Jeanne Stein - Chosen

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.

The woman in the chair is watching wide-eyed. Suddenly, Adele is at her side. She pulls something from the woman’s arm and slaps a piece of gauze where a small bubble of blood is blossoming.

“Hold your arm straight up for a minute,” she tells her. “And then you can go downstairs.”

I watch uncomprehending. “Lance, what’s happening?”

He is smiling and stroking my hair. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” he says. “How do you feel?”

How do I feel? I don’t know. I press my fingers against my eyes. How am I supposed to feel?

Suddenly, the touch of my fingers against my eyelids trips the memory.

My skin. On fire. The pain.

I hold up my hand, turn it back and forth, amazed at what I see.

The ravaged skin is gone. My hand is undamaged. I trail my fingers up my arm. Throw back the covers. I’m wearing a large T-shirt. Under it, the skin of my torso is smooth, flushed. Normal.

I choke out the words. “I’m healed.”

He nods. “You’re healed. And it only took two days.” He laughs. “And a dozen or so hosts.”

I glance again toward the woman. She has a Band-Aid at the crook of her elbow. Adele is walking her out.

“How did you do it?”

“Took a page out of a medieval text. You couldn’t feed, but you needed blood to heal. We set up an intravenous line between you and the donors. Worked like a charm, though we had to keep you doped up. Couldn’t have you thrashing about and pulling out the needle.”

I shake my head. “How did you come up with that idea?”

A voice from behind him, the voice I remember from a dream, spoke up. “It was my idea, actually.”

Of course it was. If I thought I could pull it off without falling flat on my face, I’d jump out of bed and hug the guy stepping around to join Lance at the side of the bed. But I can’t trust my legs, so I do the only thing I feel capable of. I hold out my arms and beam a smile. “I should have known. Who else would have the guts to tie me to a bed and force-feed me?”

Daniel Frey grins back. “Who else indeed.”

Two hours later I’ve had a shower. With Lance’s help. A déjà vu moment, only this time, he’s supporting me. Two days flat on your back and even a vamp’s legs become wobbly. Then, dressed in shorts and one of Lance’s tank tops, I’m sitting by the pool on a chaise between Lance and my friend Daniel Frey.

Frey has shorts on, no shirt, no shoes, and is as unaffected by the blistering desert heat as Lance and I. It’s late afternoon, but the sun is still strong enough to bounce shimmers of heat off the pool deck in flickering waves. I tip my head back and soak it in. My arms and legs tingle with the kiss of sun on new skin.

Now if I could just get the smell of burned flesh out of my nose.

Adele placed a pitcher of iced tea on the table in front of us before disappearing back into the house. Lance told me she took charge of the women who donated blood to me: fed them, watched until she was sure they were strong enough to leave, and sent them home in a car with money and a certificate to the Armani shop. The hosts seemed pleased with the attention and the gifts. It freed Lance to stay by my bedside.

I don’t know how I’m going to repay her kindness—or her discretion. If she didn’t know what I was before, there is no doubt she does now.

My thoughts and attention shift to Lance. I reach for his hand. “What made you think to call Frey?”

“He was the obvious choice,” Lance answers. “After what happened a few months ago in Mexico. Frey saved Culebra’s life. I never thought your life was in danger, but I didn’t know what to do to speed the healing process.” He raises his glass to Frey. “He not only knew but came here and took charge. I owe him.”

“ We owe him.” I raise my glass, too.

Frey gives a modest little smile, returns the toast.

He’s a handsome man, forty-something, dark hair touched on the sides with gray, a terrific build. He’s also a shape-shifter and a friend. We were lovers once, it happened not long after I was turned, when he came to my aid in a different way.

He’s watching me and the smile broadens, as though he senses what I’m thinking.

Lance does pick up on it. He skewers me with a raised eyebrow. Should I be jealous?

Frey, who is privy to Lance’s thoughts but not mine, answers before I can. “No. That was a while ago. Anna was just learning what it meant to be vampire then. She’s come a long way.”

Nice that he said that out loud. Shape-shifters and vampires can read each other’s thoughts. Unless you do something stupid like I did. Months ago, I bit Frey in a pique of childish frustration and concern over what I perceived as a threat to my niece, Trish. Frey was helping her. At the time, I hadn’t been sure. Once a vampire feeds from a shape-shifter, the psychic link between them is broken. It’s a wonder Frey still thinks of me as a friend.

A wonder and my very good luck. Which calls to mind the second question. Frey doesn’t drive. Something about having feline sight as his other form is panther. Cats see on the blue side of the spectrum. Gives them great night vision, but makes it difficult to distinguish a broad range of colors. Red, yellow and green, for instance.

“How did you get here?”