Read Online The Chosen by Sharon Sala - Free Book Online Page A

of her feet on the pavement matched the rhythm of her heartbeat, making her feel one with the world. She ran through the neighborhood, aiming for the small park up ahead. When she hit the footpath that wound beneath the trees, she kicked up her pace.
    It was good to get away from the traffic and sidewalks, and get under the trees. If she squinted her eyes just right and focused on the limbs shading the running path, she could almost believe she was at her grandmother’s home in Houston, Texas. Within moments, she’d let her mind wander back to a kinder, gentler time, remembering the gingerbread cookies her abuela made and going fishing with her daddy.
    Lost in thought, she’d circled the running path twice before she became aware of passing time. She hadn’t brought her watch but knew it must be time to head for home. She was at the point of turning back when a man walked out from between some bushes onto the footpath only feet in front of her.
    â€œLook—”
    It was all she had time to say before they collided. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs. January winced as her elbow scraped the ground, but the man’s shoulder cushioned her forehead, preventing her from further injury. Embarrassed, she rolled off him and jumped up. He followed her up, touching her shoulders to steady her, then picking at leaves and grass on her clothes.
    â€œI’m really sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was walking. I didn’t realize there was a jogging path here. Are you all right?”
    January was hurting, but not badly. She touched a finger to the scrape on her elbow. It stung but was hardly life-threatening. Shakily, she brushed the loose hair away from her face and retightened her ponytail.
    â€œYes…I think so,” she said, for the first time getting a good look at the man.
    He was tall and thin. His hair was long and pulled back at the nape of his neck into a ponytail. If it had been the seventies, he would have passed for a flower child. But it wasn’t the seventies, and if she’d had to put a name to his appearance, except for his accent, she would have guessed he was from the Middle East. His shirt and pants were of the same soft white fabric, and the cut of the clothes was such that they moved with the motion of his body. His smile was somewhat hidden by his beard, but when her gaze moved from his beard to his eyes, she froze. She’d seen him before—but where?
    The air stilled. January felt as if she was standing outside her own body, watching this moment take place. She could hear her own heartbeat loud in her ears, as well as the sharp chatter of a squirrel in a nearby tree. His eyes were so dark they appeared to be black. There were no visible signs of pupils or expression, just the feeling that there was nothing within.
    No soul.
    The thought came and went so quickly that it startled her. She took a defensive step backward and then wrapped her arms around herself as if a cold wind had just blown past.
    As she watched, the man’s smile widened.
    â€œI know you,” he said softly. “You’re that television reporter. You’re January DeLena, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes. Yes, I am, and I’m going to be late for work.”
    â€œOf course,” the man said, and then closed his eyes, lifted his hands palms upward toward heaven and began speaking in a loud, sonorous voice. “Bless this woman, Father, for she does good in Your name. Amen.”
    Granted, the man was an odd one. Even so, his prayer should not have been upsetting, but for some reason she couldn’t name, it was. By the time he finished and opened his eyes, she was already backing up.
    â€œYou’re afraid,” he said softly.
    â€œNo, no, I’m not,” January said, but it was a lie, and she hated that he knew it. “I really have to go.”
    She turned abruptly and began to run—out of