by Caris Roane
“Any time now. For the past few months they’ve been coming in waves, not like before when you were here and we sometimes had hours until another squad showed up.” His head wagged. “I remember when we had time to take care of some business at the Blood and Bite. Not anymore. We’ll be busy just like last night … all night.”
Marcus drew in deep breaths. He could feel the air start to ice up. His wing-locks responded with a dedicated thrum. He stepped away from Medichi, not wanting to injure him. During a wing-mount, anyone too close could get knocked flat.
Medichi’s chest swelled. “They’re coming.”
Marcus looked up at the night sky. “Floating down on the Commander’s breath.”
“Three of his generals can perform the trick as well.”
“Shit.”
“You got it.”
The air turned icy cold. Marcus folded his sword into his hand. Medichi dropped the now bloody cloth, letting it fall to the asphalt. He whipped the dagger from the slot in his front harness.
Eleven so far.
Jesus H. Christ.
And now another squad … or more.
Marcus felt his wing-locks twitch all down his back. He took two more deep breaths and mounted his wings. Three times now, in one night. Goddamn, that felt good. His wings, light brown with bands of light green, expanded in a vast sweep over his head. His abs tightened as the death vamps dropped out of the sky.
“We need you, Marcus. Thorne will never say it but I will. We need you to come back.”
“Never gonna happen.” The air had dipped to arctic levels, and he shivered.
“Huh,” Medichi muttered.
“What?”
“That green banding on your wings. Same color as Havily’s eyes.”
Shit. Marcus really didn’t want an excuse to think of Havily … and now every time he popped his wings, dammit, he’d think of her.
Great. Just great.
He focused his attention on the pretty-boys. This group had a Latin look, brown skin, dark eyes, black hair, and so good-looking that for just a moment Marcus forgot why he had a sword in hand. “So goddamn beautiful,” he muttered.
“They all look alike to me,” Medichi said, laughing. “Hey, Marcus … you sure have one helluva pair on you. Wings, I mean.”
Marcus didn’t want to laugh, but he did. “Bastard,” he muttered. He held his sword straight up, both hands on the leather-wrapped handle, his gaze glued to the, yeah, two squads, eight death vamps, all winged up and flying in their direction. “Come on, motherfuckers. Don’t be shy.”
One second more and he launched into the air.
* * *
Alison couldn’t stop smiling. She had been working the sword in large, now familiar arcs and she was still surprised by how it felt. She paused, holding the sword upright in both hands. Even after several minutes small jolts of lightning still swept over her fingers and rippled up her hands and arms. How magical it felt. A rush of pleasure kept swirling through her head.
The sword was hers, 100 percent. She could feel it. She had the weirdest sensation of both ownership and belonging and she loved it. Home. The sword felt like home, which hardly made any sense at all.
She glanced at Kerrick. For the entire duration of her sword love-fest, he’d been pushing furniture to the edges of every room in the house. Right now he was corralling one of the warrior-sized leather chairs in the direction of the far wall near a massive fireplace built of stone.
This is so strange, she sent.
He gave the chair a final shove and it banged against the wall. He turned to look at her. “Third technology. One of the few gifts we’ve received from our next highest earth. More like a bond than ownership, right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
She started swinging her sword again, slashing, moving, twirling. She felt Kerrick’s learned experience in the muscles of her legs and arms, shoulders and back. Even her wrist moved differently and the sword made sense in her hand, an old friend.
“Jesus,” she murmured. She turned once more to meet his gaze. “This is like some kind of miracle.”
He was done moving furniture and stood in front of her. “You’ve got the right grip on your weapon and your stance is perfect.”
She nodded. Her mind still felt a little loose, like it had been stretched to great lengths and was finding its way back into itself. However, when he folded his sword into his hand, she felt a thrill roll through her, a warrior’s thrill. Holy hell. A smile pulled at her lips and cheeks. A smile? Goddamn, she wanted to fight and now she had a new vocabulary.
All down both sides of her back, angling in a wide V-formation, she felt a tingling sensation. Wing-locks?
What a rush.
She didn’t have them yet, of course. Kerrick said given her level of power she might develop wings before the first year was out. Right now, she did feel their presence, their beginning, and it was a rush. If she ascended, she would grow fangs and wings. Of course, that was one thought too many, and she weaved on her feet.
Better to focus right now on just the sword, just learning to fight for who-knows-what-reason.
When he narrowed his eyes and dropped his shoulders, her biceps flexed as though understanding exactly what he meant by those simple physical signs. She brought the sword in front of her and held it with both hands, fully upright. She felt a need to growl, which was ridiculous but then in this moment she was more warrior than therapist, more Kerrick in muscle memory than Alison.
He nodded in approval but his chin dipped and his eyes took on that fierce cut-emerald appearance, entirely without compassion.
He came at her, a blur of preternatural speed. She folded behind him, he whirled, she engaged. Engaged. Her arm rang with deadly vibrations as the steel of his sword met hers. Her muscles bunched and jerked with a wild thrill.
She no longer thought, she anticipated. Every technique Kerrick possessed now flowed into her mind, became part of her. The sword was a mere extension of response and reaction, which translated rhythmically into attack.
The Queen Creek house filled with shared grunts, a deafening sound of clashing heavy steel, and the smell of two bodies full of sweat and aggression.
The Matrix came to mind.
What a tremendous gift he had given her. Something eased inside and she sent him a mental message. Kerrick, cease!
He drew back, his sword at the ready, which he quickly lowered as soon as he saw her blade drop at an unprotected angle toward the floor. “I have a chance now, don’t I? Say it. I need to hear you say it.”
His sword disappeared. He closed the distance between them, shoved her sword-arm away from him, and drew her into a tight embrace. She felt the shudder flow through him, a rippling that began in his arms and shoulders, then passed through the heavy muscles of his pecs, his abdomen, even his massive thighs. “Thank God,” he murmured against her ear.
She folded her sword to the far corner of the guest room and held him tight. Only then did she understand how completely hopeless he had felt about her plight. Tears burned her eyes as she nestled her drenched face against his cardamom wet shoulder.
After barely a minute, however, Alison stepped away from him, her mind caught up in her new reality. She folded her sword back into her hand then swiped the blade twice through the air. “The Commander has plans for me, then Endelle ordered you to train me, but for what kind of engagement is unclear?”
“Exactly.”
“So this isn’t just about being able to defend myself if, say, another regiment of death vampires would happen to show up at your front door?”
He shook his head. “I doubt it,” he responded.
Okay. She really didn’t want to consider just what Darian had in mind for her. If she did, she’d go crazy.
For the next quarter hour, he worked her hard until she was once more gasping for breath and her muscles were screaming. She folded her sword to safety.
He brought her another Gatorade. She took it, unseeing. Sh
e drank. He massaged her arms and shoulders and healed her muscles to the extent he could. She ached, though not nearly so badly as she would have without his help. She consumed another carb bar.
The next session involved even greater speed. In the beginning, she struggled. A few minutes later, she got the hang of countering his speed, moving swiftly, folding swiftly, and anticipating the swings and thrusts of his sword until she met him blow for blow.
She wasn’t, however, used to the physical demands of battle. She grew weary as he forced her backward down the hall in the direction of the guest room.
She decided to try something. She threw a blast at him with a flick of her wrist. He returned the blast in even greater force and she barely got out of the way as she rolled into the guest room. Unfortunately she tripped, stumbled, and fell on her arm. She barely missed cutting her leg with her sword.
“Ow,” she shrieked.
Of all the ways she might have been hurt while training with a sword in her hand, spraining her wrist seemed the most ridiculous. At the same time, she knew Kerrick wouldn’t stop, especially not when she was at her weakest.
She felt his attacking airwaves and used all her power to set up a field. She didn’t even know what that was, but she saw it in her mind and erected it. When she looked up, all six feet six of him, all tough muscled dips and swells of her warrior teacher, lay suspended in the air above her.
Suddenly he smiled. The room was dark so all she saw was the glittering of his teeth and the flash of his eyes, but he was smiling.
She felt his sweat as it dripped through the field onto her chest.
I fell on my wrist, she sent, laughing. Can you believe it? She folded her sword back to the corner of the room out of harm’s way.
She gently released him. He dropped off to the side of her and rolled onto his back.
“This is so awesome,” he cried. He folded his sword away as well and crossed his wrists over his forehead.
She sat up. Her T-shirt and pants were completely soaked and every muscle in her body hurt. She twisted at the waist to look down at him. She took a deep breath before asking, “Why did you say that?” She rubbed her wrist.
“In all the decades I’ve trained warriors I’ve never had one capable of creating a field.” He glanced at her. “You can use that. If you have to battle death vamps, you can use a fucking field.”
The act of love,
Swallows all pain.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 16
Still on his back, Kerrick said, “Now lie down and give me your wrist.”
Alison stretched out beside him and held her left arm out. Where her damp skin touched the carpet, she itched.
Still on his back, he massaged the muscles and ligaments, working his thumbs over her skin. Warm healing flowed through her wrist. She sighed as the pain subsided.
When he was done she rolled to face him, reclining her head on her arm. The room was dark. Somewhere in all the training, night had fallen. With just a thought, she turned on the bedside lamps.
Kerrick shifted onto his side toward her as well but leaned up on his elbow. His long black hair hung in damp strands, but he looked hot as hell. He brought a dry cloth into his hand then wiped her cheeks and her forehead.
How normal this all felt—I turned on the lights with a thought and he folded objects into his hand from other parts of the house.
“What am I doing here?”
“You’re staying alive. Same thing you’ve been doing on Mortal Earth. It’s just a little harder now, at least for a time.” He mopped his own face. “That was pretty great, you know.” He lowered his chin as he met her gaze. A smile eased over his lips. “I launched myself at you and then I was just lying in midair. I think you’re amazing. Just amazing.”
Alison looked into intense green eyes. Heat climbed her cheeks. She smiled.
So, he thought she was amazing. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Her parents had always been kind and supportive. But they had never said she was amazing—how could they when they were so busy being worried about her all the time?
Solitude, even loneliness, had made up her life until this moment. She didn’t want to overlay this time with Kerrick with too much meaning, but she fit in this world, in his world. For the first time in her life, her strange abilities made sense to her.
He even taught her to battle with a sword by streaming his memories because she was powerful enough to receive the information from him.
“Amazing, huh?” she responded. She extended her hand toward him and with the backs of her fingers touched his cheek.
He drew in a quick breath. “With a capital A.” As his cardamom scent once more rolled in a powerful wave over her, he frowned and shook his head. “We should get back to work.” His deep voice sounded rough, even hoarse.
He started to get up. Alison quickly slid an arm around his neck. “Stay just a second.” She leaned up on her elbow now, and her arm tingled where it lay over the thick muscles of his shoulder. “I just want you to know that I’m really grateful you’re here with me, that you’re training me and taking care of me. Thank you.” She rose up a little more and planted a kiss on his lips then drew back, but only an inch or so. She kept breathing in his wonderful scent.
His gaze dropped to her lips. “We should keep working,” he muttered, more quietly this time. “We really should.”
She leaned in again and drifted her lips over his cheek. She licked his salty sweat. He growled softly. More cardamom broke over her senses. She closed her eyes and moved back to his lips. She kissed him again, her tongue rimming his lips. Her hand drifted over his powerful pecs. Her fingertips tingled this time even through his soft, damp T-shirt. His chest rose and fell rapidly. As she worked his lips, she sent, You took care of me. Now how about we take good care of you.
A heavy growl left his throat. Even so, he drew back and looked down at her. “This isn’t a good idea for so many reasons.”
“Then stop with the spice.”
He closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath. “Lavender,” he murmured.
* * *
Kerrick tried to shut down his olfactory system but all the hard training of the past several hours had every part of his body humming. His nostrils flared and he drank in Alison’s heady scent like he was dying of thirst. His groin ached. No, it burned.
Her hand climbed his chest, drifted up his throat, then slid over his cheek.
He turned and caught a finger in his mouth. He suckled the lavender flavor off her skin. The moans, which drifted toward him, carried on her equally lavender-scented breath, brought him shifting toward her. She drew the finger out of his mouth, and the sensual slide made him hard as a rock.
He slid his hand up her arm. “You work out,” he said. He arched his body over her. He could feel a possessive need building in him. He should stop this right now. He should take every second possible just to train her.
Still, he didn’t move except to rub his hand up and down her arm.
“Yes. Every day because when I don’t, I go crazy.”
“I know what you mean.”
He thought of his basement, of the tight isolated nature of his life on Second, of how he punished his muscles every afternoon just for a little relief. He pushed her thick, damp blond hair away from her face.
The battle training had pinked up her complexion and turned her lips a dark rose. Or maybe it was because she’d just been kissing him. Her blue eyes gazed at him as though she didn’t believe he was real.
She slid her fingers into his damp hair. She didn’t seem to mind he was slick with sweat. She rolled ever so slightly onto her back and tugged at the back of his neck, drawing him in her direction.
The invitation did him in.
He followed as though connected to her by a short heavy leading rope. He slung a leg over her hips. He planted a hand on the floor beside her head. God, she was beneath him, just where he’d wanted her fr
om the moment he first caught her scent, the moment at the medical complex when she had folded in front of him.
Her lips parted.
Now would be the time to pull back, to remember the futility of what he was doing, but what harm could there be if he got inside her? Sex alone wouldn’t complete the breh-hedden.
She leaned up and caught his lips, her tongue dipping inside. The kiss settled everything.
He crashed down on her hard, kissing her fiercely, letting the roar of the breh-hedden flood his veins.
He lost track of his actions. He stripped her shirt and pants off her then kissed her, or maybe it was the other way around. He got rid of her bra, somehow, although it involved a lot of giggling on her part. He palmed her breasts yet managed to work himself out of his jeans. He groaned as she stroked the length of his cock.
Things evened out when she was perfectly naked and his clothes were piled … somewhere. The full wet length of her body, her fingers intertwined with both his hands, her legs spread and wrapped around his hips, his cock poised at her core came into sharp erotic focus.
He kissed her again and began to push inside. She let out one long deep moan and stroked him with tight internal muscles. He groaned and dammit, almost came. He’d been so ready for this from the second her trail of lavender had assaulted him, all those painful hours ago at the medical complex. Too ready. He suckled her neck and rubbed the thick base of his fangs over her skin, avoiding puncture at the tips.
“Hey,” she murmured hoarsely, panting. “If you snack on me while we’re doing this and you’ve already been in my head, won’t that cause a big problem—you know the breh thing you talked about?”
“We’re good,” he said, struggling to breathe. “It all has to happen at the same time. Separate events don’t count. But don’t worry.” He pushed at her neck with the sides of his fangs. “I won’t be drinking your blood.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will in a minute.” He thrust into her hard.
She arched against him. She threw her head back, moaned, and cried out, “You’re so perfect. Oh, God. And you’re sure I won’t hurt you if we’re joined like this?”
