by Caris Roane
Marcus didn’t wait. He felt like twelve kinds of shit. Thorne was right. He shouldn’t have left all those decades ago, yet if he’d stayed, he would have killed Kerrick. Those weren’t just words he’d said. The fury he had experienced when his sister and her kids died had demanded only one outlet—Kerrick’s blood—so he had left, without a word, without a good-bye to any of his brothers, only a message via Jeannie that he had exiled himself to Mortal Earth. The only conversation he’d had was with Endelle, a promise that if she ever truly needed him he’d come back—though only once, as a favor. So here the fuck he was and he hated every goddamn minute of it.
He dematerialized into the foyer of Thorne’s house, his shirt still pressed to his nose. He felt cool Mexican tile under his bare feet. The house had a warm feel and one helluva view of the Sedona cliffs, the massive two-thousand-foot Mogollon Rim.
So this was where Thorne had chosen to build his home. The colors were desert shades—sand, terra-cotta, a deep turquoise, purple, representative of the land, of the dusty sunsets, of a sun-drenched world, a dry world, the opposite of Marcus’s wet, cold Pacific Northwest environment. The change was oddly … soothing.
He waited where he was. His nose still bled freely and hurt like a bitch. His shirt wouldn’t do the job much longer. He needed Horace’s healing power before he took one more step into the house. So he’d stay put.
The rooms radiated off the entry in several directions, a sprawling maze ending in glass walls, which let in all that Arizona light. Doorways were arched from room to room and the texture had a hand-troweled look. Still, the place had a weird feel, an empty feel, even though the pillows on the various sofas and chairs were crushed like they’d been well used.
“Huh.”
He recognized the weird feel. It was just like his primary residence on Bainbridge Island. Well designed, architecturally pleasing, and goddamn solitary.
Shit. Didn’t that define them all? A bunch of lonely fighting bastards. He may not have brandished sword and dagger for the last twenty decades, but he’d run his corporations with same single-minded zeal, never leaving a single minute open for living a normal life.
Learning occurs,
When the body remembers.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 15
“I think this is ridiculous,” Alison cried. “I’m not a warrior. I don’t know the first thing about fighting and why would I need to be trained to battle?” She felt stuck inside a nightmare, unable to get out. Wasn’t it bad enough she’d already been hunted by a regiment in Carefree, then wounded? “Talk to me, Kerrick.”
The man in front of her, the warrior, now a stranger, merely dropped into a crouch position and stared at her abdomen. She felt the airwaves shift and knew he meant to attack. A jolt of adrenaline sent her flying into the air. She levitated swiftly as far as she could then held the position, spread-eagled, her back pressed into the long branches that covered the vaulted ceiling.
“Good,” he stated. “Anticipation is everything.”
“Did you hear what I said? I’m not a warrior! Stop this!”
He shook his head, lowered his chin, then launched toward her. She folded to the family room beside the sliding glass doors. She had never felt so out of control. Her mind raced, trying to find purchase, and her legs trembled.
Oh, God, what if she hurt him?
Her heart started pounding as he attacked again. His six-six powerhouse of a body blurred toward her and just as he would have struck her in the chest, she shot away from him.
“Good” was all he said, the word brusque, clipped, cruel.
Alison’s throat ached from holding back a flood of tears. Her ears pounded with each quick powerful beat of her heart.
She didn’t even have time to think as he charged again.
And again.
And again until each breath she took wheezed in and out of her lungs like an air compressor heading south.
He finally stopped in front of her. Sweat poured from his body, his green eyes pinched, determined. His fangs had emerged. “Good,” again, was all he said.
He put both his hands on her arms. She had thought he meant to comfort her. Instead she felt healing warmth invade her muscles. So I can continue learning how to fight.
“I’m not a warrior,” she whispered. Tears tracked down her cheeks. He ignored her pleas. He gave her Gatorade, fed her carb bars. He still would not speak to her.
When she reached out to his mind, wanting to help him feel what she was going through, red streams of rage flowed back at her.
She drew in a quick breath and pulled back, shocked. He seemed so in control. Instead his emotions were off the charts, his anger condensed into hard filaments that pulsed crimson. He was simply too angry to speak, certainly not in a frame of mind to either console or explain. It eased her to know how much he despised what he had to do.
He repeated the process of attack until she simply dropped to her knees gasping for air. Sweat now trailed off her face and splashed onto the tile. Her T-shirt stuck to her ribs. She couldn’t remember sweating this much, not even in the gym.
Of all the ways she had imagined the evening progressing, playing attack-the-ascendiate was not one of them. If anything, she had hoped … against hope, it would seem … he would have taken her to bed. Instead he started Warrior Training 101. Great.
“Can you tell me now why you were ordered to do this?” she cried between deep inhales and exhales.
“Doesn’t matter,” he responded.
“The hell it doesn’t. This is my life. Talk to me.” She struggled to her feet and moved to the island. He wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Maybe so you can protect yourself. I don’t know. Drink. Eat.” He thrust Gatorade into her hand again, his voice as hard as flint. “We’re done with the first part.” He folded a box into his hands. “I’ve got your sword. You’ll need to create the identification. Just take the handle and hold on. Whatever you do, don’t let go.” He thrust the box toward her, the polished steel glinting in the light.
“Fuck you,” she cried.
Only then did he meet her gaze. His green eyes calmed down, but a deep sorrow shuttered over his irises, so deep Alison gasped. Oh, shit. She saw her death in his eyes. He believed she would die, that she would not make it through. So basically, she got one day of ascended life? One day?
She didn’t take the box. She turned away from him and chewed on what now tasted like sawdust instead of a bar of sticky-sweet granola. She swallowed, but it was hard pushing food past the lump in her throat. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”
Silence returned.
She put her hand on her forehead and let the tears fall again. She heard the box drop onto the island. She felt his hands on her arms. “You’re doing just fine. The problem is time, not your skills. You’ve got some of the finest instincts and reactions I’ve seen in decades. Endelle didn’t tell Thorne the why of it, but it can’t be good and I have only hours to train you, not months. I don’t mean to be a bastard. However, this is my job, and I feel way too much for you to do anything but keep my distance. And … I’m just a little pissed off about it.”
“Yes, I know.” She wiped at her face. “And there’s nothing I can do to change the order?”
“No. Not a damn thing.”
When she looked up at him, a deep frown furrowed his brow. “What is it?” she asked.
“Training this way just isn’t going to cut it and you have one huge advantage over other ascendiates. You match me in power, which means I want to try something with you, something that might just work.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I can train you with my mind.”
He moved to stand directly in front of her and took her face in his hands. His green eyes beckoned, an intense expression as he stared at her.
How strong is your mind? he asked, his words a powerful question within her head. He narrowed his eyes. She felt pressure now, d
eep within her mind, a familiar frightening sensation.
She tried to pull away but he wouldn’t let her.
Answer me.
I’m afraid to, she responded, blinking. Her heart constricted. What he was doing reminded her of the experience at the medical complex when he’d taken her memories. She wanted to tear herself away from him, to fight him, or better yet, to run away.
Listen to me, he sent firmly. I have one goal here, to get you through this. You have no idea what you’re up against. I do. And there’s only one way to get this job done. It will hurt at first, this kind of mental joining, but if you let go, flow with it, you’ll be okay.
I’m scared. Understatement.
He searched her eyes. You fear losing control. I get that. You’ve lived as I’ve lived, independent, taking care of business all by yourself, isolated. You had control. Right now, however, you’re going to have to let go and frankly, I don’t give a damn what you want. This is the only way. His expression softened and he smiled, a small crooked curve off to the side of his mouth. Do you trust me?
Dammit, he was so not playing fair because there was only one answer. “Yes,” she muttered aloud, her jaw bobbing in his hands.
His smile broadened. He leaned forward and kissed her firmly on the lips. He nodded. Then trust me now and try to relax.
Once more, she nodded in his hands.
Good. Ready?
She took a deep breath. Yes.
Suddenly his thoughts penetrated her swiftly and it hurt, like the hard bite of a wasp sting. He sent sensory images, one after the other rapid-fire, of several of his most recent battles.
Alison wanted to scream. The images afflicted her as though a series of knives whipped through her head.
Let go came as a sharp command between frames.
But she held on tight and the knives sliced her up worse than ever, worse than when he’d tried to strip her memories.
Dammit, Alison, don’t be stubborn. Let go!
Alison had no choice or she would pass out. She relaxed her mind and in a split second the pain slid away like water in a dam released in a rush. Thank you, God!
A new sensation took over. She felt as though she had become Kerrick as he fought death vampires one after another. She was in his skin, wielding his sword, throwing his dagger. She could feel his wings move at his command, propelling him through the air in pursuit of the enemy.
Deep within the fibers of her muscles, she experienced exactly what he felt when he fought, the flex of his biceps, of his calf muscles, the way his knees bent and moved, the shift of rib cage, thrust of arm, the absolute ballet quality of his movements. She saw through his eyes. A battle edge skipped through her blood. Excitement pounded in her heart.
She began to know when his movements would quicken and when his legs would retreat, when he would raise his sword-arm, when he would strike, and when he would shield a powerful blow. When he would mount his wings and fly into the air. When he would stay the thrumming of his wing-locks to remain close to the earth. She felt the leather of his kilt slap at his legs, the pull of his T-shirt when he fought in cargoes and steel-toed boots. Every strike of an enemy’s sword against his sword now sent vibrations up her arm.
A few minutes more and he began to pull out of her mind, not in a rush but in a long, slow glide that reminded her of stretching pizza dough. One last tug, and he freed himself. Again, how bereft she felt, just like before, on the granite island when he left her mind. She put a hand first to her chest, then to her head.
Her body felt rubbery, disoriented as though some of her muscles pulled two ways at once. Of course. Since she now possessed his muscle memory alongside her own.
She set her feet apart and slung her left arm behind her back.
He looked her up and down, nodded his approval. “A warrior’s stance.”
Some of the images flickered up to her conscious mind. There he was standing before a woman with black hair and a dress made up of some kind of spotted animal skin, a beautiful woman who looked Arabic and exotic.
She knew the woman was Endelle, the leader of Second, even though her name wasn’t spoken. She knew because he knew. Endelle appeared angry, her enormous wings all the way to the ceiling but drawn back aggressively. The words came from her mouth, “Don’t you dare take that fucking tone with me, Warrior, or I’ll have your wings—literally—feather by feather.”
“Okaaay,” she murmured, shutting the memory down. She was so out of her depth.
“You’ll need your weapon now.” He held the box bearing what would become her personal sword, her identified sword.
She took the box from him and looked down at a really beautiful weapon resting on a bed of dark green velvet. The steel glimmered beneath the recessed lights high in the vaulted twigged ceiling overhead.
“Carbon steel, extremely sharp. You’ll need some instruction on the care of it.”
She looked up at him. “How exactly does this work? You said the sword accepts an identity and then that’s it, the sword is mine, only mine.”
He nodded. “Once properly identified, no one on Second or Mortal Earth can touch any part of the sword without dying.”
She nodded. “So how do I do this?”
“Take the handle in a tight grip and the identification process will complete itself. Just maintain contact steadily for a few seconds. You’ll know.”
She shifted the weight of the box to one hand, holding it firmly beneath. She reached for the handle but hesitated. She was taking another step on her path to a new life, a new world, literally a new dimension.
Oh, God.
* * *
“I’m still pissed at you,” Medichi said.
Marcus sat on the curb near the downtown Borderland, his kilt slung between his legs, sweat dripping with blood from different parts of his body. He looked up at his fellow warrior. “Who the fuck cares?”
Medichi stood on the sidewalk as cars on Mortal Earth whizzed by. He looked like a god from the Roman pantheon, all six-seven of him, lit by the overhead streetlight. His hair was long, black, and straight, and he wore it pulled back slick and bound up tight in his cadroen. He had pronounced cheekbones and a strong jaw. He was powerful, lean, a warrior with dark secrets. No one messed with Medichi.
He wiped down his bloodied sword with a clean, soft white cloth. He didn’t seem to notice the traffic and of course no one could see either of them. Marcus had misted the area, a gossamer cloud that none of the mortals would be able to see. The presence of the mist would simply create a confusion of mind.
“So, Medichi, you still keeping your wings a secret?”
“Fuck off.” Nobody knew the why of Medichi’s refusal to mount his wings. No one. In fact, no one, to Marcus’s knowledge, had ever even seen his wings.
Medichi asked, “You still planning on running back to Mortal Earth with your tail between your legs?”
Marcus took the jibe in stride. You did that when the other vampire had saved your ass about a dozen times over the last two nights.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, which caused a cut above his left eyebrow to sting like hell. Their most recent engagement, which involved snapping an enemy’s wing, had sent quills scraping him raw. Central had just done a cleanup on eleven death vamps. “You know why I had to leave. It wasn’t exactly a secret.”
Medichi peered at his sword and rubbed back and forth in a quick motion. Blood trickled from a slice on the back of his thigh and ran down the back of his knee, into the calf straps of his shin guards. He didn’t seem to notice. His scowl sat heavy on his brow. “I never believed you’d actually hurt Kerrick.”
“Everyone thinks they were just words,” he said quietly. “But I would have killed him and my sentiments on the subject haven’t changed. Endelle’s been smart to keep us separated like this.”
“Your beef with him is two centuries old. You need to get over yourself.” He didn’t add the usual asshole tag. A few hours of fighting a common enemy would also do
that to a couple of warriors. They weren’t exactly buddies, though some of the I-want-to-cut-your-liver-out had left Medichi’s dark brown gaze.
Marcus scanned the area, from the burned-out smears of old gum on the sidewalk, to the litter in the gutter, the car across the street with a smashed-in fender. “Helena was the last of my family and I begged Kerrick not to marry her. I begged him for months. I begged her as well, much good it did.”
“She loved him,” Medichi said, his tone deep, resonant, dark. “What else mattered?”
Marcus gathered a wad of saliva in his mouth then spit. “Well, aren’t you the fucking romantic.”
“Time to move on.”
Marcus gained his feet. “I did move on. I said to hell with this world and returned to Mortal Earth. I like it there … I mean here.” He swept an arm to encompass the downtown cross street and alley. “I’m only fighting because I promised Endelle one favor. After this gig is up, you won’t see me again … ever.”
Medichi nodded. “I know.” His eyes had gotten old in the past two hundred years even if his body had remained exactly as Marcus remembered.
Medichi’s gaze scanned the area. “You make fucking great mist and you fight like hell.” His jaw tensed, relaxed. “I would have died here tonight if it weren’t for you.” He nodded several more times.
“You gonna get soft on me and offer up a thank-you?”
Medichi turned his head slowly. His lips curved. “I’ll offer a fuck you.”
“Accepted.” Marcus looked away. “How soon before we have company again?”
