CHAPTER 15
“I think this is ridiculous,” Alison cried. “I’m not a warrior. I don’t know the first thing about fighting and why would I need to be trained to battle?” She felt stuck inside a nightmare, unable to get out. Wasn’t it bad enough she’d already been hunted by a regiment in Carefree, then wounded? “Talk to me, Kerrick.”
The man in front of her, the warrior, now a stranger, merely dropped into a crouch position and stared at her abdomen. She felt the airwaves shift and knew he meant to attack. A jolt of adrenaline sent her flying into the air. She levitated swiftly as far as she could then held the position, spread-eagled, her back pressed into the long branches that covered the vaulted ceiling.
“Good,” he stated. “Anticipation is everything.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not a warrior! Stop this!”
He shook his head, lowered his chin, then launched toward her. She folded to the family room beside the sliding glass doors. She had never felt so out of control. Her mind raced, trying to find purchase, and her legs trembled.
Oh, God, what if she hurt him?
Her heart started pounding as he attacked again. His six-six powerhouse of a body blurred toward her and just as he would have struck her in the chest, she shot away from him.
“Good” was all he said, the word brusque, clipped, cruel.
Alison’s throat ached from holding back a flood of tears. Her ears pounded with each quick powerful beat of her heart.
She didn’t even have time to think as he charged again.
And again.
And again until each breath she took wheezed in and out of her lungs like an air compressor heading south.
He finally stopped in front of her. Sweat poured from his body, his green eyes pinched, determined. His fangs had emerged. “Good,” again, was all he said.
He put both his hands on her arms. She had thought he meant to comfort her. Instead she felt healing warmth invade her muscles. So I can continue learning how to fight.
“I’m not a warrior,” she whispered. Tears tracked down her cheeks. He ignored her pleas. He gave her Gatorade, fed her carb bars. He still would not speak to her.
When she reached out to his mind, wanting to help him feel what she was going through, red streams of rage flowed back at her.
She drew in a quick breath and pulled back, shocked. He seemed so in control. Instead his emotions were off the charts, his anger condensed into hard filaments that pulsed crimson. He was simply too angry to speak, certainly not in a frame of mind to either console or explain. It eased her to know how much he despised what he had to do.
He repeated the process of attack until she simply dropped to her knees gasping for air. Sweat now trailed off her face and splashed onto the tile. Her T-shirt stuck to her ribs. She couldn’t remember sweating this much, not even in the gym.
Of all the ways she had imagined the evening progressing, playing attack-the-ascendiate was not one of them. If anything, she had hoped … against hope, it would seem … he would have taken her to bed. Instead he started Warrior Training 101. Great.
“Can you tell me now why you were ordered to do this?” she cried between deep inhales and exhales.
“Doesn’t matter,” he responded.
“The hell it doesn’t. This is my life. Talk to me.” She struggled to her feet and moved to the island. He wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Maybe so you can protect yourself. I don’t know. Drink. Eat.” He thrust Gatorade into her hand again, his voice as hard as flint. “We’re done with the first part.” He folded a box into his hands. “I’ve got your sword. You’ll need to create the identification. Just take the handle and hold on. Whatever you do, don’t let go.” He thrust the box toward her, the polished steel glinting in the light.
“F*ck you,” she cried.
Only then did he meet her gaze. His green eyes calmed down, but a deep sorrow shuttered over his irises, so deep Alison gasped. Oh, shit. She saw her death in his eyes. He believed she would die, that she would not make it through. So basically, she got one day of ascended life? One day?
She didn’t take the box. She turned away from him and chewed on what now tasted like sawdust instead of a bar of sticky-sweet granola. She swallowed, but it was hard pushing food past the lump in her throat. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”
Silence returned.
She put her hand on her forehead and let the tears fall again. She heard the box drop onto the island. She felt his hands on her arms. “You’re doing just fine. The problem is time, not your skills. You’ve got some of the finest instincts and reactions I’ve seen in decades. Endelle didn’t tell Thorne the why of it, but it can’t be good and I have only hours to train you, not months. I don’t mean to be a bastard. However, this is my job, and I feel way too much for you to do anything but keep my distance. And … I’m just a little pissed off about it.”
“Yes, I know.” She wiped at her face. “And there’s nothing I can do to change the order?”
“No. Not a damn thing.”
When she looked up at him, a deep frown furrowed his brow. “What is it?” she asked.
“Training this way just isn’t going to cut it and you have one huge advantage over other ascendiates. You match me in power, which means I want to try something with you, something that might just work.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I can train you with my mind.”
He moved to stand directly in front of her and took her face in his hands. His green eyes beckoned, an intense expression as he stared at her.
How strong is your mind? he asked, his words a powerful question within her head. He narrowed his eyes. She felt pressure now, deep within her mind, a familiar frightening sensation.
She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her.
Answer me.
I’m afraid to, she responded, blinking. Her heart constricted. What he was doing reminded her of the experience at the medical complex when he’d taken her memories. She wanted to tear herself away from him, to fight him, or better yet, to run away.
Listen to me, he sent firmly. I have one goal here, to get you through this. You have no idea what you’re up against. I do. And there’s only one way to get this job done. It will hurt at first, this kind of mental joining, but if you let go, flow with it, you’ll be okay.
I’m scared. Understatement.
He searched her eyes. You fear losing control. I get that. You’ve lived as I’ve lived, independent, taking care of business all by yourself, isolated. You had control. Right now, however, you’re going to have to let go and frankly, I don’t give a damn what you want. This is the only way. His expression softened and he smiled, a small crooked curve off to the side of his mouth. Do you trust me?
Dammit, he was so not playing fair because there was only one answer. “Yes,” she muttered aloud, her jaw bobbing in his hands.
His smile broadened. He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on the lips. He nodded. Then trust me now and try to relax.
Once more, she nodded in his hands.
Good. Ready?
She took a deep breath. Yes.
Suddenly his thoughts penetrated her swiftly and it hurt, like the hard bite of a wasp sting. He sent sensory images, one after the other rapid-fire, of several of his most recent battles.
Alison wanted to scream. The images afflicted her as though a series of knives whipped through her head.
Let go came as a sharp command between frames.
But she held on tight and the knives sliced her up worse than ever, worse than when he’d tried to strip her memories.
Dammit, Alison, don’t be stubborn. Let go!
Alison had no choice or she would pass out. She relaxed her mind and in a split second the pain slid away like water in a dam released in a rush. Thank you, God!
A new sensation took over. She felt as though she had become Kerrick as he fought death vampires one after another. She was in his skin, wielding his sword, throwing his dagger. She could feel his wings move at his command, propelling him through the air in pursuit of the enemy.
Deep within the fibers of her muscles, she experienced exactly what he felt when he fought, the flex of his biceps, of his calf muscles, the way his knees bent and moved, the shift of rib cage, thrust of arm, the absolute ballet quality of his movements. She saw through his eyes. A battle edge skipped through her blood. Excitement pounded in her heart.
She began to know when his movements would quicken and when his legs would retreat, when he would raise his sword-arm, when he would strike, and when he would shield a powerful blow. When he would mount his wings and fly into the air. When he would stay the thrumming of his wing-locks to remain close to the earth. She felt the leather of his kilt slap at his legs, the pull of his T-shirt when he fought in cargoes and steel-toed boots. Every strike of an enemy’s sword against his sword now sent vibrations up her arm.
A few minutes more and he began to pull out of her mind, not in a rush but in a long, slow glide that reminded her of stretching pizza dough. One last tug, and he freed himself. Again, how bereft she felt, just like before, on the granite island when he left her mind. She put a hand first to her chest, then to her head.
Her body felt rubbery, disoriented as though some of her muscles pulled two ways at once. Of course. Since she now possessed his muscle memory alongside her own.
She set her feet apart and slung her left arm behind her back.
He looked her up and down, nodded his approval. “A warrior’s stance.”
Some of the images flickered up to her conscious mind. There he was standing before a woman with black hair and a dress made up of some kind of spotted animal skin, a beautiful woman who looked Arabic and exotic.
She knew the woman was Endelle, the leader of Second, even though her name wasn’t spoken. She knew because he knew. Endelle appeared angry, her enormous wings all the way to the ceiling but drawn back aggressively. The words came from her mouth, “Don’t you dare take that f*cking tone with me, Warrior, or I’ll have your wings—literally—feather by feather.”
“Okaaay,” she murmured, shutting the memory down. She was so out of her depth.
“You’ll need your weapon now.” He held the box bearing what would become her personal sword, her identified sword.
She took the box from him and looked down at a really beautiful weapon resting on a bed of dark green velvet. The steel glimmered beneath the recessed lights high in the vaulted twigged ceiling overhead.
“Carbon steel, extremely sharp. You’ll need some instruction on the care of it.”
She looked up at him. “How exactly does this work? You said the sword accepts an identity and then that’s it, the sword is mine, only mine.”
He nodded. “Once properly identified, no one on Second or Mortal Earth can touch any part of the sword without dying.”
She nodded. “So how do I do this?”
“Take the handle in a tight grip and the identification process will complete itself. Just maintain contact steadily for a few seconds. You’ll know.”
She shifted the weight of the box to one hand, holding it firmly beneath. She reached for the handle but hesitated. She was taking another step on her path to a new life, a new world, literally a new dimension.
Oh, God.
* * *
“I’m still pissed at you,” Medichi said.
Marcus sat on the curb near the downtown Borderland, his kilt slung between his legs, sweat dripping with blood from different parts of his body. He looked up at his fellow warrior. “Who the f*ck cares?”
Medichi stood on the sidewalk as cars on Mortal Earth whizzed by. He looked like a god from the Roman pantheon, all six-seven of him, lit by the overhead streetlight. His hair was long, black, and straight, and he wore it pulled back slick and bound up tight in his cadroen. He had pronounced cheekbones and a strong jaw. He was powerful, lean, a warrior with dark secrets. No one messed with Medichi.
He wiped down his bloodied sword with a clean, soft white cloth. He didn’t seem to notice the traffic and of course no one could see either of them. Marcus had misted the area, a gossamer cloud that none of the mortals would be able to see. The presence of the mist would simply create a confusion of mind.
“So, Medichi, you still keeping your wings a secret?”
“F*ck off.” Nobody knew the why of Medichi’s refusal to mount his wings. No one. In fact, no one, to Marcus’s knowledge, had ever even seen his wings.
Medichi asked, “You still planning on running back to Mortal Earth with your tail between your legs?”
Marcus took the jibe in stride. You did that when the other vampire had saved your ass about a dozen times over the last two nights.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, which caused a cut above his left eyebrow to sting like hell. Their most recent engagement, which involved snapping an enemy’s wing, had sent quills scraping him raw. Central had just done a cleanup on eleven death vamps. “You know why I had to leave. It wasn’t exactly a secret.”
Medichi peered at his sword and rubbed back and forth in a quick motion. Blood trickled from a slice on the back of his thigh and ran down the back of his knee, into the calf straps of his shin guards. He didn’t seem to notice. His scowl sat heavy on his brow. “I never believed you’d actually hurt Kerrick.”
“Everyone thinks they were just words,” he said quietly. “But I would have killed him and my sentiments on the subject haven’t changed. Endelle’s been smart to keep us separated like this.”
“Your beef with him is two centuries old. You need to get over yourself.” He didn’t add the usual a*shole tag. A few hours of fighting a common enemy would also do that to a couple of warriors. They weren’t exactly buddies, though some of the I-want-to-cut-your-liver-out had left Medichi’s dark brown gaze.
Marcus scanned the area, from the burned-out smears of old gum on the sidewalk, to the litter in the gutter, the car across the street with a smashed-in fender. “Helena was the last of my family and I begged Kerrick not to marry her. I begged him for months. I begged her as well, much good it did.”
“She loved him,” Medichi said, his tone deep, resonant, dark. “What else mattered?”
Marcus gathered a wad of saliva in his mouth then spit. “Well, aren’t you the f*cking romantic.”
“Time to move on.”
Marcus gained his feet. “I did move on. I said to hell with this world and returned to Mortal Earth. I like it there … I mean here.” He swept an arm to encompass the downtown cross street and alley. “I’m only fighting because I promised Endelle one favor. After this gig is up, you won’t see me again … ever.”
Medichi nodded. “I know.” His eyes had gotten old in the past two hundred years even if his body had remained exactly as Marcus remembered.
Medichi’s gaze scanned the area. “You make f*cking great mist and you fight like hell.” His jaw tensed, relaxed. “I would have died here tonight if it weren’t for you.” He nodded several more times.
“You gonna get soft on me and offer up a thank-you?”
Medichi turned his head slowly. His lips curved. “I’ll offer a f*ck you.”
“Accepted.” Marcus looked away. “How soon before we have company again?”
“Any time now. For the past few months they’ve been coming in waves, not like before when you were here and we sometimes had hours until another squad showed up.” His head wagged. “I remember when we had time to take care of some business at the Blood and Bite. Not anymore. We’ll be busy just like last night … all night.”
Marcus drew in deep breaths. He could feel the air start to ice up. His wing-locks responded with a dedicated thrum. He stepped away from Medichi, not wanting to injure him. During a wing-mount, anyone too close could get knocked flat.
Medichi’s chest swelled. “They’re coming.”
Marcus looked up at the night sky. “Floating down on the Commander’s breath.”
“Three of his generals can perform the trick as well.”
“Shit.”
“You got it.”
The air turned icy cold. Marcus folded his sword into his hand. Medichi dropped the now bloody cloth, letting it fall to the asphalt. He whipped the dagger from the slot in his front harness.
Eleven so far.
Jesus H. Christ.
And now another squad … or more.
Marcus felt his wing-locks twitch all down his back. He took two more deep breaths and mounted his wings. Three times now, in one night. Goddamn, that felt good. His wings, light brown with bands of light green, expanded in a vast sweep over his head. His abs tightened as the death vamps dropped out of the sky.
“We need you, Marcus. Thorne will never say it but I will. We need you to come back.”
“Never gonna happen.” The air had dipped to arctic levels, and he shivered.
“Huh,” Medichi muttered.
“What?”
“That green banding on your wings. Same color as Havily’s eyes.”
Shit. Marcus really didn’t want an excuse to think of Havily … and now every time he popped his wings, dammit, he’d think of her.
Great. Just great.
He focused his attention on the pretty-boys. This group had a Latin look, brown skin, dark eyes, black hair, and so good-looking that for just a moment Marcus forgot why he had a sword in hand. “So goddamn beautiful,” he muttered.
“They all look alike to me,” Medichi said, laughing. “Hey, Marcus … you sure have one helluva pair on you. Wings, I mean.”
Marcus didn’t want to laugh, but he did. “Bastard,” he muttered. He held his sword straight up, both hands on the leather-wrapped handle, his gaze glued to the, yeah, two squads, eight death vamps, all winged up and flying in their direction. “Come on, motherf*ckers. Don’t be shy.”
One second more and he launched into the air.
* * *
Alison couldn’t stop smiling. She had been working the sword in large, now familiar arcs and she was still surprised by how it felt. She paused, holding the sword upright in both hands. Even after several minutes small jolts of lightning still swept over her fingers and rippled up her hands and arms. How magical it felt. A rush of pleasure kept swirling through her head.
The sword was hers, 100 percent. She could feel it. She had the weirdest sensation of both ownership and belonging and she loved it. Home. The sword felt like home, which hardly made any sense at all.
She glanced at Kerrick. For the entire duration of her sword love-fest, he’d been pushing furniture to the edges of every room in the house. Right now he was corralling one of the warrior-sized leather chairs in the direction of the far wall near a massive fireplace built of stone.
This is so strange, she sent.
He gave the chair a final shove and it banged against the wall. He turned to look at her. “Third technology. One of the few gifts we’ve received from our next highest earth. More like a bond than ownership, right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
She started swinging her sword again, slashing, moving, twirling. She felt Kerrick’s learned experience in the muscles of her legs and arms, shoulders and back. Even her wrist moved differently and the sword made sense in her hand, an old friend.
“Jesus,” she murmured. She turned once more to meet his gaze. “This is like some kind of miracle.”
He was done moving furniture and stood in front of her. “You’ve got the right grip on your weapon and your stance is perfect.”
She nodded. Her mind still felt a little loose, like it had been stretched to great lengths and was finding its way back into itself. However, when he folded his sword into his hand, she felt a thrill roll through her, a warrior’s thrill. Holy hell. A smile pulled at her lips and cheeks. A smile? Goddamn, she wanted to fight and now she had a new vocabulary.
All down both sides of her back, angling in a wide V-formation, she felt a tingling sensation. Wing-locks?
What a rush.
She didn’t have them yet, of course. Kerrick said given her level of power she might develop wings before the first year was out. Right now, she did feel their presence, their beginning, and it was a rush. If she ascended, she would grow fangs and wings. Of course, that was one thought too many, and she weaved on her feet.
Better to focus right now on just the sword, just learning to fight for who-knows-what-reason.
When he narrowed his eyes and dropped his shoulders, her biceps flexed as though understanding exactly what he meant by those simple physical signs. She brought the sword in front of her and held it with both hands, fully upright. She felt a need to growl, which was ridiculous but then in this moment she was more warrior than therapist, more Kerrick in muscle memory than Alison.
He nodded in approval but his chin dipped and his eyes took on that fierce cut-emerald appearance, entirely without compassion.
He came at her, a blur of preternatural speed. She folded behind him, he whirled, she engaged. Engaged. Her arm rang with deadly vibrations as the steel of his sword met hers. Her muscles bunched and jerked with a wild thrill.
She no longer thought, she anticipated. Every technique Kerrick possessed now flowed into her mind, became part of her. The sword was a mere extension of response and reaction, which translated rhythmically into attack.
The Queen Creek house filled with shared grunts, a deafening sound of clashing heavy steel, and the smell of two bodies full of sweat and aggression.
The Matrix came to mind.
What a tremendous gift he had given her. Something eased inside and she sent him a mental message. Kerrick, cease!
He drew back, his sword at the ready, which he quickly lowered as soon as he saw her blade drop at an unprotected angle toward the floor. “I have a chance now, don’t I? Say it. I need to hear you say it.”
His sword disappeared. He closed the distance between them, shoved her sword-arm away from him, and drew her into a tight embrace. She felt the shudder flow through him, a rippling that began in his arms and shoulders, then passed through the heavy muscles of his pecs, his abdomen, even his massive thighs. “Thank God,” he murmured against her ear.
She folded her sword to the far corner of the guest room and held him tight. Only then did she understand how completely hopeless he had felt about her plight. Tears burned her eyes as she nestled her drenched face against his cardamom wet shoulder.
After barely a minute, however, Alison stepped away from him, her mind caught up in her new reality. She folded her sword back into her hand then swiped the blade twice through the air. “The Commander has plans for me, then Endelle ordered you to train me, but for what kind of engagement is unclear?”
“Exactly.”
“So this isn’t just about being able to defend myself if, say, another regiment of death vampires would happen to show up at your front door?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it,” he responded.
Okay. She really didn’t want to consider just what Darian had in mind for her. If she did, she’d go crazy.
For the next quarter hour, he worked her hard until she was once more gasping for breath and her muscles were screaming. She folded her sword to safety.
He brought her another Gatorade. She took it, unseeing. She drank. He massaged her arms and shoulders and healed her muscles to the extent he could. She ached, though not nearly so badly as she would have without his help. She consumed another carb bar.
The next session involved even greater speed. In the beginning, she struggled. A few minutes later, she got the hang of countering his speed, moving swiftly, folding swiftly, and anticipating the swings and thrusts of his sword until she met him blow for blow.
She wasn’t, however, used to the physical demands of battle. She grew weary as he forced her backward down the hall in the direction of the guest room.
She decided to try something. She threw a blast at him with a flick of her wrist. He returned the blast in even greater force and she barely got out of the way as she rolled into the guest room. Unfortunately she tripped, stumbled, and fell on her arm. She barely missed cutting her leg with her sword.
“Ow,” she shrieked.
Of all the ways she might have been hurt while training with a sword in her hand, spraining her wrist seemed the most ridiculous. At the same time, she knew Kerrick wouldn’t stop, especially not when she was at her weakest.
She felt his attacking airwaves and used all her power to set up a field. She didn’t even know what that was, but she saw it in her mind and erected it. When she looked up, all six feet six of him, all tough muscled dips and swells of her warrior teacher, lay suspended in the air above her.
Suddenly he smiled. The room was dark so all she saw was the glittering of his teeth and the flash of his eyes, but he was smiling.
She felt his sweat as it dripped through the field onto her chest.
I fell on my wrist, she sent, laughing. Can you believe it? She folded her sword back to the corner of the room out of harm’s way.
She gently released him. He dropped off to the side of her and rolled onto his back.
“This is so awesome,” he cried. He folded his sword away as well and crossed his wrists over his forehead.
She sat up. Her T-shirt and pants were completely soaked and every muscle in her body hurt. She twisted at the waist to look down at him. She took a deep breath before asking, “Why did you say that?” She rubbed her wrist.
“In all the decades I’ve trained warriors I’ve never had one capable of creating a field.” He glanced at her. “You can use that. If you have to battle death vamps, you can use a f*cking field.”
The act of love,
Swallows all pain.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth