by Caris Roane
She looked back at him. “Central said Greaves was on deck tonight.”
He nodded. “The mortal female is a therapist by profession. She served as his counselor, such as it was, for the space of a year.”
“No shit,” Endelle murmured. “So he’s known about her all this time.” She shook her head. “Goddammit. I have got to have better information. This is the worst group of Seers I’ve ever had.” She muttered a long string of obscenities then drew in a deep breath.
She nodded slowly, her gaze slicing back to him. “You got pretty chummy with this non-ascending ascendiate, didn’t you? She pretty?”
Beautiful. Gorgeous. Tall, so she’d fit me like a glove. I wanted my arms around her, my fangs at her neck, and a helluva lot more. “Very pretty,” he said in as flat a voice as he could manage.
“Cut the crap, Kerrick. Do you think I can’t read your mind? So you have a thing for her.”
What was the use pretending? There was a good chance Endelle knew his thoughts even before he had them. “More than I should. Unreasonably.”
“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes. “You smell anything fragrant on her?”
Lavender, he sent. Fields of it. He just couldn’t say it out loud.
“Well, this has to be shit for you because it sounds like the breh-hedden.”
He stared at her, held her gaze. “I didn’t think it existed. We all thought it was a myth.”
Endelle shook her head. “It’s rare but the damn thing exists. I’ve seen it in action a few times over the course of my fucked-up life. And it can be a real bitch so good luck with that.” She laughed.
He didn’t see anything funny in the potent exchange he’d had with Alison. A thought occurred to him and he narrowed his eyes. “Did you know this was going to happen when you sent me over there?”
“I had a hunch.”
“Fuck.”
“You know if this is the breh-hedden, you’re not going to have much control over it.”
He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to even acknowledge the possibility that something so powerful and apparently irresistible was dogging his heels.
He shook his head. “Won’t matter if this is the breh-hedden or not.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Oh, yeah, you took vows. Idiot. Death happens. Get used to it, for Christ’s sake. And what was it, two hundred years ago? Hannah knew the risks. Give her some goddamn credit.”
His jaw turned to stone. “Helena,” he muttered. “My wife’s name was Helena.”
She stood up, planted her hands on her desk, then leaned forward. Her wings turned black, unfurled to the fifteen-foot ceiling, and popped into an aggressive drawn-back position. “Don’t you dare take that fucking tone with me, Warrior, or I’ll have your wings—literally—feather by feather.”
She could do it, too. But for just this moment, he wanted to tell her to take them all, right here, right now, and shove them up her ass because he was sick of all this fucking bullshit, the death, the addicted bloodsucking vampires, the mortal children drained and left in goddamn alleys, and of battling a psychopath like the Commander. He leaned toward her. Yeah, just do it, he sent.
She stared at him for a long tense moment, her wings extended as high as they could go, each apex rounded, the feathers fluttering at the tips. Suddenly she barked her laughter, brought her wings to half-mount, then sat down in her chair once more. She again settled into the nest of her wings. “Hell, no. Why should you be set free? Suck it up like the rest of us. Besides, I don’t get why you’re still upset after all this time.”
He lowered his chin. “It’s simple, Endelle. You’ve never had children. When you do and you lose them because of who you are then you’ll have the right to tell me to just get over it.”
Endelle grimaced. “Whatever.”
Kerrick wanted to leave. If he had been capable of folding he would have lifted an arm and vanished with a sweet fuck you on his lips. “So are we through here, or what?”
“Yeah.”
He turned to go, but she called out, “Wait. One more thing.”
Something in her tone sent a warning chill straight down his wing-locks. He glanced back at her but she didn’t speak. Instead she chewed on her lower lip, and Endelle never chewed on her lower lip. He got a very sick feeling in the bottom of his gut. All his instincts fired up like the steam engines on the Titanic. “Spill,” he commanded.
“I’ve recalled Marcus.” She actually looked a little guilty.
Kerrick’s nostrils flared. He sucked in air. His shoulders bunched into hard muscles. His biceps twitched and his hands curled into two deadly fists. “You did what?”
“We need him.”
He shook his head. “Like hell we do,” he bellowed.
She rose again, once more meeting his aggression head-on. “We need him because the Commander is importing death vamps from every territory of Second Earth at the rate of fifty a day—even with all my efforts to the contrary—and even if you and your warrior brothers only take down thirty or forty, do the goddamn math!”
He shook his head.
“What? You don’t believe me? Then tell me, what language did the squadron from last night speak, the one out at the White Tanks?”
He glared at her, but his face felt burned like he’d been standing in a powerful wind for days.
“They came from the Republic of Chad and spoke Sangho.”
Of course she was right, he just hadn’t stopped to think about the various nationalities he’d been fighting over the past several months. He’d just figured the Commander was ramping up his effort to keep the brothers working overtime, wearing them out. And fuck, it was working.
“So don’t you dare stand there and tell me we don’t need Marcus. We do. He’ll show up sometime later tonight and in case you’re wondering, he’s not happy, either. But the two of you had better find some way to get along. I’m putting you on guardian duty and he’s taking your place at the Borderlands. We need this ascendiate. The only thing my fucking Seers were able to tell me was that Alison Wells tips the balance of power and if she ends up dead, our world will suffer for it.”
Kerrick stiffened. There were so many things wrong with this situation he didn’t know where to start. But the most significant thought rose swiftly into his head and before he could screen the words, he cried out, “If that sonofabitch puts one hand on her, I’ll kill him.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Go home and take a goddamn cold shower.”
He was ready to argue but she lifted a hand and the next moment he was on his knees sliding across his basement floor. His hands shook and didn’t stop even after he clenched his fingers into tight fights.
Marcus?
Here?
Hell, no.
Hell the fuck no.
Evil forges a tornado.
But goodness battles in a straight line.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 5
Why couldn’t she remember?
What couldn’t she remember?
Alison had the worst feeling she had forgotten something so important that her life depended on it, which was silly of course, yet the nagging sensation remained.
She stood in front of the Venetian mirror in her master bath. She bent over slightly, swung her long blond hair off to the right, and tied the strings of the silk halter at the back of her neck. Was she really going to do this?
She stood upright and flipped her crimped hair back.
She’d actually crimped her hair.
She hadn’t gone clubbing in three years, not since … well, she wouldn’t think about her last boyfriend. She patted a thin rose gloss onto her lips. She pressed her lips together. She glanced down at the card on the sink … THE BLOOD AND BITE.
The club had been the subject of one of three recurring dreams she’d been having for the past month. The second dream had been about a downtown alley and the third about a long, narrow lake on the west side of the
White Tanks, a lake that didn’t even exist.
As she thought about these dreams, a profound longing swelled within her chest until her heart felt squeezed. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. She knew of panic attacks, but longing attacks?
Dreams of the nightclub had sent her to her laptop. She’d Googled the establishment and learned enough to stay away. The location in south Phoenix had ended any desire she might have had to discover exactly why a club, with a wretched name and completely unknown to her, would suddenly appear in a dream.
An image popped into her head of a man bearing large black wings and fangs. A vampire?
Her head thrummed and a chill stirred up the little hairs at the nape of her neck. Vampires with wings. Why was she thinking about something so ridiculous, and yet …
The image crystallized. The man had been beautiful and he’d conversed with her. He had a translucent ivory complexion with a faint blue cast to his skin. He bore enormous shiny black wings and twirled in midair.
She winced. A sudden headache bloomed in the middle of her skull, a dedicated throb. She blinked several times and drew in a deep breath. She let it out slowly. The pain diminished then winked out.
Weird.
What had she been thinking about?
Well, nothing.
She glanced down at her man-hunting costume, a red silk halter, short black skirt, and strappy black Jimmy Choos. She loved these shoes but never wore them. She’d never had an occasion until tonight. She’d even put on sparkly eye makeup. Oh, God, was she really going to do this? Did she actually think she would find happily-ever-after at a place called the Blood and Bite?
On the other hand, what if her deep subconscious mind had been working to redirect her to exactly the man she needed, hence the dreams? She didn’t hold to rigid clinical views when it came to her life’s calling. She embraced the chaotic nature of existence as well as the mysterious and intricate depths of the human mind.
Besides, all of the psychology in the world couldn’t explain her own special powers. So what did she hope to find at this club tonight?
The answer sped to the surface of her mind like a buoy released abruptly from underwater. She hoped that somewhere inside a man existed who could understand her, accept her, perhaps even have the ability to withstand the strange powers she wielded. Did she have a basis for such hope? Only that she’d found a card at her feet and couldn’t explain how it had gotten there.
* * *
At eight o’clock Eldon Crace, High Administrator of Chicago Two, sat in a pool of his own sweat, which made no fucking sense at all. He was known for his composure.
On the other hand, he was sitting opposite the vampire who had the power to give or to withhold what he desired most in the world. Commander Darian Greaves, with one whisk of his Montblanc pen, could authorize a seat at his Geneva Round Table, the place of all future authority for the Coming Order.
He dabbed at his forehead with a crisp square of white linen. Perspiration leaked from every pore of his body. What was this unbearable pressure inside his head?
The Commander was a complete master in the oldest sense, in his level of personal accomplishment, in power, and in the obeisance he called from those around him. He had the air of European aristocracy and the will of Emporer Qin.
He sat behind a massive ebony desk, the size of a battleship, his being as calm as a lake on a windless day. Behind him was a wall of chipped rock, evidence that the compound existed underground, protected, secure, a vast stronghold.
The Commander wore an expensive black cashmere suit, probably Italian, at least in design, the yellow silk tie a striking contrast. He had large round black eyes, a bald head that glimmered beneath ceiling lights, a black ring on his right pinkie, and extremely sharp fangs he rarely bothered to conceal. As a finale, he had talons instead of fingers on his left hand.
Crace refused to look at the dagger-like claws, but not looking didn’t lessen the amount of moisture his body sloughed in pints.
Jesus.
A faint whirring sound drew his attention to the far wall. A row of immaculately groomed and very phallic Italian cypresses ranged from one end to the other and now swiveled a quarter turn in massive gold pots, shifting to face a bank of grow lights suspended from the ceiling. Even the botanical expression in Greaves’s office suggested power and purpose.
A new wave of sweat dribbled down his forehead and he dabbed again.
He held himself together, however. He’d at least learned a great deal of poise in the last few decades.
He’d been summoned to Phoenix Two for a purpose, but he would not hear the Commander’s wishes and desires until the Commander wished and desired to speak. Right now silence kept Crace’s nerves on the edge of a knife.
Crace had had his lips pressed to Greaves’s ass for the last century, doing what he was told and when, stockpiling ordnance, acquiring an army of death vampires, and training, training, training. These activities were no more, no less than the other High Administrators around the globe were doing, all those ambitious men and women who had aligned with the Commander, who hoped for a new order, who hoped for the spoils of the Coming Order.
Crace, however, had no illusions. Darian Greaves wanted to rule and rule he would. Two worlds would soon be up for grabs, and Crace meant to be seated at the right hand of God when the shitstorm came down.
Right now he sat opposite his deity, dwarfed by his presence in the cleverest way. Crace’s chair sat too low and the bottom was angled up at the knees. He couldn’t sit forward if he wanted to. He would remember the psychological disadvantage he felt right now, and as soon as he returned to Chicago he’d order a pair just like them. The chairs would sit in front of his desk and with great pleasure he’d watch his inferiors lean back like they were tanning themselves at Lake Michigan. How easily a blade could be thrust through the sternum in such a vulnerable attitude.
“What’s Chicago like these days?” Commander Greaves asked. He had a velvet-on-steel voice, soothing with a foundation of malice, a solid promise if things didn’t go his way. As one who meant to rule, the Commander spoke as he ought.
Crace flared his nostrils then smiled. “Cold in early March. You know Chicago. We only have two kinds of weather—winter and the Fourth of July. However, the weather’s perfect here in Phoenix.”
The Commander nodded, his fingers steepled, his expression thoughtful. “And how fares your army?”
“We have followed your lead and work steadily to acquire one new recruit every week.” He was very proud of his record. The best time to recruit was during the rite of ascension when mortals were most vulnerable. Later, with a more complete understanding of the nature of dying blood, it was the rare ascender who opted for addiction and military service. Regardless, he made a powerful effort to recruit and had performed past expectation.
“You’ve done well. Ship fifty to me by the end of the week.”
Crace withheld the hiss forming in his throat. He was highly protective of his army for several reasons. First, to send them to Phoenix Two was nothing short of a death sentence for each squad, and second, the Commander always had quotas. What if he wasn’t able to fill the required numbers? Punishment would surely follow—or worse, he’d lose his chance at a Round Table appointment. Sweat leaked from the back of his knees and streaked down his calves. If only the pressure in his head would ease up.
“I would of course not hold you to your current quotas although I do recommend you replenish your forces as quickly as possible. I suggest you go farther afield. Head down to Texas. Who will know, except you and me, should a little meaningless rule get broken?”
“Thank you, Commander.” He’d just received permission to venture into a Territory aligned with Endelle. Truth? He enjoyed breaking the rules. He smiled.
“My, my, we are eager.”
Hell yes, we were eager. We should have had a promotion to the Round Table fifty years ago, but the Commander never did anything in haste. He should take a l
esson from his superior; instead his gums flapped. “I’ve earned the post.”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed.
Shit.
The words came out in his quietest voice, and the talons flexed ever so slightly. “You’ve earned the post when I decide you’ve earned it. You must learn patience, Crace. Your eagerness has always been your downfall. Now, now, don’t despair. You will be happy to know that I have a job for you.”
At last. The reason for the summons. Crace released a deep breath, oh-so-quietly. He pressed his right hand over his heart and bowed, a less-than-elegant action in the sloped chair.
“I offer myself willingly.”
The Commander lifted a single sheet of crisp white paper, held between the long sharp claws. Crace’s gaze shifted to the talons. Sweat blossomed all over again. Greaves had so much power. No one else on Second had the ability to alter DNA and sprout a claw. He could retract the damn thing as well, although not for this interview apparently.
Sweet Jesus.
“Do this,” the Commander said, a smile easing over his fangs, “and you will sit at the right hand of God.”
He shoved the paper forward. It moved just a few inches, which forced Crace to haul his ass out of the low chair by pushing up on the arms with both hands. He took the sheet and slid back into place once more, the pooling sweat soaking his Gucci briefs.
As he glanced over the first few lines of the assignment, he shook his head. He didn’t understand. Was this all the Commander required?
He lifted his gaze and met the large round eyes of his deity. “You want me to kill a mortal woman?” He almost laughed. Could anything be simpler?
“Put your plans together. However, do not take even the smallest action until I have permission from the Committee. Even then, we can only begin the moment the ascendiate has answered the call. Are we clear?”
