{"product_id":"chosen-isbn-9780441019175","title":"Chosen","description":"Anna Strong's primitive vampire instincts are getting harder to control. And a new enemy wants to take advantage of that fact, for Anna has been chosen to shape the destiny of all vampires-and all humans.\u003cb\u003eJeanne C. Stein\u003c\/b\u003e is the bestselling author of the Anna Strong Vampire Chronicles, which received a RT Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2008. She is active in the writing community and is a member of the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Horror Writers of America. Stein lives in Colorado.\u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt's sweat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI wasn't sure at first. I haven't been vampire that long, but I sure as hell don't remember sweating since becoming one. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrops of moisture pool between my shoulder blades, soak my underarms, collect between my breasts, making a soggy mess of the blouse underneath my jacket. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA new blouse. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt's sweat, no doubt about it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI can't take my jacket off. I've got a .38 clipped to my belt. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMight make the natives restless. Or excited.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShit. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI glance over at my partner. He hasn't broken a sweat so it's not the room. Even if I didn't have a constitution that is impervious to ambient temperature, the air conditioner in this dump is cranked up to ice age. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI start to squirm on the barstool, impatient to get out into the air. Impatient to escape.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEscape? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat the hell is happening?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy temple throbs, like my head is in a vise. A vise that's being slowly tightened. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGreat.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swipe a hand across my forehead. It comes away wet. I sneak a look across at David to see if he's noticed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe hasn't. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe's busy watching for the skip, Curly Tom, the reason we're stuck in this dive. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI look around, too. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut not for the skip. Something is wrong. I don't know what. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid takes a break from skip alert and peers at me over the rim of his beer bottle. I feel his eyes on me like an irritating swarm of gnats buzzing around my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI look up at him and bark, \"What?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You're squirming like a worm in shit. You not happy to be here?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike I should be? I'm burning up and my insides are quivering like a Jell-O shooter. Then there's Lance, tall, blond and sexy, waiting for me at home. No, I don't want to be \u003ci\u003ehere\u003c\/i\u003e. I frown at David. \"You said we'd be done by ten. And yet, here we are\"—I glance at my watch—\"at eleven, in a place reeking of stale beer and ripe biker. Bumfuckville, David.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe drains the bottle and motions to the barkeep for another. \"Eyes on the prize, Anna. Twenty thou.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"So where is he?\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid swivels on the barstool, takes a slow, lazy look around. \"Don't worry. He's coming.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"So's Christmas. I want to go home.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt's my turn to read David's expression. Aggravation mingled with frustration. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"We've only been here an hour. What's your goddamned rush?\" He leans back, his elbows on the bar, facing the door. \"Let me guess. That scrawny model boyfriend of yours is waiting for you at the cottage. Am I right?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Lance is not scrawny.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What's he weigh? One-seventy soaking wet? I don't know what you see in him. In a fight, he'd snap like a matchstick.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOh, David. Would you be surprised. Lance is a vampire, like me, and if it came to a fight, he'd be the one doing the snapping. I force a smile. \"He's lean, David, not scrawny.\" Comes from not consuming a carb in the last fifty years. \"Not every man is a pituitary case like you.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA flash of irritation tightens the corners of his mouth. I immediately regret my snarky remark. David is big, true, but a former football player who's kept in shape. He's my partner and friend, and he didn't deserve the crack.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI rub at my eyes with the palms of my hands. It's this damned headache.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI have a headache now?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow can a vampire get a headache? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid swivels his stool away from me and focuses his attention back to the door—a deliberate cold shoulder. Not that I blame him. I don't try to mitigate his snit. Instead I focus on whatever the hell is going on in my body. The head \u003ci\u003eache\u003c\/i\u003e has turned into an annoying hum and the stomach quiver into a clenched fist. Granted, I've been a vampire for less than a year, but I'm pretty sure we don't get the flu.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhich is what this feels like.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI rub at my eyes again and look around, trying to focus. This is a biker bar—a \u003ci\u003ereal\u003c\/i\u003e biker bar—on the outskirts of Lakeside in east San Diego County. Run-down, no flashing neon beer signs in the windows to attract customers. No windows at all. No back door. Probably be in violation of a hundred fire codes if it wasn't classified as a \"private club.\" Sawdust crunches underfoot, absorbing spilled beer and the occasional body fluid. Some wise guy has tacked a Health Department rating code of \"F\" above the bar.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMembers wearing the colors of the local Angels' chapter slouch at the bar or shoot pool under the glare of a green-shaded light. The only reason David and I have been left unmolested and unchallenged is because we know the president of the club. We did him a favor a few years back and he's repaying the debt. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was only too happy to oblige. The guy we're after isn't a biker. He's a pain-in-the-ass wannabe who robbed and shot a dealer in L.A. and skipped bail. He's been hanging around the bar, bragging about his score, thinking it might gain him access to the club. Trouble is, the prez knows it's only a matter of time before the cops trace him here. He'd rather we get him first. Saves the club the trouble of dealing with Curly Tom himself. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGood for us. Better for Curly Tom. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith us, it's a payday and he'll end up in jail. With the club, it's self-preservation and he'll most likely end up in a shallow grave in the Anza-Borrego desert.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI let my gaze sweep the room. No one seems to be paying us the slightest bit of attention. Most know why we're here. But I feel—\u003ci\u003esomething\u003c\/i\u003e. Anxiety. Apprehension. Dread. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhy? Over this jerk, Curly Tom?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMakes no sense. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid and I are bounty hunters. We've done jobs like this a hundred times. We've faced tougher guys than this joker. And that was before I became vampire. Having superhuman strength and speed tends to boost one's confidence. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo if I'm not experiencing this foreboding over Curly Tom, what is it?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe humming in my head grows stronger. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat's when it hits me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe last time I felt anything like this, a witch was behind it. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA witch. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe thought propels me off the barstool. The abrupt movement brings David to his feet, too. He looks around, right hand moving instinctively to touch the gun under his jacket. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Is he here? Do you see him?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shake my head. \"No. He's not here.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI look around. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut something is.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter Two\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid glances around to see how much attention we've attracted with my vault off the barstool. The noise level remains the same, and except for the biker next to David who got bumped when he leapt up, no one seems to have noticed. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat guy is not happy. Beer drips off the elbow of his leather jacket. \"Hey, asshole.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid mumbles, \"Sorry, man,\" and signals the barkeep for another round.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe guy shoots off his stool, but when he's standing next to David, who is six inches taller and built like a tank, he shrugs and accepts the beer with a grudging nod.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid waits for him to sit down, then turns his frown on me, \"What's the matter with you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI settle my butt back on the stool. If I told him what was the matter—that I think a witch might be trying to put a spell on me—I imagine the reaction would be the same if I told him his partner was a vampire. And had been for almost a year. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot an option.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat is an option is for me to get the hell out of here and find out who, or what, is after me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTime to go on the offensive. \"Ten minutes, David. I'll give it ten more minutes. Then I'm gone.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe opens his mouth to object but snaps it closed again, his eyes on the guy who just pushed his way through the door. \"There he is.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCurly Tom isn't curly. He's bald and short and fat, about two hundred forty pounds on a five-ten frame. He's dressed in leathers that bear no markings. At least he's smart enough to know wearing Angels' colors uninitiated is a death sentence. He looks around the bar, a goofy smile on his face, as if waiting for an invitation to join one of the groups clustered at the bar or in the back by the pool table.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo invitation is forthcoming. The barkeep leans over to David and whispers, \"Get him and get the fuck out of here.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith bikers, gratitude only gets you so far.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid slides off the stool and motions to the right. I go that way and he goes to the left. Before Curly Tom realizes what's happening, we've got him flanked. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid takes his arm in a steel grip that makes the biker flinch. \"Let's take a walk,\" David says. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCurly Tom's eyes widen, the smile falls from his face. He struggles to break David's hold but in a flash, I've got his other arm. When my fingers close around his forearm in a grip even stronger than David's, he yelps. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Who the fuck are you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat makes the bikers closest to us look around. But they know what's going on. They tighten ranks, their backs to Curly Tom, and in an instant, he sees he's on his own. He starts to dance around, trying to shake us loose. When that fails, he unleashes a shit storm of invective that's as creative as it is ineffective.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid and I hustle him outside.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhile Curly Tom continues his diatribe, David and I have a conversation of our own. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Told you he'd show up,\" David says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Yeah, yeah. Can you get him downtown on your own?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Why? You going back inside?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen I don't answer, he says, \"See if you get lucky?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Funny.\" \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI push Curly Tom's head down and shove him into the backseat of the Ford Crown Vic we use for work. David snaps his cuffed wrist around a steel bar in the door and straightens to peer at me in the dim light of the parking lot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"How will you get home?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I'll call Lance.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You'll call Lance. And he'll have to drive all the way out here from Mission Beach to pick you up. Doesn't make sense, Anna, even for you.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis tone makes the thudding in my head worse and the knot in my stomach tighten. Whatever is wreaking havoc with my nervous system is here in this place, and I need to find out what it is. But David is not giving up without a fight.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI slam the car door so hard, Curly Tom bounces in the backseat. \"I don't ask you to explain every thing you do. If I did, I might start with why you and that booking clerk from jail pick my side of the desk to fuck on when you sneak back to the office in the middle of the night.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe turns startled eyes toward me. \"How—?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"How do I know?\" I smell it. Not the answer I can give. I shake a finger. \"I just know, okay. And since she's on duty tonight, I imagine you'll be heading there after you drop this dirtbag off.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe puts a finger to his lips and jerks his head in Curly Tom's direction. \"Are you crazy? What if he hears you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Your problem. Now, are you finished grilling me?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDavid snatches the car keys from my outstretched hand. It wasn't fair bringing up his affair—he has a steady girlfriend that I'm sure knows nothing about his on-again, off-again fling with the chick from jail—but lately, nothing much is. He stomps around to the driver's side of the car, drops into the seat and peels out of the parking lot. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI release a pent-up sigh.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFinally.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe night closes around me. Moonless. Dead quiet. Mid-July hot. Even so, I start to shiver. I turn my face toward the bar. Whoever—whatever—is affecting me is inside. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe realization makes the feeling grow stronger. Something is there—just out of sight. Something evil. It draws me back. If this is a spell, it's like nothing I've felt before. The witch Belinda Burke's black magic drained her victims of physical strength and left their bodies ill and dying. This is attacking my brain at a primeval level. A warning of danger that's repulsing and magnetic at the same time. I can no more leave it unexplained or unanswered than I could convince David to leave me here alone at a biker bar without resorting to blackmail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'll apologize for that later.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA car pulls into the parking lot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA dark Ford sedan. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFollowed by a second.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNothing says \"cop\" like identical Ford sedans. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI step back into the shadows and watch.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen one of the drivers steps out, I recognize him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDetective Harris, SDPD Homicide.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThree more cars, patrol cars this time, pull up around the perimeter of the lot, effectively sealing it off. Harris directs the cops with hand signals, stationing them by the door and around the row of Harleys parked in front. One he sends around back, but the cop returns almost immediately. As David and I discovered earlier, there's no exit in the back, just one small window near the ceiling of the women's bathroom. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhen Harris is ready, he unclips his gun, holds it out of sight at his side and disappears through the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHell breaks loose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShouting. Swearing. Scuffling and running feet. Bikers pour out the door and straight into a line of cops, all waiting with guns drawn. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt the same time, I hear a sound from behind the building. A small sound, a window sliding open. Too soft for the cops out front to hear but not for a vampire.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBesides, the cops are occupied with corralling stampeding bikers. I make my way unnoticed to the back. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere's a man trying to wriggle through that one tiny bathroom window. His head is down, his hands flailing for purchase against the wood siding. He's stuck.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe raises his head, spies me. \"Hey, bitch.\" He's whispering, but his voice is hard, commanding. \"Help me out of here.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe sick feeling in my gut grows stronger. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stare at the face. Dark skin, eyes filled with hate, mouth twisted in a sneer. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI step back. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Didn't you hear me, bitch?\" He's trying to prop himself up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis time when he raises his head, I'm ready. I steel myself for the wave of nausea his gaze unleashes. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe headache, the sense of evil, the foreboding twisting my gut. It's all emanating from an asshole stuck like a fat toad in a bathroom window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swallow down disgust. \"What are you?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe pauses in his struggles to shoot me a look that's part astonishment, part rage. \"What do you mean, what am I? Are you nuts?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll my vamp senses have sprung to alert. I try to get inside his head. \u003ci\u003eAre you a vamp? A shape-shifter? A witch?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNothing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll I get is a black void, a deep well of malevolence.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd the certain knowledge that he's human.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHuman?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHow could that be? How can he be affecting my senses like this if he's human?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe stare at each other. He's got my mind locked in a steel vise. Every instinct screams I should rip out his throat, now, before he frees himself, before he gets loose and—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd what?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe's human. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe rouses himself first, face reddening. \"You stupid cunt. When I get out of here, I'll kill you.\" He resumes his wild thrashing, pushing against the wall with the palms of his hands, trying to get his lard ass through an opening barely bigger than his head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'm stupid? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI have two choices. Yell for Harris or let the guy do it himself when he realizes he's wedged so tight in the window, he'll likely starve to death if no one finds him. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eNo. There's another choice.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA voice inside my head.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eKill him.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Ace","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301510402277,"sku":"NP9780441019175","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780441019175.jpg?v=1767723693","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/chosen-isbn-9780441019175","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}