The Chosen

One  
 
 
Mountains Of Caldwell, New York,  Present day
 

The Black Dagger Brotherhood were keeping him alive, so that they could kill  him. Given the sum of  Xcor s earthly pursuits, which had beenat their best violent, and at their worst downright depraved, it seemed an apt end for him.

He had been born upon a winter s night, during a historic blizzard s gale. Deep within a damp and dirty cave, as icy gusts had raked o er the Old Country, the female who had carried him had screamed and bled to bring forth unto the Black Dagger Brother Hharm the son that had been demanded of her.

He had been desperately wanted. Until he had fully  arrived.

And that was the beginning of his story . . . which had ultimately landed him here.
In another cave. On another December s eve. And as with his actual birth, the wind howled to greet him, although this time, it was a return   to consciousness as opposed to an expelling unto independent life that brought  him forth.

As with a newly born young, he had little control over his body. Incapacitated he was, and that would have been true even without the steel chains and bars that were locked across his chest, his hips, his thighs. Machines, at odds with the rustic environs, beeped behind his head, monitoring his respiration, heart rate, blood pressure.

With all the ease of unoiled gears, his brain began to function properly beneath his skull, and when thoughts finally coalesced and formed rational sequences, he recalled the series of events that had resulted in him, the leader of the Band of Bastards, falling into the custody of what had been his enemies: an attack upon him from behind, a concussive fall, a stroke or some such that had rendered him prone and on life support.

At the non-extant mercy of the Brothers.

He had surfaced unto awareness once or twice during his captivity, recording his captors and his whereabouts in this earthen corridor that was inexplicably shelved with jars of all kinds. The returns to conscious- ness had never lasted long, however, the connectivity in his mental arena unsustainable for any length of  time.
This emergence was different, however. He could sense the shift within his mind. Whate er had been injured had finally healed and he   was back from the foggy landscape of neither-life-nor-death and staying on the vital side.
. . . really worry about is Tohr.
The tail end of the sentence uttered by a male entered Xcor s ear as a series of vibrations, the translation of which was on a delay, and whilst the words caught up to the syllables, he shifted his eyes over. Two heavily armed figures in black had their backs to him and he reclosed his lids, not wishing to reveal his change of status. Their identities were duly noted, however.
Nah, he s tight. There was a soft scratching sound and then the smell of rich tobacco rose up. And if he slips, I ll be there.
The deep voice who had first spoken became dry. To chain our brother back in line or help him murder this piece of meat?
The Brother Vishous laughed like a serial killer. Such a dim fucking view of me you got.
Tis a wonder we are not better aligned, Xcor thought. These males were as bloodthirsty as he.

Such an alliance was never to be, however. The Brotherhood and the Bastards had been e er on different sides of Wrath s kingship, the line drawn by the path of the bullet Xcor had put into the throat of that law- ful leader of the vampire race.

And the price of his treason was going to be exacted here and soon upon him.
Of course, the irony was that a countervailing force had since inter- ceded upon his destiny and taken his ambitions and focus far, far from the

J. R. Ward is the author of more than twenty previous novels, including those in her #1 New York Times bestselling Black Dagger Brotherhood series. She lives in the South with her family.