Jeanne Stein - Chosen

When Frey finishes up, however, he doesn’t lick his plate. Rather he takes it to the kitchen sink, rinses it, sticks it into the dishwasher. Very civilized. More civilized than the average vampire, though most hosts would probably object to being stuffed into a dishwasher.

He’s bending now to look through the glass door of an under-the-counter wine cooler. “How about a glass of wine? David has some nice reds here.”

I nod and he chooses one, a bottle with a black label and a gold crown. He uncorks it, swirls a little into a wide-mouthed wineglass and hands it to me.

“No. You taste. You have a much more sophisticated palate than I do. It’s all I can do to distinguish type O from type A.”

He laughs, completes the ritual, proclaims it drinkable and pours out two glasses.

We drink in silence for a few minutes. I sense that Frey has something he wants to say. He keeps looking at me but when my eyes meet his, he looks away. I let it go on through the first glass of wine but bring it to an end after we’ve started on the second.

“Spill it. And I don’t mean the wine.”

“Ha. Ha. Very clever.”

I lay my hand over his. “Come on. You have something on your mind. God knows I unload on you all the time.”

“This isn’t about me.” He comes from around the back of the counter to stand next to me. “I know you must be concerned about what’s going to happen tomorrow. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Isn’t that all we’ve done since I got back?”

He swirls the wine in his glass. He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to. We both know the ceremony is not what he’s referring to.

I take a good, long drink, almost drain my glass, before reaching for the bottle for a refill. I have to wait for the liquor to spread its warmth before answering. I want to be honest this time. No more bullshit. No more posturing.

I look up into Frey’s wonderful, thoughtful, concerned face and unexpectedly feel the sting of tears.

Stupid. Not me.

I jump up, try to turn away.

He grabs my arm and doesn’t let me.

I fall against his chest, heart pounding, to feel his own heart racing, too.

His arms close around me. “Tell me.”

I don’t know where to begin. Don’t know why after all that’s happened, I’m more afraid at this moment then I’ve ever been. I’ve lost too much. I can’t lose any more. Emotions swamp my senses like a tidal wave.

“Tell me.” Frey says it again.

I squeeze my eyes shut for courage. Let my arms encircle his waist, hold on so he can’t see the hopelessness on my face.

“I’m afraid.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve spent a year denying the possibility that I have some kind of mystical destiny. Yet here I am. Hours away from a supernatural showdown. What if I’m not who everyone thinks I am? I’m going to be killed for something I didn’t ask for. Something I don’t want. It’s not fair. I try every day to exist as a human. If I die no one will remember that I was here. My parents won’t even be able to give me a funeral. David will think I’ve deserted him again. I will have ceased to exist. No one will know.”

Frey’s words reach out to me, soft as a baby’s breath. “You assume too much. You assume you are going to lose. I know you, Anna. Anyone who challenges you is a fool. You don’t give in and you don’t give up. It’s what I love about you.”

He raises a hand to stroke my hair. “I believe in destiny. Yours. Even if you do not. And I believe you will win and that you will become a force for good in the world. You have it in you, Anna.”

His voice has taken on a gruffness that reflects more than concern. It’s startling. Confusing. I don’t dare move, don’t dare raise my head to see if I’m misinterpreting a friend’s attempt to comfort for something else.

His arms are still tight around me.

If I did raise my head, what would happen?

The voice of reason answers.

This is Frey. Layla’s Frey.

Nothing will happen.

I draw in a breath and push against his arms. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”

He doesn’t let go right away. He doesn’t let go until the rapid pounding of his heart slows. The rhythm of his blood—and mine—tempers and cools. For a moment, I’m able to suppress the fear.

The moment passes. He steps back. “Shall we get back to it?”

The book. The damned book.

“May as well.”

Frey reverts quickly to business as usual. We’ve gotten through the how and why of the ceremony.

Viewed from the perspective of the twenty-first century much of the book is difficult, if not impossible, to understand. Some of the book contains tidbits of history not relevant but interesting. Animal sacrifice to the gods was actually prohibited before the draining of a human host. Animals were a valuable commodity. Humans were fodder.

Frey is reading a passage he’s translated. The pages in his hand are clean, free of beer stains. He must have printed out a new copy when he went home to change.

I rest my chin on a cupped palm. “How did you translate this, Frey? Did you find a vampire Rosetta stone?”

He taps a finger against his temple. “All here. Part of the Keeper tradition. The ability to see meaning behind words, no matter what language they’re written in.”

“So, it’s not like the other books in your library?”

“No. This is not a book I’d loan out. This book is irreplaceable. The others belong as much to the supernatural community as they do to me. Any supernatural can read a book in my library. The secrets of this book are revealed only to a Keeper.”

It’s a new side of Frey I never knew before. His being a Keeper. Along with having a son. Things I hope I’m alive to pursue when this is over.

I push gloomy thoughts of the alternative out of my head to listen. Frey has moved along to who is likely to be in attendance.

“We can assume there will be a representative from each of the thirteen tribes and more than likely they will each bring an ambassador or two. Judith Williams and her entourage.”

A thought occurs to me that I can’t believe I hadn’t entertained before. “Is Judith the North American representative?”

Frey laughs. “Hardly. She obviously likes to think she has an important role to play because of her husband’s involvement. She’s no more than an invited guest.”

And more than likely sponsor of the challenger. Frey doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. We both suspect as unlikely as it might be, if there is a challenge, she’ll be behind it.

“Then who will be representing the North American vampires?”

It sounds more like a summit meeting of world leaders than convocation of vampire bigwigs. If I weren’t so personally involved, I’d find the whole idea absurd.

Frey consults his notes. “Joshua Turnbull from Denver.” The name snaps me to attention. “Are you sure?”

Frey looks again. “Yep. Why?”

“Because he’s the vamp who helped me when I was looking for Sophie Deveraux.”

It’s Frey’s turn to look surprised. Sophie Deveraux was the witch who helped save his life when he was under the spell of the black witch Belinda Burke—her sister.

I nod. “And he was a good friend of Avery and of Warren Williams. Which, it’s safe to assume, means he’s no friend of mine. While we parted on amicable terms, Turnbull was happy to see me go.”

I pause, remembering. “He never mentioned who he was. In fact, he made it a point to talk about the importance of vampires keeping a low profile in their communities.”

Frey shrugs. “And I’m sure he does. No one in the supernatural community, especially those in power, would want to draw attention to himself.”