by Caris Roane
His nostrils flared and a sudden scent of lavender hijacked his brain. Damn he was dizzy! He rubbed the center of his chest over his heart. The scent gave him a rush, the way he sometimes felt after throwing back half a dozen shots of Maker’s in quick succession. Yeah, like that. Damn. The surface of his skin felt hot and he craved. This was what he needed, what had been calling to him since he’d awakened with that weird hum in his chest. He took a step forward and sucked in more of the lavender scent. Holy shit, the scent was her. Addiction swept through his body, sudden, hard, complete.
He wanted the lavender on his lips and down his throat. He wanted her body beneath his. He wanted her back arching, her hips meeting his. He wanted to be inside her mind. Damn … he wanted her blood.
Holy hell. He backed up and shook his head. He ordered his mind … his body … again. He forced himself to think rational thoughts, like he had a job to do and this was a mere mortal and he had sworn off getting involved with a woman so long as he remained a Warrior of the Blood.
Movement on the catwalk brought his gaze slashing back to the business at hand. The head case now stood on top of the railing, black wings flapping slowly. He sustained his balance with the practice of centuries.
Time to get this over with. He released the densest part of his mist in order to reveal himself to the woman.
He closed the distance then clapped his hands on her arms. “Don’t move,” he commanded.
Her head snapped in his direction as he spun her toward him. He repositioned his hands so that she faced him now, but he still had hold of her.
Goddammit, time thickened once more. He had never seen eyes like hers, light blue, rimmed in gold, exquisite. His body lit up again, a torch whipped by the wind, flames shooting everywhere. He probably should let go of her arms, but he sure as hell didn’t want to.
His gaze fell to parted lips and a possessive split-resonant growl formed in his throat.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”
He shook his head. “I’m here to protect you.” Other thoughts scrambled his head. I will always protect you. I was born to protect you. I will serve as your guardian, now and forever.
Breh-hedden shot through his head once more.
Hell, no. Not gonna happen. Fucking … hell … no.
“You were born to protect me?” she asked, her eyes wide, her brow crinkled. “What are you? And what do you mean by guardian and that ‘bray’ something?”
“You just read my thoughts even though my shields are in place?” Holy shit! The woman could get into his head, engage his mind, read his mind, an ability that went way beyond telepathy. He knew of only one woman on Second Earth capable of doing that … Endelle. Jesus. The woman before him had so much fucking power.
Her lips parted, her gaze shifted back and forth from his face to his right wing, to his left wing, to his weapons harness, then down to his kilt and his heavy gladiator-like sandals. “What are you?” she repeated, her voice dropping to a whisper.
He drew in a deep breath and somehow found the power to release her arms. “Will you stay put while I deal with the death vamp?”
She looked him up and down. She blinked several times. He felt her mind pressing against his, and he let her dip in. She staggered slightly but after a moment withdrew, relaxed, then nodded. “Death vamp? As in death vampire?” she asked.
How confused she must be right now. “Yes, and I need you to stay right where you are so you won’t get hurt. Will you do as I say while I take care of the winged creature on the railing?”
She glanced at the waiting death vamp and nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice breathless. “Okay. Yes.” She swallowed hard.
He moved past her, drawing his wings aside to avoid striking her. He ignored the scent of lavender, which now assaulted him like a cyclone.
He stood several feet in front of her, blocking the death vamp’s view of her. He extended his wings to either side as far as he could, another protective move, his gaze fixed on the enemy.
His quarry scowled and rose into the air, his gaze searching.
“Come down,” Kerrick called out.
“Warrior, leave us,” the death vamp cried. He rose higher still until he could see the woman, then he smiled.
“Come down and face me,” Kerrick commanded. He folded his identified sword into his right fist once more, the wrapped leather soothing against his palm. He drew the dagger from the harness.
“I won’t fight you. I’m not here for that,” the death vamp cried out. “I need the woman’s blood.”
“Well, you can’t have it.”
“You don’t understand, Warrior Kerrick. I can destroy Commander Greaves if I take her blood. My sister, a very powerful Seer, told me about a mortal, Alison Wells, the woman behind you, who would be here today, this evening. She would have all the power I needed to do what must be done. You and I both want the same thing. Step aside and let me take her blood.”
As Kerrick faced the death vamp, however, he had only one recourse. “Tonight, unfortunately, I stand between you and the woman. You’ll have to face me instead, just as you are.” When the death vamp would not shift his gaze away from the female, the one he had called Alison, Kerrick split his resonance and thundered, “Look at me!”
Only then did the head case tear his attention away from her. He met Kerrick’s gaze and cried out, “Wouldn’t this mortal be worth the sacrifice to see the Commander dead?”
“We don’t trade on the lives of mortals.” Kerrick knew this wasn’t going to be simple. He needed the death vamp to attack, but the pretty-boy was fixed on the woman and the last thing he wanted was to end up chasing the bastard through the air.
* * *
Thorne returned to the Blood and Bite in one foul mood.
Endelle had thrown a bitch-fit about Kerrick’s ingratitude, insubordinate attitude, and all-around bullheadedness, then offered Thorne a ten-minute lecture on how he needed to get control of his warrior brothers.
What-the-fuck-ever.
He had nodded and said all the right things, the whole time wondering how soon he could get back into the field. Given her mood, however, he doubted he’d be doing much else for a while except watching the damn clock.
Endelle was keeping him close tonight, a duty he detested. Unfortunately, her displeasure about Kerrick’s fuck-off attitude was only half the picture. The other half drew his nuts up so close to his body, he could feel the short hairs.
She’d told him flat-out she was recalling Marcus, effective immediately.
Holy shit. Marcus. Marcus. Former Warrior of the Blood who had made a permanent jump to Mortal Earth the night Kerrick’s wife and kids had died.
God help us all.
“I need a drink, Sam.”
“You got it, jefe.”
Fuck.
Marcus.
Shit.
Endelle might as well call the brothers together and toss a lit grenade in their direction. Of course the warriors could use Marcus’s muscle as well as his four millennia of experience, but shit … Marcus?
He released a heavy sigh, the one born of way too many meetings with Her Supremeness. He perched on his favorite stool, the one at the end of the bar that let him keep a constant watch on the entire room, the rows of red-velvet-covered booths, the dance floor, the dark hallway leading to the bathrooms, and of course everyone else seated at the bar. He settled his left elbow on the polished wood, his right knee jutting out into the room, then leveled his stare at Sam.
“Back so soon, jefe?” Sam asked. He spoke in his bar-booming voice since the music thumped and loud conversation rattled the length of the club. He threw the towel over his shoulder, popped a tumbler on the bar with his left hand, then poured a decent amount of icy Ketel One with the other.
Thorne stared at the glass and felt the ease start even before he took his first sip. Sam resumed his glass-polishing duty and had the great good wisdom to keep his trap s
hut. Thorne wasn’t surprised. Samuel Finch, owner of the vampire nightspot, had shrewd eyes, the kind that looked, grabbed a swift impression, made a judgment, which all led him to keep his trap shut.
The warriors were in for a shitstorm. Looked like a major ascension was in progress, a female, which no doubt had Greaves sporting a raging hard-on, the bastard. Of course, he’d try to get to the ascendiate first, to turn her if he could. If he couldn’t—goddammit—he’d send his minions to kill her. He often wondered just how much self-control it required for Greaves to restrain his killing instincts. Of course, by law he couldn’t harm either an ascendiate or an ascender outright, nor could Endelle attack Greaves’s army—death vampire or otherwise. Yet how many times had he wished Endelle could cut loose and end this war. Unfortunately, if either Endelle or Darian started slaying outright, it was the same as launching a nuclear weapon. The only possible end would be vast destruction, which of course benefited no one.
He scrubbed a hand down his face and threw back the Ketel.
The result was that Endelle worked her ass off night and day to keep two worlds from sinking beneath the Commander’s ambitions, which was why he’d give his life for her, bitch notwithstanding.
Her efforts, however, weren’t cutting it, and every night the Commander shipped more death vampires in from around the goddamn globe. Last night Thorne had battled three Russian death vamps who spoke to him in words that sounded like ice skates cutting across a frozen pond. He’d made them dead but they’d been three fierce motherfuckers.
Something had to break in Endelle’s direction soon. Greaves seemed miles ahead of Endelle’s organization, and not just in manpower; the asshole had a workable plan and he was workin’ his plan. He spent the majority of his time coaxing High Administrators from all over the world to join his forces. When he got enough of them on his side and when his army, a combination of regular soldiers and death vampires, swelled to just the right proportion, well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next.
In the meantime, it was up to the Warriors of the Blood to keep the number of death vampires in check. Only Thorne’s elite group had the preternatural power as well as the pure physical strength to slay death vamps night after night, usually battling alone and usually battling three or more of the pretty-boys at the same time.
There was another policing unit, of course, the regular Militia Warriors. These squads served Second Earth all over the globe and, like the Warriors of the Blood, worked to keep death vampires in check. However, it usually took at least four Militia Warriors to bring down one death vampire—and even then casualties were heavy.
The Militia Warriors had training camps and received regular instruction from the Warriors of the Blood, although in recent months, given the activity at the various Phoenix Borderlands, what training the warriors could offer to the camps had dwindled to a trickle.
Bottom line? Endelle’s administration was officially up shit creek.
Okay, so maybe Endelle was right. Maybe Marcus was necessary.
Who was he kidding? Marcus should have been recalled fifteen years ago when the first of the High Administrators had defected, the proverbial handwriting on the wall. But holy shit, his brother warriors were not going to be happy, especially Kerrick. Goddammit, Kerrick would have a seizure the moment he saw the sonofabitch. When Kerrick’s wife had died, Marcus had said things to him no man should ever say to another man.
His gaze shifted to Sam, who wiped more glasses, all of which already sparkled like diamonds. He arranged them in neat tidy rows, adjusting for eighth-of-an-inch discrepancies. He polished all the bottles as well, a kaleidoscope of ambers and blues, melons and greens against the mirrored wall. He tidied and swept. The man had pride.
Another bartender, Sam’s nephew, served drinks up and down the bar, but Sam stuck close to Thorne. If a Warrior of the Blood was present, Sam served him personally. He had for over a century now.
Thorne tapped his glass on the counter. Sam moved forward then poured the Ketel again.
“You might as well tell me,” Sam said, a soft shout above the music.
Thorne’s gaze snapped to his. He scowled. He shifted his knee into the bar then formed a protective triangle with his hands around the tumbler. With his right thumb he rubbed the deeply grooved scar running down the inside of his left wrist, an old cut that extended almost to the center of his hand. Sam drew close, turning an ear toward him.
“Nothin’ to tell.” Shit, his voice sounded more gravelly than ever. Too many nights not sleeping.
Sam snorted. “You were with Endelle. There’s always something to tell. You’re bleeding from the stripes on your back.”
Thorne wanted to laugh at the image, but couldn’t. He dropped his gaze. He lifted the tumbler once more to his lips. A heavy sigh swept out of his parched throat, and he soothed it with a long solid slide of vodka. He let the burn float back up. He no longer winced. He hadn’t winced for years. He’d made a pact with Ketel and they’d both kept it … diligently.
Something dug at the back of his mind. What was it Kerrick had said? An itch he couldn’t scratch? Damn straight he had an itch.
Thorne met Sam’s gaze again. “She’s bringing Marcus back.”
Sam dropped the glass in his hand then swooped with preternatural vampire speed and caught it before it hit the floor. “Holy shit,” he muttered as he rose upright. His head waggled back and forth. He was a small man with a barrel chest. His shoulders were broad and he had no hips. He wore suspenders because there wasn’t a belt capable of holding up his pants. “Things are so bad, jefe? I thought she said she’d only bring him back if he sucked the black off the bottom of her stilettos.”
Thorne shrugged but then what the hell else could he do? The decision was already made.
He had only one response right now—he tapped the bar again.
His phone buzzed as Sam refilled his glass. He glanced at the message. He smiled. “Luken just texted,” he called out. “He took six down and he’s headed in.”
Sam let out a whoop. “Six. That Luken. He’s one powerful warrior.”
Thorne nodded. Luken was the peacekeeper of the bunch, and with Marcus heading toward Second later tonight, Luken’s ability to keep the brotherhood on an even keel would be put to the test.
“All the warriors in later?”
“Within the hour.”
* * *
Alison stood with her arms wrapped around her stomach, no less than six feet away at any given time from the winged man called Kerrick, Warrior Kerrick. Over the past ten minutes he had made his intention clear—he meant to protect her. What had he called himself, her guardian? He had reiterated, about a dozen times, that the death vamp wouldn’t be taking her blood tonight. What did any of this mean?
Right now her head was spinning and because of all the adrenaline in her system, her arms and legs shook like she had a chill. Was she looking at her death, right here, right now?
Despite the number of times the death vamp shifted his position, however, Warrior Kerrick had kept his powerful winged body between her and the beautiful pale-skinned creature still on the railing.
She understood the warrior’s tactic: to bring the killer in close, rather than risk becoming separated from her, which would leave her vulnerable to attack.
Oh, God. Was this even happening? She shifted her arms tighter around her abdomen. The shakes swept through her once more. Okay. She had to get control of these sensations. She refused to look at the black-winged creature any longer. She focused instead on … Kerrick. Yes, his name was Kerrick … Warrior Kerrick.
She drew in a deep breath. Better.
As much as she might question the reality of the situation, she had to admit that if this was still part of an elaborate hallucination, she had one fine imagination.
The warrior’s skin was a rich golden color, in marked contrast with the pale death vamp. He wore a black leather kilt and a harness, which ran down the center of his back be
tween his wings. On his feet were gladiator-like sandals. He looked made for war, an ancient kind of war, a war conducted in the desert.
The argument between Kerrick and the killer continued, always with the warrior’s refusal to negotiate. The death vamp often flew away from the railing to make a pass or two and look at Alison, but he never failed to return to the refuge of the two-story catwalk perch, a standoff that afforded her the chance to continue her appraisal of her would-be guardian.
She couldn’t fathom either the magnificence of the wings, taller than his height by several feet, or the intricately muscled back that supported them. The feathers were a very pure white in contrast with the killer’s glossy black pair. She wanted to move forward and touch them, to see how they did what they did. Was the structure hard or soft, and how could wings of this size emerge just from his back? On the other hand, how could she do half the things she could do—read minds, send hand-blasts of inexplicable power, dematerialize, capture pockets of time in order to reassemble smashed windows?
The man, the warrior, stood at least six-six and every exposed part of his body bore heavy, ripped muscles. He had thick wavy black hair, which appeared to be damp, flowing away from his face to his shoulders and a few inches beyond. Every muscle in his body had been honed, probably from years of this kind of police or military service, or whatever it was he did.
She glanced from him to the death vampire. The creature with the black wings resembled the mythical vampire—he was beautiful in a way that mesmerized, and he used his fangs to drink people to death. In contrast, Kerrick was nothing like the popular freakish, emaciated images. No, he was all man, warrior, and incredibly built. Not the stuff of night-feeding vampire legend at all. He was so much more than that—moral, protective, a self-proclaimed guardian.
She had touched his mind.
He. Was. Honorable.
The longings she had felt earlier returned in full measure and intensified, crushing her heart. She bent over slightly. She worked to catch her breath. What was this deep internal sensation, this yearning? And why did it possess her so profoundly in this moment?
