Chosen

When it gets too penetrating, I bark, “What?”

“You are awfully cavalier about Lance. You can’t tell me this hasn’t taken a toll on your emotions. You said yourself, you and he had gotten close.”

I snort and resume drinking. Recounting the story has brought the vampire to the surface. I still have Underwood’s blood inside, flowing like a river of acid. Deep down, I was hoping there would be a host here to dilute the poison. Right now, the only emotion I feel is disappointment.

“Maybe that’s what you want to tell yourself,” Culebra says, reading my thoughts. “But ridding yourself of Underwood’s blood is not the only reason you came today.”

No. But it’s not what he thinks. I’m not here for therapy.

“David is missing. I believe Mrs. Williams took him. I think she intends to follow in her husband’s footsteps and force me to accept the destiny he died protecting. You and I have never talked about it. So, I’m asking you now. Do you know what it means to be the Chosen One?”

Culebra’s expression grows distant. I can’t tell if he’s searching his memory for the answer or if he knows it, and is burying it deep in his subconscious so it’s hidden from me. He’s locked me out and I can only wait, nursing my Corona, until he decides to come back.

At last, he does.

I can tell before he begins to speak, I’m not going to like what he has to say. His eyes tell me first. They are cold again, forged steel.

“These are things I can take no part in.” His tone is formal and as cold as his eyes. “They are matters of the vampire. The supernatural community has long been divided as to its place in the world, but the one tenet always held dear is that when the Chosen One comes, it marks either the begi

More existential bullshit. I clasp my hands together to keep from reaching across the bar to slap him. “This is A

Culebra, my Culebra, smiles at that, a slow, sweet smile. He tilts his head and winks. “You will do what you always do when the time comes.” He touches his chest with his fist.

Like the old Roman salute. “And what does that mean exactly?”

“You’ll follow your instincts. Your heart. It’s all that can be expected of anyone. Even a Chosen One.”

I take the last pull and lay the empty bottle on the bar. “Not much in the way of practical advice.”

He motions toward the bottle. “Want another?”

I glance at my watch. Still hours to go until it gets dark. “Why not?”

He’s opened the cooler and is about to pull out a second Corona when the bar doors swing in. He looks up and I swivel on the barstool.

In walks Daniel Frey.

CHAPTER 35

I jump off the stool to greet my friend, and Culebra comes out from behind the bar. He and Frey trade man hugs.

Unusual display for Culebra. Seeing Frey must have triggered guilt over his little tantrum earlier.

When they step apart, I give Frey a real hug, then look him over.

He’s dressed in pleated trousers, a cotton short-sleeved shirt with palm trees on a cream background and loafers. He’s carrying a leather briefcase and wearing reflector sunglasses with big frames that are distinctly feminine—tortoise shell with opaque amber lenses and a fancy golden Dolce & Gabbana logo near the hinge.

“Let me guess,” I say as he sweeps them off. “Layla’s glasses.”

He grins. “Damned if they don’t work, too. I can drive with these things. I’ll have to get a pair.”

“You might want to rethink the frames,” Culebra dead-pans. “Want a beer?”

Frey parks his butt on a stool and lays the briefcase on the bar before nodding at Culebra and saying to me, “I figured this is where you’d be.”

“I thought we weren’t going to meet until tonight.”

He accepts a Corona and we wait while he takes a first pull. “Got impatient,” he says then. “Decided not to wait.”

He looks around. “Place is pretty deserted for a Saturday. Fallout from what happened with Judith?”

“Judith? Is that her first name?”

Culebra and Frey both look surprised that I didn’t know. I shrug. “We never were formally introduced.”

Frey shakes his head. “Judith Williams. Pretty i

Culebra waves a hand. “And is still doing. I haven’t had a customer since Thursday night.” He motions us over to a table. “May as well get comfortable.”

Once we’re seated around the table I give voice to the question I know Culebra wants answered as much as I. “Why did you track me down?”

“I did a little more research,” he says. “The good news is I don’t believe David is in any real danger. At least not yet. I think you’re right that she took him to assure your cooperation. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t heard from her yet.”

“I checked my cell phone when I got home. Nothing. I haven’t been to the office yet, though. Did you call Tracey and Miranda?”

“Both think you and David are out of town on a job. Tracey is pissed at you because you didn’t tell her. Miranda is pissed at David because she thinks he lied. But it’s bought us time—until the middle of the week at least.”

Until the passing of the day. God, I hope it goes more smoothly than the fiasco in Biarritz.

I nod at Frey. “So tell us about your research.”

He reaches for the briefcase he’d carried from the bar, opens it and withdraws a file from inside. He spreads a dozen sheets of paper on the table. “This is some pretty interesting stuff,” he says, excitement shining from his eyes. “I can’t believe I hadn’t come across the mythology before.”

“Mythology?” The word sends a shock through me. Carries with it co

But Frey isn’t fazed by my lack of enthusiasm. He doesn’t notice. He’s too caught up in his fervor to share what he’s learned.

“The Chosen One is mentioned in ancient texts going back to the time when angels and demons walked the earth. But the references have always been obscure and subject to interpretation. Which is why it’s been so hard to get specifics. Until now.”

He reaches once more into the briefcase. This time he pulls out a worn leather tome about the size of a paperback. The cover and spine are cracked, and the pages so brittle, when he lays the book down, flakes of parchment and dust puff up and dissipate like pollen in the wind.

“What is that?”

Frey looks at the book with an expression of awe. He holds it up carefully and with great reverence. “This is the Grimoire.”

Culebra and I exchange looks. His thoughts mirror my own. I speak them aloud. “What is a Grimoire?”

Frey places the book back on the table, resting one hand on it protectively as if afraid the book might sprout legs and run away.

For all we know, it might. Culebra’s remark is in response to my own musings.

Frey catches the mocking tone of Culebra’s comment and frowns. “You don’t understand what this book represents. It is the accumulated wisdom of The First. It is an account of how a Chosen One came to be. And a written text not only for what followed historically, but for what is to come. You, A

From his worshipful tone, I almost expect Frey to drop to one knee and kiss my hand. For the moment, I’m glad he can no longer read my thoughts.