Authors: Jeanne C. Stein

Chosen (10 page)

BOOK: Chosen

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Oh, and how that fucker Williams played me. He made fun of my relationship with Lance. Made me defend it. Knew if he mocked it, I’d most likely stay with Lance.

And I did.

God.

I want to howl with rage.

How could I have been so stupid?

I have to get out of here.

Where are my car keys?

I dart frantically around the room. My head and stomach—my
blood
—is on fire. I sweep
things
off the nightstand, Lance’s mug, a book, a lamp. The sound of breaking pottery doesn’t quell the thirst for vengeance. I grab a chest at the end of the bed. Push it with so much force it slams into the wall.

Even the splintering of wood, the rain of broken plaster, is not enough. Fury makes the animal leap to the surface.

I
feel
Lance, moving toward me. I whirl to face him.

He stops. He sees it in my face. Danger. The animal enraged, betrayed. The animal wounded.

He steps back.

Finally. I spy my keys and purse on a chair. Where I’d thrown them after finding Lance last night.

Last night.

I can’t think about it now.

I can’t think of anything except getting away from here.

Lance tries to reason with me. He holds out his arms. He uses words like danger and risk, caution and threat. Empty words from far away that ricochet around my head like leaves in a whirlwind. He wants to protect me.

I bare my teeth, laugh and snarl. “You can’t protect yourself.”

He lets his hands fall to his side. He has no answer to rebut the truth.

I’m done.

I don’t bother with shoes. I run downstairs, almost smacking into Adele. She jumps out of the way. She has a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. I smell the hot coffee as it spills, see her jerk as it scalds her. She yelps.

I don’t stop.

“Anna, what’s wrong?”

But I’m past her. Her voice trails behind me as I race through that cavernous house. Too much space that suddenly feels claustrophobic, I’m so anxious to get away.

From far off, I hear Lance pounding down the stairs, too. I have a wide lead. I hit the remote control on my way out the back door and by the time the garage door opens, I’ve got the Jag in gear and I’m screeching out of the driveway.

I’m at the gate when an explosion shakes the car.

A boom. Deafening. Painful. My hands clasp my ears.

Then silence. Nothing until the security guard is out of the guardhouse and pounding on my window. “Are you all right?”

I look up at him, ears ringing, head reeling, smell of blood in my nose. I open the door, stumble out. “What the hell was that?”

He’s looking over my shoulder, back the way I came. “I don’t know. Came from the direction of one of the houses.”

One of the houses? I follow his gaze. Black smoke roils up against the distant sky. There aren’t that many houses on this road. I can see half of them from here.

I can’t see Lance’s.

Jesus.

I start to run, oblivious to the guard’s pleading that I should stay with him, that I’m hurt.

Hurt? It isn’t until he says it that I realize the blood I smell is my own. I must have hit my forehead on the steering wheel or the dash. I don’t know. I don’t care. I wipe the blood out of my eyes with a forearm and keep going. The fastest way is over fences, through yards. Easy for me. Easy for vampire.

Follow the smell, the smoke. Acrid. Metal and rubber.

A car?

No one around. No one peering out windows or spilling from doors to see what happened. Where the hell is everyone? Are these all vacation homes? Are they all empty? No matter. The absence of mortals gives the vampire rein.

Two minutes and I’m at the scene.

The last house at the end of the road. A ball of flame surrounds a red MG.

Lance’s car.

CHAPTER 16

A
FIGURE MOVES INSIDE THE CAR.

Lance.

A dry heave racks my body as a sickening flashback to another vampire caught by flames propels me back.

Ortiz in a warehouse. A burst of light as his body ignited.

The vampire retreats.

I couldn’t save Ortiz.

I can’t save Lance.

Can I?

Another flash. Williams face. Distorted. Angry.
You could have saved Ortiz. Flames can’t hurt you.

Lance is pushing at the door, pounding on the window. Neither yields. He can’t seem to break free. His strength should be enough. Is it his terror of the fire? Fear that even if he gets out of the car, he has nowhere to go?

The floor of the garage is a sea of flame. Something in the garage exploded, not the car. The flames haven’t touched Lance yet. But they’re creeping toward the car. They could ignite the cloth top or the gas tank sitting in the undercarriage.

Adele at my side, screaming.

“Help him!”

Lance claws at the roof of the car, trying to rip it open.

He hears Adele, looks back, sees me. When our eyes meet, he stops fighting. He drops his hands, shakes his head. He resigns himself to death. Like Ortiz. He welcomes it because—

Reparation.

He doesn’t want me to risk my life for his. It’s there in his thoughts. Sorrow and regret.

No.

I won’t lose him.

The need to save him is stronger than the fear. The animal is stronger than the human. I need vampire. She is reluctant to come back. Flames are one of the ways we can die. She remembers Ortiz, too.

I force her to come. We have to try. She relinquishes control with a snarl and a cry.

I crouch, leap through the fire toward the car like a lioness through a burning hoop. I’m at the car. Hands grasp scorched metal, pull. Flames lick at my skin, my clothes. Pain rips into me. I hop on bare feet, first one then the other, to keep from howling with it.

The door is stuck. I gather all my strength, heave and pull it from the hinges. I toss it away, reach in, pull Lance out. I scoop him up, cradle him against me, leap again. One minute we’re in hell and the next, we’re lying in the grass at the side of the driveway.

Then a whoosh and another burst of light and heat as the gas tank of the MG catches. The car is consumed in a fiery ball.

Too close.

Sirens. From the highway.

I look over at Lance. “Are you all right?”

Adele looming over both of us. “My God, Anna. You saved him.” She reaches out a hand, stops herself, pulls it back, blanching.

What’s wrong with her?

Lance speaks then.
You came back.

There is so much gratitude and surprise and puzzled astonishment in those three words that, in spite of the anger I felt—what, two minutes ago?—I now find myself smiling.
I’m still mad at you.

He reaches out a hand.
I can live with that.

Adele squats down. “The police are coming. What do you want to do?”

Lance climbs to his feet, reaches down, pulls me up with him.

Gently. For the first time, I see the way he’s looking at me, too. With great concern. “What?”

But he’s speaking to Adele. “We’ll answer their questions. Not much else we can do.” He looks at me. “But you. I’m not sure how we can explain . . .” His words trail off, his eyes sweep the length of my body.

I glance down. My clothes are scorched remnants. Tattered shorts and what’s left of a T-shirt. But my skin.

My skin.

I hold up a hand. Blackened skin is already flaking and beginning to peel away. My legs. My torso. The healing process has begun. But the realization that I’m burned over most of my body brings with it
consciousness
.

First, pain. The shock of it. Great debilitating waves of pain.

Blinding. Searing. It buckles my knees. Lance catches me, eases me to the ground.

Then. Comprehension.

Lance’s eyes, watching, reading.

He understands.

I went through fire.

I
went through fire.

Ironically, I think Williams was right. In a way. Flames don’t kill me. But
hurt
me? You bet your ass.

Another siren joins the chorus.

“We have to get you away from here.”

Lance’s voice reaches out, pulls me back.

“If the police see you, they’ll insist you go to a hospital.”

Adele. “Take her to my room. They’d have no reason to go to the back of the house.”

The sirens grow louder. I glance at the garage. The flames burn themselves out. The MG is reduced to a charred metal hulk. But the garage itself, the structure, and the adjoining house are curiously untouched.

Lance picks me up and runs through the front door, Adele at his heels. Where his hands touch my skin, the pain is so great, I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. He feels it. He trembles at the thought that he’s causing me so much agony.

I try to smile. It hurts too much.

Adele’s room is off the sunroom in the back. Lance carries me inside, lays me on the bed.

Someone is pounding on the front door.

Adele shoos Lance out with a wave of her hand.

“I’ll take care of her. You go speak to the authorities.”

Lance leaves quickly. Adele moves to the side of the bed. “What can I do to help you?” she asks.

Open a vein and let me drink, the vampire inside me says.

“Nothing,” the human says. “I’ll heal. It may take a while. Go help Lance with the cops. Tell him to come when he’s finished. By then, maybe I can move up to his room. Give you yours back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Adele says. “There are plenty of extra bedrooms in this house.”

She moves toward the door. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

She’s having a hard time looking at me. I’ve seen enough CSI programs to know what a burn victim looks like. If she didn’t know I wasn’t human before, she sure as hell knows it now. It must be awkward having to talk to a piece of charred meat.

“Maybe some water?” I reply.

She’s happy to run any errand that takes her away from me. When she returns with a bottle of water, she holds it out. “Do you need help drinking?”

“No. Thank you. Go see what’s going on outside. I’ll be fine.”

She leaves and I take a long drink. I’m not feeling nearly as confident as I let on. I hold up a hand, flex my arm. I don’t seem to have lost bone or muscle mass. Only skin. I touch my face. Not much damage there. At least not that I can feel. My hair? Dry on the ends, but I still have hair. That’s got to mean something.

My arms, legs and torso are burned the worst. And the balls of my feet.

The pain isn’t as bad.

I let my body relax, let my head drop against Adele’s pillow. The scents of lavender and baby powder tickle my nose.

Subtle undertones almost drowned out by the putrid smell of burned flesh.

My burned flesh.

I close my eyes. Weariness washes over me. I fight it. There are so many things I should think about. So many questions to ask. So much uncertainty to puzzle through.

But the need of the body to escape pain is stronger. I can’t fight it.

One moment I’m conscious, the next I’m not.

CHAPTER 17

I
’M DREAMING. AT LEAST, I
THINK
I’M DREAMING.

I sense Adele standing over me.

“Is she asleep?”

A male voice from out of sight behind her. “Yes. She’ll be out for quite a while.”

“Is she in pain?”

“We’ve taken care of it. You can go back downstairs. She shouldn’t be disturbed.”

ADELE AGAIN. THIS TIME, MY EYES ARE OPEN. HER hair is tied back from her face with her mother’s scarf. She raises my head, brings a glass to my lips. “Drink, Anna.”

I do. A sip of water.

The same male voice as before, “Be careful. Just a little.”

I know that voice. Who is it? I can’t turn my head. The effort to raise it is too much. I try to speak.

Adele holds a finger to her lips. “Not yet, Anna. Go back to sleep. It’s not time.”

As she steps back, I hear him say, “She’s not really awake. Her eyes may be open, but believe me, she’s still asleep.”

He’s wrong, I think as I drift back off.

THIS TIME, I STRUGGLE FOR CONSCIOUSNESS, SWIM toward the surface against a strong current, determined to stay awake. Before I open my eyes, I listen.

A clock ticks. A bird sings. A dog barks. Under it all, the faraway hum of traffic.

Something else.

A heartbeat nearby. Soft breathing.

A human. Close.

Blood. I smell it.

Yet, it awakens no hunger.

Why?

I open my eyes.

Above me, tiled fresco.

Familiar. Lance’s room.

I turn my head toward the sound of the heartbeat.

A woman sitting on a chair near the bed. She’s asleep, I watch her chest rise and fall. I don’t recognize her. Why is she here?

I try to sit up. Something stops me. A glance down and I know why. A wide strap across my chest. It allows no movement.

Panic.

I pull at it and start to yell.

The woman jerks awake.

Her movement sends a sharp stab of pain into my right arm.

A flurry of footsteps from outside.

The door flies open.

“Lance?”

He’s at my side. He bends over, drapes his upper body over my chest to prevent me from moving. “Shhh,” he croons. “It’s all right. I’m here. Don’t try to move yet. Let me loosen the restraints.”

Restraints? Not comforting. I struggle harder.

He’s fumbling with something at the side of the bed. Another sharp twinge and my arm is free. Then he pulls at the strap and it falls to the side.

BOOK: Chosen

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