Is one a Shepherd if he loses his flock?” Morgah, the one on the left, asked suddenly.

His voice echoed.

“But he has lost more than that,” Isiag, on the right, said.

“My brother speaks truth,” Morgah said. “Do you know what you have lost?”

And there was anger in his voice. Nathan had never heard it before; he had even thought The Three had somehow evolved beyond emotion, as he had rarely heard any inflection in their wizened voices.

But the heat was very real, and it terrified him.

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” he admitted. Most of the Candidates were dead or unaccounted for. It was a crushing blow. Nathan felt each lost personally.

“Shepherd Adam informed us that he located four missing Candidates,” Isiag said.

Nathan’s heart jumped.
Meredith
.

“Including The One,” Morgah intoned.

Nathan was thunderstruck.
The One.
“Julia.”

“Correct.”

He had suspected, but why hadn’t they told him? If he had known he wouldn’t have let her out of his sight.

“I will leave immediately,” he said. “I’ll bring them all back.”

“If you rush to correct your mistake, you will repeat it,” Morgah said sharply.

“She is among enemies,” Isiag said. “The rebels who work against us.”

“It was they who informed the Nephilim of our locations,” Morgan said.

“What!” Nathan gasped. He knew of the other Chosen; it was a popular rumor among some members, although he and the other Shepherds were always quick to quash it. “Are you sure?”

They were silent, and Nathan cursed himself. “I mean…what do you want me to do?

“You must assemble a force,” Isiag said. “You must find The One, and you must destroy those who oppose us.”

“Of course. Immediately.”

“Leave tomorrow. And Shepherd: Do not fail us.”

“I would—”

“You have!” The brother said at once, and their raised voices thundered through Nathan’s skull. He fell to his knees, clutching his head.

“We do not accept failure a second time,” Isiag said.

“I won’t fail,” Nathan had said. “I swear.”

“Do not,” the brothers has warned, and then all three had vanished, leaving Nathan alone and panting.

He had selected the team—several dozen other Chosen, each with at least some combat experience but a violence-must-be-justified attitude—and thrown himself into planning the largest mission he’d ever been tasked with. There were lots of details, and not much time, so he was able to avoid dwelling on the worries that now consumed him.

Julia. The One. And a more reluctant Candidate he couldn’t imagine.

Except Meredith. Who was with her. Who was her friend.

Drew was there too, with Carlin.

And Cayuzul.

Nathan clenched his fists. How could The One,
The One
, have feelings for that monster? Some things he would never understand—but then he didn’t have to. He’d been tasked with a mission—find and bring back The One—and he’d carry it out, regardless of anything personal.

CHAPTER TWELVE

After seeing Julia to bed, Cayne opened the door that connected the two suites. He paused to listen; the quiet living area where he would spend his nights was empty except for him. He walked into the kitchenette and sat on one of the elegant bar chairs. He sighed, letting himself slump onto his elbows, rested his head in his hand, digging his fingers into the short cut before sitting up and running his hands through his hair—something he never did unless he was alone.

It was reassuring—because it reminded him of his mother. His hair had been long and unkempt, and she liked to untangle it. He felt something close to longing, or maybe nostalgia, but like the memory of his mother’s fingers, it came from somewhere distant.

Buried by his time with Samyaza.

The Nephilim king’s conditioning plus two centuries did a lot to strip one of his history. Among other Hunters Cayne had never indulged his humanity—the mortal half of him that, left to its own devices, might have done something different than kill.

He had found affection again, with Kat, and it had made him weak. Samyaza had found them and killed her. The guilt he felt was overwhelming. But it paled in comparison to the complex swirl of emotions he felt about Julia.

They were good and bad. Love was the strongest, even though he was loath to admit it to himself. It’s what stirred everything else up: lust, anger, happiness, fear.

And now he was consumed with worry, which was awful. He could tell everyone else, even Julia, thought he was being over-vigilant. He just didn’t know how else to be. His feelings might as well have been his very first, as raw as they were, and until they found some way to help her, until he was sure she was safe, he was going to be on edge.

Edan had told him it would only get worse. Cayne was prepared to take the pain, to have Edan transfer it to him the way he’d discreetly done in the hostel. But Edan claimed he couldn’t siphon it for long. Eventually it would become too great for him to touch.

He remembered Monte’s skeptical expression when the others had told him of Edan—and that Cayne understood. There were a lot of things off about him and his story, but Cayne still didn’t consider the guy a threat. If he wanted to screw them over, as Julia and her friends liked to say, he would have done it already.

Still, why had he disappeared as soon as they’d reached the House? And he
had
disappeared. Holed up with a woman, Samyaza’s ass. Something was going on, and Cayne was going to find out what. Bring Edan back into the fold so Cayne could focus his attention on the Chosen. Find chinks in their armor and be sure he knew their game. 

For his happy little visit to the hostel, he pulled on black jeans and the shell that went under his black ski jacket. He tried the girls’ bedroom door and found it locked, the way he’d left it; he listened, and heard only breathing.

Good. He’d be back quickly.

The lights in the hallway were dimmed, so the red carpet looked brown, and the pictures on the walls only revealed parts of themselves—half a lake, a shadowy forest. He walked briskly, his jeans making a swishing sound that faded into the ancient choral music coming from the speakers in the ceiling.

The music reminded him of Killin, and once again his mind spun over the place’s disappearance. It was gone the year he’d been born. But it
hadn’t
been gone the last time Cayne visited, nearly sixty years after he’d left. He’d actually gone into the village and recognized one of the girls. She’d been an old woman, of course, but a girl when he’d known her.

He didn’t go back again until the night with Julia, and according to the sign he found there he never saw that girl. He never lived in Killin at all.

Impossible.

But the alternative seemed implausible. Someone had managed to hide almost a century of Killin’s history—they’d managed to destroy it. The question ringing through Cayne’s head: Why?

Samyaza had told him he was no Nephilim, the possessed girl (he’d decided since meeting her she had to’ve been) had alluded to the same. When he considered his life, and his recent history, his doubts about himself only grew. How had he survived Samyaza’s attack, when the Nephilim king had come after Cayne and Kat, following Cayne’s defection? He’d honed his skill for millennia; he’d killed everything he’d ever set his sights on. But Cayne had survived.

He exhaled loudly, sticking his hands in his pockets as he stepped onto the elevator, where the music was louder. The rhythm was slow, the voices ancient, haunting. He loved it. Even recognized some of the words.

They reminded him of another time… Another life…

Somairhle Mochridhe.
 

 That had been his name. His Celtic name, given by his sentimental mum, who loved the old ways. He hadn’t planned on sharing it with anyone but he’d found himself writing it, reclaiming it as his “real” name, before Cayuzul.

Somairhle Mochridhe.
It nagged at his memory, like a whisper from some dark time.

The elevator shuddered open on the ground level, its marble floors and red-carpeted halls silent. Three young Stained at the check-in desk played cards labeled “Uno”s. He slipped by them without notice, following a series of signs through a curved hall that led to the back of the building, toward the tram connection. If any of the few employees passing noticed him as a Nephilim, none stopped him.

The tram was big and over warm, with large windows that looked out over the slopes, which glowed green with artificial light. He slouched into a gray bucket seat and glanced out at the fluttering snow as the tram fired up, a woman’s voice prompting him to choose a destination.

“Jacquie’s House Hostel.”

He pressed the big, orange button for that destination, buckled when prompted, and the tram set off.

It smelled of plastic and women’s perfume, and it was silent except for the whoosh of its own motion. He propped his boots in the seat in front of him and shut his eyes, hoping fiercely that he’d made the right choice leaving Julia behind.

He didn’t know what he’d do if he had to take her back to The Three. He didn’t know if he could. Which was why he must find Edan.

“Somairhle Mochridhe.”

 His name echoed through his head, unbidden. A teasing voice… Dread in his belly… A grating, hopeless feeling… Something startling.