by Caris Roane
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 lave
nder.
“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
CHAPTER 4
Alison watched Warrior Kerrick put his hands on person after person. What did they see? Surely not a long-haired warrior the size of an NBA player wearing a black leather kilt and looking like a god. She was amazed as each individual simply turned away from the crime scene and went back into the medical complex.
He worked steadily until even the police and emergency vehicles pulled out of the parking lot. Finally he stood over the covered body. Once more he drew his strange phone from the pocket of his kilt, spoke to a woman he called Jeannie, and made the deceased woman disappear.
He returned to stand before her. He closed his eyes for a moment, his nostrils flaring. When he opened his eyes he scowled. “Why do you have to smell like lavender?” Once more his heavy spice, rich cardamom, flowed around her.
She couldn’t believe the way her body responded to his scent, as though it belonged to her and no one else, as though she had to have it or die. Which was absurd, completely irrational.
She drew in another deep breath and gestured to the now clean cement. “What did you just do? Where did the woman and the other winged man go?”
He held her gaze. He reached a hand toward her then let it drop away. “I do interdimensional cleanup work when death vampires hunt on Mortal Earth. We work hard not to leave evidence of our world behind.”
Alison nodded as though these words made perfect sense to her. “So, you have a job description, which involves making sure that we, us, this world doesn’t learn of your existence.”
“In part. Every night I patrol the Borderlands and battle more of these night-feeders. Any of this make sense to you?”
She shook her head. “Does any of this make sense? Death vampires? Borderlands? What do you think?” She hated the hysterical note in her voice. She put a hand to her chest, a sense of deep inexplicable yearning still possessing her. She took yet another deep breath. “Okay. So where are the bodies?”
“In a morgue on Second.”
“Second?”
“Second Earth. Same earth, different dimensions. Evolved powers. Shit, you really aren’t in your call to ascension, are you?”
“Since I have no idea what any of that means, I guess the answer would have to be no.”
“But I watched you fold from the catwalk to ground level right in front of me.”
“Fold? Oh, you mean the disappearing–reappearing thing? Yeah, I’ve never done that before in public.”
“But you’ve done it before.”
“Sure. Since childhood, although early on it happened mostly by accident.”
“Anyone else in you
r family able to do this?”
She shook her head. “My mother is telepathic but that’s about it.”
“Yet you can see me,” he stated. “You dematerialize, you can fold objects, and you slip into my mind easily.”
She nodded, her gaze fixed to his.
He released a heavy sigh and shook his head. “You have a shitload of power, but you don’t have the usual hallmarks of a rite of ascension, so right now you’re a mystery to solve.”
She looked him over. Was he real? Once more, she settled a hand on his bicep, reaching for an anchor. He felt real.
His nostrils flared suddenly. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was in pain.
Okay, she had to open the door. She had to know the truth about him, about what she was seeing and touching. “So, you’re a … vampire.”
“Yes. The ascended world is a vampire world but not in the way depicted in the worst of the Bram Stoker traditions.”
“Except for the death vampire.”
He nodded. “You’re seeing the source of that particular aspect of vampire culture since the one I just dispatched used his fangs for some really hard-core shit. However, most ascenders—residents of Second Earth—use their fangs properly, to take blood and to give pleasure without doing harm.” He searched her gaze for a long moment. “I can’t even read your mind and I should be able to, which means you have powerful shields in place. Who are you?”
Once more, she stated her name. “Alison Wells. I have a counseling practice here in this building. Or had one. I’ve been closing up shop for the last two months. I just saw my last client.”
He narrowed his gaze and lowered his voice. “Was your last client Darian Greaves?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Christ.” He shoved a hand through his thick black hair, which gave her sudden cravings. She drew in another breath and shifted back to his green eyes. “Do you know Darian?”
“Shit. It’s so weird to hear you call him by his first name. No one does that. Not on Second. He’s known as the Commander or Greaves and he’s a major player. He has big plans for our world as well as Mortal Earth—your earth—and these plans involve war, conquest, and slavery. Right now he’s well on his way to succeeding. I take it he didn’t discuss his ambitions with you or his vampire nature.”