CHAPTER 2
Alison stared at her fingers, still held in an upward claw-like position. She kept testing the pull on her arm. She wasn’t even certain how long she’d been standing there, mystified by what she had done.
Sweet Jesus.
A pocket of time.
Surely she had just passed all the bounds of nature now.
So what did that make her? Like she didn’t know—a freak, a one-woman sideshow.
She glanced at the shattered window, at the shards of glass, lit up by the nearby parking-lot light standard, a glittering glass rain suspended two stories above the earth. So exactly how long had she been standing here, frozen in place, stunned by the enormity of what she had done, of what she was still doing?
She looked once more at all the splintered glass, just sparkling away, unmoving, a visual poem suspended in time.
A lump formed in her throat about the size of her car, and not the little Nova, but the super-sized Hummer. Her eyes felt chili pepper hot all over again. She just didn’t understand who she was. How could she be doing this, standing in her empty-shelved office, her hand outstretched, her fingers cupped, a piece of time held within? Where did all this preternatural ability come from? And what possible purpose could it ever serve?
The unity family hung by the sheer strength of her powers just three feet or so beyond the windowsill, heads aimed at the asphalt parking lot as though diving into a pool.
She drew her arm back slowly and felt the hard pull on her muscles. Time retreated for her, a lethargic reversal. The statue came back to her followed by the glass fragments, all returned in perfect accord to re-form an unblemished window. She had never tried out any of these skills before, stasis of objects, retrieval of time pockets.
The statue now sat in her palm, and she released her hold on infinity. She felt a strange quick vibration around her that drifted away, ripples in a pond. In the distance a sonic boom sounded, action–reaction.
She settled the statue once more on the coffee table then returned to sit in the wing chair. Energy sang through her nerves and caused the little hairs on both arms to stand upright. She trembled.
She took a deep breath then another. She straightened her shoulders. What a strange evening this had become—her sister pregnant, her heart crushed all over again, and now a couple of new powers.
Perfect.
When she felt hysteria rising, like a geyser in her chest, she put a hand over her mouth and drew in a long deep breath through her nose. She closed her eyes and forced herself to relax.
She had a client coming soon, in the next ten minutes or so, her last client. She needed to hold it together just a little longer, then she could go home and have a meltdown if she wanted. Right now, she needed to be professional.
Okay. She relaxed and put both hands out in front of her as though holding the world at bay. She breathed.
She heard a siren in the distance, not unusual around such a large medical complex. The hospital was just a mile down the road.
Her heart rate slowed down. She could breathe better.
So she wasn’t normal, who was? So her soul had this strange new gaping wound because her sister was having her second child? So she had a problem she would never be able to solve in this lifetime, on this planet? So did millions of people. Why should she be any different even if she was so very different? She wasn’t starving. She had a good profession and a house she owned. She had a family who loved her with a capital L. Yeah, she had some serious losses she was grappling with, but who didn’t in this hard-edged, unfair, and at times brutal world?
She nodded to herself several times and shored up her determination. She sealed up the deep wound then set her mind on her future, a most excellent future.
She nodded.
Okay.
* * *
When his phone buzzed against his abdomen through the pocket in his kilt, Kerrick finally rose from the cement floor in his basement. This was just the first wave of fighting. He needed to get cleaned up and moving. Unless, of course, Endelle still wanted him on guard-dog duty.
He extended his senses, as he had in the bar, and reached for the caller’s identity. Thorne was on the com but the hell he was going to answer his phone right now. Endelle was going to have to find someone else to serve as the woman’s guardian. Thorne could do it himself, or any of the other warrior brothers. Serving as a guardian to a female would make him vulnerable and he took pains never to be in that position, so yeah, his brothers could pick up the slack.
As he headed to the shower, he folded off his blood-spattered kilt and weapons harness, his heavy warrior sandals, leather wrist guards, and sweat-soaked briefs. He let the garments drop to the cold cement floor in a trail behind him.
Once in the bathroom he turned the lever on full force and let the water heat up.
He reached both hands to the back of his neck, popped the leather cadroen, the ritual clasp worn by all the warriors, and released his hair. He set the clasp on the sink, the last of several that his wife of many decades ago had worked with her own hands. He touched the intricate, embroidered strap, rolling it over to look at the attached miniature carved dagger made from rhinoceros tusk, which secured the piece together.
Memories of his wife flew through his mind, of her small nimble hands, her love of the needle and colorful silk floss. She had made several cadroen for him during the ten short years they were together. This was the last of them. Decades of making war would wear out even the toughest pieces of leather.
He turned around then stepped inside what was essentially a car wash of a shower. He moved in a slow circle, letting all eight powerful heads wash away the remnants of the recent battle.
His phone buzzed again, stupid f*cking preternatural hearing.
As before, he extended his senses. Thorne again. He sighed. He needed one more minute to clear his head before he engaged the next round.
He ended up in front of the main nozzle, set at seven and a half feet with a punishing angled spray. He planted both hands on the smooth cold tile and let the hot water pound the back of his neck and work the muscles all across his shoulders. His long hair separated and slid forward to form a wall on either side of his face. Blood and sweat swirled down the drain. He didn’t usually come apart after a kill, but Christ, those kids.
Something had changed in his world. Children had been off limits for centuries. Now the death vamps sucked as they pleased, inflicted pain as they pleased, took innocence as they pleased.
His brain cramped. The muscles around his eyes squeezed tight. He breathed in the damp air, flared his nostrils, then tried to shut his brain down. He failed.
Goddammit. He had reached an impasse, this no-man’s-land of vows and vengeance from which he could not retreat. His chest felt like he’d strapped on a boulder then carried the damn thing around day and night.
He concentrated on the water beating against his skin. He sucked in air and forced himself to breathe, in and out, in and out. He calmed himself the hell down. He rubbed his left pec and winced at the agony burning beneath that had nothing to do with musculature.
Unfortunately his hearing was too evolved and the phone buzzed again, a relentless fly in his warrior’s world.
Thorne again.
Too. F*cking. Bad.
He shut the water off and toweled himself dry. He wrapped the towel around his waist. He brushed out his hair in hard pulls with a stiff-bristled brush. He’d take these few minutes, goddammit. He looked at the cadroen but refused to pick it up. He’d go unbound the rest of the night, a little piece of rebellion, to hell with rules and tradition.
He moved to his weapons locker and mentally opened the steel reinforced cabinet. He drew the double doors wide. His blooded sword and dagger lay parallel and waiting, right where he’d sent them from the alley. Using soft cloths, he wiped both weapons clean of the blood then folded the cloths to the laundry. By morning, after the night’s work was over, he’d oil and tend his weapons.
He lived in the basement of his mansion on Scottsdale Two. He’d shaped loose living quarters from the long narrow underground room: a place for his bed, workout equipment, a locked weapons locker. He’d even spent a fortune building an after-the-fact expansive bathroom, one that fit his large warrior body and occasionally even his wings.
His phone buzzed yet again. Not Thorne this time. He crossed to his kilt still heaped on the cement floor then retrieved the phone. “Yeah, Jeannie.”
“Thank God,” she whispered. “We’re in deep shit. Endelle has been yelling at Carla for the last ten minutes because Thorne couldn’t reach you. We have a sitch in Paradise Valley and she wants you on it. Now. You with me?”
Kerrick drew in a deep breath. “Is Thorne with Endelle?” This couldn’t be happening.
“Yep. He said to say you didn’t have a choice on this one.”
Kerrick pulled his phone away from his ear and released a violent string of obscenities. When he could speak in a normal voice again, he said, “Give me the deets.”
“Thorne wants to patch in.”
“Fine.”
Thorne’s deep, rough voice hit his ears. “We don’t really know what’s going on. You may or may not have to guard the woman. Right now there’s just a pretty-boy off the grid.”
“So why does Endelle have her panties in a wad?”
“She said we’ll know more once you take care of our off-campus head case.”
Kerrick breathed hard through his nose. Okay. He could take care of the death vamp. After which, if there happened to be a mortal woman in need of protection, Thorne could work that out. “I’m on it.”
He could sense his brother’s relief. Endelle must have had him by the nuts on this one, but why?
“I’m going to hand you back to Jeannie. She’ll give you the whats and wheres.”
“Hey, Kerrick,” Jeannie began, “you’ll be going to a medical complex in Paradise Valley. The pretty-boy’s at full-mount. Call when you’re ready.”
“Thanks, Jeannie.” He thumbed his phone.
He dropped the towel, folded on clean battle gear, then tucked his phone into the pocket at the waist of the kilt. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he sent the old gear directly to the laundry room.
And the war against the death vamps just kept on rolling.
Whatever.
As he adjusted his harness, he brought his dagger into his hand then secured it once more into the front slot. He hated the fact that his personal weakness, his inability to dematerialize, would force him to call Jeannie so that Central could do a fold to Paradise Valley One.
Goddammit.
Aw, hell. He’d been a caged beast for at least the past two centuries, a lion roaring for some kind of release.
And tonight … well, tonight, for whatever reason, every nerve in his body was on fire. After he took care of the off-campus head case, he’d head back to the Blood and Bite. He needed to suck back a few Maker’s, maybe get laid. Yeah, a few fingers of whiskey and he definitely could use a little horizontal R&R with some jugular action thrown in.
Maybe then … Christ, maybe then he’d feel normal.
* * *
Alison opened her eyes as yet another siren sounded down the street, drew closer, then ceased, which made at least three in the past ten minutes or so. Apparently, someone’s patient required serious emergency medical care.
She still sat in her wing chair, drawing in one breath after another, trying to calm down, trying to let her rational brain make sense of recent events. A walk might help, even just around her office.
She was about to get up and stretch her legs when she heard the door open. She shifted in the chair to look over her shoulder. Her last client had arrived, Darian Greaves.
“Alison,” he said. “Our last appointment. I must say I feel quite sad.”
He always looked like he’d walked straight out of Goodfellas. Despite the fact that he lived in warm, casual Phoenix, he never wore anything but a very fine wool suit to her office, all in black today, including the tailored shirt. For contrast, a yellow silk tie slashed a perfect line down his muscular chest. He looked like an oversized stinging insect covered in Hugo Boss.
He was quite beautiful, his bald head perfectly shaped, smooth and tan, his black eyebrows thick and manicured, his dark eyes large, round in appearance, almost child-like. On his right pinkie he wore a black onyx ring. He had only one flaw—his left hand was misshapen, and because of the way the fingers curved, she thought there might have been some nerve damage along the way.
Over the past year of his therapy, his first and only year as far as she knew, he’d remained a locked-down mystery, especially since he was the only client whose mind she’d been unable to penetrate no matter how hard she tried. An anomaly. She didn’t often reach into a client’s mind. With Darian, however, she could not even skim the surface of his thoughts, let alone penetrate the depth of his psyche. Why had been the question she had been unable to answer.
He was the victim of monstrous childhood abuse, physical and sexual, all at the hands of a foster father. Even though he had been candid about his troubled past, there had been no significant progress, almost as though he recited his woes from behind a twelve-foot-thick cement wall. If he were at all serious about recovery, he would require a decade or two of therapy, nothing less. One thing she knew for certain: She could not be that therapist. In her opinion, he needed a hard-core psychiatrist and a lot of medication.
She glanced at the clock again. As always, he had arrived precisely on time, not a minute past six thirty. He couldn’t leave his corporation—his army as he liked to call the rank and file of Greaves Enterprises—one second sooner. He was very fond of punctuality.
“I don’t suppose I can talk you out of graduate school,” he said, rounding her chair and heading to the soft green chenille couch. She held her breath. He smelled so strangely of lemons tinged with … what? Turpentine? Now, that was also an anomaly. With his sophisticated appearance, he should have smelled, at the very least, of Obsession.
“How sad to see all the empty shelves,” he observed, as he paused in front of the wall unit. He shook his head slightly. After a moment, he turned then headed the rest of the distance to the couch. He sat down, smoothing his coat as he went. He crossed his legs at the knee, so formal, so gentleman-like.
He settled his gaze on her, but she found she had nothing to say to him. After the conversation with Joy and after holding a piece of time in her hand, somehow her mind had become a complete blank.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Alison once again took deep breaths. Thoughts of Joy drifted through her mind as well as the shattered window and reversal of time. Everything seemed to be changing. Even her dreams in the last two weeks had become charged with strange and unusual images, some frightening, some intriguing.
Joy, a reversal of time, strange dreams.
Darian with finely tailored wool suits, a psychotic mind, and no Obsession.
She leaned back. “Why did you ever seek me out, Darian? To be quite honest, I don’t believe I’ve helped you at all this last year.”
He lifted an arched brow and smiled. He even chuckled. “Straight to the point. I always liked that about you. As for the past twelve months, you are right, I wasn’t interested in therapy, just in you. I wanted to get to know you. As it happens, I’d like you to forget all about graduate school and come to work for me.”
What was wrong with his voice? It sounded strange, as though his resonance had split not once but several times. She felt an odd pressure within her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and blocked the sensation. The pressure eased as quickly as it had begun. She opened her eyes.
“Incredible,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on her.
“What is incredible?”
“You, of course. I want you to tell me you will consider working for me.”
She shook her head. The suggestion stunned her. “I hope I don’t offend you, but I’m fully committed to therapy as a profession. I simply have no desire to enter the business world.” She so didn’t want him to press her further.
“Working for me would involve much more than the usual exchange of goods and services. I believe I could keep you challenged, content, and I would certainly make it worth your while.”
How could she tell him she would never in a million years work for him, not for all the money in the world. “I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “The answer must be no.”
His dark gaze commanded her. She found she could not look away from him. What had he said? Would she consider working for him?
The next moment he was in front of her on his knees. On his knees. He had hold of her arm and rubbed the inside of her wrist, the tender place over her veins. He stroked her skin back and forth. “Say yes,” he whispered, his voice still carrying a strange resonance. Why didn’t she fear him? He was large and muscular, powerful, the sort of man you imagined on black op missions deep in some Third World jungle. She had felt this from the beginning, his complete and utter lethal presence.
She should have feared his proximity. Fear would have been normal, but all her instincts were held in some kind of stasis.
“I will give you anything you desire,” he said. “I have great wealth at my disposal. Say you will come to me, align with me, work side by side with me. Say it and I will give you the world.”
He would give her the world.
She didn’t want the world, she wanted what Joy had, and he most definitely could not give her that.
Yet somehow she leaned toward him, drawn in, unafraid. Her pulse sped up as he stroked her wrist. Desire of a distinct sexual nature descended on her, a gentle rain on her skin. Was he seducing her?
“You’re feeling it, aren’t you? Say yes, Alison. We would be magnificent together.” The split resonance drifted over her, beckoning her. She wanted to say yes.
Her breaths came in quick little puffs. Her eyelids felt heavy. This wasn’t right. But she couldn’t seem to help herself.
She breathed in, meaning to draw more of his heady seductiveness inside her, but the smell of him, lemons and turpentine, shocked her senses. She turned her face away and squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind cleared and she pressed her back and shoulders into the chair. “I’m sorry, Darian. I have no wish to work with you now or ever. You could offer half a dozen worlds and I would still refuse.”
She shivered then felt Darian’s breath on her neck. He chuckled softly. “Half a dozen,” he murmured. “You have no idea how poetic your choice of words is, how perfect, how portentous, and I feel in you, I sense in you, a complete negation of my proposal. Again, I feel very sad as though I am losing a friend, perhaps the only true friend I have ever had. What a pity.” Did he just graze her throat with his teeth? Yet she couldn’t seem to move.
He released her wrist and, as though he had never been close to her at all, he once more sat on the sofa and again crossed his legs at the knee.
“I’m sorry, Darian.” Her mind felt a little strange. Had he just knelt in front of her? The memory seemed vague now, indistinct, like a dream.
“This is most unfortunate,” he said, “and I, too, am very sorry. I want you to understand and to remember my regret. I know we must go our separate ways, that much I believe was clear to me from the beginning, but I truly, truly wished it otherwise.”
For the smallest moment, her heart softened toward him. She believed he was sincere. She had never seen regret on his face before. However, she saw it now. Had she misjudged him in some way?
The front door of her office suite slammed open and a second later one of the dental hygienists from the group next door appeared in the doorway. She was a tall, lovely redhead, her skin freckled and fair, yet two clownish spots had popped out on her cheeks.
Alison stood up. “What is it?”
The young woman glanced from her to Darian then back. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but one of Kelsing’s dental patients has been killed right on the sidewalk.” She threw a shaking hand behind her.
“You mean in an accident? Hit by a car?”
She shook her head back and forth. “No. Her throat. Torn open. Mangled. Here in the courtyard. The police have already taped the area off and an ambulance just pulled up. Thought you should know. I’ve already told everyone else in this wing.”
“Thank you,” Alison whispered as the woman turned and ran out. She glanced at Darian. She had some obligation to finish the hour with him. On the other hand, what was the point? Still, she waited for him to choose.
He rose to his feet, a half smile on his lips, sadness in his eyes. He gestured with an arm extended toward the door. “Well, I think we ought to see what all the fuss is about, don’t you? Perhaps the report has been exaggerated.”
* * *
Kerrick felt the vibration as Central folded him to the outskirts of the medical complex in Paradise Valley.
The moment he felt asphalt beneath his heavy strapped sandals, he sent a wall of mist before and behind. He wanted to get this motherf*cker then get the hell out. He’d let Thorne deal with whatever mortal female was causing Endelle to throw a bitch-fit.
Just as he prepared to fold his sword into his hand, he stayed the thought.
Something was wrong.
He scanned the area and cursed. Why hadn’t Jeannie told him that the circus had already come to town? The parking lot was full of emergency vehicles and they’d been here a while, longer than his time in the shower. One length of yellow crime scene tape extended into a group of uniforms, though he wasn’t able to see the source from his position.
He slid his phone from his pocket and thumbed.
“Central. How we doin’?”
“Jeannie, what the hell is going on? There’s already a cavalcade of medical and law enforcement vehicles here.”
“I don’t know what to say.” A flurry of taps followed. “I’m not getting anything.”
“Shit.” There was only one reason Central’s network hadn’t picked up this mess—Greaves was here. Holy shit. “Okay. Do you see any mist trails?”
“There are a few minor ones around the death vamp, and yours, of course. I’m seeing a dull area to the west of you about twenty yards away. Do you see a Ramada or something?”
“Nope, but the party’s right there.”
“Holy shit,” Jeannie cried. “Has to be the Commander. Even you can’t do mist like that, and you do it better than anyone.”
“Gotta be Greaves. Stay close.”
“You got it.” He heard more tapping.
He dropped low. He could see the victim from where he crouched. She was stretched out on the sidewalk, a woman whose curly black hair was just visible from beneath a white sheet. All around her, red stained the cement. His heart sank into his gut. She’d been drained in public long before sunset. And now he had a circus to manage.
What the hell was the Commander doing at a medical complex? Which begged the question, why had the death vamp shown up here as well?
He rose up then walked a good twenty yards to the west. He kept his mist tight. Any mortal looking in his direction would experience confusion of mind and fail to see him.
A host of onlookers surrounded the scene, lining the cement stairs and gathering in pockets across a two-story courtyard catwalk to watch the doings. In front of the catwalk, the death vamp floated about eight feet off the ground and turned in a lazy circle, euphoria on his face, blood on his mouth. His black wings, at full-mount, obscured a number of the onlookers from view.
Kerrick thumbed his phone then brought it to his ear again. “Found our head case. Big wings, too, which means he’s been around a few centuries. He’s twirling between two sets of stairs, enjoying one helluva high from the drain. At least he had enough sense to mist the area first.” Kerrick could see a faint web-like structure around the death vamp, but his powers of penetration far surpassed the pretty-boy’s ability to create the mind-bewildering substance.
“In addition to the death vamp’s signature, there are two strong grid signatures nearby as well.”
“Two?” he cried.
“One is probably the Commander,” Jeannie said. “And the other?”
“Who the hell knows?” He lowered his phone but stayed on the line.
The whole situation bugged the shit out of him. The only directive the Commander’s army honored was the law of absolute secrecy. However, the gore he’d cleaned up earlier, as well as the woman now on the sidewalk, had been left for anyone to see. So either Greaves’s army was getting sloppy or they no longer had orders to do cleanup. One way or the other, the war was becoming a whole new kind of nightmare.
He did a quick scan of all the individuals present, from the police officers and emergency techs, to the spectators near the crime scene, to the various huddled groups all up the stairs, until on the catwalk above the courtyard he found a blond female whose gaze was fixed not on the white sheet and black curls but on the spinning death vampire. Everyone else was focused on the crime scene.
Holy hell.
By every natural law, she shouldn’t have been able to see the death vamp, but her face had a wind-blasted expression so he knew she wasn’t looking at a goddamn maypole. Yet how was that even possible, and what did it mean?
The death vamp hid part of her from view. Kerrick strengthened his mist and moved to his right. When he saw her fully, time slowed, thickened, then stopped, a hard slam on the brakes.
His lips parted to allow for more air. A sense of knowing flowed through his mind, his body, a wide erotic river. The mortal was as familiar to him as blood down his throat, though he had no idea who she was. She was at least six feet tall, blond, blue-eyed, an elegant figure, although those were just a group of stats. He knew her.
His body set up a dedicated hum. Even his wing-locks vibrated. How did he know her? He searched his memories. Nothing came forward. The same river of knowing once more flowed through him, like he’d already been inside her in every possible way or that somehow he knew he would soon be with her. Holy shit. The small of his back tightened and he began to grow hard.
Okay. This was way the hell off target.
He pulled himself together and focused on the situation. Something was really wrong.
He moved a few paces again to his right in order to complete his scan of those catwalk spectators that the twirling head case still blocked from view.
Holy motherf*cker, so it was true. Commander Greaves stood right next to the mortal as calm as you please and even inclined his head to Kerrick in a slight bow of recognition. Naturally, Greaves could see through his mist. Holy shit. Holy hell. What the f*ck was going on? What was the Commander doing with this mortal female? No wonder Endelle was freaking out.
Must be an ascension in progress, yet everything he was looking at was completely without precedent.
Despite his shock, however, he needed to prepare for battle.
He drew in a deep breath and felt the familiar vibration through the muscles of his back, the sweet thrum that preceded the powering of his wings through his wing-locks. He let them fly. He let them extend to their full height and breadth. He stretched them and held them at the farthest reaches of full-mount until his head swirled with endorphins and a fighting sheen of sweat flowed over the entire surface of his skin. He wanted Greaves reminded of the extent of his powers, that he wasn’t an ordinary warrior, and that if he wanted to go head-to-head, Kerrick was goddamn ready, right here, right now, this place, this time. Bring-it-the-f*ck-on.
The Commander, however, merely inclined his head again, acknowledging the presentation of his wings as a threat. Then he turned to the female and said something—so, yeah, he knew her. Afterward, he simply departed, leaving in the opposite direction, away from the crowd lining the stairs. No flash, no spectacle, this man, this vampire, just infinite maneuvering and plotting, the bastard.
Kerrick jerked his phone back up to his ear. “Jeannie?”
“Yeah? Trouble?”
“I need to know if one of the two signatures just fell off the grid.”
A pause, followed by a series of taps.
“Yep. Vanished. Is that a good thing?”
“Very. That was Commander Greaves.”
Jeannie whistled. “Holy shit.”
“Ditto. Now tell me, is the other signature still marking your screen?”
“Yep, though the reading is a little skewed.”
“I’m not surprised. I think the second signature belongs to a mortal.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Me, neither.”
“So have we got a vampire-in-the-making or what? Can you see what’s in her head, see if she’s been called to sport a pair of fangs?”
“Give me a second.”
Kerrick reached out toward her with his senses and tried to drive into the female’s mind, but damn she had shields, like walls of granite.
He stared at the woman and frowned. Who the hell was this female? She was tall for a mortal and wore her hair pulled back in a severe twist at the back of her head—she kept herself in control. He got that. She was in fact beautiful, with large blue eyes, full sensual lips, a straight nose, and in that split second as he looked at her, a third strange kind of recognition rocketed though his body and his hormones shot into outer space. Goddammit, he was attracted to her like falling apples to gravity. His groin burned. What the hell?
His wings rippled in anticipation, tightened and shimmied as though the future had suddenly reached back and grabbed the present by the balls. His groin lit on fire again and his eyelids felt weighted and heavy. The muscles of his thighs jumped and his biceps flexed. The woman had power. Shit, that was such a turn-on. Making love to this woman would be like entering a hurricane of sensation.
He wanted her. Now. He wanted her beneath him. He wanted inside her and pumping hard.
What the f*ck?
For a moment he drew his wings to half-mount, bent over at the waist, planted his hands on his knees, and forced himself to take one deep breath after another. For all his vows, he suddenly knew temptation, deep, soul-searing temptation. A hyphenate from the ancient language came to mind, breh-hedden. Mate-bonding. The kind he believed was just a myth, yet here he was out of his mind with need and desire. Was it possible?
He closed his eyes and shut his brain down in a hurry. This shit was so not going to happen. Besides, with a death vamp still hanging in the air, he needed to focus. He had a job to do. He sucked more air into his lungs.
When he calmed down, he rose up then did a quick scan. He profiled the female’s powers—so many—telepathy, empathy, hand-pulse, and she could dematerialize. No mortal had ever ascended with the ability to fold … except one … Endelle. No wonder the Commander seemed to have staked some kind of claim on her. Holy, holy shit.
Endelle must have known, and right now he felt like he’d been suckered into something. He shook his head, back and forth, a strong negation. None of this mattered, not what he was experiencing, not Endelle’s scheming, nothing. He had a vow to keep and he would keep it.
A little calmer, he brought his phone to his ear. “I can’t tell what’s going on with the female because I can’t punch into her head.”
“What?” she cried. “You can get into anybody’s head.”
“Not hers.” His voice was rough, like he’d swallowed a box of tacks. “At least not from this position.”
“Then what do we do with her?” Jeannie asked. She sounded as shocked out as he felt.
“You know the rules.”
“Yeah, yeah. No interference. Blah-blah-blah.”
“Amen to that. I’ll just have to get rid of the death vamp and we’ll see what happens over the next forty-eight hours. You’d better let Endelle know what’s doing. Tell her Greaves was here as well and tell her about the strength of the woman’s signature. I’ll know more later.”
“I’m on it.”
He thumbed his phone and once more returned it to the tight narrow pocket of his kilt.
He summoned a different kind of deep breath and shifted his gaze to the pretty-boy.
Time to take care of business.
Who can comprehend the lure of the breh-hedden,
except those caught in its teeth?
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth