by Caris Roane
Warrior Marcus—and surely he didn’t deserve the appellation warrior—knew little of selflessness. He had only aided the warriors by order of the Supreme High Administrator.
No. Warrior Marcus was not worth even one thought, let alone the thousand she had spent on him since she had first caught his fennel scent at the Cave.
Now he was gone. He’d returned to Mortal Earth for good.
Tears fell from her eyes, soft streams of incomprehension.
“I’ve made you cry,” Alison wailed, her sobs coming harder.
Maybe weeping was infectious. The trouble was, Havily didn’t understand the source of her anguish except she kept remembering Marcus, weighed down by Luken’s mountain of a warrior body, his arms shaking as he crawled toward her, trying to get to her. He kept calling out, Havily, I’m coming. I’ll protect you.
The tears flowed faster, harder.
Marcus had left late that night, after Horace had healed him, after he had begged the warriors to forgive him for his unconscionable behavior. He hadn’t even come to see her, not even to apologize … although, she hadn’t wanted, expected, or needed an apology because she had been an oh-so-willing participant in his I-must-have-you-now assault.
She folded more tissues from the bathroom. She handed over a little stack but kept a similar thick wad for herself. She blew her nose.
When Marcus had pinned her against the wall, she hadn’t been frightened, not in the least. Surprised, maybe. Hungry for him … oh, God, yes, so hungry.
Maybe she’d been celibate too long. After all, she hadn’t looked at another man, hadn’t been remotely interested, in fifteen years. Her mission had consumed her waking hours. The belief she could make a difference in the war through administrative restructuring had replaced romantic love, had become her raison d’être, her purpose, her lifeblood. She didn’t need love. She didn’t want love. Truly.
Then Marcus had come and in three days, he had shattered the simplicity of her life and all because she wanted him. She wanted him with a ferocity that now commanded even her dreams.
So she wept.
* * *
Kerrick reclined in his hospital bed. He detested being stuck in the sterile environment because it spoke of weakness and vulnerability, two things a warrior could never be. Worse, he’d had time to think.
His abdomen still caused him tremendous pain even though surgery as well as Horace’s help had speeded up what on Mortal Earth would have been months of recovery and a plethora of scarring. Ascended vampire healing would allow him to leave the hospital in three or four more days almost good as new.
He lifted his left hand carefully and shoved it through his long loose hair. He took a careful breath. Damn. Even breathing caused him trouble. He had never been wounded like this before.
Alison had been with him every day. Her presence had been necessary, even critical for his recovery. This morning, however, he’d awakened with new thoughts, horrifying thoughts, the revisiting of past tragedies, of deep painful regrets, deeds he still wished undone.
Former wives came to mind, former children. He hurt all over again as though life had just strapped a band around his chest and kept tightening it as the hours progressed.
As for Alison, his thoughts weren’t focused on the mistake she had made, on the hand-blast she had sent that had almost cost him his life. No, when he thought back to her celebration, all he could recall was the terrible sensation of battling in full-mount with his breh at his back and knowing how one wrong slip of his sword would take her life, that if he didn’t make every right move, if he took one wrong step to the right or to the left while battling the death vamps, she would be struck down and most likely killed.
He didn’t blame Alison for what happened after that. He knew who to blame, that bastard who had styled himself the Commander simply because he wished it so.
As attacks went, this one had been damn clever. Greaves had fed Alison a vision and she’d bought it. Clearly his intention hadn’t been to harm her but to use her, which once more forced the issue of proximity. Since she was ascended and had completed her rite, she was now safe from direct attack, but not from collateral damage should she remain connected to him or to any of the Warriors of the Blood.
The oh-so-logical conclusion barreled down on him
Ever since COPASS had been created and the rule of law was established over the ongoing conflict between Endelle and Greaves, no ascendiate, however powerful, had been attacked after an ascension ceremony. So this attack hadn’t been about Alison. She’d merely been the tool Greaves had chosen to use to once more take up arms against the Warriors of the Blood.
What had he been thinking? The truth was, his thoughts had been selfish, focused on his pleasure, his need for Alison, his desire for her. Bottom line? He’d been keeping himself in a powerful state of denial about his current position as a Warrior of the Blood.
And now they were having a daughter.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The near-fatal accident, Alison’s hand-blast to his chest, had become a huge awakening to the folly he had almost committed with her.
He’d been living in a dream, pretending Second Earth was something other than what it was, as though his life as a warrior, his place of service, wasn’t the difficult dangerous task it was.
Yes, being in the hospital, bedridden so his internal organs could continue repairing at light speed, had given him time to think, to plan, and that plan didn’t include Alison being anywhere near him.
There was only one reason he didn’t embrace the idea fully—the thought of living without her plunged a knife straight through his heart. How was he to live in a world in which he couldn’t be with her, touch her, possess the well of her body?
From this point forward, however, her safety, as well as the safety of their child, could be the only consideration. And they would never be safe near him.
A knock on the door, then Alison entered his room. She wore a light green silk blouse. She had worn something similar the evening he had first met her at the medical complex and, yeah, her hair was bound up again, wrapped into that tight twist. How long ago was that? Years ago …
She looked so beautiful yet so sad. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose looked a little swollen. The pressure on his chest increased incrementally with each step she took toward him.
“Hi,” she said, her voice little more than a breathy whisper. She drew close, leaned over him, and kissed him … on the forehead.
He shifted his head and met her gaze. Dammit, she had tears swimming over her blue, gold-rimmed eyes. “What’s wrong? The baby okay?”
She touched her abdomen. “Baby’s fine.”
He released a sigh. “Good. That’s good.”
She drew a chair forward, close to the bed, as was her habit. She sat down and took hold of his right hand. Tears now pelted her cheeks. She kept wiping them away with her free hand but more followed.
“Alison, what’s wrong?” He thought he knew. Well, they were like-minded. He knew her mind. She knew his. Yeah, he knew.
She lifted her gaze to his. “We can’t do this, can we?”
So she’d reached the same damn conclusion. He shook his head back and forth, back and forth. His throat tightened. “I don’t see how.”
She nodded and a sob escaped her as she put her forehead on the back of his hand.
“Don’t cry.” Stupid words, especially since his eyes burned and his jaw cramped.
He let her be and worked hard to unknot his throat. After a while, she rose and plucked several of the very thin hospital tissues from the box by his bed then blew her nose. Even with her eyes leaking and a cloud of tissue pressed to her face she looked so damn beautiful.
Once recovered, she said, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should go somewhere else, not stay here in Phoenix, maybe live in a different city.”
“Another city?”
She turned toward him and huffed a breath. “Just how easy do you think it
would be to stay apart if we lived in the same place?”
He looked away from her. “It would be impossible. But where would you go?” Would he ever get to see his daughter? If so, how often? How the hell could this work? Yet he knew she was right. From this point forward, he was the real danger to their safety, just as he had been to Helena.
Still, the thought of Alison anywhere but next to him made his biceps crunch into boulders. His instincts where she was concerned were alive, painfully so.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” a hard feminine voice bellowed into the room. “Another city, Alison? Don’t be a saphead.”
Kerrick turned toward the door. Endelle materialized wearing a very strange cape made of peacock feathers and a short spotted hide dress. Add a few strands of beads and she would have looked as though she’d just returned from Mardi Gras. Christ.
She waved a sheaf of papers in the air. “Alison, you are to report to the Militia Warrior Training Camps, Female Division. Your CO will expect you tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp. All the information is here.”
“What?” Alison cried.
“She’s not a warrior!” Kerrick shouted. He had moved, jerking forward, but oh dear God that was so the wrong thing to do given his recent surgery. He settled back against the pillows and groaned … loud. Sweat broke out all over his body. He struggled to breathe as pain shot through his stitched-up organs and muscles as though someone had fired up a flamethrower and turned it on high. Christ almighty. Obscenities a mile long flowed through his head.
“You were saying?” Endelle murmured. She even laughed.
The bitch was back and apparently full of plans.
Endelle cut her gaze to Alison. “Your exceptional powers must be put to the best possible use. When properly trained, I know you’ll be able to battle death vamps one-on-one, and with experience over the next several decades you might even be in charge of the facility; certainly you’ll be training warriors by then. You do know about our Militia Warriors.”
Alison’s voice sounded faint, disbelieving. “They’re sort of like the National Guard and a police force combined. But—”
Endelle cut her off. “Yeah, that’s about right and you’ll be one of them so no more discussion about leaving Phoenix Two. And for God’s sake, no fucking whining! Oh, and congratulations on the baby. Good luck, ascender Wells.” As she dematerialized, she tossed the papers in the air. They floated every which way, a couple of them landing on Kerrick’s bed.
Alison gestured in the direction of Endelle’s recent appearance. “What on earth was she wearing? The fur was bristled, kind of stiff. What was that?”
Kerrick shook his head. “I don’t know. Hyena?”
Alison laughed but shortly afterward her expression fell. She planted her hands on her hips and shook her head over and over. Meeting his gaze, she said, “I can’t believe she expects me to be a warrior. I’m about as fit to be a warrior as you are a … a … well, a hairdresser, for God’s sake.”
He let loose a bark of laughter, gasped as pain ignited once more, then clawed for air. “Don’t … make me … laugh,” he sputtered.
“Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be funny but it kind of is.” When she started to laugh again, he put a pillow over his abdomen and took more deep breaths.
Yeah, a woman—now a vampire—who could make him laugh. How the hell was he supposed to let her go?
The shared amusement didn’t last long, however, and for the next hour, she sat beside the bed just holding his hand, not speaking, and once more making a serious effort to empty the tissue box.
* * *
Alison flew over White Lake. Euphoria kept her mind in a state of bliss, her heart fluttering in her chest, her fingertips tingling. She stretched out on the wind, her wings propelling her forward in deep pulls.
Flight. Best creation ever.
As before, she dipped in the direction of the lake, dropped her legs, fluffed her wings into an almost parachute-like position, and slowly descended to the water. Her toes dipped in. The lake anchored her.
A tremendous yearning filled her chest, a longing so fierce she wanted to weep and shout and cry out. She looked up, straight up, and this time she saw a swirling blue vortex and beyond … oh, she could see beyond to a new world of white marble villas, some hanging among the clouds, a beautiful world.
Third Earth. Same geography. Different dimension.
The yearning increased. She tried to fly upward, but the lake had its hold on her, a powerful grip, which she could not break no matter how hard she tried.
The presence of others encouraged her, strengthened her. She took their hands. Together they formed a powerful chain until at last she began to rise. The hands dropped away. She flew straight up, into the swirling blue vortex, faster and faster.
“Not yet,” a man’s voice cried out, an unfamiliar voice. “You must wait a little while longer but you will be the instrument of breaking that which must be broken. In the fullness of time, all will be revealed.”
Alison awoke, her eyes flipping open to the sight of another ceiling. Oh, the ceiling in Havily’s spare room. She pressed a hand to her chest. The yearning remained, the longing for Third Earth. She had just arrived on Second. How could she already be feeling such things, all over again, for a different dimension?
Guardian drifted through her mind, in almost the same masculine voice as she had heard speaking in her dream.
She squeezed her eyes shut and took deep breaths. The dream had advanced. Others, though indistinguishable, had been in the dream, and this time she had flown toward the Trough, toward the blue spinning vortex that led to Third Earth. To break that which must be broken.
Here she was headed to the Female Militia Warrior Training Camp and still dreaming, even more forcefully, about Third Earth.
Just what the hell was she supposed to do with that?
* * *
“Fuck off.” Kerrick glared at Jean-Pierre. Six days in the hospital had worn on his nerves and now his brother lounged in one of the chairs, his words designed to torment.
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “But if you do not want her, Kerrick”—his name sounded like Karreek—“I wish to court her. She’s lovely and smells of the sea.”
She smells of lavender you fucking idiot and there’s no way in hell I’ll let you near her.
He looked away from Jean-Pierre. “Why the fuck are you here?”
“To open your eyes, you motherless piece of shit.” Again … sheet. But the women loved his accent. Would Alison?
He shuddered. He threw back the light covers then flipped his legs over the side of the hospital bed. He ached over his abdomen but he was well enough to get the hell out of bed and out of this sterile environment. He folded off the gown and with enough speed to keep Jean-Pierre from going blind, folded on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
He stood up, but staggered.
Jean-Pierre caught his arm. Kerrick shook it off. “So you came here to bust my balls over … ascender Wells.”
“I came,” he said, easing his voice over the English words, “to talk sense into that fat head of yours, mon ami.”
“Her decision as much as mine.”
“She belongs to you, you must see that. She is your breh and she carries your child. Don’t be so fucking stupid.” Stoopeed. “Très stupide. Idiot. You love her, non?”
“Yes.” Like rain to earth.
“But she will find someone else, non?”
“She should.”
“Somone to raise your daughter, yes?”
“Again, fuck off, Jean-Pierre. You think I haven’t had these thoughts?”
“I think you have not accepted your death, or hers. We all die, even in these ascended worlds. You have a chance to be happy. You should take it.”
Kerrick turned toward him. “So why the fuck haven’t you taken a wife, O wise French asshole?”
He shrugged. “I love all women. I could never love just one. I am not like you.” He tossed a negligent
arm as though that finished the discussion.
“You’re so full of shit. You just wait, J.P. She’ll come along and then you’ll discover for yourself exactly what kind of hell this is and why you won’t be able to be with her.”
He braced his feet apart and started to walk. He pushed the door to his room open and ventured into the hall. The more steps he took, the stronger he felt. A squadron of nurses came running at him, squawking the whole time, but he moved past them. He had to get out of the hospital.
Jean-Pierre caught up with the gaggle of women in scrubs and before he knew it, the Gallic warrior had enthralled them all and led them away. He might in this moment hate J.P., but his brother still had his back.
He left by the front sliders and located his phone, then brought it without a thought into his hand. He called Central. “Hey, Jeannie.”
“There’s my man,” she cried. “How the hell are you, duhuro?”
He smiled and his chest eased a little. “Couldn’t be fucking better. Give me a lift to my house in Scottsdale Two.”
“You got it. How’s your spaghetti stomach?”
He looked down at his abdomen and patted the achy flesh, crisscrossed with fading scars. “More like lasagna now.”
She laughed, which made him laugh, which made him grimace.
“Here ya go, Warrior Kerrick. Feel better.”
He felt the vibration, that brief winking out then flashing back in, and he stood in the entry of his home gasping in pain.
Oh, fuck. He shouldn’t have dematerialized so soon. Holy mother of God. He struggled to breathe as his cells settled back down, but again it was like someone was holding a blowtorch to the inside of his body. Shit. Only after several minutes did he dare move, and he still hadn’t taken a deep breath.
He remained in place and looked around, at the expansive living room off to the right, full of oversized furniture, the kind meant to fit warrior bodies. He glanced to his left, to the massive library he’d built book by book for centuries. In front of him the formal, curved, wood-paneled staircase, which led to his bedroom, the one he hadn’t used in two centuries.
