Chosen by Fate

Table of Contents

 

 

“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

CHOSEN BY BLOOD
CHOSEN BY FATE

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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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
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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
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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!

 

C
aleb 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 stiff 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?”