The Chosen
Page 31“I’m good. Ate at home.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Missed you at First Meal.”
That was as far as she would go with the why-didn’t-you-come-home-last-night, and he appreciated it. Xhex was like a guy in a lot of respects: short, to the point, and didn’t go enmeshment with the sympathy shit.
Frankly, she was one of the few people he could reliably stand to be around. Lately, he had come to detest pitying eyes and long, meaningful sighs and hugs that went on too long. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the support, but the thing was … when you were deep in mourning, it was hard to be around folks who felt bad because you were feeling bad. Seeing the Brotherhood and their mates in pain on his behalf? Well, that hurt him, and then that made him feel even worse and even more exhausted. And around and around again.
“I’ll be back at eight.” Trez knocked his knuckles twice on the black granite. “I got my cell phone on me.”
“Roger that.”
Walking over to the main doors, he nodded at the working girls who were just coming in and had yet to change out of their street clothes. As he passed them, he could sense the human women staring at him, wanting him, wondering about him. In fact, they had always been into him, and there had been a time when he’d taken them up on their offers. Not anymore, though, and his abstinence apparently added to his allure.
He’d never told anyone at work the details about Selena. Only Xhex knew, and she would never say anything to anybody.
The good news? After he’d turned down a couple of the prostitutes twice, word had gotten out and they all had stopped coming onto him. Thank God; females and women literally made him sick. The thought of any one of them touching him, or even merely thinking about him sexually?
His stomach turned just on the hypothetical.
Outside, the air was thick and cold—a prodrome for the storm that was coming—and he needed a couple of breaths to tamp down the bile that was in the back of his throat.
Nausea aside, he was utterly content to live out the rest of his nights alone. He couldn’t fathom for even a second a reality where anyone else would come into his life and make any impression on him—
From out of nowhere, his Selena came back to him, her voice filling his head. Can you promise me that you’ll let the good things in even after I’m gone … even if those things happen because there’s another female by your side?
Pulling himself together, he glanced in the direction of his BMW. Maybe he should drive, he thought. It would cut the meal by a good twenty minutes, considering he “had” to be back for opening time.
In the end, however, he just dematerialized across town to the far corner of Sal’s front parking lot. The broad stretch of pavement had been plowed of what little snow had fallen so far, and the rim of white around the edges was like the piped icing fringe on a sheet cake. A number of cars were lined up, close as they could get to the building, and lights glowed both on top of streetlamps and down the flanks of the restaurant.
Walking over to the main door’s awning, he stomped his loafers on the runner and strode down the red carpet to the three steps up to the door.
As he went in, it was a damn shame he was going to have to deal with Lassiter. Otherwise, he might have had half a chance at enjoying what he was going to eat.
“Hey, Mr. Latimer.”
“Evenin’.”
Trez lifted a hand to the human woman who was at the hostess stand. As her eyes did a quick sweep of him, her smile was the kind that suggested she would have loved to end the night with him. She kept her distance, though.
His reputation for no-ladies had preceded him. Thank you, iAm.
Heading past the gift-shoppy section with its freezers full of entrées and its souvenir shot glasses and decorative spoons—’cuz yes, people traveled just to come to Sal’s—he went into the bar area.
“Mr. Latimer, wassup.”
The bartender was a good-looking-twenty-something who was almost hot enough to be a cologne ad model for Gucci or Armani: Dark hair, strong chin, bright blue eyes, big shoulders, yada yada yada. He went to shAdoWs on his nights off and did a lot of business there with females of his kind—and you could tell he enjoyed his status as Hot Guy On The Caldie Club scene.
Yeah, ’cuz a dude with his prospects couldn’t possibly go by his real name. Which was George.
“Your usual?” Geo asked. “You staying for dinner?”
“Yeah on the dinner, nah on the booze. But thanks.”
“The boss is in his office.”
“Roger that.”
Trez pushed his way through the padded flap doors by the mirrored bottle display, and walked into the sunshine-bright kitchen, all of the stainless-steel counters and professional-grade equipment gleaming from regular cleaning. The tile floor was the color of the terra-cotta rooftops in Siena, and chefs in traditional white togs were bent over pots, cutting boards, and bowls. All of the cooks were men, and all of them were Italian, but over time, iAm hoped to change the former—although not the latter.
Dear God, the delicious smell … onions, basil, oregano, tomatoes, and sausage sautéing at the burners.
Damn it, he hated to think Lassiter was right about anything. Except shit, he was starving.
iAm’s office was in the back-back, and as Trez rounded the corner, the fact that there was a female vampire standing in the doorway with her back to him didn’t register as significant in the slightest. iAm regularly hired members of the species, particularly during the winter months when it got dark in upstate New York by four-thirty in the afternoon. And yes, Trez was vaguely aware that her scent was unusual and pleasant, but that was nothing more than he’d notice if he walked by a bouquet of flowers.
Everything started to change as he stepped in behind her and looked over the top of her head at his brother.
iAm was at his desk, his dark face pasty, his eyes wide as satellite dishes, his jaw unhinged.
iAm started shaking his head, his palms rising up in a stop motion as he got to his feet. But then all that was forgotten—along with every single moment of the past, present, and future—as the female turned around.
Trez stumbled back until he slammed into the wall—and then he found himself lifting his arms as if to ward off blows. Through the crosshatch of his wrists, he took stock of the eyes, the lips, the nose … the hair … the throat and shoulders … the body …
Selena …
That was the last thing he remembered.
SEVENTEEN
Sometime later, having exhausted himself in the wake of his nursemaid’s departure, Xcor fell to the cold, hard ground outside of the cottage. There was no more breath in his lungs to yell, no more energy to fight the chain that kept him a prisoner, no further urge to rail against being left behind.
As a numb resignation began to settle into his chest, it brought a cooling of his body. No … that was the wind. With an absence of exertion, his temperature was being siphoned by December’s frigid bluster, and he knew he had to take shelter or expire.
Gathering his cloak from the ground, he pulled its filthy weight around himself and permitted his body a moment to shiver. Then he got up on his feet and, stretching as far as he could against his tether, he looked around the corner of the thatched abode. The door was still open and he fancied that he could feel heat emanating from within—that was but a lie, however, a function of memory rather than reality, for the fire had long died down.
His eyes went to the horizon. Through spindled trunk and fluffy pine bough, he saw that dawn was arriving soon, its glow coalescing in the east to chase the darkness away. There would be little warmth to be anticipated from the sun’s ascendance—but no particular concern, either. As a pretrans, he did not have to be concerned about being consumed by daylight. Starvation and thirst, however, were worries that needs must be addressed if he were to survive. With no spare fat stores, and a parched throat, he was not going to last long, especially in winter’s climate.