CHAPTER 13
Crace sat on a stone bench in the very center of the Commander’s extensive peach orchard. Waiting. At least he wasn’t sweating this time, although what he felt was far worse—like he’d been stabbed in the chest.
From the time of his ascension he had known hunger, his basic personal drive not just to get ahead, but to rule. With the single exception of his lovely wife, his beloved Julianna, he had only one great love—his ambition.
From the moment he first saw the Commander during his rather mundane rite of ascension he knew he would one day align with him, belong to him. He understood the Commander, because he shared the same naked, unrefined, crippling need to have power and more power and more power.
Two dimensions? Oh, come on. Greaves had more vision than that.
The opportunity to work beside Commander Greaves had meant, literally, the world to Crace. Yes, Geneva was part of it, a huge part, but his sensibilities went deeper. He thought of the Commander as a true comrade, a brother-in-arms in spirit, in motivation, and in a complete lack of scruples.
He tapped his left foot on the intricate pattern of the patio made up of terra-cotta pavers. He had arrived early just to think. His wife would join him when she had put the last touches to her coiffure, the subtlety to her makeup, her ensemble. She was fastidious in such things.
The orchard, near the base of Estrella Mountain, was a thing of beauty. The trees were laid out as though radiating from a large hub, the circle ever widening as it traveled in what seemed like miles in every direction. The entire orchard was covered with a variety of shields, which allowed for a gradation of microclimates. Some trees were heavy with ripe fruit, others just budding, others in a state of wintry rest. Beneath the trees, a natural collection of grasses and weeds grew. The Commander had won awards for his organic methods.
More than any other aspect of the Commander’s life, this orchard and what lay below typified his essential character. Beneath the rows of peach trees, buried in the earth, was the Command Center for his entire global operation. Below the Command Center ran miles of bunkers and a variety of training facilities for his army. Below the bunkers was a vast cavern dedicated exclusively to research and development. The Commander had a passion for armaments. He was creative with weaponry of all kinds, always working on improved killing methods.
An hour earlier, despite the failure in Carefree, Greaves had requested that Crace and his wife join him for breakfast. He would serve mimosas, fresh peaches, egg-white omelets, and all because he knew such a breakfast would delight Julianna. In the center of a table covered in beautiful Irish linen sat an elegant arrangement of orchids growing from a bed of some sort of small-leafed green ground cover. Yes, Julianna would be enthralled by the attention to detail.
There was so much to admire about his deity.
How heavily he sighed.
He had showered and shaved. He wore a formal white tuxedo, black trousers, the finest black shoes. He had tried to scrub the stench of his failure off his tanned arms, legs, and face but couldn’t. He bled remorse from every pore of his body.
He sat on the hard stone awaiting his wife’s arrival. She had told him to quit being so nonsensical, that the Commander, being a practical, sensible man, would not, would not in any way blame Crace for the failure of an entire regiment to slay the ascendiate. In her opinion such an elegant private breakfast meant he held Crace no ill will.
Usually, Crace’s wife knew best. She had great abilities. She could sense things before they happened. He therefore shouldn’t feel as though he would soon be ground to dust by his deity’s displeasure.
Yet how could it be any different? The Commander would hold him responsible for what had happened in Carefree.
Crace rarely despaired. An optimist by nature, his present sensations were foreign. He didn’t like the way his body felt, heavy in every muscle, tight around his heart, tense in his lungs. He even had to force himself to breathe.
Was it his fault the ascendiate had so much power? She had disabled his men over and over from a series of hand-blasts. Hand-blasts. He could not even conceive how she’d done it. He shuddered at the memory. Beyond the hand-blasts, however, who could have foreseen that so noble a warrior as Kerrick would have called an illegal emergency lift? It was unheard of.
And just how had the pair known to take off in the ascendiate’s f*cking Hummer? How had they been warned? He shuddered all over again.
He felt the air stir and he rose to his feet.
He melted at the sight of his incomparable wife. She had the beauty of Aphrodite, and looked particularly splendid in a peach-colored soft linen gown—an excellent choice given the occasion—her dark tresses arranged in several loose elegant knots down the back of her head. She wore soft pearls, which the early-morning light and the shields over the orchard set in a gentle glow. She was perfection, her taste unequaled. Gems of any sort would have been wholly unsuitable. She had taught him this, and many other things. She knew how to present herself in such a way to add to his worth and to his power.
She had sharp blue eyes, angled slightly at the corners along with her brows. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, her lips full. Her breasts were large, round, very supple, and moved completely unfettered beneath the fabric. The sight of her breasts so well displayed, yet still covered modestly, brought a sharp arousal. She approached him, kissed his cheek, and took his hand in hers. She whispered in his ear, “You will take me to bed after this, you will drink from me, and I will soothe your fears.”
She always did. He drew in a deep breath and relaxed … a little. She was the best of wives. He was the most fortunate of men.
The air stirred once more. She stepped away from him slightly. Given his rank, she did not believe in public displays of affection. When the Commander appeared, she offered a courteous inclination of her head coupled with a slight curtsy, a tradition she had begun and which had caught on throughout Second Earth. “Julianna, how lovely to see you.”
“And you, Commander.”
“Please. Call me Darian.”
His wife, his darling wife, merely smiled, offered another bow, then said, “As you wish, Commander.”
Crace marveled at her adroitness. She always passed the Commander’s little tests, which seemed to please him immensely, for he smiled and even chuckled. She lifted her hand to him.
He approached her and took her proffered hand, offering a polite kiss on the arch of her fingers, a sign of great respect. Crace felt a wave of heat roll from his wife. A surprise. The Commander’s gaze dropped oh so briefly to her breasts. Crace followed suit and found his wife’s nipples peaked, stretching the lovely peach linen. He understood in this moment all over again how clever his wife was. He blinked and more of his fears dissipated.
The Commander lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. A moment later three wait staff materialized as well as a large serving cart.
Julianna clapped her hands in an innocent expression of pleasure at the meal the Commander had provided for her. Naturally, Greaves seated her himself. And naturally, Julianna smiled up at him, just over her shoulder, and whispered her thank-you.
Crace sat down to eat with his fears settled to a dull roar, so much so that by the time the meal had been consumed and the champagne had eased through his veins, he leaned back in his chair.
“I was sorry to hear of Warrior Kerrick’s illegal maneuver,” Greaves said. “Wholly unexpected.”
“Yes, it was, Commander.”
“Very well. We shall simply move forward.”
Crace withheld the gasp rattling in his throat. There would be no recriminations. Thank the Creator for small mercies.
“I want you to see Harding and make arrangements for the next leg of this journey. We will have every legal right to pursue any course we wish. I rely on you, my dear Crace, to make the finish remarkable.”
Crace stared into the eyes of his deity. Make the finish remarkable. Every legal right. The emergency lift may have saved the ascendiate’s life, but it had also given the Commander a profound, irreversible advantage.
On Second Earth, there was always one way to make anything remarkable.
Spectacle.
Yes, spectacle.
Within his mind, he began to weave a glorious exhibition. He would use swans, of course, and fireworks. He would call in a favor or two from Beijing. The local theaters would have all the actors he required for a full-mount display … yes, he knew exactly what needed to be done. And of course the event would be televised worldwide. Yes, that would work … remarkably.
As for the ascendiate, well, her demise would be the highlight of the entire evening, of course.
“I believe I have the answer,” he said.
Crace felt a now familiar pressure in his head. Greaves’s serious expression softened then lightened. He nodded several times and afterward smiled.
“My dear Crace, you have outdone yourself. You are to be congratulated.”
“You may congratulate me, master, when the ascendiate breathes her last.”
* * *
The lake.
Alison floated inside a familiar dream high in the air. She looked down at a very long, somewhat narrow lake, perhaps only half a mile across in the widest place. However, the body of water extended several miles in a north–south direction, making up in length what it lacked in width.
The floating was pleasurable.
Wait. She wasn’t floating at all. She was flying and she had wings, beautiful pearlescent light blue wings edged with gold at every tip, a shimmering gold. She felt euphoric and deeply content. She flapped her wings, which had mounted from within her back, like Warrior Kerrick’s wings.
What a strange sensation to feel the presence of wing-locks as well as the thickened muscles of her back and the heavy dose of hormones gliding through her veins. She had a sudden and tremendous sensation of power. She stretched out her arms and felt within her mind the key to movement—the wing-locks combined with thought.
Her wings were an amazing part of her, both mind and body. When she envisioned a downward thrust, her wings responded almost magically. Flight was therefore a learned skill, the way an infant would learn to bring his fists together and feel the clasp of his hands for the first time. Wings were another set of muscles to learn to manipulate.
Exhilaration. She envisioned a spin and her wing-locks responded until she was twirling oh so high in the air. On instinct, she spread her wings wide and the spiral stopped. She laughed.
Looking down, she spun in another circle, much slower this time, and discovered that the lake was at the foot of the range of mountains she knew well—the White Tanks. She also, for some reason, knew the name of the lake—White Lake. Yet how strange to see a body of water here. On Mortal Earth nothing much existed on the west side of the White Tanks except a small development of homes and the occasional lone house or trailer. Certainly not a lake.
As she glided over the water, she experienced a sense of destiny, of the future, that her future was here, with this lake. A strong yearning took hold of her chest, the same profound longing that had prompted her to answer her call to ascension. She felt protective of the lake, almost painfully so, as though the fate of the world depended on her ability to keep White Lake secure.
The word guardian slid through her head, the same word Warrior Kerrick had used to describe his relationship to her, that he was her guardian. And she was the guardian of this lake. Only what could it possibly mean?
As she drifted toward consciousness, the dream formed the backdrop of her mind. She awoke on her back in an unfamiliar bed staring up at a tall vaulted ceiling painted a beautiful burnt orange and overlaid with dark stripped branches. She had never seen a ceiling like this, a real work of art. So where was she?
The last ceiling she’d awakened to had been her own and … Kerrick’s arm had been slung over her chest. He had burrowed into her neck, teasing her awake with erotic movements of the duller parts of his fangs nudging her throat just above the vein.
Potent desire whipped through her at the remembered sensations, and she arched on the bed. Recalling the powerful orgasm brought her legs pressing together, trying to find some relief. Oh, what Kerrick had done to her. She slid her hand over her neck. She groaned at the memory of coming apart while he took her blood and tormented her with his fingers. She couldn’t begin to imagine what full-on sex would be like with him.
Once more her back arched off the bed.
Okay. She had to stop thinking about him, or at least about having sex with him. She had to dwell instead on exactly where she was and how she’d gotten here and why on earth she had been dreaming about a lake.
She sat up and looked around. Near an open doorway, leading to a bathroom, stood a rack hanging with clothes, women’s clothes. She looked down at the very soft, white nightie she wore, more like a tunic, she supposed. Where had this come from? She frowned as she thought about the blast, which had no doubt destroyed her home. Did she even have any clothes left? She mentally reached out to her house, but found her mind blocked very strangely. She couldn’t reach farther than twenty or thirty yards from her present position.
Some kind of shield was in place, a very powerful shield, one she knew instinctively had been put there to keep her safe.
She flopped back down on the bed. She was right back to the very bizarre world she’d entered, from death vampires and warriors with rasping tongues and erotic fangs, to inexplicable mind-shields and dreams about a lake and being a guardian.
Ascension. Her ascension.
She closed her eyes and for a long moment took deep breaths. She let the reality of her present circumstances drift through her head. Last night, twice, she’d barely escaped with her life, once from the alley, once from the attack of death vamps at her home in Carefree.
And then there was Kerrick, her guardian, the one assigned to protect her, the one she felt drawn to like cactus to the desert. Her heart raced when she thought of him and of the wonderful musky cardamom smell of him, the one that made her think of exotic marketplaces in Morocco.
She had come to a new world, engaged a new life full of danger yet also of possibility.
An odd question surfaced. Just how was she going to explain to Joy, or to the rest of her family, her new life?
* * *
Kerrick sat in his kitchen at a stool drawn up to the large square granite island. He sipped his coffee.
Coffee was good.
God, he loved this era—plug it in, turn it on, cook, fry, bake, and boil. Centuries ago he would have spent a part of every summer day chopping wood in order to keep the home fires burning through the cold season.
He’d made a pot of coffee and set out a cup for Alison. He wondered if she drank coffee. He wondered about a lot of things where she was concerned—which authors got her going, why she owned a Hummer, and whether or not he could keep her alive, goddammit.
He exhaled on a heavy sigh.
Whatever.
The Queen Creek house had no close neighbors and plenty of windows. Afternoon light brightened all the west-facing rooms. As homes went, this one was … comfortable.
He sipped again. He liked his coffee like mud. Did Alison prefer hers weak?
He shook his head. His thoughts had been full of her from the time he’d awakened, of wanting to hold her in his arms, take her to bed, bury himself in her body for maybe a year. Two. Three. A thousand.
In Carefree the power she had released when she orgasmed had been as erotic as hell. Shivers slid down his back just thinking about it. He shifted to make room for an erection that never seemed very far away.
He was driven to distraction by his need to commune with this woman, to be inside her mind, to take more of her blood—rich heady wine laced with erotic lavender—to be physically joined with her. He throbbed for her, at his neck and in his groin. He had to set his coffee cup down since his hands started to shake.
Christ.
And he was only thinking about her. What would happen if … when … he made love to her? He shook his head and picked up his cup once more. He drank this time then breathed. So how the hell was he supposed to keep his vows when the breh-hedden had f*cked up his head so completely?
Damn breh-hedden.
A roll of lavender reached him and he leaned forward on the stool sucking in his breath. He’d already been hard as a rock. Now? He could have pounded nails. Okay, time to work up his resolve, to shape it into a mountain and hold steady.
Breathe, dammit—suck one in, shove one out.
So his woman was awake and thinking about him. Great. How was he supposed to keep away from her if she got worked up as badly as he did? He muttered a string of curses as he stared at the green-black granite. What was it going to take to get rid of this absurd drive?
He sat back up as Alison appeared in the kitchen doorway straight across from him. The mere sight of her, however, fresh as she was from a deep sleep and so beautiful, brought an entire brigade of heavy equipment scooping away at the mountainside of his resolve. Diesel engines chugged along, tires the size of SUVs rolled everywhere, and trucks the length of football stadiums hauled away rock and dirt in droves.
She looked beautiful in a pair of simple black pants and a light green tank top—thank God Endelle’s assistant had provided something more than just that short white tunic. And yeah, thank God she’d changed. One sight of her long legs and he was sure he would have lost it.
Unfortunately, the top fit her really well and had a small glittery firework in the center just below her cleavage and yeah, she had some awesome cleavage showing. He’d like his tongue running up and down …
He drew in a rough breath.
He took a sip of coffee then let his thoughts drift toward her. He gave shape to one potent idea and sent it straight to her mind, the one he just couldn’t contain any longer: Naked and on your back …
She smiled. “Anything particular on your mind, Warrior?”
Warrior. Oh, shit. Calling him by his vocation made her more real in his life. He sent her a string of powerful images, all of which involved him doing things to various parts of her anatomy.
Her lips parted and a fresh wave of lavender returned, which nearly knocked him off his stool.
The air grew charged though she remained where she was. She rubbed her arms and drew in a long raspy breath. How much do you want me? she sent. The voice in his head floated and writhed. She could seduce him even with her thoughts.
Like dry earth begging for rain, he responded.
He was so screwed.
* * *
Alison couldn’t move. She wanted to. She wanted to run to Kerrick, throw her arms around him, and hold him tight.
Dry earth begging for rain, she sent.
He nodded.
She wanted to be the rain, to cover him with moisture, to bring life to his seed.
As she met his gaze, looked at his long wavy black hair hanging loose past his shoulders, at the size of those shoulders, her body thrummed, wept, cried out for him. This was what she had longed for ever since she was a goofy teen getting crushes on boys. This was what Joy had. Could this truly be hers?
She reached out with her mind. She touched gently not to enter, but to be close for just this moment. He closed his eyes in understanding. She let her mind rest next to his and at least a dozen tender fantasies rolled through her.
She could really be with this man. Yes, this vampire. She gazed deep into the future and saw an eternity of him. She took his hand and smiled into his face. She laughed with him and cried with him. She bore his children and nagged him about putting up Christmas lights and helping the kids with homework. She admonished him to keep his sword-hand wicked and his tongue in her mouth or anywhere else he wanted it.
She wanted these things painfully.
Yet she still couldn’t move. She felt pinned to the spot where she’d landed, her bare feet stuck like chewing gum to cement. Fear of this new world held her fast. She still didn’t know the rules. Besides, wasn’t it possible she could still end up hurting Kerrick because of her powers in ways she couldn’t yet conceive? She hadn’t hurt him earlier on the couch in Carefree, but he’d been beside her, not in her. Oh, God. Okay.
He opened his eyes, smiled faintly at her reticence and nodded. He slid off his stool then moved to the coffeemaker. Her gaze followed hungrily. The muscles of his arms bunched and twitched. His knuckles paled as he grabbed the coffeepot. He topped off and returned to his stool.
He struggled, just as she struggled.
He set his mug down then gripped the counter. He stared into the flecked green granite. He released a heavy sigh, picked up his mug, then sipped again.
Her heart strained toward him. She suppressed the sensation. “You have a lovely home,” she said.
He met her gaze. Did she see relief in his eyes because she’d mentioned something so ordinary? “Thank you,” he responded.
“I really like the twigged ceilings.”
He nodded. Sipped.
She glanced to her right and had a clear view through a second doorway into the living room. Her gaze skipped up to the ceiling where more branches, stripped bare, were laid side by side. “Beautiful texture, unique, especially with the terra-cotta color behind. You must love this home.”
“I do … today,” he said.
She shot her gaze to his. A wave of cardamom nearly knocked her flat. She braced a hand against the nearest kitchen cabinet and took a deep breath. Okay. She really shouldn’t go there.
She tried another subject. “Did you know there’s a rack of clothes in my room?”
“I’m not surprised. Endelle’s staff would want to take good care of you. So tell me, what do you remember from last night, after the attack in Carefree?”
The gum disappeared from the soles of her feet. She moved, albeit slowly in his direction, crossing the kitchen to the massive granite island. She moved to stand at the side of the island off to his right, the coffeemaker behind her. Her palm slid over the mirror-smooth stone. “I recall a flash of light then standing in front of a man with long sandy-colored hair, though not much else.”
“You passed out from your injury. Do you remember the shoulder wound?”
“That’s right, I got hit.” She rotated her left arm. “What happened? I mean, I hardly feel anything. Only a little muscle ache remains.”
“Endelle healed you.”
“She was there? The ruler of Second Earth? And she healed me?”
“Of course,” he said. “She also gave you a mind-shield that will protect you until about seven tomorrow evening.”
“Oh. Now I understand. I tried to reach out to my home, to see if anything was left, but couldn’t get far. I suppose I should thank her.”
“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity to return the favor.”
“She’s the demanding type?”
“You have no idea.”
“Who was the man I saw? He was almost as tall as you and quite good-looking. Very muscular.” His gaze hardened and his fangs made an appearance, a sudden reminder she’d entered not just a world of dimensions but a vampire-warrior world as well.
She blinked as her gaze rested on the sharp tips of his incisors. Assuming she survived this journey, one day she would sport a pair of fangs and … she’d make use of them. Her lungs seized at the thought of putting her fangs at Kerrick’s neck. The breath she drew sounded like she was dragging air through a fine-mesh screen.
She thought she heard a faint growl. She listened harder. The warrior with all the gorgeous black hair was growling. Because she’d said the other man was good-looking and muscular? Uh-huh. A clear case of caveman possessiveness … and it kind of got to her.
He didn’t meet her gaze as he sipped his coffee. “Thorne. He’s Endelle’s right-hand man, the leader of the Warriors of the Blood.”
He drank again, though shifting his gaze this time to watch her from just above the rim of his mug. A new growl formed, deepened, then got louder, a sound that rumbled right through her chest, weakened all her stomach muscles and the tendons supporting her knees. The smell of cardamom grew stronger.
Wow. If she hadn’t been working out she would have dropped to the tile by now.
Still, some devil worked in her and she couldn’t resist teasing him. In a strong voice she said, “You know, Thorne has a real aura of command, doesn’t he?”
The growls escalated but he chugged his coffee once more then did some more granite-staring.
Okay, so maybe she was being a little mean, teasing him as she was. She’d stop now. She looked him up and down and all her desire for him once more made an appearance, whipping through her like a wildfire. He wore jeans that did little to disguise his powerful thighs, and a snug tee molded to massive pecs. She stifled a groan. Her gaze skated lower, all the way to the floor. The man was also barefoot. Damn. Even his feet were sexy as hell. More wire-screen breathing.
Her gaze took a turn and shifted to her own shoeless feet. A strange dizziness passed through her mind. They were alike. Oh, no.
She swallowed and spoke quickly, “My head feels fuzzy. Is that the shield?”
“Yes.”
“And no one can find me?”
“No one. A shield like this causes confusion but it’s also illegal to use on ascendiates so we’re awaiting the repercussions.”
Alison nodded. “As with the emergency lift you called?”
“Yep.”
“So we’re in trouble.”
“Yep.”
She looked away from him. “Well, what’s the deal with my house and my Hummer? By now I’m thinking the police will be all over the rubble, probably looking for terrorists or something.”
He shook his head. “Thorne sent Zacharius out to take care of things after the Commander’s war party went home. The Hummer’s fine—well, except for the blasted-out windows, fender damage, and oh, yeah, you need a new roof. As for the house, mostly rubble. Endelle has already arranged for a crew to rebuild.”
“Is she doing that for me?” she asked, surprised.
“Sorry. This is about appearances and secrecy. There’s a very complex mist around the property until the renovation is complete.”
Alison shook her head. “Okaaay, then.”
“So why a Hummer? You have a sad little Nova and then a powerful, environmentally unfriendly vehicle.”
“I’ve had it several years and I admit I love it. It’s so big and roomy. My height is an advantage in many ways but not in small cars. The Nova I’ve had with me since my teens.”
“The Hummer’s more of a man’s car, though.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
She nodded and rubbed a hand once more over the smooth granite. She glanced up then shifted her gaze anywhere except in his direction. He was staring at her and she so hoped he wouldn’t guess her thoughts because a quite humiliating epiphany had just swamped her brain. She had bought the Hummer as a promise of the future. She wanted a man in her life big enough to fill a vehicle that size and … there he was sipping coffee and looking incredibly hot in a snug, pec-shaping T-shirt, blue jeans, and, oh, yeah, sexy bare feet.
She turned around and crossed to the coffeemaker. A second mug sat beside a bowl of sugar along with a small pitcher of milk. “Did you put this here for me?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“Of course.”
There was no such thing as of course. Dammit, the man was thoughtful about small things. Great. Just great. One more reason to like him way too much.
She poured herself a cup, added just a dollop of milk, half a teaspoon of sugar, stirred then took a sip. She almost choked. “You kind of like your coffee strong.” She turned back to him and cleared her throat. Twice. Her eyes watered.
He smirked and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I would have warned you if you hadn’t gone on and on about Thorne and his aura of command.”
She laughed. “Yeah, the whole Thorne thing was a bitchy thing to do.”
“Yes, it was.”
Unfortunately, he was really close, and when she took her next breath she smelled his wicked cardamom scent all over again. She felt the strongest impulse to launch herself at him and end this ridiculous misery.
* * *
Havily stood on the front porch of Warrior Kerrick’s Queen Creek house. She had her attaché in her right hand and she held her left fist poised at the solid wood door, ready to strike, to let her presence be known, but her mind traveled in circles around the recent events at the Cave.
Fennel had become fixed in her sinuses and leached into her brain every now and then to remind her she had seen the recently recalled Warrior Marcus for the first time and had experienced several inexplicable reactions to him.
She flared her nostrils and tilted her head back. She lowered her fist back to her side. She closed her eyes and let the remembered smell tease her senses. And every time she did, her breasts swelled and tightened, her abdomen rolled down and down, then the most delicious sensation tugged at her deep internal muscles. Even her fangs tingled, anxious to emerge.
She had known all the warriors for decades now, having met them during her ascension nearly a hundred years ago, when she had needed their protection. While Luken had served as her guardian at the time, the process had given her the opportunity to get to know each one.
Since then she had remained close to the warriors. Even though she served as a lowly Liaison Officer, similar in rank to the girls at Central, the Warriors of the Blood had come to treat her as one of their own, in part, no doubt, because Luken had a serious crush on her. She loved the men as brothers. However, this was the first time a warrior had ever affected her so powerfully, like a designer drug created just for her.
The more she stood there, the remembered fennel working inside her, the stronger the drug acted on her body. She should stop the roll of sensations—she had her liaison work to do—but the pleasure she experienced had become addictive. Now her fangs throbbed, seeking a point of entrance. She imagined the tips sinking into his throat. His blood would taste of fennel, very sweet, very earthy, and she wanted his elixir down her throat. Desire drove deep and she clenched, hard, almost to the point of orgasm … again.
Her face grew flushed, first in desire then in acute embarrassment. She had seen how female ascenders, wings mounted and on display, often threw themselves at the Warriors of the Blood, out-of-their-senses women who were normally intelligent and, well, moral. Of course the warriors were superb specimens of maleness and tales of their sexual prowess were legion. Still, until now she had never once engaged in a fantasy of being with one of them.
Until now.
She clenched once more, her body weeping and out of control. Again her face flamed.
This was completely absurd.
And beyond humiliating.
She was not this kind of woman. She had never been a warrior-chaser. She was sensible, governed by rational thought and careful about her conduct on every level. She had enjoyed the act of love, especially with her fiancé, the powerful Militia Warrior nearly equal in size to the Warriors of the Blood. But that had been fifteen years ago.
Since then she had dedicated herself to finding ways to shift the course of the war. Havily Morgan had a mission and she would stick to it.
She forced herself to calm down. She took deep breaths and regained control of her senses. She would not be this sort of woman.
When her cheeks no longer felt torched, she knocked on the door then called out in a loud voice to announce her presence. A warrior on serious guardian duty ought to be warned. “Warrior Kerrick. ’Tis I, Havily.”
After a long moment, the door opened. A frown split Warrior Kerrick’s brow as he stepped onto the porch. He shoved her backward toward the doorway, an arm thrown in front of her protectively. His head panned ever so slowly from all the way left to all the way right. The muscles of his shoulders flexed beneath a very tight T-shirt. He wore his hair loose in long black waves. He had beautiful warrior hair, so long and touchable. Again, she had seen women touch and stroke his thick hair.
Warrior Marcus, on the other hand, had a modern corporate cut, though not unattractive. She remembered his expression as he sat forward on the couch and stared at her, her gaze locked onto his. He had seemed so intent on her.
More desire descended and she gasped. Why on earth had her thoughts again become fixed on him?
“What is it?” Warrior Kerrick snapped, turning to stare at her.
She met his gaze. Oh, God, she could hardly share with Kerrick her unholy thoughts about a fellow warrior, especially a warrior whom Kerrick despised. So she looked past him and prevaricated. “Your mist is so beautiful,” she said. “I … I just noticed it from this side.
“You see, I arrived over there on the edge of the wash and could see nothing of your house. I had to have Central fold me directly to your front door.”
He turned back to her, his green eyes serious and in full warrior mode. He nodded once. “I can’t take credit for the mist. This is Endelle’s work.”
“Oh. Well, it is amazing but it wouldn’t have surprised me if you’d been the author or any of the Warriors of the Blood. You’re all so powerful.”
He shook his head. “None of us can make mist like this. Trust me. But let’s get you inside.”
He hustled her into the foyer and closed the door so hard the frame shook. He stood facing the door and listened for a long, tense moment.
At last, satisfied, he turned to her. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She took a step back and lifted her attaché a few inches. “Liaison work. There are forms to fill out, to sign. Questions to ask.”
At that his shoulders relaxed. “Shit, yes, of course. Come in, Havily. I’m sorry. I should have expected you. Let me introduce you to ascendiate Wells.”
The tongue is a blessing.
The tongue is a sword.
Beloved, my beloved,
Pray know the difference.
—Collected Poems, Beatrice of Fourth