CHAPTER 18
Crace paraded his wife up and down the second tier aisle of the Tolleson Two arena, a long walkway around the Commander’s half of the enormous building, a path designed for exhibition, for show, for demonstration, for greeting equals, for letting those beneath one’s station know just how inferior they were.
He was in his element, that public place of societal ranking that most pleased his simple avaricious, power-hungry soul. Best of all, however, was Julianna, whose beauty and bearing were unequaled.
Julianna walked regally, her head held high, her neck encased in a stiff elegant ruff that spread to her shoulders and was attached to long lace sleeves. Her gown, all in white and embroidered with seed pearls, was cut very low, displaying her full perfect breasts. He had suckled them earlier and made her cry out more than once. His beloved had the most tender erotic breasts and came so easily beneath his mouth.
How he loved her.
Yet oh, how he loved more this moment of triumph. He shouldn’t be gloating, but the ceiling began to withdraw and because he had worked for the past thirty hours to pull in every favor owed to him throughout the North American continent, as well as China, he knew this spectacle would outshine them all.
A full double orchestra played Beethoven’s Fifth, a rather ostentatious choice, but then why the hell not? His future was being decided tonight and why not let the inevitable celebration begin now?
He had paid a visit to Leto in the locker room and oh, how magnificent the warrior had appeared in his black leather kilt, bare oiled chest, and determination crowding his blue eyes. Crace’s heart swelled at the memory.
“The roof is fully drawn back now,” Julianna cried, her gaze fixed upward. She released his arm then clapped her hands since she had a particular love of fireworks.
The distant thumping started and the night sky filled with a rainbow of sparkling color. The crowd shouted its appreciation as great bursts of light revealed mystical creatures in every bejeweled shade beneath the sun. Once fully formed in the air, the creatures began to move, to fly in vast arcs above the crowd of some fifty thousand spectators. There was only one place such fireworks existed: in imaginative Beijing Two. Yes, Crace had called in a few favors—but to great effect, for as one the crowd moaned, gasped, and squealed.
In the midst of the moving glittering lights, several squadrons of trained swans flew in organized patterns, guided by actors from the nearby live theaters, all in full-mount and in splendid swirling costumes, so that very soon the upper reaches of the arena were full of that which all ascenders adored, hell, all mortals and ascended vampires alike … spectacle.
The crowd cheered and suddenly he felt the master’s presence beside him. “Well done, High Administrator Crace. An excellent beginning.”
Crace turned and bowed, drawing his wife to face the Commander. This was one of the best uses he had for his beloved spouse. She dipped a very pretty curtsy, and the Commander’s gaze drifted to her beautiful breasts, now peaked from the excitement of the fireworks and pushing hard at all those seed pearls.
“Julianna,” his deep smooth voice flowed.
“Commander.”
However, the master was never gauche and shifted his gaze to Crace. He even planted a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.”
Crace drew in a deep breath. Such bountiful praise. He felt dizzy, and visions of Geneva did an elegant Fred Astaire tap dance in his head. He could feel the soft black leather cushion beneath his ass. The right hand of God.
The Commander merely nodded, offered a small bow, then vanished.
“He is always so elegant,” Julianna murmured.
When he glanced at his wife, he saw the flush on her cheeks and her swollen lips. He frowned suddenly. He recognized her state of arousal. She’d been exactly there not an hour ago. A quick search of her mind told him he wasn’t the focus of her interest.
From the moment he met his wife, he had loved her, almost to the point of madness. Only one thing exceeded his devotion to her—his devotion to his master. For the first time he wondered if there was one thing after all he would not do for his deity.
Sweet Jesus. A shiver of fear shot straight through his heart because he didn’t know if he could ever choose between his wife and Commander Greaves … ever.
* * *
Sometimes life, ascended or otherwise, just sucked.
Alison stood beside Kerrick in what looked like your basic locker room. She was silent, shocked out. From the corridor beyond she could hear an orchestra booming out Beethoven’s Fifth.
Spectacle.
And she was the star attraction.
Great. Just great.
She shook her head. This couldn’t be happening.
She glanced around trying to figure out what a dedicated therapist from regular old Mortal Earth was doing, dressed all in black leather, preparing to battle a warrior vampire from Second Earth.
Even thinking the question threatened to send her into a tailspin. She felt hysteria rising as though thick hands gripped her ribs in an attempt to force the air from her lungs. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead she drew a breath, then another, then another even though her heart pounded so hard her ears thumped.
She glanced up at Kerrick, looking for some kind of support or understanding, but he was shored up within the fortress of his own mind. And why wouldn’t he be? The man lived with guilt stacked so deep in his soul he couldn’t move or think straight. She knew that now. Even though he was not to blame for this ridiculous situation, he shouldered the responsibility anyway.
So, here she was … alone. What a familiar sensation.
The dream hadn’t lasted long, the deep connection to another human being, immortal though he was, the sense of sharing, of working things out together. There was no togetherness here, just Alison trying to find the courage to take one more step down a road that still didn’t make a lot of sense.
“At last, ascendiate Wells. So, let me have a look at you.”
Alison heard the strong, feminine voice behind her. She whirled around and there, not ten feet away, stood Endelle, in full-mount, her wings a light golden brown. She recognized her from Kerrick’s memories, although her wings had been a different color—first yellow, then black when she’d become angry with Kerrick. She was a tall and extremely beautiful woman, thick black hair, olive skin, strong features, a beauty queen from the Middle East. She wore dark brown suede, lots of it, sculpted to her body, and a cape of what looked like mink. She gave an impression of ancient and modern blended. She was also a walking PETA nightmare.
So here she was, She Who Would Live, the ruler of all of Second Earth, Her Supremeness, Madame Endelle.
In the flesh, the woman responded, inside Alison’s head, just like that.
Alison reached out with her empathy, without thinking. Endelle narrowed her eyes, “Not on your life, ascendiate.”
Alison retreated. “My apologies. An old habit.”
Endelle nodded. “Understood.” Turning to Kerrick, she said, “Make the introductions, Warrior. I’d like to formally meet the woman who’s been making my life a shitfest.”
At these words Kerrick took a protective step closer to Alison, the only sign he was even aware of her. “Madame Supreme High Administrator, may I present ascendiate Alison Wells, previously of Carefree, Arizona, Mortal Earth. Ascendiate Wells, Madame Endelle, Supreme High Administrator, Second Earth.”
Alison held Endelle’s gaze. More than anything she knew she was looking at her future in all its myriad forms. Kerrick had told her that only Endelle had ascended with the same levels of powers Alison now possessed. She also understood that Her Supremeness, as the warriors called her, should have advanced to an Upper Dimension millennia ago, remaining on Second Earth only to serve as a necessary force against the Commander.
Endelle looked her up and down. Ponytail was a good idea, she sent. Black leather suits you. It’s probably a good thing your man can’t get past his anger right now, otherwise he’d be all over you.
Without really thinking, Alison sent back, I think you might have some boundary issues.
“Boundary issues?” Endelle cried aloud, taking a step forward, the tips of every feather shimmying. “You intend to start up your psycho-crap with me, ascendiate Wells?”
Alison shook her head. “Not at all. I’m telling you I don’t intend to discuss my love life with you.”
“Whatever.”
Endelle’s wings reached all the way to the tall ceiling, while her wingspan took up at least a combined twenty feet, larger than even Kerrick’s. The present configuration meant that when in full flight, with the wings extended as far as they could go, my God, the span would reach over forty feet from tip to tip.
“Let me speak plainly about today’s engagement,” Endelle said. “You have only one mission here—to put Leto in the ground. So do it, ascendiate. Know that I’m counting on you.”
“Then you’ve backed the wrong horse,” Alison cried. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the last time I checked, I was a therapist, not a warrior. I have difficulty swatting flies.”
“Listen, missy, where the hell do you think you are? A vacation in St. Croix? This is Second f*cking Earth and you’re battling to stay alive. Get with the program and start focusing on taking the bastard out. I’ve seen your training and whatever you may think, you can do this. Furthermore, I expect you to.” She turned to Kerrick. “You need to talk to your woman and set her straight on a few things. Now.”
She lifted her arm in a theatrical sweep then vanished.
* * *
Kerrick breathed hard. He had been working to keep his temper in check, but this last completely insensitive display by the ruler of his world put him straight over the edge.
“So much for a goddamn pep talk,” Kerrick cried. “Dammit, I should have warned you. Endelle gives bitch a bad name.”
He wanted to punch something. Hard. His hands bunched into fists and stayed there. He ground his teeth. He couldn’t bear what was happening to Alison, that she was being forced to battle Leto in front of tens of thousands of spectators. He felt unglued, coming apart at the seams, unraveling.
He hated this farce, this arena contest, which had only one end as its purpose … Alison’s death!
“Kerrick, how am I going to do this?”
Her words, the desperation in her voice, the deep fear in her beautiful blue eyes, all did him in and he lunged for her, dragging her into his arms. He felt her sob against him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
Kerrick. Kerrick, she wept within his mind.
He held her tight all the while stroking her back. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, he really did. His fears, however, kept him silent.
After a minute, she drew back then looked up at him, her eyes wet. Lavender streamed over him until his senses reeled, his heart ached, and his knees turned to water.
She released his waist and drew in a ragged breath. She wiped at her face with trembling fingers.
Christ. He had to pull his shit together right now. In front of him was a novice warrior who would soon go into battle. He had to think of her in that way, not as the most precious part of his life.
He folded a tissue into his hand from Queen Creek. He dabbed at her cheeks.
“Endelle believes you can beat him,” he said. “Let that be your confidence.”
“She really thinks I can beat Leto?” Hope fluttered in her eyes.
“Yes. She said so last night. She told us we were a bunch of faithless vampires because you possess more power than you know. So take courage in her belief in you and let the images I gave you take over. Just remember, Leto is powerful so don’t try any special tricks unless you’re certain to prevail. Tell me you understand what I’m saying to you. Leto … Leto is a cunning vampire, a skilled warrior. I fought beside him for centuries. Be prepared for anything.”
She nodded in a brisk flurry. “Yes. Yes. Be prepared for anything.”
“Also, remember he has weaknesses, like any warrior. Find his and you’ll beat him, and don’t doubt for a second he’ll try to wear you down.”
She nodded all over again.
This was better. Even some of his own fears subsided.
In a brusque movement he drew her into his arms again then kissed her hard on the lips. She met the kiss, her lips parting. He groaned as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, wishing he could take her back to Queen Creek, take her to bed and keep her there … forever.
He released her to settle his hands on her shoulders. “You can do this.”
She nodded as if she understood even though fear still streamed from her like mist from damp earth.
He felt a displacement of air at the back of his legs. He whirled and planted himself in front of Alison, bringing his sword into his hand at the same moment in case what was arriving wasn’t friendly.
But Havily materialized in front of him, looking professional as always in a navy suit, her red hair in waves over her shoulders. He shifted to return to Alison’s side, folding his sword back to his weapons locker.
“Hey, Havily,” he said.
She nodded. “Good evening, Warrior Kerrick, ascendiate Wells. I’m serving as Alison’s Liaison Officer throughout the battle.” She settled her gaze on Alison. “If you have any questions about the spectacle event, I will do my best to answer them. I’ll be accompanying you onto the arena floor as well as serving you throughout the event.”
“Oh, thank God,” Alison whispered. “I thought I would be entirely alone.”
Kerrick looked down at her, wishing like hell he could take this away from her. “Havily will take good care of you. All you have to do is ask. Right, Havily?”
“Of course, Warrior Kerrick.”
“Good. I’ll escort you both to the top of the ramp then I’ll join the Warriors of the Blood. Havily, why don’t you walk Alison through the process from the time we leave this room.”
Havily’s voice flowed, a soothing melodious lilt, as she explained the mechanics of what Alison could expect once she made her appearance in the arena proper.
A few minutes later an assistant appeared in the doorway, with clipboard in hand, pressing his earpiece. He waved them forward.
Showtime.
* * *
Alison’s head throbbed, her heart raced like a jackrabbit running for cover, and her knees had simply disappeared. She sure as hell couldn’t feel her feet.
Was this really happening?
She felt dizzy, disoriented, not exactly inside her body.
Oh, God.
Once in the corridor, Kerrick took up a place on her right and Havily on her left. The end of the hall seemed to be about ten miles away. Hey, when did she begin walking?
She struggled to breathe. She kept repeating a single line in her head: I can do this … I can do this … I can do this …
Okay.
Okay.
Suddenly the corridor was far too short and three seconds later she arrived at the arched opening to the arena proper. Havily caught her elbow and kept her from going farther. “We wait here for just a moment.” Smoke from the fireworks drifted in the air and numerous robotic television cameras floated everywhere, at least four not far from her. She let her gaze drift over the impossible sight of fifty thousand spectators. Endelle’s faction took up thousands of seats to the left, while the Commander’s vast army, in uniforms of maroon and black, sat opposite Her Supremeness.
When Alison’s face appeared all at once on the dozen or so enormous screens stationed throughout the arena, the spectators erupted into a hurricane of shouts, cheers, boos, and stomping feet.
Oh. God.
Kerrick gripped her arm. She glanced up at him. He met her gaze, his expression fierce, but he said nothing. He just nodded once very firmly then departed, moving behind her.
I can do this.
She felt Havily’s hand on her back very gently, a tender and welcome support. The comforting gesture allowed her to finally draw a deep breath.
“This looks like the Super Bowl,” she cried.
Havily nodded. She leaned close and spoke into her ear. “It’s time for the next leg of the journey. You ready?”
Alison glanced at her and snorted. Also leaning close, she said, “Do I have a choice?”
Havily shook her head. She straightened her spine. “Give ’em hell, ascendiate.”
She guided Alison to the edge of the cordoned-off battle terrain, a lake of black matting scored with two opposing white diamonds.
Once at the rope, Havily stopped. The applause had not ceased, nor the stomping of feet, nor the boos during her entire march. Once again, on several well-placed screens she saw her face, her serious expression, as Havily leaned close and spoke into her ear.
“The area to the left belongs to Endelle’s faction and the opposite, of course, to the Commander. When you hear the bell you must desist fighting of any kind and return to the white diamond on the floor nearest Endelle. I will bring you restorative drinks.”
She then inclined her head and glanced in the direction of the stands. “You will want to acknowledge Madame Endelle at this time.”
Alison followed her gaze and watched as the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth nodded to her. Alison returned a formal dip of her chin. The Warriors of the Blood flanked Her Supremeness, four on her right and four on her left. They wore the same formal regalia as Kerrick. All remained seated. Beyond, thousands of Militia Warriors, both male and female, stood applauding, cheering and stomping their feet. Her gaze slid to Kerrick, seated just to the left of Endelle. He met her gaze, put a fist over his heart, then inclined his head to her. Though the gesture brought tears to her eyes, it also calmed her, eased her.
At least until Havily motioned with a sweep of her hand to the break in the ropes.
The time had come.
Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, in her head. Her ears rang. Once more, she couldn’t feel her feet.
Before taking this last step, she glanced at Havily, who met her gaze, then sent, I will beseech the Creator for help on your behalf. She offered a solemn formal bow then turned and walked in her sedate manner to take up a seat in the front row among others dressed in similar formal business attire.
Alison suddenly wished she was back in her beat-up Nova, heading for the library, or Starbucks, or the nearest AMC. She wished she’d never heard of the Borderlands or the Trough or Second Earth. And why on earth had she ever sent that hand-blast into the air?
Too late now.
The moment she stepped through the opening in the ropes, the decibels of the shouting on both sides increased exponentially. She moved to take her place in the white diamond, her back to the Supreme High Administrator.
She scanned the rows opposite and her gaze came to rest on the Commander, on Darian, her former client, now her enemy. He sat on an elevated dais in a very large, tall-backed carved chair. She still wondered the why of it, the year of therapy, what he could have meant by it and why he had chosen such a public place to orchestrate her death.
His faction was surprisingly lacking in pomp and splendor, but then that wasn’t really his style. His generals bore a few feathers and interesting hats, which harked back a couple of centuries. However, in the thousands of seats beyond him, his warriors, many of them death vampires, sat in quite plain black uniforms, the front-piece turned back to reveal a triangle of maroon. In stark contrast, the Commander wore one of his elegant suits, a crisp white shirt, and a maroon-and-black tie. No sash, no Roman-influenced headgear, no thick row of medals, no braiding.
He appeared, therefore, as she had always known him, the way he had come to her office in his expensive wool. His beautifully shaped bald head glimmered beneath the powerful arena lights. He leaned to one side, slightly to his left, both wrists settled on the armrests of his chair. He appeared relaxed yet wholly in command. Power rippled over him, around him, through him.
Had she ever really known him?
The answer had to be no.
Though his army continued to boo her presence, the Commander met her gaze, smiled, then inclined his head as though nothing more were at stake than the results of an egg-and-spoon race at a picnic.
Whatever.
Uncertain exactly what was expected of her, she rather thought that if she was going to fight one of the Commander’s most powerful generals, she ought to be armed. As soon as the thought appeared in her mind, her identified sword appeared in her right hand, a single, swift maneuver, her fingers wrapped around the leather grip.
A tremendous cheer erupted from behind her along with a renewed vigorous stomping of feet. She took up the warrior stance, learned from Kerrick’s memories, then settled the tip of the sword on the soft matting. She waited now with her left hand behind her back.
Endelle’s crowd continued to cheer and stomp, another show of support, which brought her blood pressure down a little and her determination skyrocketing.
After a full minute of standing with her sword balanced next to her, Endelle’s army began to boo quite suddenly.
The enemy’s chosen warrior approached, though from where she stood she could not yet see him. She saw the floating cameras, though, stationed just outside the arch of a tunnel at a diagonal from her position. A moment more and his face appeared on the screen, followed once more by a sharp increase in audience response.
Alison drew in a sharp breath.
Leto. The warrior who had come down through the Trough, who had thrown the shredder bomb in the alley, who had appeared on the street flanked by death vampires while Kerrick had driven her absurd little Nova away from the downtown Phoenix Borderland.
Leto. Former Warrior of the Blood. The Commander’s right-hand general. A traitor.
God help her.
For a full minute he stayed just out of her range of vision but he used the cameras to incite the crowd with a ferocity of expression, which worked the warriors behind her into a fury of more stomping feet and shouting voices, a storm of rage.
When he finally appeared, she worked hard to maintain her composure. Leto topped out easily at Kerrick’s height. He was quite handsome and wore his black hair pulled back in the traditional warrior cadroen, which she took as a reflection of his former Warrior of the Blood status. Beyond his height, and also like Kerrick, his shoulders went on forever. He wore a black leather battle kilt and black leather gladiator-like shin guards and sandals. He had oiled his bare chest, which emphasized his enormous pecs and solid rippled abs. As he walked, he carried his sword arrogantly balanced against his shoulder. He kept his gaze pinned to her, his lips a grim line, his chin lowered.
She straightened her shoulders a little more and lifted a brow.
His lips formed a perfect sneer.
She took deep breaths as her heart set up a furious rhythm. How on earth was she going to battle this man-vampire-whatever?
She wondered if she could touch his mind. She sent a gentle feeler. She reached his thoughts. She watched him take a step backward, but she could go no farther. He had shields, tough shields.
He shifted his gaze away from her. He played to the crowds as he crossed the matting. He lifted his hands into the air, his sword now balanced between. He encouraged both cheers and boos as he walked. The crowd roared. Thorne’s warriors taunted him the way the opposing forces had sent a tsunami of boos against her.
When he had traveled from one end to the other he made his way back to the middle then turned in her direction, plowing straight for her.
Would he attack immediately? Was this it? Did the battle begin now, no preamble, no warning, just … fight?
She held her ground, her sword still angled downward in a passive position. The entire arena fell silent. She reached out with her senses. She could hear the rate of Leto’s breathing and the firm, confident beats of his heart. She could read his reactions and intentions one split second to the next. This at least she had the power to do.
Even as he came toward her, she kept her sword in place, the point pressed firmly against the matting.
As he closed to no more than two yards in front of her, she understood he was testing her courage as he looked down at her and met her gaze. He had blue eyes, sharp intense blue eyes. One thing about the Warriors of the Blood, traitor or not, they tended to be prime examples of the male species, ripped, powerful, and gorgeous, Leto no less so.
She never let her gaze waver from his. She sensed that in this moment he meant to challenge her mettle but not to attack, not to hurt.
She lowered her shoulders a fraction of an inch. “Bring it, Warrior,” she said softly.
A faint smile curved his lips as he narrowed his gaze. He turned and brought his sword in a swift arc to within an inch of the base of her neck.
The gasp that flew up from the entire circumference of the arena sounded like a gust of wind. So fifty thousand people had expected her to die without once having lifted her sword.
Again, whatever.
For a long moment, Leto kept the blade poised at her neck, then cheering and applause erupted from a majority of the spectators, a wild sound that went on and on for at least a minute. Throughout the entire time, Leto’s sword hovered at her neck, unmoving, his hands steady as a rock.
When at last the cheering died down, she said, “I’m ascendiate Wells.” She could hear her voice amplified for the entire arena, a bizarre experience just in itself. However, she didn’t let it deter her as she continued, “I believe you were above the Trough two nights ago. May I at least have an introduction before we begin?”
He withdrew his sword from her neck, his expression slightly confused. “I could have killed you just now.” His voice, bearing an exquisite resonance, also reverberated the length, height, and width of the massive building.
She shook her head. “No. That was not your intention.”
“Then you read me well.” He bowed to her. “At least I face a worthy opponent. But make no mistake, Alison Wells. My name is Leto, I’m a general in the Commander’s army, and given the chance I will end your life.”
“Understood,” she returned.
He narrowed his eyes.
He turned away.
Only as he strode fifteen feet from her did she finally raise her sword. Everything in his demeanor had shifted. She sensed it as though he had fired off a flare.
He turned then attacked in a swift deadly whirl. She knew he had expected to strike her down and finish the contest in one blow. But she had already folded behind him out of reach. He turned again and slashed toward her in a mind-bending array of slices and thrusts.
The battle was on.
For the first minute she heard the madness of the cheering, growling, stomping, screaming crowd. Not long after, however, everything disappeared from her awareness except Leto, his sword and his movements. She saw only him. She immersed herself in learning the subtlety of his signals as she made use of her real weapon—her ability to anticipate—just as Kerrick had taught her.
The only strategy she could compose at this point was defensive in nature against so seasoned a warrior. He was a powerful man, yet he could be struck down for good if she let him taste her sword. She understood the power of the blade, the burn, the sharpness of the slice of Second Earth weaponry. She didn’t know how they were fashioned but she knew they cut like the infamous samurai swords.
He moved as quickly as Kerrick. He kept her hopping and folding. After a few minutes, she realized he had settled on his strategy. He was physically more powerful with profound endurance and he meant to wear her down. Simple as that.
She had no doubt he could succeed. Though she was able to match his skill, he would outlast her.
Fifteen minutes into the battle, a bell sounded.
Leto drew back and bowed to her. He turned around and headed to his white diamond, in the Commander’s direction.
Alison waited before changing course. She reached out for his intention. What came back to her was only his need for water.
Assured he would not attack, she turned around to face the applause of Endelle’s contingent. Havily brought her a goblet, which contained Gatorade, thank God. She drank slowly, savoring.
“Be quick, ascendiate Wells. The break is only thirty seconds long.”
Oh, God.
She sucked down the remaining drink.
The bell sounded.
She felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rise. She turned and Leto was already on her. She had a fraction of a second to fold out of the way, but just before she did she touched her sword to the back of his leg. He stumbled and fell forward. Blood gushed from a long and very deep slice.
She had cut him.
She had cut him.
Her stomach rolled. She brought her sword up, preparing for him to rise in a blur of movement and assault her again. Instead he flipped over but remained sitting, his eyes wide as he stared at her.
Now he waited for her to make the next move.
Why?
She glanced down at the mats. Blood poured from the wound, forming a glossy lake beneath his leg. He set his sword beside him and put both hands on the wound.
Holy shit! Had she just severed his hamstring? Oh, my God, she had, which meant she could finish the contest right this moment, right now.
A cheer rose up from Endelle’s faction along with a cry to finish him. He continued to stare up at her, his expression intense.
Of course. He was healing his leg.
Finish him. Her gaze shot to Endelle, whose voice had pierced her head. Finish him, ascendiate. You have the chance. Finish him now.
Alison had a choice to make. She could simplify her life right now by taking out a key player in the war, by obliging Endelle, by making thousands of Militia Warriors happy.
There was just one problem.
She wasn’t a warrior. She had chosen a healing profession as her life’s work. She had a pacifist’s soul and an antipathy toward causing pain of any kind, even if deserved. To take Leto’s life went against the depths of her character.
She had therefore only one recourse. She backed away from him.
The crowd went into a frenzy of screaming, at least those who wanted Leto dead. Endelle’s faction shouted vile things at her and booed her. They wanted a kill and they wanted it now. As so many times before since she began her rite of ascension, ancient Rome came to mind.
The knowledge of the crowd’s gruesome expectation made her furious all over again. This was Second Earth?
She kept backing away. She shook her head back and forth. She couldn’t kill him even though she knew he wouldn’t show this kind of mercy toward her. The way her arm shook even now, even at the beginning of such an engagement, all he had to do was wear her down and he would succeed in his objective.
A bell sounded. Leto actually stood up and walked to his diamond amid cheers from the Commander’s faction. He had healed his leg. The vampire had power.
Alison moved back to her place, her mind disordered. Given the strength of her convictions, she thought it likely she wouldn’t make it out alive. That she had been able to inflict so severe a cut had been a piece of luck, nothing more. No doubt Leto knew it as well, and he wouldn’t make a similar mistake.
Havily gave her the goblet. As she drank, she set her gaze on Leto. How on earth was she going to defeat him if she was unwilling to harm him?
When the bell sounded again, Leto charged forward, faster than before.
Her act of grace had awakened a demon.
He moved so fast she barely saw him. She fought with all the skill she could muster, streaming Kerrick’s battle images in a constant flow through her mind so that her arms, her legs, every joint of her body knew how to respond, but truthfully what did she have left to withstand this superb, powerful warrior?
From then on, Leto pressed his advantage hard. He used his physical strength to force her into larger and larger movements. As minute piled upon minute, her breathing grew labored and her muscles grew heavy and overworked. At this rate, she wouldn’t last much longer.
The bell sounded.
She received her goblet from Havily and sucked the Gatorade down as though she had been walking through the desert for hours. Sweat poured off her body and she cursed the person who had put her in all this leather.
She was barely refreshed and her breathing hadn’t calmed at all before Leto was on her again. As her ankles grew heavy, Alison’s courage faltered.
Kerrick’s voice and words shot into her head. Use your wits. Think. You can beat him.
His presence had an effect, strengthening her weakened muscles and reflexes as well as her spirit.
Watch him. See how anxious he is to defeat you? Use it against him.
A light went on and her courage returned.
From that moment forward, she began to plan. Though she had an aversion to hurting the man so willing to kill her, there might be another way to finish the battle. She knew humiliation fired him and perhaps would also make him reckless.
“Leto,” she said quietly. Again she could hear her voice amplified throughout the arena.
He scowled and struck harder.
She lifted her sword in answering blows. “You must know by now I won’t take your life.”
“Then you’re a fool!” he shouted, his voice also echoing to the rafters, his sword slashing.
“You must tell me which you prefer, to end this civilly or to be humiliated in front of the Commander and his army.”
These words enraged him. He thrust hard and wild. She had her answer.
She dodged, folded, leaped into the air. His ire overtook his sense. She saw her opportunity.
She leaped again, rolled over his shoulders, caught his sword arm with a deadly slice, and removed it at the elbow. He fell on his stomach, his sword sliding with his arm. He tried to regain his feet, but she laid a shield over his body and set her foot on his neck. Blood pumped from the wound with every quick beat of his heart. He pinched his lips together in a taut line. His face paled.
She glared at the opposition. Silence and horror returned to her. From Endelle’s ranks behind her, a “death” chant began. She felt the blood of the combined warriors rise up. She heard their shouts of triumph as they called for Leto’s death, the traitor’s death.
She knew they had lost innumerable comrades in the many battles they had endured. She understood their hatred of the enemy. Regardless, she couldn’t take this warrior’s life. Everything within her rebelled at the idea.
She was not a warrior.
She touched Leto’s mind. I know you wish for your death, but I refuse to give it to you.
I am proud to die as a warrior. Nothing less will answer. Finish this.
She sank deeper into his mind, doing what Kerrick had called mind-diving, the deep form of engagement that would allow her inside his head, to see his thoughts, his memories. She expected resistance only to find he had released his shields … as though he wanted her to know.
She saw his life. She saw the family he had lost to a squad of death vampires, night-feeders who had been stalking ascenders instead of pillaging humans on Mortal Earth. She saw his level of rage, something she had seen in Kerrick before the battle. She found another smaller shield, a very powerful shield, and pressed. In slow stages, the shield gave way and she saw the truth that could not be told. Oh, God, Leto was a double agent! She forged an instant mental shield around Leto’s mind and her own. She felt other entities pummeling to get in, and knew she had a mere second to absorb this truth. She gasped.
Oh, God, Leto. What am I to do now?
Keep your silence.
Done.
She released him, tears in her eyes.
She took her foot off his neck but kept the pinning shield in place. Blood pumped steadily from the vein of his arm. He would die soon anyway from blood loss if she didn’t do something. She moved swiftly, knowing that if she saved him, he would still be forced to attack her, despite what she had just learned about him.
Too bad.
She lifted her hand and stared into Leto’s eyes. Hold on … we’re going for a ride.
You can’t fold out of here. Shields everywhere.
Not gonna fold.
She thought the thought. She snatched this small pocket of time and the two of them went through a whirlwind until she rolled back over his shoulder the opposite direction and stood on the other side of him, his sword raised, though frozen in place high overhead. “What the f*ck?” he cried, his voice sounding through the arena.
The resulting power rippled in a circle outward, and just as had happened in her office, a sonic boom sounded. Again, in slow waves, the majority of the arena spectators began to cheer and applaud, wild cries that grew louder and louder at her unexpected exhibition.
Endelle’s voice entered her head once more. Well, now you’ve shown me something, ascendiate.
Leto scowled at her. “What did you just do?”
Alison shrugged. “Pocket of time reversal.”
He stared in return. “Who the hell are you?”
“A therapist, not a warrior, still hoping to ascend.”
He grimaced. “We’re battling here.” But she saw the chagrin in his eyes.
She shook her head. “Not anymore.”
“Like hell,” he said. To her mind, he sent, Don’t have a choice, ascendiate. I’m sorry.
She felt his intention like a ball of fire in her stomach. For her, however, everything had just changed. She knew what she had now and she didn’t hold back. She sent a devastating hand-blast, threw him on his back, cast a shield, and once more put her foot on his neck.
“I’m not a warrior,” she stated in a clear voice. She looked up at the nearest floating camera. “I’m. Not. A. Warrior.”
She released the shield. Leto was on his feet in a split second.
He sent his own hand-blast. She felt it coming, swiped her hand through the air, sending the blast in the direction of the ceiling. She waved her hand again and all that power turned into an enormous display of fireworks in every color of the rainbow.
Applause thundered now except from among the opposing armies. Silence filled those sections of the arena. Each was losing the hoped-for victory.
She sent her own hand-blast this time and dislodged Leto’s sword from his hand. She brought the sword toward her, which pulled another enormous shared gasp from every direction. Endelle’s faction behind her cried out warning after warning. She wasn’t afraid because at the exact moment of touch she reconfigured the molecular identification of the sword, rendering the weapon harmless.
She held the sword aloft for all to see, turning in a wide circle.
When she didn’t fall over dead, another great cry rose up in astonishment all around the arena. She eased into a slow smile and relief replaced all her tension.
Well, what do you know. She’d done it and Leto wasn’t dead. She faced him once more.
“I will not fight you,” she cried. She tossed the sword to him.
He caught it easily, but stared at it. With a change of configuration the grip had to feel different to him. Regardless, he shifted his attention back to her, lowered his chin, and once more blurred in her direction, fast. “Then die,” he shouted. Behind him, the Commander’s army raged. Almost as one they screamed at him, urging him to continue the fight, to take Alison’s life.
She cast a new shield, this time around herself. He struck but could not penetrate. He struck a dozen times, twenty, thirty, but to no effect.
She waited.
Continuous applause resounded from all over the arena.
Finally, Leto was breathing hard. Sweat dripped down his body. “My God. Who are you?” he asked again. He leaned over at the waist to catch his breath.
After a long tense moment, in which both armies fell silent, he finally dropped to one knee in front of her and laid his sword at her feet.
“I concede,” he stated in a loud clear voice.
Silence fell on every spectator present.
She released her shield.
He stood up, his complexion pale, his gaze for one split second full of agony. She reached out with her empathy and read him. Dammit, he wanted out. Of course he wanted out. Just like the Warriors of the Blood, his role had taken its toll. He was on the razor’s edge of disintegration, his vulnerable position at risk of discovery.
She approved of this warrior. He had honor and character and he had lived a double life for eight decades, serving as a spy. A spy! But for whom? She had seen the name James deep within Leto’s head but not Endelle’s, which meant that Endelle knew nothing about his activities, of that she was sure. Worse, when Leto defected, Darian had forced him to take dying blood as proof of his loyalty. At the same time, he was given an antidote to nullify the effects. Leto did not have the paling, beautifying, and faint bluing of the skin that most death vampires exhibited. No one would ever know he was, essentially, a death vampire. But all these years, he’d had to continue taking both the tainted blood and the antidote to sustain his mission. What a horrible mess.
Darian, her Darian, had forced him down this path. Either he took the dying blood or he would be killed. There had been no choice.
He bowed once to her, turned on his heel, brought his sword into his hand, then headed back in the direction of his lockers. She tested her internal mental shields. Could she keep Leto’s secret from Endelle, from the Commander, from Kerrick?
She wondered just how deep this hole could get.
The crowds had already begun to disperse except for the attendant armies and administrative corps. Apparently, the entertainment was over.
The Warriors of the Blood stood in sober array in front of thousands of Militia Warriors. Her decision pleased no one.
To Kerrick, she sent, I couldn’t do it.
I know. A pause followed. I treasure your heart more than anything else in the world.
Her eyes filled with tears as she blew him a kiss.
She could not, however, look in Madame Endelle’s direction. She suspected the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth would have a few choice words for her as soon as the cameras disappeared.
Birth,
A place of beginning, of seizing, of weeping.
Treasure the moment
Recline in bliss.
—Collected Poems, Beatrice of Fourth