Chosen

CHAPTER 46

It grows deathly quiet around us. I can almost taste the excitement. This is the spectacle they came to see.

Lance fights at first, tries to break away. I am stronger. There’s a breathless rush when his blood pours into my mouth and it seems I ca

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 A

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.

CHAPTER 47

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 fu

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 cu

Avery and Underwood underestimated me, too.

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

The challenge has been executed. The Tribe of Thirteen hereby bestows on A