Chosen by Fate Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-­ONE

  TWENTY-­TWO

  TWENTY-­THREE

  TWENTY-­FOUR

  TWENTY-­FIVE

  TWENTY-­SIX

  TWENTY-­SEVEN

  TWENTY-­EIGHT

  TWENTY-­NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-­ONE

  THIRTY-­TWO

  THIRTY-­THREE

  THIRTY-­FOUR

  THIRTY-­FIVE

  THIRTY-­SIX

  THIRTY-­SEVEN

  THIRTY-­EIGHT

  THIRTY-­NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-­ONE

  FORTY-­TWO

  Teaser chapter

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Virna DePaul

  PRAISE FOR

  CHOSEN BY BLOOD

  “Virna DePaul creates the perfect blend of danger, intrigue, and romance. You won’t be able to put this book down.”

  —Brenda Novak, New York Times bestselling author

  “Virna DePaul is amazing! Chosen by Blood is a unique, hot, spellbinding treat for all paranormal romance fans. I can’t wait for the next book in the series!”

  —Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author

  “Sexy, suspenseful, and very, very smart. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Eileen Rendahl, national bestselling author

  “DePaul’s debut novel, Chosen by Blood, snaps, crackles, and pops with action, adventure, and a heart-pounding romance. She builds an intriguing world populated by fascinating characters. You won’t want to miss this one!”

  —Karin Tabke, award-winning author

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Virna DePaul

  CHOSEN BY BLOOD

  CHOSEN BY FATE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  CHOSEN BY FATE

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Virna DePaul.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54468-6

  BERKLEY SENSATION®

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http:­/­/­us.­penguingroup.­com

  To my boys, Joshua, Ethan, and Zachary.

  Dream big, love hard, be happy, and know

  I’m forever grateful for the privilege of being

  your mother. You make me so proud!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I want to thank my friends and family for their support. I’m blessed to work with my agent, Holly Root, and my editor, Leis Pederson, as well as have the support of my critique partners and countless professionals at Berkley Publishing. Most of all, thanks to Craig for being my rock, my safe harbor, my anchor, and my wings. I love you!

  PROLOGUE

  THE SHEYOTE RESERVATION

  NORTHERN CALIFORNIA

  Caleb O’Flare recognized the man as a Fed the second he stepped into the Kiva Bar.

  Amid the roughly hewn furniture and scattering of primitive blankets on the wall, the guy’s pin-striped suit, conservative tie, and dark aviator glasses were dead giveaways. He was as out of place on the dusty reservation as a drag queen hanging with a pack of Navy SEALs.

  Still, when the man removed his glasses, Caleb saw a weary experience edging his expression. He’d seen action on the field, not just behind a desk. He might even have fought in the War when Caleb had. If so, he deserved Caleb’s respect.

  It didn’t matter.

  Respect wasn’t the issue. Trust was. And Caleb didn’t trust anyone anymore, especially not a Fed.

  As Secret Agent Man scanned the bar, Caleb purposely slouched lower in his seat—attitude, not evasion—spread his thighs wider, and nearly drained the rest of the whiskey he’d been nursing. He signaled the bartender, Nick, for another drink, then picked up his glass again.

  The last drops of whiskey warmed his stomach, and unbelievably managed to make him feel almost mellow. The Fed spoke and that mellowness quickly faded.

  “Caleb O’Flare.”

  The man stated his name with an arrogant certainty rather than pose it as a question. Caleb swiped the back of his hand across his heavily whiskered jaw. Deliberately, he let loose an insolent burp. He grinned at the expression of distaste that washed over the man’s features even as he heard a snort and chuckle behind him.

  “Whassa matter?” he said, purposely slurring his words. “Didn’t you do your intel? I’m half-Indian and half-Irish. You had to know the chances of finding me shit-faced were esp . . . est . . . extremely high.”

  Another burp escaped him, this one so prolonged that the man narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m Kyle Mahone, director of the FBI’s Special Ops Tactical Division. I’m here to offer you a job.”

  Abdomen muscles tightening, Caleb tilted his head to one side in an exaggerated manner and stared silently at Mahone. Neither of them blinked.

  “Here you go.” Nick handed him a st
iff one.

  “Thanks, Nick,” Caleb said softly, taking the drink from his friend. He drained it in one swallow before silently placing the glass down. He twirled the glass in small circles against the scarred, wooden tabletop. Minutes ticked by.

  He had to give Mahone credit.

  The man didn’t shuffle his feet or try to break the awkward silence. He stayed put. Still. Until Caleb finally met his gaze once more.

  “Somehow I don’t think you’re here because of my medical skills, and as I told you people years ago, I’m out of the torturing business.” He spoke clearly, loudly, knowing his statement would raise questions in the minds of the three other people in the bar, but also knowing none of them would dare question him about it.

  Although he wasn’t expecting Mahone to look shocked by his verbal volley, neither was he expecting the man to keep his expression so bland. The word “torture” tended to make most people uncomfortable, even when they’d been the ones committing it.

  Unofficially, of course.

  “We’re asking you to join a team. One made up of Otherborn and humans.”

  Now it was Caleb who struggled to keep his expression composed. This had to be a joke. Or a trap. Since humans first discovered the Otherborn almost a decade ago, there’d been attempts to befriend and integrate them, with the ultimate result being the Second Civil War and countless deaths among all the races. Yes, peace had eventually been declared, segregation had been outlawed, and progress had been made, but mistrust and bitterness still divided humans and Otherborn by miles.

  A combined team of Otherborn and humans? Who’d authorized that debacle? Not Mahone. As a Bureau director, he was powerful, but not that powerful. The green light would have had to come from a higher-up. Hell, probably from the President of the United States himself.

  But why? He couldn’t see the Feds voluntarily working with Others unless it was to manipulate them.

  “Peace is tenuous. A Para-Ops team is our best way of protecting it. The team’s tasks will be varied. Force will be used only when necessary.”

  His pulse accelerating with his irritation, Caleb caught Nick’s eye. “I’ve heard that line before.”

  “I’m sure you have, but you haven’t heard it from me.”

  He snorted. “Meaning you’d never ask me to lie, cheat, or steal to get the U.S. government what it wants?”

  Mahone’s face tightened fractionally. “I didn’t say that. But this time, the judgment calls will be made by you. You and your team,” he amended.

  Caleb’s “team” had once been the U.S. Army. He’d been a medic, mostly. Other times . . .

  Maybe he should have guessed what they’d use him for, but he hadn’t. Not until . . .

  Nick delivered Caleb another drink, this time with a glare of disapproval. Caleb ignored him. He stared at the drink, then cleared his throat. He told himself he was asking out of curiosity, not because he was considering the job offer. Even so, he couldn’t deny the way his heart was pounding with excitement or the way his blood was rushing through his veins with a vigor he hadn’t felt in years.

  Five years to be exact.

  “So what kind of Others are we talking about? Weres?”

  Mahone’s nod wasn’t a surprise. Weres were the most aggressive Others, natural-born warriors. “Vamps?”

  “A dharmire.”

  Caleb straightened in his chair. “Knox Devereaux?” he guessed, thinking of the one dharmire the FBI would be most interested in. While the rest of his vamp clan was wasting away thanks to an engineered vaccine, which prevented human blood from nourishing vamps, Devereaux ironically thrived because he had human blood running through his veins. What good was being immortal when it meant an eternity of starvation or, in Devereaux’s case, an eternity of watching those you love starve? If the FBI had convinced Devereaux to join its ranks, it was because it had something invaluable to offer in return. Sure enough, Mahone gave a terse nod, and Caleb whistled. “Wow. You’re recruiting big, Mahone.” Sprawling back in his chair with his legs stretched in front of him, Caleb folded his hands behind his head, blinking when his surroundings faded in and out. It was a sign that he was drinking too much, but he pushed through the haze. “So what do you want with little old me?”

  “Don’t play coy,” Mahone snapped. “You’re a healer whose talent is as unique as it is inexplicable. You were a vocal supporter of Otherborn rights, even during the War. Plus you’re skilled in chemical weaponry. That’s a talent we can use—if it’s needed,” he emphasized.

  “Any felines on this team?” Caleb taunted, already knowing the answer.

  “No.”

  He reached for his drink and took a swallow, draining more than half of it. “Smart, considering so many of them want to kill me.”

  “Given how out of shape you’ve become, O’Flare, killing you might not be as hard as one would’ve thought.”

  Mahone’s caustic statement almost made Caleb laugh. Almost. “Reconsidering your offer?”

  “Considering accepting?”

  Staring down a man who was far more sober than him turned out to be fairly difficult. “So who else?”

  After a brief pause, Mahone said, “Two females. I’m targeting a mage and a wraith.”

  “A wraith?” He frowned. He’d never seen one, not in all his travels or years of service. But he’d heard about them. No pulse. No blood. No body heat or need to eat. What they did have was a common gender—female—and a whole lot of angry going on. Oh, and immortality. “Some dead chick? I thought the few in that species were isolated up in Maine, in that compound they’d built.”

  “This one’s an independent thinker.”

  Right.

  Or, put another way, she was an especially heinous bitch who couldn’t be killed and who wouldn’t die.

  Nice.

  Caleb studied Mahone. “By the look on your face, the ghost troubles you. Why?”

  “Let’s just say she has an agenda, one I’m not sure I can help her with.”

  “So your role is to fulfill agendas?” He smirked. “What’s mine?”

  “What do you want?”

  Caleb raised a brow at the man’s bravado. “Nothing you can give me.”

  “Not even a name?”

  What the hell was Mahone getting at? “What name?”

  “The name of the person who masterminded Elijah’s death.”

  Shock rattled through Caleb like Mahone’s words were a ball and Caleb the pinball machine.

  Elijah—the feline prince. The bastards. Set him up and then use the situation to bribe him? He stood, palms pressed on the table, and sent Mahone a silent though unmistakable message: Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. “Haven’t you heard? Elijah’s death was accidental. A foreseeable one, given he was being tortured at the time. But then, that was my doing, right? After all, I’m the one who could’ve stopped the questioning by confirming whether he was answering truthfully or not.” Caleb pounded the table so hard it shook. “No one masterminded his death, and the person universally blamed is me. Some made-up name isn’t worth anything at this point.”

  Mahone shrugged with an obvious lack of concern. “Maybe. Or maybe the use of torture as a last resort was really an intentional execution, and your role began and ended as a convenient scapegoat.”

  Caleb laughed, the sound mockingly bitter. Shaking his head, he sat down again. “How convenient. Too bad no one’s ever posited that theory before.”

  “And that means it’s not true? Pity, but maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were, O’Flare.”

  “I’m plenty smart enough to smell crap when I hear it,” he muttered. “Go sell it to someone else.” He reached for his glass, then was shocked when Mahone reached out and tossed the contents on the floor.

  Deliberately, Mahone set the glass back on the table. “You’ve had enough, son.”

  Son? Mahone couldn’t be more than ten years his senior. Staring first at the man, then at the glass, Caleb gripped the edges of the table and strugg
led for restraint. The intensity of his emotions made his voice shake. “Get me another drink. Now.” But even as he uttered the command, shame washed over him. Shame because he needed the liquor with a biting intensity. Shame because he knew he was pissing away what could be his last chance to do something worthwhile with the rest of his life. But then he remembered . . .

  “You saved lives, O’Flare. Fought for what was right.”

  Caleb shook his head, rejecting his mind’s recollection of all the gruesome images it had collected over the years. “I don’t know what’s right anymore. And I took lives, too.”

  “A few in combat. When you had no choice.”

  “I had a choice toward the end.”

  Mahone sighed. “One. One life. And it wasn’t deliberate.”

  “One. One hundred. One thousand. Deliberate or not.” He swallowed hard. “Doesn’t matter. Culpability isn’t based on quantity. At least, not in my world.”

  “All the more reason for you to get involved in what I’m offering. And you’re right about one thing. I don’t have proof that Prince Elijah was murdered, but I’m following a lead. If it pans out, you can be privy to the information I collect or not. Serve on the team, and I give you an IOU. If you decide you want something other than my intel, and it’s within my power to give it to you, it’s yours.”

  Caleb ripped his gaze from the empty glass to stare at Mahone. An IOU could come in handy someday, but that was assuming Mahone was a man of his word.

  “So what’s it to be, O’Flare?” Mahone pressed. “You can take another drink, or you can listen to what I have to say. What I have to offer. If you want to tell me to piss off, at least do it with all the information. That’s something you didn’t have before, isn’t it?”

  The low blow took Caleb unawares. No, he hadn’t known Elijah was the prisoner being tortured for information or that his own refusal to act as a human lie detector would result in Elijah’s death. In his mind, doing the latter had been tantamount to condoning the methods used to extract Elijah’s confession. A lot of good Caleb’s principles had done Elijah in the end.