Jeanne Stein - Chosen

She’s rubbing her hands together. “But you’re cold .”

“Poor circulation. Been a problem my whole life. It’s hell on your sex life. Men don’t like getting naked with an ice cube.”

Tracey draws a breath. “Then this whole thing—”

“Is a game. I’m sorry you misunderstood. We only do this once or twice a year but authenticity is part of the fun. We stage mock kidnappings, arrange ‘accidents.’ David will be very embarrassed when he learns you found out.”

I watch as she processes what I’ve told her. The fact that she reacted so violently to the idea that I might be something other than human is worrisome. But if I pursue that now, I risk destroying the illusion that the note is anything other than a game prop.

At last she relaxes. She looks uncomfortable as color floods her face. “I’m sorry I burst in here like a mad-woman,” she says. “First there was that call from David’s girlfriend, then this note. You really should have let me know what you were doing. Maybe I can play sometime, too?”

I have a hand on the small of her back, ushering her toward the door. “Maybe you can. But for now, this is our secret, all right?”

She nods. “I’ll hold down the office until you guys get back on Wednesday. Then I expect to hear all about your adventures.”

I smile and wave her out then lean back against the closed door. Is she for real? I thought I was gullible. Tracey not only bought the story, she wants to play with us next time.

This is why I hate taking on a new partner.

I peek out through the front window to make sure she’s gone. Then I turn my attention to the note.

Being right about Judith Williams holding David brings no great sense of satisfaction. She’s already killed two humans. She’s fed, but what happens when the hunger strikes again?

The second impression is that she and David seem to be talking. Why does he think he’s been taken? Did she really tell him I’m vampire? How did he react to that piece of news? She didn’t say where she’s holding him, either. I still believe I’m right about that one. Frey and I will check out Avery’s as planned tonight.

Frey. He found the book? How? A little detail he didn’t mention this afternoon. Of course, I didn’t ask. He has a vast library of supernatural reference books. I assumed it was part of that library.

Which begs the next question. Where did Judith Williams get it? If the book does contain a way for me to get out of this ridiculous situation, why would Williams leave it laying around? He never gave me any indication that I had a choice. Just the opposite. According to him, my destiny was well—predestined.

I haven’t moved from the door when there’s another knock. I jump as if scalded, heart pounding, clutch the note to my chest like a life preserver.

Jesus. Get a grip.

Another peek out the window at Frey’s familiar face and form. He stands looking straight at the door, still holding that briefcase and wearing those ridiculous glasses. He has a look of excited expectation. He’s dressed in black jeans, too, with a linen shirt and a leather jacket. A square-jawed Indiana Jones about to embark on a great adventure. I wish I could share his enthusiasm.

As I swing open the door to let him in, I thrust the email toward him.

He places the briefcase at his feet, removes the glasses from his face and slips them into a jacket pocket before smoothing the paper to read what’s written on it.

I give him a minute. “You found the book?”

He glances up at me, then back down at the paper. “Not found . Exactly. More like discovered in a box of books sent anonymously to me last week. Happens all the time. Witches, warlocks, all sorts of supernaturals will me their libraries when they pass on. They know I am a Keeper.”

“Keeper?”

“Of the secrets. My father was one before me. My son will inherit the mantle when I pass on. It’s tradition.”

There is so much in that one simple declaration that demands clarification I scarcely know what to ask first. No, not true. I know exactly what to ask first. My voice torques up to screech.

“You have a son?”

He looks amused at the confusion reflected in my voice and the complete bewilderment that I’m sure is reflected in my expression. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“Surprised? No. Surprised doesn’t quite cover what I am. I’m dumbfounded. I’m fucking stupefied. You never mentioned a son. You never mentioned a family. Are you married?”

He shakes his head. “One does not have to be married to have children. I’m surprised you’d jump to that conclusion.”

He’s missing the point, evading my question. I have an overwhelming urge to shake him. I press the palms of my hands together to resist temptation. “Shape-shifter. Do. You. Have. A. Son?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Again, the look of amusement. “You know. Egg plus sperm equals conception. Bio 101. Has it been that long?”

He’s enjoying this. Way too much. The growl starts deep in my throat. “You’re fucking with me. Not a good idea. I’m tired, worried about David and trying really hard to resist the urge to slap that stupid expression off your face.”

Frey relents with upturned hands and a sheepish smile. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making jokes. Not now. What do you want to know?”

The shock of being hit with this unexpected bit of information about a man I thought I knew leaves me weak in the knees. A condition that’s becoming chronic. I want to sit down so I motion Frey over to the couch. When he’s settled, I take the chair opposite him and lean forward. “For starters, you are a shape-shifter. They reproduce like humans?”

“We are human. With a genetic difference. And yes, we procreate in the usual way.”

“How old is your son?”

“Four.”

“Does he live here in San Diego?”

“No. He lives with his mother’s people in Monument Valley.”

“She’s Native American?”

“Navajo, yes.”

“Do you see him often?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It is in his best interest.”

These abbreviated answers are as irritating as they are devoid of useful information. Yet, there is an air of quiet resignation in Frey’s manner that makes me refrain from pushing for more.

At least not now.

Later, though, when David is safe and my problem has been solved . . . That will be different. Then I intend to pursue this if I have to beat answers out of him. There is one other thing, though, that the bitch in me needs to know. Now.

“Does Layla know about your son?”

He looks at me and puffs out an impatient breath. He can’t read my thoughts, but he knows me well enough to suspect why I’m asking. “No.”

“Is that the truth?”

“You think I’m lying?”

I can tell by the defensive set of his shoulders that it’s all I’m going to get. It’s okay. The sense of satisfaction I’m experiencing over knowing something about her lover that Layla doesn’t is childish but gratifying.

He puffs out another breath. “Can we get back to why I’m here?”

“Sure. Where did you say you got the book?”

Frey launches into the story. UPS delivered the books two days ago. He admits he paid no attention to the return name or address. He could have checked with the carrier to see where they came from if he’d wanted to. But it hadn’t occurred to him to do so. Sometimes, he says, families are embarrassed when they find books on the occult in a deceased relative’s possessions. Often, the box is already sealed and addressed, and even more often, the person to whom the books belonged mails them himself when he or she feels death is near.