by Caris Roane
As he glanced over the first few lines of the assignment, he shook his head. He didn’t understand. Was this all the Commander required?
He lifted his gaze and met the large round eyes of his deity. “You want me to kill a mortal woman?” He almost laughed. Could anything be simpler?
“Put your plans together. However, do not take even the smallest action until I have permission from the Committee. Even then, we can only begin the moment the ascendiate has answered the call. Are we clear?”
Crace stared at him, his lips parted. Of course he knew the rules, he just couldn’t believe the simplicity of the assignment. He even wondered why a man of lesser talents wasn’t brought in to get the job done.
The Commander smiled, just a little. “Is there a problem, High Administrator Crace?”
“Not at all.”
Crace knew joy. The sensation was a flock of butterflies flitting through his veins. He got a hard-on the size of a sledgehammer. Victory sang in his ears. He grinned though he knew he shouldn’t. Maybe this was a simple form of justice for all the labor he had performed, karma coming home to roost.
A fever now worked in him. “I will not disappoint you,” he cried. His hands shook. The paper rattled between his fingers. He had many things he wanted to discuss with the Commander. He had a thousand ideas about how to administer the Coming Order, the vast spectacle he would help create worthy of the Commander’s vision and power.
Kill a mere mortal woman and he had a seat at Commander Greaves’s Geneva Round Table.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
And he had so many ideas for the Coming Order.
He was dizzy with excitement, a bride on her wedding day. He was ready to speak, to share the enormous plans he had. Instead the Commander rose to his feet. “You must forgive me for ending the interview. I have other matters to attend to.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Crace said, once more pushing himself out of the chair, his damn pants clinging to his thighs. The interview was over.
He bowed and remained in the subservient position as the master passed by. A scent of lemons arose along with a faint resinous smell, something like paint thinner.
A moment more and Greaves vanished. At the same time, the pressure within Crace’s head eased.
Of course Greaves had been in his head. Of course. Yet he had somehow cloaked his presence.
So much power.
Crace glanced at the paper. One final task to complete, and not nearly as difficult as a dozen others he’d performed over the decades. He smiled once more, baring his fangs. He laughed and threw in a throaty growl. He wished his wife were with him. She was the great love of his life, the partner in his ambitions, the finest hostess of the North American continent. Most certainly his darling wife would understand the monumental nature of this opportunity.
He’d take her, right now, here in the office of his deity, on the Commander’s big fat ebony desk. They would drink champagne and commune. Oh, God, would they commune.
Maybe he should bring her to Phoenix Two while he took care of business. He would have need of her, great desire for her body and for her blood.
He glanced once more at the paper.
Now where, oh where, to find the mortal Alison Wells?
* * *
After showering … again … Kerrick dressed in black cargoes, a snug black tee, and steel-toed boots. This time he pulled his hair back and secured the leather cadroen. The ritual bound him to the warriors, to Second Earth, to his avowal of service to all immortal ascenders. He took his vows seriously.
Most nights he wore flight gear to meet up with the warriors at the Blood and Bite, because for whatever reason the ladies always made a beeline for the kilt. Right now, however, he wasn’t in the mood.
As Central folded him to the Mortal Earth club, he stood on the threshold and took a long look around, the music a loud wild frenzy, strobes flashing over the dance floor. He flared his nostrils and breathed in. He was only concerned about one scent right now, although he feared the smell of lavender more than a hundred of the Commander’s death vampires.
However, when nothing returned to him, not even a hint of lavender, instead of feeling relieved, he cursed. Where the hell was she?
He ordered his mind. He should be grateful she hadn’t made her way here. Alison Wells would do well to remain unknown, hidden in the safety of her life. Any association with him would put her in harm’s way.
What had he been telling Thorne just a few hours ago: You ever had an itch you couldn’t scratch?
Fuck.
He headed to the bar where Thorne, Medichi, Jean-Pierre, and Zacharius bellied up and drank, four of his warrior brothers. Well, they all drank except Jean-Pierre. He had his tongue in the ear of a brunette.
Thorne sat in his usual spot, at the top of the bar where he had the best view of every corner of the room. The club was full of Phoenix Two Militia Warriors who also had permanent passes to the Mortal Earth club. Thorne made sure all the vampires treated the mortal women with respect. Right now his right heel thumped to the music.
Kerrick went down the row and slapped shoulders. Medichi shoved an elbow at him as he jerked his head up and down once. He held a glass of red wine in his hand. Kerrick didn’t know how his brother could stand the shit.
Zach presented his hand, and Kerrick grabbed five. Zach drew him close. “Heard Greaves was with the ascendiate,” he shouted. The music roared by this time of night and the strobes bounced light and dark around like a pinball machine.
“You got that right.”
Kerrick acknowledged Jean-Pierre with a nod. The brother was a little too busy to do more than cast an eye in Kerrick’s direction as he tended to the female. Jean-Pierre was one helluva player, just as he’d been during his mortal life. Ladies were his game, no restrictions. The woman leaned close, her lips parted, her body molded to the warrior.
Kerrick turned around and headed back in Thorne’s direction. The lighting over the bar cast spotlights over each stool, and the last thing he needed from Jean-Pierre was a visual reminder of what he wanted to do to Alison.
As he drew close he saw that Thorne’s hazel eyes were not only red-rimmed but also bloodshot, and still he had his fingers around a sweating tumbler of Ketel One. He gestured for Kerrick to take the stool next to him then swiveled in his direction. “Good job,” he shouted, his gravel-pit voice raking the words hard. “Jeannie said the death vamp drained a mortal.”
Kerrick nodded. He spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Had to spend a few minutes wiping memories.”
“No doubt.” Thorne picked up his tumbler and took a deep swallow.
“So … Marcus.” Even saying his name caused Kerrick to twitch and his shoulders to bunch. “Endelle said she’d recalled him.”
Thorne scowled. “Yeah. You gonna be okay?”
“Fuck, no.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
Kerrick turned to Sam, ready to call for his Maker’s only to find a glass filled with liquid gold already sitting in front of him. He smiled. Sam was the best. He mouthed a thank-you to the barkeep. Sam merely nodded in response and kept moving up and down the line, tending to the warriors.
Thorne cut into his thoughts. “So how’d the cleanup go? We good?” He spoke in a loud voice but he still sounded like the low rumble of an idling Corvette.
Kerrick nodded, took a long swig, then leaned in close, aiming his words at Thorne’s ear. “With one exception.”
Thorne shifted toward Sam, lifted his left arm, and with his hand made the cut sign across his neck. Sam nodded, picked up a phone, and a few seconds later the music came to a halt. Sam always obliged Thorne.
“Tell me everything.”
Kerrick related the battle at the medical complex, then his experience with Alison.
“So what is this ascendiate like?”
She’s…” Perfect. “Like most women. Curved, soft-looking.” Hot as hell. Okay, he had to stop thinking about her. Now. He added, �
��Assuming this really is an ascension, it’s already without precedent. She has a boatload of power. Telepathy, empathy, and she folded. A profile indicated at least twenty others. I think she has all of Second’s abilities.”
Thorne dipped his chin. “Are you shitting me? And she folded, just like that? I couldn’t dematerialize when I ascended, not for another decade or so. And you still can’t.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
Thorne laughed. He threw back his Ketel, popped the glass on the bar, and Sam was ready to pour. “If you weren’t in all other respects the most powerful of our band of misfits, yours truly included, I might just feel sorry for you. Your speed makes up for everything since you prove it every night. Bastard.”
Kerrick laughed then shook his head. “I watched her fold. I had my wings at full-mount and would have risen to the second-story catwalk where I thought the death vamp had her trapped, but the next moment she appeared a couple of yards in front of me on ground level.” He then told Thorne about the difficulty he’d had doing the memory slice.
Thorne’s face knotted up. “Jesus. I’ve never heard of a mortal with so much resistance.”
“I’ve never had to go that far before.” He had his tumbler to his lips, but he just kept shaking his head at the memory. He’d practically punched her head with an ice pick to get inside—and even then, that she’d withstood the pressure without stroking out meant only one thing. Power. A lot of it. “Greaves was there.”
“Holy hell. When?”
“Just when I arrived. He acknowledged my presence then walked away. After that, Jeannie couldn’t read him on the grid so we presume he folded. The mortal’s been his therapist for a year. Can you believe it? She said he offered her a job. She refused.”
“Goddamn. So essentially she’s already declared her intention of aligning with Endelle.”
“Again without precedent, since she still hasn’t answered her call.” He shook his head. “None of this makes sense, does it?”
“No.” Thorne frowned. “A complete anomaly.”
Kerrick felt compelled to make his confession. “I left a card for her.”
Thorne snorted then backhanded his arm. “What the hell were you thinking? We are never supposed to interfere.”
“I thought between the Commander’s presence and the death vamp’s knowledge of her power she was already in the middle of a call to ascension. Couldn’t be a coincidence that the vamp went to the complex hunting for her, and apparently with a purpose to drain her, nor that I showed up shortly after.” He dropped his voice, turned slightly, and met Thorne’s gaze dead-on. “Something else happened. I really got into her.”
Thorne shook his head. “So exactly what are we talking here? How much?”
He dropped his voice one more notch. “Like I was the fucking German army and she was Poland.”
Thorne frowned, caught Sam’s eye, then popped his glass on the bar again. Sam moved in smoothly and filled. Thorne took a swig and met Kerrick’s gaze. “Is she here?”
“Nope, and believe me I’d know.”
“She’s fragrant, then?”
“Yep.”
“Damn. You know what this means, although, hell, I thought it was a myth.”
“We all did. I’m trying not to think about it. Besides, even if she shows, I have no intention of going after her.”
Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it, though. If she’s so powerful, she’ll be right for you. This could be a good thing.”
Kerrick really didn’t want to hear any encouragement, not from Thorne, not from any of the brothers. “I took vows after Helena died.” EOS. He finished off the Maker’s.
Medichi leaned in from the side. “I’ve got a question.”
Kerrick turned in his direction and waited.
He swirled the Cabernet in his wineglass. He was the tallest of the brothers, topping out at six-seven with lean, powerful muscles. “What the hell are you ladies talking about?”
Before Kerrick could answer him, Zacharius rounded Medichi and butted in as well. “Yeah. You exchanging recipes or what?” Kerrick flipped him off.
Zacharius was the man, a vampire full of shit and swagger. His thick curly black hair, when he chose to release it from the cadroen, drove the ladies wild.
Thorne’s gravel-pit voice broke over Kerrick’s shoulder. “Well, assholes, though it’s none of your business, we were just discussing warrior mate-bonding. Any thoughts?”
Zacharius turned white and headed back to his stool. Medichi crossed himself. Both warriors hunched over their drinks and disappeared for a while. Kerrick waggled his empty glass at Sam. Sam nodded and refilled.
A feminine moan shifted his attention down the bar, just past Zach. Jean-Pierre whispered a string of tender French words into the ear of his now panting female. He traced a long index finger along her collarbone. The other hand slid deep into her skimpy blue silk top.
Sam called to him, “Jean-Pierre, you know the rules. Mist and a booth or I’ll have to throw you out.”
Jean-Pierre met his gaze and lifted an arrogant brow. He bared his fangs and a lovely Gallic growl eased out of his throat.
Kerrick had to smile. The barkeep was half Jean-Pierre’s size, a small vampire, born on Second Earth, who’d find himself broken in half if he pushed the warrior. One of his privileges, however, since he served Endelle by keeping the club specifically to serve her warriors, was to order even the Warriors of the Blood around, at least on his premises.
Sam tipped his head to his bouncers, and a couple of giants stepped forward. Kerrick’s smile broadened. Regardless of their size, if they intended to engage Jean-Pierre, they’d both end up in the hospital in less than a minute.
When the warrior didn’t back down, Thorne lifted his head from his drink. “Goddammit, Jean-Pierre, get a booth. Now. Though why you have to forget the rules every other night…”
Jean-Pierre shrugged, laughed, then wrapped a ripped arm around the female’s shoulders and drew her away. The only order he would ever take was from Thorne.
He had a different take on the cadroen as well. He tied up his wild-looking brown waves with varying strips of brocade, a leftover affectation from his years at the court of Louis XVI.
“Fifteen minutes,” Thorne called after him.
“Quinze, bah.” He made use of his tongue again and the female sagged against him.
Zacharius hooted after Jean-Pierre, who in turn flipped him off. Jean-Pierre disappeared behind a layer of mist as he hauled his mortal female into one of many red velvet booths.
Fifteen minutes.
As usual, the warriors would be working the Borderlands throughout the night, on both Mortal Earth and Second, hunting the Commander’s death vampires. Kerrick’s muscles twitched. Fifteen minutes? He couldn’t wait.
Movement at the entrance caught his attention. Alison? Adrenaline punched through his veins once more, but it was only Luken and Santiago, the two remaining warriors. They strolled in, tall powerful vampires, each six-five plus.
Damn but if a petite redhead didn’t run at Santiago, leap on him, and throw her legs around his hips. He caught her easily and sucked on her neck. Her giggles rose above the noise of the club. Alcohol tended to elevate any voice, so even with the music off until Thorne wanted it back on, the place was alive with whistles, catcalls, and loud conversation. There were other sounds as well. Those, however, Kerrick ignored.
He picked up his glass, slid off the stool, and once more leaned his hips against the bar. He hooked Luken’s arm and palmed his hand.
Luken nodded then spoke in a low voice. “Heard about the mess in downtown earlier. Kids. Shit.”
Kerrick was taken right back there to finding the mortal woman and her children, broken and drained. He nodded then sucked back the rest of the Maker’s.
Luken clapped his shoulder, afterward moving down the row to greet his brothers. Kerrick followed with his gaze. Luken kept the peace and eased suffering. He was a massive warr
ior, with more muscle than even Kerrick, yet lean as hell. He had the heart of a saint and it meant something to have Luken acknowledge when shit went bad.
Kerrick shifted his gaze to the dance floor. Several couples remained, chatting, waiting until the music came back on, exchanging a few erotic kisses. Even Santiago waited with his redhead, his lips still fixed to her neck. He had the whole Latin thing going on and knew how to work it.
One Militia Warrior already had his fangs deep, his body arched over the female, who, hell, looked like she was ready to come.
Damn. Kerrick’s thoughts flew back to Alison, and desire pumped through him so fast he had to turn back into the bar. Holy shit. He only had to think about the blond goddess and he was hard as a rock. He eased back onto his stool and spent the next minute memorizing the labels on the bottles opposite.
Normally he’d be out there taking care of business as well, easing his tension, letting the ache of his solitary life leak out of him for a minute or two, yet ever since he’d held Alison in his arms, he’d lost interest in smelling anything but lavender.
Kerrick brought his tumbler to his lips once more. As he took another hefty swig, his gaze hit the mirror opposite and landed on a space between a bottle of Absolut and another of Bacardi Superior. In that small, mirrored spot he caught Thorne’s tight expression as he stared into his tumbler.
Shit. Boss looked fazed, his expression fixed and staring. He clasped his hands on the bar, caging his tumbler of vodka. His right thumb dug into the well of a long deep scar, a sword wound that had nearly severed his left thumb from his hand many centuries ago. Thorne bore his responsibilities seriously yet he’d never appeared quite so blasted, and it wasn’t just because of the drink. Something was eating at him.
Thorne had seen over two thousand years of mortal and immortal life, and he’d borne the weight of the Warriors of the Blood for the last millennium. He was even responsible for handing out the Militia Warrior training assignments, although lately none of the brothers had been to the camps. Greaves had kept the Borderlands lit up for months so that improving Militia Warrior skills had fallen by the wayside.