Chosen

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 begi

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 ca

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 te

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?”

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?”

That question, 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.