Текст книги "Chosen"

Автор книги: Jeanne Stein

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CHAPTER 28

Lance is showering. I’m pacing. For once, I was hoping Lance would say he had to go home tonight, to the beach house. It didn’t happen. I should have known it wouldn’t. He’s still in protective mode.

We had a nice day. Took a walk on the boardwalk, had beers in a neighborhood bar. Watched a Padres game on the big screen. Did things that human couples do.

I might have enjoyed it more if I didn’t have this appointment with Underwood looming. And if I didn’t have to guard every thought that went through my head. Lance knows that my job entails midnight runs—he’s just made it clear he intends to make this one with us.

How am I going to get out of this?

Lance comes downstairs wearing one of my robes. It’s a big pink chenille job, and I laugh in spite of the heaviness I feel in my heart. “You look better in that thing than I do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I found it in the back of your closet. Did you really used to wear this thing?”

“I didn’t have you around when I was human. I got cold in the winter.”

He fingers the heavy material. “No wonder so many mortal women have dreary sex lives. This is about as appealing as a flannel nightgown.”

“Good thing you didn’t check the dresser. There are a few of those in there, too.” I hook a finger in the belt and give a tug. “Besides, wearing it isn’t the sexy part. Taking it off, that’s the sexy part.”

He bends his face close to mine. “We’ll test that theory. Right after I fix us a drink.”

He lets his lips brush mine, a tease, and steps away to head for the kitchen. “Hold that thought.”

I start pacing again as soon as he’s out of sight.

What am I going to do? I don’t even have a sleeping pill in the house to drug him. Not that one pill would do it. Vampires have strong constitutions. It would take a half bottle to affect him. Nor can I bring myself to use physical force. I could knock him out but that would be painful. A headache is a headache no matter the species.

And when he came to, what then? He’d have every right to be furious with me. Caring for me has not exactly been easy. What if he wanted to stop seeing me? I’m not ready for that. I like having him around. I like the way he makes me feel. I like the way we fit.

Shit. The only thing I’m sure of is I can’t tell him the truth. I won’t risk his insisting on coming with me. Underwood has already shown how little regard he has for Lance. I won’t risk another attempt on his life.

Lance is back with two glasses, an ice bucket, a plate of limes and an open bottle of tequila. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Funny expression for a vamp to use,” I retort.

He fills the glasses with ice and booze and hands me one. “Not really. Not tonight.” His expression is serious, his eyes veiled, a reflection of the barrier he’s erected around his own thoughts. “You’ve spent most of the day locking me out of your head. Do you want to tell me why?”

He raises his glass and we touch rims and drink. His gaze never wavers from my face.

I’m the one who looks away first. I do it by pretending to spill some of my drink, by wiping at my mouth with a hand. “Jesus. I’m so clumsy. I’ll get a napkin.”

He takes my glass and I feel him watching as I leave for the kitchen.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.

I stall as long as I can before rejoining Lance in the living room. He’s taken a seat on the couch and refilled my glass. I still have no idea how I’m going to get away in—a surreptitious glance at my watch—an hour and a half.

Lance’s mood has lightened. He smiles as he gives me back my glass. “I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s drink tonight. A lot. Let’s forget the last few days and get roaring drunk. Drink until we pass out.”

Now that’s a plan I hadn’t thought of. No drugs. No brute force. He’s picked his own poison. All I have to do is pretend to drink as much as he does. Then distract him while I dispose of the liquor. There are enough plants around us here in the living room to take care of that.

Potted plants. Many soon-to-be verypotted plants.

I grin at my own little joke.

“I like it.” I tilt my head back and drain my glass. “Your turn.”

Lance has already refilled our glasses. I put mine to my lips and take a long pull. I know how much liquor I can hold. I figure another glass or two, and then I’ll stop drinking.

I don’t know how Underwood plans to contact me at midnight but if Lance continues to drink at this rate, he should be too hammered to realize I’m gone. He’s already started on a third drink.

I’ve been sitting close to him on the couch. He bends toward me to refill my glass and I peek into the gaping robe. “You have such great pecs.”

It’s what I’m thinking. In my head. What I hear coming out of my mouth is different. Slurred. My lips feel swollen and my tongue heavy. I look up into Lance’s face and the room starts to spin. The glass falls from my hand.

“What the—?”

Lance takes me by the shoulders. He stands up so he can lower my body until I’m lying full length on the couch. He strokes my cheek.

“I’m sorry, Anna.”

It’s the last thing I hear before the darkness rises to swallow me up.

CHAPTER 29

I’m dreaming.

I must be. My body is floating, rising on an invisible cushion of air.

No. Not on air. Hands lift me. Hands at my shoulders, my legs, someone cradling my head.

I open my eyes. Can’t see. It’s too dark. Odd. Vampires can see in the dark.

Why can’t I?

Someone is singing in a clear, high voice. Pretty. Somber. A language I don’t recognize. I like the sound. Comforting somehow.

I smell incense. A familiar scent. Floral, woodsy. Someone’s cologne?

Can’t remember.

I’m shivering. It’s cold. Damp. Another smell underneath the incense. Musty. Stale. Like dirt.

Try to turn my head. Two strong hands prevent me. When I try to shake my head, to shake the hands off, the grip tightens.

“Don’t try to fight, Anna.”

Whose voice is that?

My mind struggles to penetrate the cloud shrouding my thoughts just as my body struggles to shake off the hands.

I accomplish neither.

Instead, those carrying me press closer, restrict my movements now with their bodies as well as their hands.

“She shouldn’t be struggling,” a voice nearby says. “She should be out. Did you do what I told you?”

“Yes. I gave her exactly the dose you prescribed.” That same familiar voice at my head. “You underestimated her strength.”

The feeling of fingers smoothing hair back from my forehead. “I don’t want her hurt. You promised me she wouldn’t be hurt.”

I want to scream, “Then why the fuck did you do this?”

But I know I’m the only one who hears. The shriek echoes and bounces in the void as if entrapped in a vault.

Perhaps it’s just as well.

I recognize the voice. Recognize the touch and smell of the hand on my forehead.

Bitter tears stream down my face.

The irony that one of my last thoughts before he drugged me was that I wanted to protect him.

Lance.

I stop struggling. I need a plan, need to gather strength.

The chanting grows louder. The procession comes to a halt. The hands lower me onto something cold and unyielding. My limbs are arranged, hands over my head and secured. Legs straightened.

Whatever I’m lying on is rough, where my back and legs rest there are uneven, jagged edges that bite into the skin. It’s worse if I try to move.

So I don’t.

Something is thrown over me. Something lightweight that floats on my skin like silk. Its touch makes me aware that until now, I was naked, exposed not only to the hands but the eyes of whoever bore me to this place.

Revulsion roils in my gut, bile rises in my throat.

I’m going to be sick.

No.

Swallow it back down. Turn the disgust into anger. Taste the bile and savor it because it is fuel for the rage.

The chanting grows louder. Exhortations to a goddess. Mari.

How do I know that?

The name is sung over and over. The chorus swells. More voices. More phrases that I shouldn’t be able to understand yet somehow, I do. Mari. The goddess of the earth. Protectress of those who rule in heaven, on earth, and below. Queen of the thunder and the wind and keeper of the storm. Beloved of her servants, those who surround her here, and her consort, Maju.

Maju?

The chant changes in tempo and pitch. It is Maju they call for now. Mari’s husband. Her mate. It is time, the words proclaim, time to fulfill the prophecy. Time to make heaven tremble and the underworld quake. Time to bring Mari and Maju out of the dark and into the light. Time for them to take their rightful place as rulers over all.

Time to consummate their love anew so the reign of the Sorginak can begin. Time for the lovers to reunite after five hundred years.

Lovers?

A hand lifts the veil, pushes it up from my ankles, gathers it at my waist.

No.

Something sharp, clawlike, traces a path on the inside of my thighs. It tickles and burns at the same time.

I try to kick out. Hands grab my ankles. Thrust something under my buttocks so my back is arched.

No.

Another hand circles my waist, pulls me forward.

It’s grown quiet around us—the chanting stopped. Now there are other sounds. Heavy breathing and lust-filled grunts. The smell of sex mingles with the incense. Those around us are pleasuring themselves as they watch.

Memories flood back. A year ago. In the backseat of a car. Donaldson hitting me until I blacked out. When I awoke . . .

A voice at my ear pulls me back.

“Don’t fight, Anna. You are Mari. A goddess. Destined to rule beside me for all eternity. Give yourself to me. Willingly. You have nothing to lose and the world to gain. I will be good to you. I will give you all.”

I force myself to grow still under his weight. Force myself to endure the feel of his hands as they push the veil higher to cup my breasts. Still, I force myself to endure the feel of him as he pushes against me, as he pries my legs open with his own to receive him. Force myself to wait until my mind is clear. Until I’m strong enough.

I couldn’t fight Donaldson. Didn’t understand the changes wrought by our exchange of blood.

This isn’t Donaldson.

Concentrate. Gather strength. Feel as it coils inside me. Tighter and tighter.

He is trying to ram himself into me.

I tense muscles and squirm away.

He grows angry. He curses. His hands clutch at my hips, pull me back and up. He will not stop.

I will make him.

I call out.

First to Lance.

Only silence responds. A flickering ember of regret quickly extinguished.

Then to the vampire. To the animal inside me. I know she hears. She’s struggling. Frantic. Full of rage.

It happens.

The vampire bursts free of her drug-induced chains. Her voice, my voice, unleashes its fury in a primal scream that reverberates in the cave like a roar of thunder. My eyes fly open. This time, I see.

I pull at the bindings at my wrists. They rip away.

A cry of alarm goes up around me.

When he raises his head, Underwood’s eyes have only an instant to register surprise.

Only an instant before I’ve ripped out his throat.

Only an instant before I’ve drained him of every drop of his blood.

CHAPTER 30

Silence. 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 wantto 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?”

He shows me the same blank expression as when I asked how I got here. “It is not up to us to question the ways of the gods. Maju told us what to do—how to prepare for the ceremony. We did as he asked.”

There is no outrage. Not even a spark of confusion or doubt. This man believes he did nothing wrong.

Now what?

“How far are we from an airport?”

Thatquestion, at least, allows Zuria to respond like a rational human being. “Not far. There is an airport in Biarritz.”

The impression lasts barely as long as it takes him to answer. A shadow darkens his face. “You are leaving? What are we to do?”

There are so many ways I want to answer that question—most involving various body parts. Instead, I take a moment to choose my words carefully.

“First, you are to take me to the airport. Then you will return to your homes and forget what happened here. The one you called Maju was a false prophet. Keep vigilant. When the time is right, I will be back with my true consort. Do you understand?”

Hope shines from Zuria’s eyes. “You will not punish us for Maju?”

Hopefully the law will do that when they discover the body inside the cave. As for Underwood? Trying to explain his desiccated corpse will merely change the nature of the plea from murder to insanity.

I shake my head. “No. This man who pretended to be Maju was a powerful sorcerer. But you must heed my words. No more ceremonies. Live your lives quietly and in peace with the world. Wait. For my return.”

The words are so much garbage. I expect someone in the group to challenge what I’ve said. Instead, the reaction is one of relief. They gather their personal belongings from the floor of the cave and prepare to go. They are chatting amongst themselves as if coming from a church social instead of having just participated in an ancient ritual that left their deity, Maju, not to mention one of their own, dead at the hands of a vampire.

I look around in bewilderment.

Unbelievable.

Unfuckingbelievable.

* * *

I’ve never been to Biarritz.

When we exit the cave, we are looking down on a beach. Five-foot waves kiss a pearlescent shoreline. It is a clear, moonless night and a half dozen surfers take advantage of the well-formed breakers. The sight provokes a spasm of longing for home—for my cottage. A broad boardwalk is lined with people watching the surfers perform, and I remember another bit of web-generated trivia: Biarritz is an ocean town bordering the Atlantic, a well-known surfing beach.

Cafés and bistros sparkle under strings of twinkling lights. Music floats upward. I see all this from a vantage point that has us facing a lighthouse with a statue perched on a nearby rocky promontory.

Zuria follows my gaze. “That is you, Mari,” he breathes with quiet reverence.

Somehow, I believe it is Mari only in his deluded mind. More likely a statue of a better-known protectorate. My defunct Catholic training stirs in my memory. The Virgin Mary.

The group scatters once we are out of the cave. Each one passes me with a bowed head and some kind of prayerful entreaty. Some try to take my hand. I step back out of reach.

Once just Zuria and I remain, I look around. We appear to be on a walking path whose direction takes us away from the shoreline. It must be close to the trailhead because I already hear car engines starting up.

“How far to the airport?”

Zuria motions me to follow him. I step in line with him and ask again. “How far to the airport?”

He seems reluctant to answer the question. “It would be a bad idea for you to play with me, Zuria. I want to go home. I’ll only ask you nicely once more. How far are we from the airport?”

He wipes a hand across his mouth. “Not far, Goddess. But that is not the problem.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? What is the problem?”

He glances at his watch. “It is almost two in the morning. The airport doesn’t open on Saturday until five thirty. I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t offer you the hospitality of my home until you could be accommodated.”

I almost laugh at the suggestion. Spend time in this crazy bastard’s home? I’d sooner sleep—

Then the implication of what he said hits me.

I glance at my wrist. Where my watch should be. The Rolex my family gave me last Christmas.

Another spasm of frustration and anger flares through me. My watch is gone.

Bad enough. But that’s not what’s triggering the reaction. Shock. Confusion.

If it’s Saturday, the anniversary of my becoming is past.

I take mental inventory. I feel the same.

Flex muscles. Nothing.

Glance down. No wings have sprouted. I’m not glowing or shimmering. My body appears normal.

For a moment, I’m so relieved I almost forget where I am and how I got here. I throw back my head and laugh.

Zuria watches with a puzzled frown. “Goddess? Are you all right?”

Better than all right.

It’s over.

Williams. Julian Underwood. Their crazy notion of a destiny.

The euphoric feeling that I am free lasts only as long as it takes vampire to push herself into my thoughts.

Not over.

Not yet.

Don’t forget Lance.