by Caris Roane
She leaned over the table and assessed the exact point of balance required to palm the heavy statue in one hand. She’d be able to now since she’d been working out hard for the past six months, running, weight lifting, stair-stepping, Spinning.
How nice in this moment to be so strong.
She wrapped one hand around the statue then lifted. She hefted the family to shoulder height then arched her wrist slowly to support the statue in her hand. She pressed it a couple of times. Up, down. Up, down.
“You’re still coming to Mom and Dad’s, right?” Joy asked.
“Absolutely,” she said, forcing the enthusiasm, but it was like pushing raw potatoes through a sieve. “Mom would kill me if I didn’t show.”
Three days from now. She would need every second between to gain perspective, to remind herself of all the good things of her life, to be able to be around her sister and not be overcome by either jealousy or despair.
Goddammit.
“So, Mom said you already have an idea for your dissertation. You must be thrilled about starting school again. You’ve always wanted to go back.”
Alison couldn’t listen anymore, couldn’t respond in a happy voice one more time. Yes, she was going back to school, and yes, part of her was excited, but Joy had the life Alison wanted, the normal life with love, a good man, babies. No, she couldn’t utter one more positive word.
She decided to lie and spoke in a hushed voice. “Listen, Joy, my last client just arrived so I’d better go.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. See you at Mom and Dad’s.”
“You bet.”
“Love you.”
“Love you more.”
Alison pressed the little red button then tossed her cell sideways onto the cushion of the wing chair. She kept her gaze fixed on the four-by-eight window. Her eyes burned all over again and her throat constricted.
Her last client wouldn’t arrive for a little while yet.
She had time … to get her head straight.
She flexed her powerful right arm. Oh, but she shouldn’t do this. She really shouldn’t. She had been a responsible tenant in the medical building for the past eight years. This could be classified as insane.
Despite her calm reasoning, she pivoted to stand with her left shoulder facing the window. She drew her right arm back. She even lifted her left knee for more stability and strength, like a Diamondback pitcher. Then, without allowing her thoughts to muddle the moment, she aimed the statue at the long plate-glass window above the green chenille sofa and threw with all her might.
The shattering glass sounded like heaven and for a split second, she could actually smile. The moment dragged out in slow motion until reality struck and she realized exactly what she had done. Without thinking, she reached out and snatched a pocket of time, slowing the forward movement of the shattered window until time stopped.
What?
What?
All the glass froze in place. Even the unity statue floated three feet beyond the sill.
She looked down at her hand, palm up, fingers curled in. She felt the pull on her entire arm as though a large rubber band had stretched out and grabbed hold of some distant invisible object then held tight.
She shook her head, astonished.
Alison Wells … human … held time in her hand.
How was this possible?
How were any of her special abilities possible? From the time she was a little girl, she could perform amazing preternatural feats, but to what purpose? Her powers simply made no sense in her world. She had no use for them, no way to exhibit them without being shipped to Area 51 and studied as a science project.
Beyond that, what was the point, ever, of being able to seize a little pocket of time and hold it in your hand?
* * *
Once Kerrick prepared for battle, he called Central and got a fold, a quick dematerialization, to the downtown Phoenix alley. The journey between lasted a rough second, maybe two, a dark ride through nether-space, a blanking-out then sudden hard awareness, a blinding rush of adrenaline followed by a blast of endorphins. To arrive was to be prepared … for anything.
Kerrick was one of the most powerful warriors on Second Earth. However, he had a flaw, which still chapped his hide. He couldn’t fold himself to another location. He had to get an assist every time from either Central or one of his warrior brothers, even Endelle on occasion.
As his feet hit asphalt, he dropped slowly into a crouch because there they were. His gaze followed the pale, blue-tinged creatures as they emerged laughing from the left T of the alley—death vampires.
God, they were beautiful, part of the lure to bring mortals within their grasp, within their thrall. They were the mythical yet very real creatures of darkness that hunted victims at night to hide the faint bluish cast to their skin. The undead. Oh, they breathed, their hearts beat, but the basic belief in right and wrong had long since been shoveled into the ground and eaten by worms. Any remnant of humanity had gotten buried in the addiction to dying blood, a hunger worse than heroin, nicotine, Jack Daniel’s, and meth all put together.
Kerrick stretched his preternatural vision and saw the blood smeared over thickened fangs, lips, cheeks, and chins, a red trophy of the hunt. Three of them. Where was the fourth?
The sun was barely set, still dusk, and these three bastards had no doubt just killed a mortal apiece. They were giddy, twirling in circles, shoving at each other like drunken buddies coming out of a bar at two in the morning. The alley, with chain link on one side and the ass-end of a worn-out strip center on the other, didn’t provide anonymity for the denizens of Second Earth, which meant these bastards didn’t give a fuck if they were seen.
Christ.
They were also in their most dangerous state. Power flowed through those veins right now, steroid-like, ripe with death. These vampires would be juiced and feeling no pain.
Good thing he was here. Only a handful of warriors were big enough, strong enough, fast enough to deal with these assholes, and he was one of them. Besides, more than any other night he could remember in a long time, he needed this fight. His muscles ached to move, to fly, and yes, to kill.
Something was on the wind. Something big. He could feel it.
He flexed his right arm, heavy with muscle and built up every day to support the weight of his sword. Using his mind, he folded the goddamn fine-looking forged metal into his hand from a secured weapons locker in the basement of his home. God, he loved the feel of it, the grip wrapped with leather to fit his fingers, the wicked weight, the balance. This was his sword, bonded only to him. The edges were as sharp as samurai steel, a double-edged carbon-steel blade meant for destruction.
His wing-locks began to thrum, preparing for battle, a vibration that went into his groin and tightened his balls. He wore flight gear, sturdy black sandals strapped all the way to the knees with shin guards, a thick black leather kilt, and a heavy studded harness, also black leather, buckled down at the waist, running straight up his chest, over his shoulders, and down his spine to allow for his wings. In the front a slot in the harness held a dagger at the exact angle necessary for his left reach. On each wrist he wore a studded black leather guard.
He withdrew the dagger now and started flipping the weapon end-over-end, catching the handle each time, setting the throw in rhythm to the slam of his adrenaline-soaked heart. He’d had his weapons a long time. They were his closest friends and he only traded them in for new ones when there just wasn’t much metal left to polish or sharpen.
A sword in his right hand. A razor-like dagger flipping in his left. Life got no better than this.
With a thought, he swelled the muscles of his back and his wings began to come, flying through the locks, an orgasm of movement that flooded his body with a surge of male strength. Pleasure whipped through his thighs down to his feet then upward through his groin, his abs, his shoulders and arms.
His wings unfurled, easing into their massive height, another reason he could fight
these bastards—Warriors of the Blood had god-like wings, fit for battle.
Good. Life was good.
His gaze hadn’t wavered a diamond cut from his prey. He could have lifted into the air, swooped, then severed each head before a second had passed. No, he wanted these night-feeders to pay for the lives they’d robbed, to know at least a moment of terror before their carbon-based DNA returned to Mother Earth, any dimension. As the Creator was his witness, he’d always make them pay.
A fourth death vamp came around the corner zipping his cargoes and grinning, his skin so pale and edged with blue that he looked translucent in the dim alley light.
One of the bastards caught sight of Kerrick and alerted the others. As a group they turned in his direction.
Game time.
He smiled as wings sprouted from each of the vamps, feathers all in black and none of the spans as large as his. Swords flashed into hands, folded from underground bunkers where the night-feeders lived during the day.
He created a powerful mist, which would keep what needed to happen well away from the eyes or ears of any nearby mortal. Mist, when present, worked on the mind to create confusion. The average mortal, or even ascender for that matter, would simply fail to register anything covered in mist.
He swept his wings in a single brisk downward thrust then shot straight up into the air to float about thirty feet above. He waited, wings wafting, heart calm, strong, steady, certain. He flipped his dagger again. Flip. Flip. Flip. Catch. The gentle touch of his fingers to the dagger hilt a deadly, lethal pressure ready for release. The forefinger of his right hand stroked the crossguard of his sword.
The charge came, two from the left, two from the right, rising into the air, a coordinated squadron complete with battle cries. He moved with his singular gift—speed. He became a blur and sliced in crisscross patterns until he severed a wing and a body fell. He caught one death vamp high on the torso and took the head as well as the shoulder and part of a wing.
Two on the ground.
Two to go.
The latter were more skilled, well trained, but he let loose the dagger and caught the left vamp in the throat. A spiral of wings ensued as the pretty-boy lost control. Meanwhile the remaining vamp, high on power from the drain, clanged steel. Kerrick’s arm reverberated from the shock, yet oh how good it felt. He allowed the vamp to show his skills as he met each flap of his adversary’s wings, thrust of feet, fall of his sword arm.
He drew the battle out, wanting the practice, wanting to sustain the chemicals now racing in his blood and feeding his brain with a whole lot of feel-good.
With a flurry the death vamp came at him, a roar in his throat. Kerrick caught his sword in an upswing, threw his arm in a circle in order to catch his opponent’s arm, then flipped the sword out of the death vamp’s grasp. The force of the blow and the sudden lack of sword weight sent his opponent flipping over twice before his wings caught air.
But it was too late.
Kerrick flew at him, drew his knees up, then planted both feet on the death vamp’s chest, thrusting him backward toward the ground. He drew his wings in close, all the way to half mount, following fast as he locked stares. His adversary’s wings slowed him but gravity pulled Kerrick in tight. He lifted his arms then plunged. His sword pierced his enemy’s abdomen just below the sternum. A cry filled the air.
Half a second before the pretty-boy hit the asphalt Kerrick spread his wings and eased the last few feet back to earth.
Breathing hard, he paused to draw in his wings swiftly through his wing-locks. Once he was settled, his muscles thinning to normal, he retrieved his dagger still stuck in the flesh of the second opponent. He wiped the blade, two swipes on the kilt. He folded the dagger, another quick dematerialization this time of steel, back to his weapons locker.
He finished the job quickly, severing the rest of those beautiful heads. Dying blood altered even the features, enabling every death vamp to lull the next mortal into a sense of awe and therefore safety before the fangs took the jugular. The skin, with its hint of blue, was … exquisite, especially at night—and that was exactly the point, to stun the victim with unnatural beauty.
He scouted the area for more sign of the enemy, but nothing returned to him except the distant rumble of a Harley engine. As he started to regain his breath, he folded his sword back to the locker.
He spread more mist far and wide, drew his phone from his pocket, then thumbed it once. He took another deep breath and stood upright. Sweat poured. He could smell the blood of his adversaries on his skin and on the leather of his weapons harness and kilt. Looking down, blood spattered even his sandals and bare toes.
“Central.”
“Hey, Jeannie,” he said, catching his breath. “Four to pick up. Make it quick.”
“It’s not even a quarter after six, barely dark.”
“No shit.”
She sighed. “I guess this is going to be one of those nights and it isn’t even a full moon. Okay. Locked on. Cover your peepers.” Kerrick closed his eyes. A flash of bright light took away the bodies, the debris, even the blood on the ground.
He made his way to the top of the alley and felt his chest tighten. This was the part of his job he loathed. Drained and dead mortals always gave him the shakes. The T of the alley dead-ended about fifty feet to his left. Decrepit apartments sat opposite in a low-slung row, bars across all the first-story windows.
He moved fast until he saw who had been chosen to feed the death vamps’ addiction and what had been done to them. Then his feet slowed as though he slogged through mud.
Only one adult among them. Christ. He’d had a whole lot of years to get used to the carnage, but this was off the rails.
He swallowed bile.
A mother lay at an awkward angle, drained, her back broken. Two young boys to her left, necks ravaged from the feeding. However, the worst was on her right, a young teenage girl with her small skirt pushed up around her waist and her legs split wide, her white thighs covered in blood. He fell to his knees, lifted his face and arms to the darkening sky, then let out a roar.
A familiar agony swamped his chest, a misery that lived in him now, dictating the progress of each night, tearing up his soul. He drew the girl’s legs together and pulled her skirt down. “You have been avenged,” he whispered. “May your journey to the arms of the Creator be swift, and may you know peace.”
Peace.
What would that be like? He never slept through the night. None of the warriors did. He awoke to terrible images, and these would likely torture him more than once in the coming weeks.
He withdrew his phone again, thumbed, ordered the uptake. He closed his eyes and saw the flash of light.
Once the job was done, he spoke into his phone. “Jeannie, fold me back to the basement. Now.”
“You got it.”
He felt the vibration.
Once in his dwelling, in the dark cavernous room below his house, he dropped prone to the cement floor then stretched his arms straight out. He had no outlet for the pain he felt, for the fury. All he could do was this: take a moment to grieve, then reaffirm his vows of continual vengeance, of living his solitary existence, of devoted service to Endelle as a Guardian of Ascension.
Why take a vow,
When all vows are broken?
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
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.
