CHAPTER 3
Alison released a deep sigh that Darian had finally left since she couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. A hallucination, maybe?
A winged creature drifted slowly in a circle about ten feet away from her. He was very beautiful, extraordinarily so. His dark brown hair was long, well past his shoulders. He was muscled like a bodybuilder and wore only black cargoes, no shoes, no shirt. He sported a massive pair of glossy black wings, the feathers barely moving but keeping him both aloft and spinning very slowly. His chin and chest were streaked with blood, his feet—oh, God—at least two yards off the ground. His eyes were closed and he looked euphoric, like a drug addict who’d just taken a hit of his favorite supply.
His strange twirling reminded her of something from a film heavy on the CGI side. In fact, the whole courtyard had the appearance of a movie set, dozens of people crammed at the far end of the catwalk and down the stairs, all chattering quietly, hands covering mouths, and a host of emergency vehicles and corresponding personnel. The center of attention was a body stretched out on the cement, surrounded by yellow tape, the view blocked by several officers, thank God. Given the blood on the creature’s body, she could only presume he’d killed her, the way a fictional vampire would kill his prey.
So what exactly was this thing with the porcelain skin that hung in the air without any apparent cable support? Was she really seeing him? Did he exist? A psychopath who had somehow strapped wings onto his back—without straps? And how did he pull off the float-and-spin?
She shook her head in complete disbelief. She blinked several times. She glanced at the spectators to see their reactions to this strange creature, but no one—not one person—was looking at him, thus confirming her suspicion that she was hallucinating.
She moved close to the railing and stared down at him. A familiar gripping sensation pulled at her heart, a longing she couldn’t explain, a yearning that had tormented her for the past few weeks, but surely not for this monster?
“Al-is-on” emerged in a singsong cadence from the creature’s mouth. “I’m ready for you.”
He spoke her name?
She formed a thought and let it fly from her mind: Why can no one see you?
The fanged freak stopped twirling, plunged toward the cement, then stopped to float suspended in the air just inches above the ground. His wings undulated slowly. He turned his back to her as he looked around at the spectators then came into profile as his gaze skipped from face to face all up the stairs. Yet no one looked at him. So yeah, maybe he existed only in her head. She’d seen A Beautiful Mind and she’d read a number of case histories on schizophrenia during the course of her studies.
His wings fluttered and his body shifted a little more as his gaze worked over the small knots of onlookers all across the landing until he found her.
He met her gaze and smiled. His shoulders relaxed.
Alison, he said, his lips unmoving. So, my sister was right and you are here after all.
Telepathy. He was able to communicate with her telepathically.
A pair of fangs—fangs—descended, thick white incisors against perfect lips. Red tinted the grooves between his teeth.
Fangs?
Wings?
Blood?
Her mind shifted around and around. The word vampire once more tumbled through her brain, end-over-end-over-end, leaving her dizzy.
A slow, perfectly executed downward sweep of the creature’s glossy black wings sent him floating upward. He rose toward her and once more conversed with her telepathically, his dark gaze fixed to hers. I am here to take your powers so that I can destroy what is evil in our world. Your blood belongs to me now.
As his words reverberated through her head, her ankles filled slowly with cement. She tried to move but couldn’t. He wanted to take her blood?
Nausea rippled through her stomach, as though her body knew things her mind couldn’t yet comprehend.
Who are you? she sent. The movement of his wings caused the leaves of the surrounding ficus trees to flutter as if a breeze filled the outdoor courtyard. Why can I see you when no one else can?
He ignored her questions and aloud said, “I must have your blood.”
She shook her head. Her chest grew tight. How was it possible after all this time, after all these years of hopelessness, after three decades of living trapped with powers that made no sense in the normal human realm, she would have to meet a terrible winged being, maybe even a vampire, who might actually share her abilities, but who had only killing on his mind? Why couldn’t she have met a good guy?
When he reached the catwalk, however, her nerves settled down. He was incredibly beautiful, so pleasing to the eye. Did she really need to be frightened of such a creature?
He settled his hands on the railing and smiled, a lovely smile. He drew his wings back and flipped his legs over the side. He landed easily and bore down on her, a wall of thick exquisitely shaped muscles, a fluttering of glossy feathers, a show of fangs. As the blood on his chest came into view, however, her mind sharpened and her instincts fired up.
Yes. She should be frightened.
For the entire duration of her adult life, Alison had never, never engaged in a dematerialization in plain view of other people. It was one of her rules, an important rule, one that had for years helped her to feel like she had a place in the world, that all her exceptional and useless gifts could exist side by side with normal.
But this monster had already made his intention clear, and right now this rule would have to go. Hallucination or not, and though she felt completely freaked out at vanishing in front of God and everyone, she pictured the courtyard below and moved herself there with a thought followed by a brief vibration of blood and bone.
* * *
Kerrick’s head swam as he watched the mortal female fold from the catwalk to a position not three yards away, her back to him as she gazed up at the now stunned death vamp. Kerrick had been ready to intervene, his wings thrumming, when the pretty-boy explained his mission. His words alone, his professed purpose, had forced Kerrick to pause—a death vamp ready to destroy that which was evil? Did he actually mean the Commander?
But then the woman folded. He knew it was possible because he’d read her powers. However, since he still couldn’t fold, he was mesmerized, and not a hair of her tight blond twist out of place.
He looked her up and down from behind.
She wore black pants, short-heeled shoes, and a light green silk top fitted to her body. She looked elegant and controlled, like she kept herself wound up into a comfortable knot, just like her hair. He so got that. She had probably spent most of her life holding back, trying not to freak everybody else out because of who she was. Yeah, he really got that.
His nostrils flared and a sudden scent of lavender hijacked his brain. Damn he was dizzy! He rubbed the center of his chest over his heart. The scent gave him a rush, the way he sometimes felt after throwing back half a dozen shots of Maker’s in quick succession. Yeah, like that. Damn. The surface of his skin felt hot and he craved. This was what he needed, what had been calling to him since he’d awakened with that weird hum in his chest. He took a step forward and sucked in more of the lavender scent. Holy shit, the scent was her. Addiction swept through his body, sudden, hard, complete.
He wanted the lavender on his lips and down his throat. He wanted her body beneath his. He wanted her back arching, her hips meeting his. He wanted to be inside her mind. Damn … he wanted her blood.
Holy hell. He backed up and shook his head. He ordered his mind … his body … again. He forced himself to think rational thoughts, like he had a job to do and this was a mere mortal and he had sworn off getting involved with a woman so long as he remained a Warrior of the Blood.
Movement on the catwalk brought his gaze slashing back to the business at hand. The head case now stood on top of the railing, black wings flapping slowly. He sustained his balance with the practice of centuries.
Time to get this over with. He released the densest part of his mist in order to reveal himself to the woman.
He closed the distance then clapped his hands on her arms. “Don’t move,” he commanded.
Her head snapped in his direction as he spun her toward him. He repositioned his hands so that she faced him now, but he still had hold of her.
Goddammit, time thickened once more. He had never seen eyes like hers, light blue, rimmed in gold, exquisite. His body lit up again, a torch whipped by the wind, flames shooting everywhere. He probably should let go of her arms, but he sure as hell didn’t want to.
His gaze fell to parted lips and a possessive split-resonant growl formed in his throat.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”
He shook his head. “I’m here to protect you.” Other thoughts scrambled his head. I will always protect you. I was born to protect you. I will serve as your guardian, now and forever.
Breh-hedden shot through his head once more.
Hell, no. Not gonna happen. F*cking … hell … no.
“You were born to protect me?” she asked, her eyes wide, her brow crinkled. “What are you? And what do you mean by guardian and that ‘bray’ something?”
“You just read my thoughts even though my shields are in place?” Holy shit! The woman could get into his head, engage his mind, read his mind, an ability that went way beyond telepathy. He knew of only one woman on Second Earth capable of doing that … Endelle. Jesus. The woman before him had so much f*cking power.
Her lips parted, her gaze shifted back and forth from his face to his right wing, to his left wing, to his weapons harness, then down to his kilt and his heavy gladiator-like sandals. “What are you?” she repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper.
He drew in a deep breath and somehow found the power to release her arms. “Will you stay put while I deal with the death vamp?”
She looked him up and down. She blinked several times. He felt her mind pressing against his, and he let her dip in. She staggered slightly but after a moment withdrew, relaxed, then nodded. “Death vamp? As in death vampire?” she asked.
How confused she must be right now. “Yes, and I need you to stay right where you are so you won’t get hurt. Will you do as I say while I take care of the winged creature on the railing?”
She glanced at the waiting death vamp and nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice breathless. “Okay. Yes.” She swallowed hard.
He moved past her, drawing his wings aside to avoid striking her. He ignored the scent of lavender, which now assaulted him like a cyclone.
He stood several feet in front of her, blocking the death vamp’s view of her. He extended his wings to either side as far as he could, another protective move, his gaze fixed on the enemy.
His quarry scowled and rose into the air, his gaze searching.
“Come down,” Kerrick called out.
“Warrior, leave us,” the death vamp cried. He rose higher still until he could see the woman, then he smiled.
“Come down and face me,” Kerrick commanded. He folded his identified sword into his right fist once more, the wrapped leather soothing against his palm. He drew the dagger from the harness.
“I won’t fight you. I’m not here for that,” the death vamp cried out. “I need the woman’s blood.”
“Well, you can’t have it.”
“You don’t understand, Warrior Kerrick. I can destroy Commander Greaves if I take her blood. My sister, a very powerful Seer, told me about a mortal, Alison Wells, the woman behind you, who would be here today, this evening. She would have all the power I needed to do what must be done. You and I both want the same thing. Step aside and let me take her blood.”
As Kerrick faced the death vamp, however, he had only one recourse. “Tonight, unfortunately, I stand between you and the woman. You’ll have to face me instead, just as you are.” When the death vamp would not shift his gaze away from the female, the one he had called Alison, Kerrick split his resonance and thundered, “Look at me!”
Only then did the head case tear his attention away from her. He met Kerrick’s gaze and cried out, “Wouldn’t this mortal be worth the sacrifice to see the Commander dead?”
“We don’t trade on the lives of mortals.” Kerrick knew this wasn’t going to be simple. He needed the death vamp to attack, but the pretty-boy was fixed on the woman and the last thing he wanted was to end up chasing the bastard through the air.
* * *
Thorne returned to the Blood and Bite in one foul mood.
Endelle had thrown a bitch-fit about Kerrick’s ingratitude, insubordinate attitude, and all-around bullheadedness, then offered Thorne a ten-minute lecture on how he needed to get control of his warrior brothers.
What-the-f*ck-ever.
He had nodded and said all the right things, the whole time wondering how soon he could get back into the field. Given her mood, however, he doubted he’d be doing much else for a while except watching the damn clock.
Endelle was keeping him close tonight, a duty he detested. Unfortunately, her displeasure about Kerrick’s f*ck-off attitude was only half the picture. The other half drew his nuts up so close to his body, he could feel the short hairs.
She’d told him flat-out she was recalling Marcus, effective immediately.
Holy shit. Marcus. Marcus. Former Warrior of the Blood who had made a permanent jump to Mortal Earth the night Kerrick’s wife and kids had died.
God help us all.
“I need a drink, Sam.”
“You got it, jefe.”
F*ck.
Marcus.
Shit.
Endelle might as well call the brothers together and toss a lit grenade in their direction. Of course the warriors could use Marcus’s muscle as well as his four millennia of experience, but shit … Marcus?
He released a heavy sigh, the one born of way too many meetings with Her Supremeness. He perched on his favorite stool, the one at the end of the bar that let him keep a constant watch on the entire room, the rows of red-velvet-covered booths, the dance floor, the dark hallway leading to the bathrooms, and of course everyone else seated at the bar. He settled his left elbow on the polished wood, his right knee jutting out into the room, then leveled his stare at Sam.
“Back so soon, jefe?” Sam asked. He spoke in his bar-booming voice since the music thumped and loud conversation rattled the length of the club. He threw the towel over his shoulder, popped a tumbler on the bar with his left hand, then poured a decent amount of icy Ketel One with the other.
Thorne stared at the glass and felt the ease start even before he took his first sip. Sam resumed his glass-polishing duty and had the great good wisdom to keep his trap shut. Thorne wasn’t surprised. Samuel Finch, owner of the vampire nightspot, had shrewd eyes, the kind that looked, grabbed a swift impression, made a judgment, which all led him to keep his trap shut.
The warriors were in for a shitstorm. Looked like a major ascension was in progress, a female, which no doubt had Greaves sporting a raging hard-on, the bastard. Of course, he’d try to get to the ascendiate first, to turn her if he could. If he couldn’t—goddammit—he’d send his minions to kill her. He often wondered just how much self-control it required for Greaves to restrain his killing instincts. Of course, by law he couldn’t harm either an ascendiate or an ascender outright, nor could Endelle attack Greaves’s army—death vampire or otherwise. Yet how many times had he wished Endelle could cut loose and end this war. Unfortunately, if either Endelle or Darian started slaying outright, it was the same as launching a nuclear weapon. The only possible end would be vast destruction, which of course benefited no one.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and threw back the Ketel.
The result was that Endelle worked her ass off night and day to keep two worlds from sinking beneath the Commander’s ambitions, which was why he’d give his life for her, bitch notwithstanding.
Her efforts, however, weren’t cutting it, and every night the Commander shipped more death vampires in from around the goddamn globe. Last night Thorne had battled three Russian death vamps who spoke to him in words that sounded like ice skates cutting across a frozen pond. He’d made them dead but they’d been three fierce motherf*ckers.
Something had to break in Endelle’s direction soon. Greaves seemed miles ahead of Endelle’s organization, and not just in manpower; the a*shole had a workable plan and he was workin’ his plan. He spent the majority of his time coaxing High Administrators from all over the world to join his forces. When he got enough of them on his side and when his army, a combination of regular soldiers and death vampires, swelled to just the right proportion, well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next.
In the meantime, it was up to the Warriors of the Blood to keep the number of death vampires in check. Only Thorne’s elite group had the preternatural power as well as the pure physical strength to slay death vamps night after night, usually battling alone and usually battling three or more of the pretty-boys at the same time.
There was another policing unit, of course, the regular Militia Warriors. These squads served Second Earth all over the globe and, like the Warriors of the Blood, worked to keep death vampires in check. However, it usually took at least four Militia Warriors to bring down one death vampire—and even then casualties were heavy.
The Militia Warriors had training camps and received regular instruction from the Warriors of the Blood, although in recent months, given the activity at the various Phoenix Borderlands, what training the warriors could offer to the camps had dwindled to a trickle.
Bottom line? Endelle’s administration was officially up shit creek.
Okay, so maybe Endelle was right. Maybe Marcus was necessary.
Who was he kidding? Marcus should have been recalled fifteen years ago when the first of the High Administrators had defected, the proverbial handwriting on the wall. But holy shit, his brother warriors were not going to be happy, especially Kerrick. Goddammit, Kerrick would have a seizure the moment he saw the sonofabitch. When Kerrick’s wife had died, Marcus had said things to him no man should ever say to another man.
His gaze shifted to Sam, who wiped more glasses, all of which already sparkled like diamonds. He arranged them in neat tidy rows, adjusting for eighth-of-an-inch discrepancies. He polished all the bottles as well, a kaleidoscope of ambers and blues, melons and greens against the mirrored wall. He tidied and swept. The man had pride.
Another bartender, Sam’s nephew, served drinks up and down the bar, but Sam stuck close to Thorne. If a Warrior of the Blood was present, Sam served him personally. He had for over a century now.
Thorne tapped his glass on the counter. Sam moved forward then poured the Ketel again.
“You might as well tell me,” Sam said, a soft shout above the music.
Thorne’s gaze snapped to his. He scowled. He shifted his knee into the bar then formed a protective triangle with his hands around the tumbler. With his right thumb he rubbed the deeply grooved scar running down the inside of his left wrist, an old cut that extended almost to the center of his hand. Sam drew close, turning an ear toward him.
“Nothin’ to tell.” Shit, his voice sounded more gravelly than ever. Too many nights not sleeping.
Sam snorted. “You were with Endelle. There’s always something to tell. You’re bleeding from the stripes on your back.”
Thorne wanted to laugh at the image, but couldn’t. He dropped his gaze. He lifted the tumbler once more to his lips. A heavy sigh swept out of his parched throat, and he soothed it with a long solid slide of vodka. He let the burn float back up. He no longer winced. He hadn’t winced for years. He’d made a pact with Ketel and they’d both kept it … diligently.
Something dug at the back of his mind. What was it Kerrick had said? An itch he couldn’t scratch? Damn straight he had an itch.
Thorne met Sam’s gaze again. “She’s bringing Marcus back.”
Sam dropped the glass in his hand then swooped with preternatural vampire speed and caught it before it hit the floor. “Holy shit,” he muttered as he rose upright. His head waggled back and forth. He was a small man with a barrel chest. His shoulders were broad and he had no hips. He wore suspenders because there wasn’t a belt capable of holding up his pants. “Things are so bad, jefe? I thought she said she’d only bring him back if he sucked the black off the bottom of her stilettos.”
Thorne shrugged but then what the hell else could he do? The decision was already made.
He had only one response right now—he tapped the bar again.
His phone buzzed as Sam refilled his glass. He glanced at the message. He smiled. “Luken just texted,” he called out. “He took six down and he’s headed in.”
Sam let out a whoop. “Six. That Luken. He’s one powerful warrior.”
Thorne nodded. Luken was the peacekeeper of the bunch, and with Marcus heading toward Second later tonight, Luken’s ability to keep the brotherhood on an even keel would be put to the test.
“All the warriors in later?”
“Within the hour.”
* * *
Alison stood with her arms wrapped around her stomach, no less than six feet away at any given time from the winged man called Kerrick, Warrior Kerrick. Over the past ten minutes he had made his intention clear—he meant to protect her. What had he called himself, her guardian? He had reiterated, about a dozen times, that the death vamp wouldn’t be taking her blood tonight. What did any of this mean?
Right now her head was spinning and because of all the adrenaline in her system, her arms and legs shook like she had a chill. Was she looking at her death, right here, right now?
Despite the number of times the death vamp shifted his position, however, Warrior Kerrick had kept his powerful winged body between her and the beautiful pale-skinned creature still on the railing.
She understood the warrior’s tactic: to bring the killer in close, rather than risk becoming separated from her, which would leave her vulnerable to attack.
Oh, God. Was this even happening? She shifted her arms tighter around her abdomen. The shakes swept through her once more. Okay. She had to get control of these sensations. She refused to look at the black-winged creature any longer. She focused instead on … Kerrick. Yes, his name was Kerrick … Warrior Kerrick.
She drew in a deep breath. Better.
As much as she might question the reality of the situation, she had to admit that if this was still part of an elaborate hallucination, she had one fine imagination.
The warrior’s skin was a rich golden color, in marked contrast with the pale death vamp. He wore a black leather kilt and a harness, which ran down the center of his back between his wings. On his feet were gladiator-like sandals. He looked made for war, an ancient kind of war, a war conducted in the desert.
The argument between Kerrick and the killer continued, always with the warrior’s refusal to negotiate. The death vamp often flew away from the railing to make a pass or two and look at Alison, but he never failed to return to the refuge of the two-story catwalk perch, a standoff that afforded her the chance to continue her appraisal of her would-be guardian.
She couldn’t fathom either the magnificence of the wings, taller than his height by several feet, or the intricately muscled back that supported them. The feathers were a very pure white in contrast with the killer’s glossy black pair. She wanted to move forward and touch them, to see how they did what they did. Was the structure hard or soft, and how could wings of this size emerge just from his back? On the other hand, how could she do half the things she could do—read minds, send hand-blasts of inexplicable power, dematerialize, capture pockets of time in order to reassemble smashed windows?
The man, the warrior, stood at least six-six and every exposed part of his body bore heavy, ripped muscles. He had thick wavy black hair, which appeared to be damp, flowing away from his face to his shoulders and a few inches beyond. Every muscle in his body had been honed, probably from years of this kind of police or military service, or whatever it was he did.
She glanced from him to the death vampire. The creature with the black wings resembled the mythical vampire—he was beautiful in a way that mesmerized, and he used his fangs to drink people to death. In contrast, Kerrick was nothing like the popular freakish, emaciated images. No, he was all man, warrior, and incredibly built. Not the stuff of night-feeding vampire legend at all. He was so much more than that—moral, protective, a self-proclaimed guardian.
She had touched his mind.
He. Was. Honorable.
The longings she had felt earlier returned in full measure and intensified, crushing her heart. She bent over slightly. She worked to catch her breath. What was this deep internal sensation, this yearning? And why did it possess her so profoundly in this moment?
A shiver stole across her shoulders and she straightened. What had Joy told her not an hour ago, to go out and find a bodybuilder, that maybe such a man could handle her array of abilities? Could this man—warrior-vampire-guardian, whatever he was—could this man take all she could give?
She struggled to breathe, and a peculiar humming vibrated strangely through her body. Her lips felt swollen and her skin tingled … everywhere. Desire, forbidden for years, descended deep into her abdomen. Oh, God, she actually clenched as pure sexual need wept from her.
The winged warrior straightened suddenly. He turned back to her, his eyes almost crazed. He pointed his sword at her. You must stop that now. Funny how she knew he meant her desire for him.
She nodded several times then gasped as the killer launched from the railing. For a painful second she feared she might have just cost the winged warrior his life. And how typical would that be?
To her surprise, Kerrick simply turned and, in a blur of motion so fast as to be imperceptible, launched himself at his opponent.
In the next moment the airspace between the second and third stories of the complex became a vortex of spinning, writhing wings, clashing swords, and feral grunts.
She watched, astonished at the quick brutal movements. Within a matter of seconds, however, stillness hit the air. The black-winged body shuddered and fell to earth. Hard.
With a gasp Alison moved toward the creature, wanting to offer her help, but blood poured from a deep wound in his chest and flowed onto the cement. Her stomach churned. She covered her mouth. There was no way he could survive.
His head was cradled in a nest of broken black wings, and he lifted a hand toward her. He was so beautiful.
You must come to us. You must help us end this war.
What war? she sent. She received no answer. His eyes closed as his body shook uncontrollably. A moment later, he fell still.
Kerrick floated down beside her. He began drawing his wings into his body. She shifted and watched as one by one the feathers began to narrow to incredibly fine points and disappear into the rolling landscape of his back. Was it her imagination, or did his muscles thin out and reconfigure to a more normal masculine shape as well?
She blinked several times. Her head felt full of clouds.
Wings? A sword battle in midair?
She reverted her attention to the death vampire at her feet. She shook her head, stunned.
Death vampire?
Was any of this real?
She forced herself to breathe. She felt light-headed, unsteady on her feet. She opened her lungs, drew air. Her left arm was still wrapped tightly about her stomach but her right hand now covered her mouth.
Kerrick dropped to one knee and placed his hand on the forehead of his enemy. His shoulders slumped.
Her empathy kicked in, one of her softer gifts. She read him in another deep intake of air. She felt his soul-weariness and saw the darkness within. He had carried this burden for a long, long time, longer than a few decades.
A sense of his life passed through her mind. She perceived centuries, only how was that possible? Then again, the man had enormous wings, so apparently he existed outside the bounds of earthly possibility right now. Centuries, then, yet despair pounded from him in hard anguished waves. She wanted to touch him, to settle her hand on his shoulder, to give him just a little relief. But what did she really know of him—and worse, would she hurt him accidentally if she got too close?
With his hand still on the killer’s forehead, he closed his eyes then murmured, “May the world be eased by your departure and may you find peace.”
Grace in the midst of vengeance?
Who was this man? Warrior? Guardian? Vampire?
She took a step away from him.
He rose to his full staggering height. As her gaze slid up his back over his long black hair to his profile, desire once more, and so inappropriate, returned in full measure. She had never seen a face so pleasing, his nose straight and strong, his lips full, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His thick black hair invited exploration. His eyes were an exquisite green, an almost emerald hue.
His height dwarfed her six feet. She actually felt feminine next to him, an unusual sensation. A deep yearning threatened to swallow her whole. She took another step back. She didn’t know this man, or angel, warrior, vampire.
So what on earth was he, and what did all of this mean?
He drew a credit card of sorts from the pocket of his kilt then thumbed it. When he brought it to his ear, she realized he held a phone.
He spoke in his low voice. “Hi, Jeannie. Yeah, I got him. One to pick up. Let Thorne know. The other signature?” His gaze snapped to Alison, “She’s right next to me. I’ll disperse the mortals and call back for the second removal.”
Disperse the mortals? Second removal?
The unreality of the situation once more worked in her mind. Psychotic break seemed more reasonable to her right now than any of what she had just witnessed—still witnessed. She blinked hard. Maybe if she relaxed all this would simply disappear. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.
She opened her eyes but her warrior-angel was still there. He smiled crookedly. “Sorry, beautiful. I’m real.” He added, “You must think you’re going out of your mind.”
“Bingo,” she whispered softly.
He returned his card-like phone to his kilt pocket and, with his deep resonant voice thrumming over her body like a base viol, he said quietly, “You might want to cover your eyes.”
Just as her hand came up to her face, a blinding light filled the courtyard for the space of maybe a second or two.
Sliding her hand away, she saw that the body of the killer had disappeared as well as any remnants of his death. The cement in the area looked pristine.
She recalled the window glass she had shattered, the pocket of time she had frozen, the retrieval of the glass, time withdrawn, a mistake made right. She stared at the warrior next to her. What he did, what he could do, matched her abilities. She had such powers, perhaps not exactly the same as his, but earth’s basic laws of physics had a different meaning to her than to anyone else. She could pull things from other places on the planet into her hand. She could bake a cake from scratch while sitting in another room.
She thought of the statue. She held her palm out. She brought the absurd unity sculpture into her hand in the way he had retrieved his sword for battle, as if from nowhere. She needed this warrior-angel-guardian to see.
He glanced at it and his jaw grew hard. His brows drew together, forming a furrow. He met her gaze once more and nodded. He held his sword out then released it, not to fall on the cement but to be returned from wherever it had come—wherever the hell that was. She thought the thought and sent the statue back to the coffee table in her office.
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I have no idea what to do with you.”
That makes two of us, she sent.
* * *
Kerrick struggled although he hoped none of it showed. The blond goddess looked confused, frustrated, even despairing though his concern was not fixed on her plight. Instead madness seized him. This woman was still a field of lavender and he wanted to tramp through that field for the next century, maybe forever.
So who are you? The stream was telepathic, which would reach her mind, yet not penetrate. She could choose to answer or not.
Her brows lifted and her lips parted. She sucked in some air, something she seemed to be needing a lot of, then answered from her mind: Alison Wells, and you are Kerrick? Warrior Kerrick? Is that right?
He nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus, you smell like lavender.
“Oh,” she said aloud.
When he opened his eyes, her fingers were pressed to her lips. “I’m smelling Moroccan spices,” she said aloud. She smiled suddenly. “Not cloves exactly. More like … cardamom. Yes, you smell like cardamom. I love that spice.”
Oh. God.
She could smell what he was giving, a scent that had only one meaning in his world and could only be detected by someone meant for him. Shit. He was in so much trouble. Again, he had the feeling Endelle had set him up. “I find you … lovely,” he said, gritting his teeth because this was an understatement. “Which explains the scent … again.”
Her brow puckered. She was so beautiful. Achingly. She looked confused, yet her blue, gold-rimmed eyes glittered. He watched her swallow and another heavy wave of lavender swelled over him. He had to get away from her but he couldn’t make his feet move.
Her gaze began a sudden strip search and wandered over his body from head to foot. He wanted her looking and was glad he wore just the leather kilt and simple weapons harness over his chest. The winged battle gear gave her a lot of landscape to cover.
She closed the distance between them, then put her hand on his arm, as though to make certain he was real. She looked up into his eyes. He knew he should stop her from touching him, from being this close, but he couldn’t.
“Warrior Kerrick,” she whispered, as though trying to understand. Her blue eyes darkened.
“Just … Kerrick,” he said. His voice sounded like it had fallen down a hole.
He could hear her heart slamming against her ribs. Lavender once more rushed at him and he knew, he knew, if he took her somewhere private right now, he’d have her under him in a split second.
Never in his life had he experienced anything so overwhelming as looking into her eyes. He wanted in, not just now. He wanted in forever. Who was she that a mere mortal would have such a profound call on him? How could just being near her make him want to throw to the winds, without a backward glance, the vow he had taken so many decades ago?
A window opened and golden sunshine poured in, teasing long-dead hope to life. Could it be different with this woman who had such power? Could he do what he had been unable to do for his first wife and their son? For his second wife and their two children? Could he keep Alison Wells alive? Could it be different?
Those clear blue eyes beckoned to him like nothing before. Everything about her called to him.
His body tensed. He strained toward her.
His phone buzzed.
“Shit,” he muttered. He scowled heavily and drew back. He plucked the phone from his waist and swung it to his ear. “Yeah, Jeannie.”
“Just thought you should know, the female is all lit up and right next to you. Any trouble?”
Plenty. “No. Don’t worry. She and I are talking right now.”
“Aaah. She likee. Smart woman. Does she know you’re a vampire?”
“Jeannie,” he muttered, a hint of warning in his voice.
“Okee-dokee, then.”
“Jeannie, one of these days…”
“Promises, promises.”
He thumbed the phone and replaced it. He felt disoriented. Everything seemed to be changing beneath his feet and he couldn’t find solid ground. And now this woman had met her first vampire. What would she think of spending time with the real thing, of maybe kissing the real thing?
He looked at Alison again, at the rumpled forehead, at the glitter of blue eyes, the swollen lips. He shook his head. “I can’t go there. I want to, but I can’t.”
She nodded in quick jerks, but she still streamed lavender like she’d bathed in it about a minute ago.
He nodded as well. “I realize this must be as confusing as hell and we will talk, but I have to take care of the rest of this first.”
She nodded again.
He took two steps.
I’m not going anywhere, she sent, the words hurtling into his brain and freezing his steps again. He turned back to meet her gaze once more.
Cardamom, she sent. Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Unwittingly—he was sure of that—she released yet another wave of lavender, which almost brought him to his knees. Whatever this was between them, it was goddamn mutual.
He trembled inside as he turned away and drew his hands into knotted fists. He couldn’t do this. He refused to do this. Whoever she was, whatever she was, he couldn’t get involved, not with her, not in this way. She wasn’t just sex to him. No, she was a helluva lot more. She was mainline heroin, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d get sucked into something he had vowed never to do again.
He moved in the direction of the stairs. He laid his hand on shoulder after shoulder though not for comfort. The spectators in turn ambled off to their various offices, no longer remembering the fatality below.
He moved back down the stairs to the crowd gathered around the body and with the same steady, quiet effort sent the rest of the spectators away from the emergency personnel. He approached the EMTs, who in turn no longer remembered that a woman had died. They reentered their vehicles and one by one drove away.
The breh-hedden occurs so infrequently there is hardly sufficient information to make informed opinions as to its validity. This author believes Warrior of the Blood mate-bonding must be part of ascension mythology. Nothing more.
—From Treatise on Ascension, Philippe Reynard