CHAPTER 7
As High Administrator Crace reviewed yet another report about the mortal female Alison Wells, he had a new sweat issue developing. Even his breathing had taken on a gurgling sound.
He sat in his recently commandeered office, his brow low as he held one of several reports in hand. How was this possible? He’d never heard of a human of Mortal Earth capable of dematerializing. Shit.
He looked around. At least he had an office now.
At ten he had removed one very pissed-off general from his massive seat of authority. Though not as large as the Commander’s office, the general’s workplace proved the axiom “Size matters.” Crace might have taken the smaller space offered to him, but the general had made the mistake of curling his lip at Crace upon introduction so of course he’d had no choice but to dispossess the bastard.
The space was pristine, as it ought to be, a reflection of the disciplined military mind. The desk was clean, large, and rectangular, the chair, ergonomic. One wall of the office held a bank of four-drawer black steel, locked-down filing cabinets. On top of the cabinets sat a long planter that extended the entire distance of the file drawers. Maidenhair ferns filled the space spreading all the way to the ceiling.
He approved. The plants cleaned and humidified the desert air. The oxygen kept the mind sharp.
In his office in Chicago, he had a full-time Japanese gardener who kept both his indoor and outdoor gardens in immaculate condition. He had won successive awards for his specialized azaleas. He missed the calming effects of walking the gravel paths, and with his Guccis sliding over his damp ass right now he sure as hell could use a little calming green.
On his desk was the latest PC, the CPU built into the large screen. The keyboard was also ergonomic. Though the hardware appealed to his aesthetic sensibility, he was old-school and liked the feel of the reports in hand, the slick outer binder, the individual sheets between thumb and forefinger as he turned the pages
All well and good.
But the contents.
Holy hell.
He had spent the last hour reviewing the stack of reports, a foot deep, which Commander Greaves had provided for him concerning the mortal ascendiate Alison Wells. Suffice it to say his chest now felt strapped with steel bands and his briefs were, yeah, damp.
So much for an easy kill.
What he had believed would be a simple task—offing a female mortal—had taken on the quality of a nightmare, the one where you tried to run but your legs wouldn’t move.
He read, The mortal is the most powerful ascendiate since Endelle’s arrival nine thousand years ago. She has all of Second’s abilities.
Jesus.
The Commander had sent his spies after the ascendiate every day for the past year, assessing her, reading her powers, watching her activities. There was even an absurd notation about the level she had achieved at sudoku.
Of course his mind tripped over this information and fell flat with the next bit. The ascendiate will no doubt have a Warrior of the Blood in full guardian mode protecting her during her rite of ascension.
Sweet Jesus.
So, yeah. He was in the middle of a nightmare. As he continued to flip pages, a new thought emerged, one that kept tightening his groin with possibilities. If he were to drink the woman to death himself and seize her powers, would he then be as strong as Commander Greaves? Stronger?
He flexed his buttocks and shifted in his seat to make room for a sudden erection.
The Commander materialized in front of his desk. “Lay that thought aside, Crace. Make no mistake. Once you got near enough to ascendiate Wells with such a proposition in mind, she would incinerate your gray matter.”
Crace looked up from the reports then shot to his feet.
Shit.
The Commander had read his thoughts before he’d appeared in the room. Crace had to be smarter than this.
“Commander,” he murmured. He bowed low, remaining in the same position in hopes his obvious excitement would diminish quickly.
“The Committee has been informed of the ascendiate’s refusal to join my ranks. You hereby have permission to proceed in preparation for an imminent rite of ascension. Lay in your plans. Keep me informed. I’ll be in Geneva for the next few hours. After that I have several High Administrators to tend to. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Phoenix Two. In the meantime, please move from your hotel into the suite next to my chambers here in the compound. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Commander. Thank you, Commander.”
Permission to proceed.
Move to the suite next to the right hand of God.
He rose from his bow, his vocal cords humming, his parted lips ready to engage the Commander. Unfortunately, his deity had vanished.
Crace released a sigh. He sat back down, aware again of his clinging pants. He really needed to change them again, but he didn’t want to leave his desk. He could not believe all this good fortune was happening to him. A chance at the Round Table and now the suite next to the Commander. His star was rising, ascending.
He laughed at his joke.
Okay.
This was good.
Holy shit … the suite next to the Commander.
His arousal throbbed. He needed his wife. He had already summoned her from Chicago. She would take up his rooms at the Bredstone Hotel, and later he would get the relief he needed: her body, her blood, her mind.
As he glanced at the reports once more, a plan began to form. He believed in keeping things simple. The ascendiate would be answering her call to ascension soon, at one of the Borderlands, near a dimensional Trough, and when she did, he would have three squads of death vampires in place to finish her off. Simple, to the point, the task accomplished.
Since her warrior guardian would probably be at the Trough as well, he would need to send along at least one of the Commander’s generals, a powerful warrior, to make certain the guardian died along with her. Fortunately, Commander Greaves had turned a Warrior of the Blood over a century ago. Yes, the warrior General Leto would do, a most appropriate assignment for him.
What could be simpler?
Oh, God, a seat at the Round Table.
* * *
Havily tapped her foot and glanced at her phone.
For the twentieth time she stepped in front of the sliding doors.
Nothing.
She called Central. Again. She heard Jeannie’s voice then suddenly the doors flashed apart, a soft whoosh of air over her face.
Finally. She glanced at the time. Just after ten o’clock.
She had been kept waiting an hour.
She slid her phone back into her pants pocket, picked up her carry-case and her briefcase, then marched through. A path of lights lit the way to the office.
Her steps slowed when her peripheral vision caught sight of the chaos of the administrative pool. She stopped and turned in horror. There were rows and rows of desks going on forever, each one piled high with papers. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth.
This is ridiculous.
Had no one heard of a paperless office?
She dipped her chin and resumed her course, picking up her pace. She turned down the wide corridor to the left. At the far end, a wedge of light angled into the hallway. Madame Endelle’s office.
After passing a dozen glass-walled executive offices, also piled with papers, she reached the doorway. She drew in a deep purposeful breath and at the same time crossed the threshold.
Endelle glanced up at her. Barely a glance, a brief batting of thick black lashes, nothing more as she resumed reading a report on her desk. “I need you on liaison duty, Havily.” Liaison duty? Endelle never spoke to her directly about liaison assignments. “This is important.” She tossed a clear lavender folder in Havily’s direction across the desk. The folder slid just to the edge. “Everything you need to know is in there. Things will get messy, but I have Kerrick on guardian duty so you probably won’t need a flak jacket. Nice to see you again, blah-blah-blah. Thorne will contact you when you’re needed. Good night.”
Havily stared at the bent head. Madame Endelle shuffled papers and started reading another report. She felt a quick flush to her cheeks, a familiar tingling, which meant she ought to retreat right now and gather the reins of her vampire temper. “I beg your pardon?” The words came out clipped, even brittle, certainly a challenge.
Endelle froze, lifted an icy gaze, then eased back in her chair, back against a mountain of light blue feathers. How did she do that? How did she sit in a nest of her wings? Havily’s back ached just looking at the bent and contorted feathers.
Endelle’s chin rose and her gaze came at Havily full-throttle, two hostile brown eyes, lined like ancient oak bark. She wore some kind of animal print, cheetah perhaps, which added to the sense of menace in her eyes. “And apparently I beg yours. What the f*ck do you mean by talking to me like that? You have your assignment. Thorne will call you when he needs you. Now get the hell out of my office.”
Again Havily felt her cheeks tingle, another warning to start moving backward, to put her feet on the bicycle pedals and start wheeling out of the office, at light speed, preferably. Instead she actually stepped forward. She had waited for years to speak to Madame Endelle face-to-face. She dropped the briefcase from her left hand and heard the soft thunk on the carpet. Her right arm came up, then the rest of what she accomplished, to her horror, occurred in preternatural time.
Before Endelle could blink again, the proposed military-admin complex lay before her, on top of the report she was reading, the portfolio as the base, the entire thing an architectural pop-up. It was a work of great beauty, and took up a good portion of Endelle’s oversized desk.
Far more important than the physical structure was the complete reorganization of duties and responsibilities, which would create an efficiency currently lacking in Endelle’s operations. Havily moved to the side of the desk so that she could see the Supreme High Administrator as she began her prepared speech. She started to explain the freedom that would accrue to Madame Endelle by adopting her plan. She didn’t get more than four sentences in when Endelle’s wings shifted color from the present light blue to a dark midnight black. She rose to her feet. Her nostrils flared.
Despite the displeased nature of these signs, Havily pressed on, giving statistics about hours and efficiency, when suddenly the architectural mock-up burst into flames, a monstrous sudden conflagration. As the flames reached to the ceiling, Havily backed up several feet, almost to the fireplace.
The next moment the flames disappeared abruptly, as well as even the smallest dust mote of her project. Vanished. Gone. Kaput.
Havily had the mildly hysterical thought that her work of three years had just gone up in smoke.
Her lips parted. Of all the things she had expected to happen during the interview, she had not expected this, a complete unwillingness on Madame Endelle’s part to hear even a word she had hoped to say, the speech she had practiced before her mirror dozens of times.
The Supreme High Administrator held Havily’s gaze for a long, tense moment, then said, “I’m trying to keep a mortal alive, not to mention attempting to prevent all of Second Earth from falling into the hands of a monster, and you brought me a goddamn dollhouse? Just do your f*cking job, Morgan, and get the hell out of my office.”
Havily glanced at the lavender folder, which had fallen to the floor in the chaos. She held out her hand and brought it in a long glide through the air into her palm. She turned on her professional black heels and left her briefcase sitting there. What was the point? She hoped Endelle tripped over it.
She moved swiftly down the wide corridor with all the glass walls and ignored the tears tracking down her cheeks.
When she was within ten feet of the sliding doors, something large whizzed past her head—oh, her briefcase, in the form of a rocket—which then struck and demolished one of the glass panes leading into the hall. She paused for a moment, staring at the shattered glass.
Perfect.
She lifted her arm and dematerialized back to her office. She walked the length of the room back and forth, forcing her heart and mind to settle. Her disappointment was severe, painfully so. The tears wouldn’t stop. What was wrong with the Supreme High Administrator that she would not even listen to an idea?
She breathed in as she took brisk steps. She swiped at her cheeks, folded a tissue into her hand, and blew her nose. She had so much to contribute. She could make a difference in the war. Why couldn’t she get Madame Endelle to hear her?
After a few minutes, she began to calm down. A few minutes more and she brought the lavender folder once more into her hands then popped it open.
“Alison Wells,” she murmured. “Blah-blah-blah … preternatural empathy, dematerialization of objects, mental shields, blah-blah-blah.” With so much power, the Commander was probably planning her demise. Even with all seven warriors guarding her ass, Alison Wells would not likely survive her first two hours on Second. Hah!
These truly ungenerous thoughts had an effect. Havily’s rage fled as her conscience kicked in. To say she was severely disappointed was to say the least. She knew she had it in her power to make an enormous change for the better in Endelle’s administration. However, this ascendiate, the mortal Alison Wells, should not have to pay for her temper.
As she read the document, her eyes widened and she sucked air between pursed lips. The mortal could even dematerialize! Good God, she was powerful. She’d probably been in hiding on earth, maybe not literally but in a dozen other ways. She would need information, and lots of it, just to keep her sanity.
Very well.
She turned her organized mind to the task at hand and moved to her desk. She began making notes, all sorts of notes, starting with, Attempt to explain a difficult, callous, and quite ancient Supreme High Administrator to a hopeful ascendiate.
* * *
At midnight, as promised, Marcus folded to the steps outside Endelle’s administrative headquarters. He hadn’t been on Second in a very long time, not even to see what changes had occurred. As he looked up at the massive building then turned around in a circle, the architecture stunned him, as did the extensive intricate landscaping. Hanging gardens cascaded from dozens of floors.
Since he’d built half his massive fortune on the highly lucrative trade between Mortal and Second Earth, he’d seen many pictures, of course. However, the photos failed to capture the beauty of the modern world Second ascenders had created. Phoenix One had many strong buildings, but nothing like this.
The air smelled different than on Mortal Earth as well, cleaner, of course. There were fewer inhabitants to wreck the environment and there was also a deep commitment to plant life, which went a long way toward keeping the planet healthy, clean, oxygenated.
He took a deep breath. His chest felt strangely tight, absurdly emotional. Second had been his home for thirty-eight hundred years before he’d had his fill and returned in self-exile to Mortal Earth
Now he was … home.
Goddammit. His ascended vampire nature knew the difference between Mortal Earth and Second. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, to have such a profound sense of belonging.
He ground his teeth. Whatever the global society had been able to achieve in terms of the environment, however, the power struggles had been a disaster and his sister’s death had been the last straw. He’d blamed Kerrick for having married her, for having made her a target, and yet he’d also blamed so many other things. The Commander, for instance, should have been offed centuries ago, and Endelle’s administration was a sinkhole.
He moved into the building. Not knowing the layout, he took the elevator to the top.
Once in the hall, he saw the broken glass and paused. Turning around, he noticed that a black briefcase lay against the far wall where the glittering debris trailed to an end point.
Instinctively, he dropped into a crouch. His wing-locks set up a steady vibration. He took deep breaths. He extended his senses, reaching for the enemy target. Nothing returned to him.
Huh.
As he rose, he assessed the situation then snorted. Someone had lost her temper, no doubt. Typical.
He didn’t bother with the sliding doors. He stepped over the low metal casement of the broken window. The lights were off over the entire southern stretch of workstations. His gaze made a quick pass, hunting for anything out of place, a wink of light, a piece of furniture, anything.
But the only thing he detected as unusual was an odd scent in the air, a kind of perfume that made his neck muscles jump … and, shit, his groin muscles tighten.
What the hell?
He looked up and down the wide hallway. All he saw were a few ill-tended palms in enormous bronze pots and a row of sickly-looking pink plants fronting the glass office wall—nothing that could account for the fresh and rather sweet floral scent that assailed him. He flared his nostrils, parted his lips, and took in the scent, breathed it in, all the way into his lungs and into his brain. He exhaled and breathed again.
The fragrance made him dizzy and his heart sped up, like he needed to be prepared to give chase. Once more his wing-locks responded, thrumming, preparing for flight.
F*cking weird.
What was Her Supremeness pumping through the air-conditioning system and why did it give him the strangest sense of well-being? It even affected his libido. He had a sudden hard-on.
Holy shit.
He ignored the odd smell and his body’s reaction to the scent. His gaze drifted over the sea of desks. A mountain of disgust followed. With all the modern technology available to Second Earth, why were there mile-high mounds of paper everywhere? Had Endelle not heard of a paperless office?
He shrugged.
Whatever.
He would only be here for three days, four at the most.
He followed the path of lights into a corridor off to his left. He moved past glass-fronted offices. Again all the rooms were weighed down with stacks of paper. He shook his head then stopped in his tracks outside the door to Endelle’s office. The scent was stronger now and very familiar. What was he smelling? He closed his eyes and ran through a litany of flowers, starting with the ones he sent to women he intended to bed—not roses, not carnations, not lilies. What the hell was that?
An old memory struck.
Of course. His sister, Helena, had planted this shrub in Scottsdale Two—on the mansion grounds of the home she’d built with Kerrick. She had trained a dozen or so shrubs against a long stone wall at the back of the property. The plants had thrived, growing into huge mounds. Green-throated hummingbirds came around to enjoy the fluted red flowers, and sparrows built nests deep inside. Yeah. He was smelling goddamn honeysuckle, a fragrance he loved. He always had and right now he even weaved a little on his feet. He was hard again as well. So, where the hell was all this sensation coming from?
He planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. Second Earth bullshit.
Again … whatever.
He dipped his chin and forced his senses to clear. When he was ready, he gave the door a shove, caught sight of a woman he hadn’t seen in two hundred years, and barked his laughter. “Sleeping on the job, Madame Supremeness?”
Endelle jerked her head up, a trail of saliva draining from her mouth. She swiped the drool with a quick backhand. “Marcus, you dumbf*ck! You nearly scared me half to death.” She glanced at the clock on her desk. “Well. I slept for half an hour. Just set a new record.”
Marcus might have had a comeback if these simple words hadn’t slapped him hard across the face. Endelle never slept?
“Oh, shit. I drooled all over the Buenos Aires report.” She finally met his gaze. “The Commander had my ambassador killed about an hour ago.”
Holy shit. “So he’s killing ambassadors now?”
“Sure. Why not? He’s an ambitious man.” She looked him up and down. “And you are still one hot vampire. Goddamn, Marcus. Two centuries on Mortal Earth has not changed you at all except you look bigger.” Her gaze skated from shoulder to shoulder.
“I work out,” he said.
She arched a brow. “So I see.” A smile curved her lips. “Thanks for coming.”
“I told you I would. I just hope to hell this is important.”
“It is. I’ve had Seer reports from around the globe that this ascendiate has the ability to shift the tide of war. No specifics, though.”
Marcus nodded. “So how far along is she on her rite of ascension?”
“She hasn’t answered her call yet.”
Marcus scowled. “Then why the hell am I here?”
“Relax, gorgeous. Should be any time now. The ascension is imminent.”
“That’s it? Imminent.” This did not make sense, not in any dimension. He narrowed his eyes. “And by the way, what the hell do you mean no specifics? You used to have an incomparable Seer network. The information you got always kept you one step ahead of Greaves.”
Endelle lowered her chin, and her striated brown eyes darkened. “Intel from my Seers Fortress has shrunk to the size of a frog’s nut and no, I don’t know why since the administrator of the facility, by law, doesn’t have to let anyone on Second pass through his front door. Yeah, you should look shocked. We have a lot of new rules on Second because we’ve got this f*cking committee, COPASS, which now tells me where, when and how to wipe my ass. As for global Seer information, it’s much less reliable. Most Seers, as you know, are beholden to their local High Administrators.”
He frowned. “COPASS?”
“The Committee to Oversee the Process of Ascension to Second Society.”
Marcus laughed. “Who the hell made up that name? It’s a joke, right?”
Endelle rolled her eyes. “Nobody thought to check the acronym before the vote went through.”
“Another bunch of f*cking bureaucratic idiots.”
“Pretty much, but it has simplified the war, brought it in close, and for that I should be grateful.”
“In what way is the war simple? Kind of an oxymoron, don’t you think?”
Endelle shrugged, and for just a moment she wore every one of her nine thousand years like a weight on her shoulders. “One of the first rules put in play was a proximity rule. Attacks involving the Warriors of the Blood only occur at the Borderlands now—legal attacks, that is. Homes, estates, whatever, of both Greaves’s generals and my Guardians of Ascension are off-limits. No bodily harm is allowed, either.”
“What happens if the rules are violated?”
“Complaints are filed, court dates set, judges preside, and death vamps executed, usually fall guys, but the bottom line is that the war is more contained now than it was.”
He frowned. “But this doesn’t stop death vampire depredations on regular citizens in either dimension, does it?”
Endelle shook her head slowly. “Death vampires need dying blood, so no, but our Militia Force is strong now. Although the inherent problem has not changed—”
“Four Militia Warriors to bring down one death vamp.”
“Yep.”
“And Greaves agreed to this proximity rule? Really.”
“Shit, yes. Do you know how many of his generals we offed before the proximity rule?”
“A lot. So why the hell did you agree to it?”
Endelle was silent, her mouth grim. He waited but she didn’t speak. She just looked at him from her ancient brown eyes.
Then he realized the why of it, and his temper flared. “Goddammit,” he cried. He punched the air and paced in a circle. “This was because of my sister and her kids. You did this because of them. A buck short and a day late, Endelle.”
She caught his gaze and held fast so that he stopped moving. “You think I didn’t feel guilty as hell about what happened to them?”
He looked away. Jesus, the pain of the whole damn thing started at his feet, flowed up his legs, hit his abdomen, and twisted his stomach into a knot. Shit. “It wasn’t your fault.” Not even a little since he knew exactly where the blame lay.
She released a sigh. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, to come back, even once, but it’s f*cking great to have you here.”
Marcus resisted the pull, the deep tug on his soul whispering to him that he was home. He had known Endelle all of his ascended life, four millennia. They had a long history together, twice as long as even Thorne. But the hell he was staying. He just couldn’t.
“Three days, Endelle, from the time the female answers her call to ascension until she ascends, and not a second more. So why did you recall me? Why now?”
Endelle shrugged. She drummed her fingers on her desk. “I have a spasm in my back telling me the Commander’s ready to give us a good assf*cking.”
“Your language has gotten even more flowery since I was here last and speaking of flowery, what the hell have you been doing? Have you got a PlugIn bouncing a perfume around? It’s even stronger in here. Sort of like honeysuckle.”
Her brows rose to perfect black arches over her brown eyes. She actually leaned back in her chair, and a smile formed off to the left side of her mouth. “Something flowery, huh? Sorry. No perfume, no PlugIns. Maybe one of the admins brought in a spray-bottle of Febreze. Of course, there was a woman in here a couple of hours ago. Maybe you’re smelling her perfume.”
He felt uneasy, like his nerves were being scraped raw one at a time. He glanced around. “Whatever it is, it’s bugging the shit out of me.”
“Affecting your Johnson?”
He just stared at her. Like hell he would cop to that.
For some f*cked-up reason, Endelle started to laugh. “Well, well. Isn’t this a kick in the pants. Two in one night. Can’t be a coincidence. Jesus. I’m starting to feel … hopeful.”
“What the hell are you rambling on about? Two what?” He kept glancing around trying to place the scent, which right now tickled his balls. Jesus H. Christ.
“So,” Endelle drawled. “You still know how to use a sword?”
* * *
Within the dream, the downtown Phoenix alley pulsed with energy. Alison walked along the fractured asphalt, her heart light, her mind aglow. She had been waiting for this her entire life, for an event so extraordinary that her life would be changed forever, transformed, that all would at last make sense to her, the strangeness of her abilities and powers, her sense of not fitting in, the deep longings she experienced that had for the past few weeks formed a powerful ache in her chest.
The dream shifted. Suddenly Darian appeared, the man now known to her as Commander Greaves. He materialized in front of her, beckoning her to come to him, to be with him, to serve him. Fear rained down on her head in heavy waves. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her legs trembled. The alley had become a place of danger.
Darian smiled in his gentle manner at first, then his large round eyes narrowed. A feral light entered his eye. His left hand transformed into a frightening claw.
Her heart thundered against her ribs. She had to leave the alley now. She tried to move, to turn away from him, to go the other direction, but her feet wouldn’t move. He advanced, closer, closer. There is still time. Come to me. The claw reached for her.
Alison woke up. Sat up. She was soaked and trembling. She covered her face with her hands. What was happening to her? Why the dreams? Why Darian? Why the alley? Why this longing so fierce that her heart felt ready to burst?
Why vampires and a vampire club?
She slid her legs over the side of the bed. She wore a camisole and soft cotton pajama bottoms, but the damp fabric irritated her suddenly too hot, too sensitive skin.
Sleep would not find her again anytime soon. The dream had wrecked her in every possible way. She even fought a heavy bout of tears.
Her thoughts turned back to the club, to seeing the warrior called Kerrick. Some of the tension inside her eased as she brought forward her memories of him.
At the medical complex, he had called himself her guardian. What had he meant by it, and what exactly was this dimensional world in which he lived? And why was she so ridiculously attracted to him?
She stood up, crossed her arms over her chest, then paced her bedroom, back and forth. She just didn’t understand her present reality. She felt compelled to action, to do something, but what?
She glanced at the clock. The minute hand ticked just past two in the morning. She made a quick decision. She would go to the alley right now. There had to be a reason why this particular Phoenix backstreet kept calling to her, kept appearing in her dreams.
As she dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and a light sweater, doubts assailed her once more. Two in the morning didn’t exactly bring out the best in a city, especially in some of the impoverished areas adjacent to downtown Phoenix.
On the other hand … the dreams! She was sick of them, of waking up to them, of waking up sweat-slick because of them.
The night’s events had tossed her life up into the air, and she needed to find out exactly where all the pieces were meant to land. After all, there had to be a very specific reason why she kept dreaming about this godforsaken alley.
* * *
At a quarter past two in the morning, Kerrick awoke to a stiff neck. He’d fallen asleep in a chair in his library and apparently crunched his neck in the process. He rubbed out the muscles, finding some relief though not much.
He looked down. He’d dropped off to sleep with a book about ascension history on his lap written by a rather pretentious Frenchman by the name of Philippe Reynard. Reynard taught at the university in Scottsdale Two and had risen as the acknowledged expert in his field. However, the information Kerrick sought, as in how to overcome the breh-hedden, or even any useful information on the subject, just hadn’t surfaced in this really pompous tome, Treatise on Ascension: A Cultural Perspective and Analysis. Jesus.
Reynard had called the Warriors of the Blood “the righteous backbone of modern society, the hope of the future, the wellspring of all good things.” He liked a compliment as well as the next guy, but this bullshit rankled. The warriors were anything but righteous, and as for a wellspring of all good things, “a death squad for pale blue things” would have been a lot more accurate.
Well, thank God he had the night off. Things seemed to be pretty quiet. Thorne hadn’t called once. Good. He could rest, set his resolve, and put some strategies in place for avoiding all contact with Alison should she choose to ascend.
He glanced around the spacious, two-story room. Shelves, ladders, books, and a spiral wrought-iron staircase. An upper landing and walkway traveled in a semicircle at a distance two-thirds of the way above the floor, where more shelves and books rose the remaining nine feet to the domed ceiling. A pair of crimson velvet drapes, which flanked a north-facing multipaned window, protected the museum-like contents of the library from direct light.
The whole mansion had been a combined effort, his sturdy masculine influence, and Helena’s ability to overcome his absurd rigidity and give real grace to every line. This had truly been their house and Helena had made it a home, especially once the children had come, his son and his daughter. Of course they were going to have a big family. Ten years later, Helena, Kerr and Christine were gone. They had left behind an enormous hole in his heart, one never to be filled, one covered with his vows.
His cell buzzed.
He slid the slim phone from the pocket of his pants and thumbed the strip. “Give.”
“Sorry, Kerrick. Time to rumble.” Thorne’s gravel voice had split into three resonances, a sure sign his stress level had cranked up another notch. Of all of Thorne’s abilities, and they were numerous, he could split his resonance better than anyone Kerrick knew.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “No problem. Where do you want me?”
“Central detected a large deployment at the Trough over downtown Phoenix. I’ve got Medichi in Awatukee, Zacharius and Jean-Pierre are working the White Tanks in Buckeye, Santiago is at New River, and I’m with Luken covering the Superstitions. I waited as long as I could, but I’ve never seen so many death vamps out in one night. We need you, buddy, and be prepared the moment Central folds you. There could be as many as twelve downtown.”
“Twelve? Three squads? Shit.”
“We’ve been up to our asses tonight.”
“You should have called me sooner.”
“Wanted to respect your sitch.”
He took a deep breath and asked the question. “Any sign of … the ascendiate?” He refused to say her name.
“Nope. Oh, shit. Five more just showed up.”
The line went dead. Kerrick stared at it and cursed. He waited. The phone buzzed again. Thank God. “Give.”
Thorne spoke fast. “Sorry. Luken’s got everything under control. Jeannie just patched in. She said she’s identified Leto at the Trough over Metro Phoenix as well.”
“Holy shit.” Leto never joined in the usual fray, since he served as one of the Commander’s most powerful generals. Then again, he ought to be since he was a former Warrior of the Blood, the Commander’s biggest prize in the last two hundred years. “Well, isn’t this a night for surprises. I guess this has to be about the ascendiate.”
“Looks like it. Sorry, brother. Oh, shit, motherf*cker, four more pretty-boys just showed up, of an Asian variety this time. You know the drill with the ascendiate—seize and protect. The coordinates are laid in. Call Central when you’re ready.” Thorne hung up.
Kerrick stood up, folded off his jeans and tee, then folded on winged battle gear. He adjusted the weapons harness and with a thought brought the dagger into his hand from his weapons locker, securing it into the slot. He drew in a deep breath then adjusted his thick, heavy sandals. The kilt felt so very right and his wing-locks had already started to thrum.
With a thought, he folded his sword into his hand. He called Central and cursed silently, yet again, that he still couldn’t just dematerialize wherever the hell he needed to go.
“Hi, Jeannie. You still on?”
“Sure am. I’m taking Carla’s shift. She had a date. You ready, duhuro?”
He couldn’t believe she’d used that expression. Duhuro was an ancient form of address that annoyed the hell out of him. “You haven’t called me duhuro in at least a decade. You’d better cut that shit out, Jeannie, or I may have to come over and rough you up a bit.”
“Who’s stopping you,” she said, giggling. “My husband and I have an agreement. He gets Angelina Jolie and I get any of you warrior brothers, any time, any place.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Something inside him relaxed a little. He even smiled. The Twolings at Central were chosen for their calm under pressure, for their ability to handle tragedy, and mostly for their general all-around good humor. They were also a gum-popping bunch and they had his number.
“Fold me when you’re ready.”
“You got it. And Kerrick?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re all grateful for what you and the brothers do.”
Before he could respond, the vibration whispered through him.
A moment later he crouched right next to the Trough, sword in both hands. An extensive park covered the Borderland on Second Earth.
The Trough was the distance between the dimensions made of nether-space, which extended who knew how far below him. On Mortal Earth the downtown Phoenix Borderland made up the rest of the sandwich; two Borderlands and a Trough in between.
He shifted his gaze slowly, past Arizona sycamores and the occasional overgrown oleander. How many times had he battled death vampires in just this place? Tens of thousands of times. Yeah, he’d been fighting that long.
But tonight everything would be different. He could feel it. So, shit.
And no sign of Leto.
He felt his presence, though, the goddamn traitor.
The call to ascension burns in the heart,
But the rite of ascension begins with the mind.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth