CHAPTER 12
Kerrick stood near the pool table, Alison in his arms. Christ, they’d barely made it out alive.
Guilt powered down on his head, tensing his neck and tightening his chest. This was what happened to the women in his life. Proximity meant danger. Danger meant injury and death.
Goddammittohell.
Blood still seeped from her shoulder. She needed help. Now. “I think you’d better call one of the healers. My powers don’t encompass torn arteries.”
“We don’t need to,” Thorne said. He grimaced, his brows drawn into a deep furrow as he stared at Alison. “Endelle is on her way.”
“Thank God. In the meantime, pressure on the wound would help.”
Thorne stepped close and with the heel of his palm stanched the flow. “She’s very beautiful,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” Kerrick muttered. Dammit, he shouldn’t have taken her at the neck earlier. What the hell had he been thinking and just how much blood did she have left? The level of Alison’s powers demanded she battle her way into Second and she needed every resource, including a decent amount of red cells. What the hell had he been thinking?
He hadn’t.
Ever since the breh-hedden had taken hold of him his brain had been functioning on fumes. If he hadn’t been working her out on the couch, this wouldn’t have happened. He needed to get a grip. Now.
“So why the emergency lift?” Thorne asked, shifting his gaze to Kerrick. “How many death vamps were there? I’ve seen you battle eight by yourself and barely break a sweat.”
“There were dozens. A regiment.”
“What the f*ck?”
“Greaves sent his army.” Which was another part of the truth. He’d been prepared to take on two or three squads of death vamps but not a regiment.
Thorne hissed. “That goddamn motherf*cker. So there weren’t only death vamps present.”
“That’s right. Good old working soldiers.” He told his story ending with, “Things would have been different if he hadn’t sent his army. That much I know. It just never occurred to me that he’d send a regiment, that he’d break such a big f*cking rule. Shit.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. We knew from the medical complex that her signature showed up on the grid. Any way you look at it, you were screwed.”
Right. Whatever. “Someone else should have charge of her.”
“Doesn’t sound like it would make one lizard’s turd of a difference.”
Kerrick huffed a laugh. “No. I guess not.”
“No question we’re in for it, though. And you know what the Commander will do when he hears we used an emergency lift.”
“You got that right.” He ground his teeth. There weren’t enough obscenities to cover the scope of his thoughts. “But we’d both be dead otherwise and isn’t it kind of illegal to be dropping an army down on Mortal Earth?”
Thorne snorted his disgust. “The Committee will overlook that little indiscretion.”
COPASS. The Committee to Oversee the Process of Ascension to Second Society. “Bullshit committee.”
Kerrick had a sick-gut feeling all over again, the one laced with despair. He had been a warrior one century too long. He couldn’t seem to find his feet anymore, and by the looks of it Thorne wasn’t in much better shape.
Thorne glanced at Alison. “So, what do we have here? Endelle said she sent a hand-blast up the Trough.”
“Yep. Saw it myself at the receiving end. Straight up. A sand geyser about a quarter of a mile high.”
“Damn.”
“Where the hell is Endelle? Alison can’t lose much more blood.”
Thorne scowled, his gaze shifting back and forth as he scanned the room. “She’ll be here.”
“I need to get Alison back to Mortal Earth. I have no idea how long she can tolerate being on Second.” An un-ascended mortal couldn’t handle being in the second dimension for more than a couple of hours at a time. In a wounded state, the draining effects would rob the mortal of the much-needed energy to recover. An extended stay of longer than twenty-four hours, wounded or not, always ended in death. Only when Alison received from Endelle’s hand the ascended vampire nature at her ascension ceremony would she be able to tolerate living on Second Earth.
The air shimmered suddenly. Endelle. She caught Kerrick’s gaze and without a single nicety cried, “What the hell have you done? An emergency lift? Do you know what this means?” Kerrick’s ears rang. “Did you just lose half your IQ points, Warrior? Shit!” The decibels she employed in that one word, spoken as it was both aloud and with telepathy, pounded the hell out of his eardrums and shattered all the bottles on the bar. The sudden reek of alcohol drenched the air. “You might as well have handed Alison’s head on a platter to that motherf*cker. Calling an emergency lift just gave Greaves one more piece of ammunition against us. He’ll take this to COPASS and demand retribution and they’ll give it to him. So, again, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Didn’t have a choice, ma’am,” Kerrick began. He told her what he’d told Thorne.
She scowled as she glanced at Alison. “You know, you’re really letting me down here, Warrior.”
Kerrick drew in a long deep breath through his nose. “Yes, ma’am. But there wasn’t much else I could do. The Commander didn’t just send a war party to Carefree, he sent a regiment.”
“Whatever.”
Her wings, a ruddy scarlet this time, extended to their fullest height and breadth, a reflection of her temper. She had changed her clothes from earlier in the evening and wore tight black leather pants and some kind of dark hide halter with long bristled fur. He thought buffalo, maybe.
“You’d better take her back to Mortal Earth,” she barked.
“But where?” Thorne asked. “And how do we sustain secrecy?”
She huffed a sigh. “All right, let’s take care of our little troublemaker.” She drew her feathers abruptly into her wing-locks, a movement that jostled the halter but didn’t dislodge it.
She laid a hand on Alison’s forehead. The air pulsed slowly, then rapidly all around them.
When the pulsing stopped, Endelle straightened up. “You can take her now. I’ve given her a shield, which will last about thirty-six hours. No one will be able to locate her.”
“It may not be that simple,” Kerrick said. “Both Alison and I have signatures that show up on Central’s grid. If Greaves or his generals located us because of our signatures, that means they’ve improved their technology. Your shield might block Alison’s signature but not mine.”
“Shit,” Endelle muttered. “All right. Let me think. Okay. I can put my mist around the Queen Creek house and as far as I know even Greaves won’t be able to find you.”
Kerrick nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to see him bust through your mist.”
“Damn straight about that. Okay. So, we’re done here, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned to leave.
“She’when’endel’livelle!” Thorne called after her. At least three very pronounced clicks broke up the proper name.
Yep, crickets in his mouth.
Kerrick lifted a brow. How could Thorne even remember her birth name, not to mention pronounce it?
Endelle turned around and scowled at her second-in-command. “What?” she snapped.
“Could you take care of the wound, please? Neither Kerrick nor I have the ability to heal a mortal whose shoulder has been shredded.”
She clenched her jaw. “I hate details.” She blurred back and touched the wound. The flesh re-formed flawlessly, and a vibrant pink color returned to Alison’s face. So much power. She replaced the bloodied sweater, T-shirt, and jeans with a soft white, but very short, tunic.
“Thank you,” Thorne said, averting his gaze from Alison’s now bare legs. Endelle rolled her eyes, tossed an arm, then folded. She left behind a blast of wind full of stinging grit to remind her warriors just how much she disliked being taken from her usual routine.
Kerrick whirled away in order to shield Alison. When the wind stopped, he turned back to Thorne, who in turn just shook his head. Endelle was one fine piece of work. “What the hell was she wearing?”
Thorne shrugged. “I don’t know. Bear hide?”
Kerrick snorted.
Just as he was going to ask Thorne to give him a fold to Queen Creek, a double shimmer appeared near the bar some twenty feet away.
Medichi … and Marcus.
Kerrick’s jaw hardened and a hideous growl erupted out of his throat.
Thorne automatically threw an arm in front of Kerrick. “How’d it go?” he called to Medichi. “And what the hell happened to Marcus? Hey, a*shole, your pansy-ass life catch up with you?”
Marcus had a huge bump over his left eye and a deep cut on his right arm that dripped blood onto the floor. He met Kerrick’s gaze and his shoulders hunched.
“Motherf*cker,” he called out, his teeth gritted. At the same moment, in a move lightning-quick, Medichi grabbed Marcus, slammed him to the floor, then put a foot on his neck. Medichi held him in place as Marcus started cursing the dust Kerrick walked on and everything else he could think of.
“Goddammit,” Thorne muttered. “Just what we need.”
“Take the ascendiate,” Kerrick cried, trying to shove Alison at Thorne. “Let me at the bastard! I’ll break his f*cking neck!”
Thorne turned back to Kerrick and over Alison’s body he caught Kerrick’s face with both hands, getting up close. “You just get her to Queen Creek and keep her safe,” he cried, splitting his resonance.
Despite the fact that Alison was caught between them, Kerrick shifted his knees as well as his shoulders in a primal effort to bust out of Thorne’s hold on him. He breathed hard through his nose. He wanted at Marcus like nobody’s business.
“Calm the f*ck down!” Thorne shouted. “You have guardian duty right now. You can beat the shit out of Marcus later. Right now, take care of your woman.”
These last words, spoken as they were aloud and in Kerrick’s head, brought his focus straight at Thorne’s red-rimmed hazel eyes. The pain of the combined mind-voice speak nearly brought Kerrick to his knees.
He started nodding without quite knowing what he was agreeing to. However, in deliberate measures, his breathing slowed and he didn’t see quite so much red as before.
“Ready to go?” Thorne asked.
Kerrick nodded.
The vibration began.
* * *
Kerrick stood in the middle of his Queen Creek living room on Mortal Earth.
He concentrated on steadying his heart. When Marcus had folded to the Cave, if Alison hadn’t been in his arms, he would have gone apeshit on that bastard’s ass. It sure as hell wasn’t helping his blood pressure to think about what he would have done, what he still wanted to do to his former brother-in-law. Hatred didn’t begin to describe what he felt for Marcus.
Jesus. After two centuries he still wanted to kill the man for all the things he’d said after Helena had died, all the blame he’d laid at Kerrick’s feet, even if it was the same blame he heaped on his own damn head.
With his woman still in his arms, he started walking around in one large circle, yeah, calming the hell down. He looked down at Alison and let her presence work on him, even in her unconscious state. He took massive breaths and focused on her beautiful face.
The living room smelled of leather couches and chairs, though not sufficiently enough to block the powerful scent of lavender that clung to Alison’s skin. As he savored her peaches-and-cream complexion, the breh started to replace all the stinging rage. Damn, but she was beautiful, lovely straight nose, high cheekbones, and her lips … so f*cking kissable. He wanted to kiss her … right now.
Take care of your woman.
His woman.
The words fit. They felt so f*cking right. He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted to hold her for hours, years … okay, centuries.
He needed to keep her safe, to protect her, to keep her alive, dammit. So far he’d been barely one step ahead of the adversary, to the point that she’d almost bought it in Carefree. He had to do better. At least Endelle’s mind-shield would give them a reprieve.
Her face held him entranced. She had a small freckle just off to the side of her left eye, barely a mark at all. He couldn’t help it. He drew her close, leaned down, and covered the freckle with his lips. She sighed in her sleep. He drifted his lips over her cheek. He breathed in lavender and hardened—yet something else happened as well. Great chunks of metal, several feet thick, began dropping away from the sides of his heart. The crashing sound chipped at his resolve.
His gaze drifted over the soft arch of her eyebrows, down the straight pretty line of her nose, to the sensual fullness of her lips. Her beauty worked him like a boxer in a ring, punching at him until she dropped him for the count. The breh-hedden couldn’t possibly answer for everything he felt. Maybe the ritual merely heightened what was essentially a godawful attraction.
Yet the vow he’d taken after Helena’s death hadn’t been done in haste or on impulse. He straightened his shoulders then carried Alison into the guest room. He rounded the bed then with a thought drew the covers back. As he lowered her, she awoke slightly, blinking up at him. “Kerrick?”
“I’ve got you. Just sleep for now.”
“Okay. I’m so tired.” She rolled onto her side. He drew the comforter over her.
“Of course you are.” He patted her shoulder. She caught his hand, turned into it, and, oh, damn, she kissed the back of his fingers. Desire flowed through him like gasoline on fire.
“Thank you for getting us out of there,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. Then she turned her head into the pillow, released his hand, and sighed.
He made himself back away from the bed. He took one step then another although it was like moving through quicksand.
This is for the best. Let her sleep.
One more step.
One more.
He finally reached the doorway and could breathe again, but he kept the door wide in case she called for him.
He turned into the hall then moved to the front door and opened it. What he saw mesmerized him. A well-constructed mist confused even the strongest mind, ascended or otherwise, but oh … my … God. Endelle had created one incredible superstructure of mist around not just his house but his property as well. This was helluva lot more complex than the one he’d composed in Carefree.
He moved onto the porch then well out into the yard. He looked back at the house. He had to work hard to see the house at all since Endelle’s mist confused even his powerful mind. Only by focusing could he see that, yep, a dome of mist covered his home, a constantly moving swirl of white gossamer threads. Yet, beyond the threads, he could see the blue sky. Amazing. Just amazing.
He shook his head back and forth. Holy shit. Sometimes he forgot just how powerful Endelle was. He couldn’t imagine Greaves, or any of his generals, getting within a hundred yards of his home.
Only then did he relax.
He crossed to the guest room to check on Alison. Hell, he just wanted to look at her once more. If he ever communed with her fully—entered her body, exchanged blood with her simultaneously, and engaged her mind at the deepest level—she would be bound to him in a way that would haunt her if he died. The breh-hedden wouldn’t be like a simple Second Earth marriage, not between them, not with so much power on each side. They would be linked, joined, bonded, an inseparable pair. Death would never be a straightforward matter because grief, for the one left behind, would be magnified to the tenth.
For these reasons, he would never engage in full communion with Alison. He had a high-profile warrior job and the chances of his buying it one day were way too high to let her bear the burden of having to cope afterward.
So, yeah. He wouldn’t complete the breh-hedden with Alison. It was too much to put on the shoulders of a fellow vampire ascender. As much as his groin strained toward her, as painfully as his chest tightened while he watched her roll onto her back, even as much as death seemed a welcome alternative to this denial, he wouldn’t bond with her.
He forced himself to move on. He went into a utility room off the garage and folded his sword and dagger onto the long table he’d had installed just for this purpose. With Choji oil and clean rags, he cared for his weapons.
After he was satisfied with the sharpness of both the sword and the dagger, he returned them to his weapons locker on Second. He located his guns, still in the Hummer, and mentally folded them back to the same location. He went to his master bath, stripped, then hopped in the shower. As he soaped up, the warm water eased his aching body.
So much power on Second.
So much responsibility.
And the temptations were a hundred times harder to resist.
When the heat had worked some of the tightness out of his neck and shoulders, he rinsed, shut the water off, then wiped down with a towel. He sat on the side of the bed, a second towel draped over his ritual long hair. He felt better. He had a plan of action now. Maybe things would happen with Alison, involving blood and sex, perhaps even a sharing of minds, but he could make sure the ball game didn’t play to the end. Yes, he could do that.
Screw the breh-hedden.
As he finally climbed between the sheets, and as sleep overtook his mind, he wondered what anvil would drop on his head in the next twenty-four hours.
* * *
Marcus wiped the blood off his lip as Horace tended to him. The healer, who looked like all those retro pictures of Christ, had his hands over the deep cut on his arm, taking care of biz.
His heart finally beat like it was supposed to. Yet from the moment he’d folded to the Cave with Medichi and caught sight of the bastard-from-hell, he’d been in a state. Even now, as he sat forward on the ratty brown leather couch nearest the bar—that bar with all the broken bottles—his left knee bounced. He’d tried to make it stop several times but he was so damn juiced, too much damn adrenaline and nowhere to put it.
Luken and Santiago worked to clear up the mess, which had to be done manually. Only Central, or maybe Endelle, had the power to clean up debris without a mop or a broom. However, a lake of combined alcohol and broken glass hardly qualified as a crisis demanding Central’s intervention. The boys were almost done anyway, although they might want to throw away the reeking mop afterward.
Whatever.
If only his foot would stop thumping on the cement.
“Are you in pain, Warrior?” Even the healer’s voice had a soothing quality.
“I’m fine.” His words came out clipped. He blew the air from his cheeks, leaned forward, and planted his forearms on his thighs. Horace moved with him, his hands still hovering above the wound.
“Almost done,” Horace said.
“Oh. Sorry,” Marcus muttered.
Marcus had spent the entire night at the downtown Borderland above the Trough, battling wave after wave of death vamps. Medichi had joined him just before dawn, thank God.
Marcus found himself grateful, beholden to the warrior. He wasn’t used to fighting and as much as he’d savored the first twelve or so engagements, after that his muscles ached in places he’d forgotten he had. So yeah, Medichi had saved his ass, something he hated to admit.
Who gave a f*ck?
The rest of the warriors stood in a group not far from the upside-down pool table, shooting the breeze. Luken and Santiago, having finished their chore, joined them. His gaze skated beyond the group to a smashed-up TV hanging at a weird angle off its wall mount. If the TV had worked, he would have fired up the dimensional hookup to Mortal Earth and started running CNN. He kept the network on in his office, day in, day out, just to keep up.
Horace’s hands shifted to his face. He felt the soothing warmth travel through the fat lump over his eye. He glanced at him. The healer’s brown eyes had a gentle appearance, a kind expression. He tried to imagine being a tender sort of man. Impossible. He’d always have his hard abrasive edges. He was who he was. Though he had lived on Mortal Earth for two centuries, he was still a warrior.
Speaking of which, he sure as shit could use a little jugular time. He’d love a woman right now. He felt his iPhone vibrate, slid it from the deep pocket of his kilt, then scanned the text. He let a couple of obscenities fly. One of his corporations, the one that exported to Second, had just lost a major contract. He really needed to get the hell back to Mortal Earth before his empire turned to dust. His nerves shot off skyrockets and his muscles jumped and twitched.
He hated being hamstrung like this. After all these decades, he’d learned a goddamn thing or two about running massive businesses. Bottom line, they all depended on one thing—his f*cking leadership.
Horace asked him to tilt his head back a little. Marcus complied, his gaze landing on the ceiling. There was one fine collection of spit wads up there, glued to the texture. He chuckled. Now, this was something he missed—the outer limits of male bonding.
The small bit of laughter eased something inside his chest.
As the bump above his eye lessened, he said, “You’re the man, Horace.”
“Thank you, duhuro.”
“Hey. Don’t use that address with me. Any of these warriors hear you say that to me, they’ll crucify you.”
Horace chuckled. “I think not, duhuro. And no matter what any of them say, you were battling death vamps when the rest of them were made up of trees, frogs, and daisies.”
Marcus met his eye. “That’s one helluva generous thing to say.”
Horace smiled as he kept the healing warmth flowing.
His gaze shifted back to the warriors. He still didn’t know the story about the pool table but he could imagine a dozen scenarios that would have provided the same result.
Every once in a while, the group of six hardened vampires burst out laughing. A drift of tobacco swirled to the ceiling. Zacharius had a cigar in hand. Yeah, he had forgotten the best part of being a Warrior of the Blood, sharing stories at dawn, having a last drink, a last smoke before heading home to bed.
At the sound of a feminine voice, he leaned his head sideways. When had the woman arrived? He couldn’t really see her. Just her legs and feet. Medichi and his massive shoulders and height blocked her from view. Luken ranged close, though, like he had some claim on her. She had on really conservative brown pumps, the kind a lot of his admins wore. Boring.
He closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. His nose was clear, finally. So clear that for just a moment, he caught a familiar scent, the one he had smelled at Endelle’s. Had all of Second started using Glade PlugIns laced with honeysuckle? Jesus.
The trouble was, his body really liked this particular smell. The small of his back developed a knot and his groin warmed up. He ground his teeth and worked at keeping himself under control or Horace here would get ideas that he was into men. What the hell was going on with him?
He breathed again. This time the scent was stronger and his eyes rolled back in his head. Oh. My. God.
He heard Thorne’s shredded-bark voice. “Havily, I don’t know why the hell Endelle hauled you out of bed and sent you over here at this hour. The ascendiate has gone to Queen Creek with Kerrick and is recovering from a serious wound. She probably won’t wake up until later this afternoon. I can call you when you’re needed. By the way, have you met the ascendiate yet?”
“No, not yet. You know, I think this is really odd. When I spoke with Endelle, she was adamant I come over here, right now, to get the details from you.”
The musical lilt to the woman’s voice affected Marcus, like he needed to hear more. A lot more.
“She sent you here … at dawn … to get details? I don’t get it. I don’t have any details. I met Alison for the first time about an hour ago and she was unconscious.”
“Well, I guess there’s been some mistake but I’m not sorry I came. I always like seeing you boys. Please tell me you’re done for the night.”
A general flow of affirmatives went around the group.
So the woman’s name was Havily. Didn’t sound familiar. None of the warriors had mentioned her. He supposed she was the ascendiate’s Liaison Officer. He still couldn’t see her, just her legs. Her ivory linen pants looked tailored from where he sat. They had a firm crease like his suits did.
“Your healing is complete, Warrior Marcus,” Horace said.
Marcus sat up a little straighter. “Thanks.” He touched his face and couldn’t believe how thoroughly he was healed. “You’ve got one helluva gift.”
At that moment the honeysuckle scent struck him all over again, like taking a hard swing of a baseball bat to his stomach. He leaned over and groaned. Dammit, now he was hard as a rock.
“Warrior Marcus?” Horace cried, his voice ringing through the rec room. “What is the matter? Have you suffered an injury, perhaps to one of your internal organs?” He squatted beside Marcus and searched his face. “Tell me where you hurt.”
Marcus stared at him. Like hell he’d try to explain. He could feel the heat on his face, though he wasn’t embarrassed. He was overcome. Dammit, what the hell was wrong with him. “Just a cramp. It’ll pass. Trust me, I’ll be fine.” As soon as I leave the building and get away from that erotic smell.
Horace’s concern, however, spoken in a sharp tone, had disrupted the conversation across the room, and all talk in the Cave had ceased.
Medichi turned in his direction, scowling, and unblocked the view … holy shit … of the most beautiful woman Marcus had ever seen in his entire existence, including all the actresses he had known, Canadian or otherwise. She was an angel, a denizen of the heavens with thick auburn hair cascading in soft waves past her shoulders, a beautiful peachy-red against the ivory linen of her suit jacket. The desire he felt doubled, then doubled again.
Goddammit. One stroke and he’d come.
He sat well forward, his hands slung between his knees. He hurt now because his throbbing erection was twisted and he couldn’t do a thing about it. If he stood up, he’d make a f*cking tent out of his kilt. She met his gaze and frowned. He had an overwhelming sense of needing to get to her, to stand at her back, preferably with his sword drawn.
What the hell?
* * *
Havily stared at the warrior she had heard so much about, particularly from Luken who worried that this vampire could cause a war in the Brotherhood.
Warrior Marcus.
The renegade, the deserter.
He sat forward on one of the absurd worn leather couches against the far back wall. He looked like he was in pain but as Medichi had just told her, Warrior Marcus had come in pretty beat up from his first night of battling after two centuries. Hence, Horace’s presence.
Horace’s cry of concern had sent everyone turning in the deserter’s direction. She didn’t know him at all, of course, since he had been residing on Mortal Earth for two centuries. She did know he was despised among the warriors, as he ought to be. She could think of nothing worse than an ascender abandoning Madame Endelle and his brothers-in-arms.
His leather kilt hung in a deep loop between his legs, his shins covered with leather. He watched her with the oddest expression on his face, as though he were seeing a ghost. She didn’t know what to make of him yet somehow, for reasons she could not explain, she was surprisingly drawn to him. His hair was dark, perhaps not black like Kerrick’s, but a very dark brown, yet quite straight. His skin was a beautiful olive in tone, and he had an intensely fierce expression with dark brows slashed over light brown eyes. God, he was gorgeous.
She drew a breath, ready to turn her attention back to Thorne and ask if he knew when she should visit ascendiate Wells, but the strangest scent assailed her, an earthy musky scent that reminded her of—and this was quite ridiculous—fennel. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. She could picture an entire bouquet of black licorice vines, which was just … well … heaven to her. She’d always had a great fondness for licorice. Had the warriors started keeping some kind of strange air freshener in the Cave? If so, she needed to find out what brand it was because she would buy it, maybe a dozen cans. She might even wear it as a perfume.
The strange thing was, the scent appeared to be emanating from where Warrior Marcus sat, his hands clasped so tightly together she could see the whites of his knuckles. He was still staring at her, that same odd, almost pained expression on his face.
Without warning, her skin bloomed, tingled, even her nipples drew up into hard beads. She struggled to catch her breath and she was so dizzy. What on earth was happening to her?
Thorne’s deep rough voice broke into her thoughts. “Endelle gave the ascendiate a thirty-six-hour mind-shield, so I suspect you’ll have plenty of time to officially welcome her to our world.”
She glanced at him. What was he saying? Something about the ascendiate. She should pay attention since this was her job as a Liaison Officer. She hadn’t been happy about the assignment, but the fact that she got to visit with the Warriors of the Blood always made her day. They had taken her under their collective wing from the time of her ascension a hundred years ago when Luken had served as her guardian. She seemed to have a natural understanding of the men and certainly she appreciated the level of their sacrifice in keeping Second Earth safe.
In rank, the Warriors were above her, but then they were above everyone, with the exception of Endelle, since they also served in the position of Guardians of Ascension and kept powerful ascendiates safe during their rites of ascension. Only Endelle had a higher rank. Even the High Administrators around the globe were lower in rank than the Warriors of the Blood.
For no particular reason her gaze drifted back to Warrior Marcus, who had given up the prestige of guardian status to take up a useless life on Mortal Earth. He still watched her. But as her gaze met his and held, her lips parted and deep, so very deep inside her body, desire spun an erotic slow dance almost as though the warrior held her in thrall.
How else could she explain her inability to look away, except to shift her gaze from one heavily muscled shoulder to the next, visible because of the traditional flight gear, solid ribbons of muscle that made the very tips of her fingers tremble and her tongue ride the back of her teeth.
An image took hold of her mind, of her hands on his back, her fingernails sunk into his flesh, her body beneath his as she held him tight … and he moved over her.
The fennel scent sharpened, broadened, laced with a pure male musk. She drew in a long deep breath, dragging air through her nose and into her mouth at the same time. She was intoxicated as another wave of desire traveled over her skin, into muscle and bone, then descended lower until she felt gripped from within. The very core of her wept as her internal muscles clenched, not just once, but over and over and over. She was … oh, God … she was perilously close to orgasm and all she was doing was staring at a warrior.
The vein in her neck started to pound. She put her hand there and stroked up and down. The slash over light brown eyes sank lower, a predator’s stare, and she watched his fangs descend onto his lower lips. Oh, how she wanted this vampire who could put his fangs into her neck and take right now what she wanted to give.
When he started to rise from the couch, a gasp rose out of her throat. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she tore her gaze from his and looked at Thorne.
He grabbed her arm. “What is it, Havily? What’s frightened you?”
“I must go.” And before he could argue with her, she lifted her free arm and folded. Unfortunately, her mind was so confused, she ended up not in her home but standing in the middle of the fountain outside her town house complex.
She felt the water on her heated skin and started to laugh. To say she needed a cold shower was to say the very least.
As she stepped out of the fountain, however, she just couldn’t figure out the why of what had just happened. In what dimension did it make the smallest sense that she could ever desire a vampire, warrior or not, whom she despised for the deserter he was?
The future speaks in a dream,
But morning unveils all truths.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth