by Caris Roane
And Thorne served as her second-in-command.
Tonight he looked it as he sat rubbing his thumb into the scar, his eyes glazed, the lower half of his face hanging low like gravity had him by the jaw and was pulling hard.
“Hey,” Kerrick said quietly. “Why don’t you head out there and get busy?” He jerked his head to the dance floor where couples waited for the music to resume.
Thorne’s face moved through half a dozen expressions, ending in horror. “What the hell are you talking about? You know I’m celibate.”
Kerrick looked at him hard.
Thorne flipped him off but not in a friendly way.
“I meant no disrespect.”
Thorne turned and faced him. His eyes grew wet and he pinched his lips together. He shook his head several times. He clearly wanted to say something. He ground his molars then muttered a couple of obscenities. Finally, he said, “Aw, fuck. Just forget it.”
“Done.”
Thorne caught Sam’s gaze then swirled two fingers in the air. Once more Sam picked up his phone and ordered the music on full blast.
As the Black Eyed Peas’s “Pump It” started up, Kerrick returned to his glass and took a strong pull. Was this his future in a few more centuries? Staring mindlessly into a mirrored wall and lying to his friends, drinking like a fish, walking around like a dead man? Now, there was a vision to get excited about.
Once more he thought of the ascendiate, of Alison, but he clamped down hard on the images racing through his brain. Lust was too small a word for what he felt when he thought about her.
He ordered another Maker’s and decided he’d spend the next few minutes sinking into his own tumbler. Just as he raised his glass to his lips, the door to the club opened. A number of scents plowed into his brain and he sorted through them one after the other. The last faint bouquet reached him like the rumble of a tank just beyond the hill.
Lavender.
However, as he rose and stared at the doorway, only two Militia Warriors crossed the threshold. He waited, but no one else followed.
He turned back to drop onto his stool then sipped his Maker’s. Great. Now he was imagining Alison’s scent.
The rite of ascension only creates difficulty for those with highly evolved powers, but the contributions of service, which follow, astonish even the gods.
—From Treatise on Ascension, Philippe Reynard
CHAPTER 6
At eight o’clock Alison stared up at the sign hanging from a scrolled wrought-iron standard. The words THE BLOOD AND BITE gleamed in a beautiful red script against a black background just like the card she’d found at her feet earlier.
Beneath the words, like the card, a red rose lay prone.
Why was she here? She pressed a hand to her stomach then took a deep ragged achy breath. She could lie to herself and say she’d come solely to figure out why she had found a business card, bearing the club’s logo, lying at her feet. But the truth went deeper—so deep she trembled.
Oh, God. Was her future inside this club?
Looking up at the sign, however, she shuddered. The name of the club, the Blood and Bite, harked back to vampire lore. What kind of person would name a club something so obvious and so absurd? She could only imagine that those who frequented the establishment sported artificially sharpened incisors, tattoos, a whole lot of piercings.
Though the quite beautiful sign alone offered sufficient warning to make her skitter back into her log, right now she had to at least have a look inside.
Taking another cavernous breath, she put her feet in motion.
When she entered the club, the darkness of the environment as well as the flashing strobes shut her vision down for a few long seconds. As she waited near the entrance, her heart pounding, her fingers touched something soft.
Glancing to her right then squinting, she discovered she was looking at a long length of scarlet velvet. Her fingers glided down the soft fabric. How strange.
As her vision adjusted and she glanced once more around the club, she caught sight of a lot more red velvet covering a host of booths to her right. The choice struck her as bizarre, out of place, yet very sensual, which all added up to purpose. A woman might let down her guard in a place lined with such a sensual fabric. She had an odd impression she’d walked into a velvet trap.
The music pumped through the building. Gwen Stefani’s “The Sweet Escape.”
Her heart rate kicked up another notch.
The club was jammed, a real hot spot. She shifted her gaze in the direction of the dance floor. She could only see the bouncing heads and arms of a whole lot of people. She could barely make out a bar off to the left. To the right were rows of the velvet-clad booths, which, given their tall backs, provided a great deal of privacy. Did she just hear a moan?
Two quite handsome men, at least as tall as she was, even in her heels, moved toward her. They appeared to be dressed in expensive clothes that shouted Armani. Another surprise.
What kind of place was this?
Both men were loaded with confidence. She really hadn’t expected GQ and swagger in a place called the Blood and Bite. Once again she was struck with the sense of everything being not-quite-right.
Their voices jabbed at her in quick alternating blows.
“Are you new here?”
“You’ll like the club.”
“It’s a little loud.”
“But you’ll get used to it.”
Again warning bells sounded because something didn’t feel right about the exchange. Underneath their spoken words, she felt a very specific and heavy mental pressure. When she released her shields, different words, their words, flooded her mind.
You’re so beautiful—and what a body …
You’ve come to the right place.
We’re going to take good care of you.
Yeah, the best kind of care.
She was stunned. They were communicating telepathically. Worse, they were seducing telepathically. Had she been without all her special abilities, she wouldn’t have been able to hear their enthralling words.
Despite the fact that she disapproved of what these men were doing, she couldn’t believe she had actually found two other human beings who could do what she could. Yet somehow the exchange seemed familiar, as though she had recently conversed with another man in just this way—telepathically.
Images started flying through her mind, of a huge gorgeous warrior, a vampire, with white wings, and another vampire with pale translucent skin and black wings. They had been fighting, with swords, in the air.
She gasped at the memory. But the headache that followed these thoughts took her into the stratosphere and she winced until she couldn’t remember what had brought it on. As suddenly as it had come, the pain just floated away.
The Armani duo each took hold of one of her elbows and the nightmare officially started as the one on the left pressed hard with his mind, You’ll enjoy every moment with us. You’ll give your neck freely, your blood, your body. You’ll experience pleasure like you’ve never known before.
The companion added, Open for us, lovely flower.
Her muscles tensed. They wanted to drink her blood? Okay, this was getting way too weird.
She considered dematerializing back to her home. However, given the telepathic abilities of both men, she suspected she’d walked into a den of vipers and needed to pick her way very carefully out of the situation.
She closed her mind as she allowed them to usher her down a crowded row of booths, maneuvering her through a maze of clubbers. She glanced around, looking for an avenue of escape.
Oh, Lord, she shouldn’t have done that. She wished she hadn’t seen the erotic events taking place in some of the velvet-encased booths.
Wait a minute. Some kind of disguise overlaid the couples, like cobwebs, something an average human probably couldn’t detect or even see through, some sort of shield.
Oh, great. Rack up one more supernatural power for Alison Wells—the ability
to see through unusual shields. Yet what sort of people could create something so intricate? Once more her heart went into overdrive. Whatever was going on here mirrored her own abilities.
She looked away, ignoring the squeals and moans, the writhing limbs.
Instead she turned her attention to the dance floor, which she could see just above the backs of the booths, but oh-my-God the action out there equaled anything she’d already seen. She drew in a sharp breath. Several fanged men sucked on the necks of the women they danced with. The other half were working up to the same thing and the women … were loving it.
The purpose of the club as well as the nature of those who frequented the establishment became clear.
Her heart pounded all over again and she felt dizzy. One of her admirers flashed a smile and showed off—of course—his fangs.
Vampires?
Vampires.
A deep cold sensation invaded her stomach. She could hardly breathe. Vampires … who made use of telepathy to seduce their victims. Creatures, looking very human, who had fangs and drank blood.
How was this possible?
Since she could read minds, and take herself from one place to another with a mere thought, she supposed she could allow other unusual creatures to exist as well. Why not vampires? Earth had a lot of room, certainly enough for all kinds of freaks—for instance, those who read minds and teleported and served as psychotherapists—why not those who attended hot nightspots and dressed in Armani and drank blood from veins?
When the man, the vampire, on her right once more started in with his mind pressure, she’d had enough.
Reaching the end of the row of booths, she turned to face her way-too-confident squires. She lifted her hands to each and without either knowing, she kept them from assaulting her with steady, quiet blasts from the palms of her hands. Then she went to work on each of their minds.
Turnabout … fair play!
She sent subtle messages about respecting women more and about avoiding this absurd club in the future. She gave each a longing to date intelligent women who would make good wives, then she littered their heads with all the delights of fatherhood. That should keep these two vampires busy for the next several decades.
She only had one problem remaining: how to get the hell out of the club without anyone noticing … or possibly following.
* * *
Kerrick tossed back his third Maker’s and set the empty glass on the bar in front of him. He sniffed the air. He could still smell the lavender scent. Wait a minute. The scent was stronger.
He flared his nostrils and drew in a deep breath.
Yep … stronger.
He rose upright and took a step away from the bar. He breathed in again. His heart set up a sudden furious hammer-like beat inside his chest. His eyesight dimmed while his olfactory system flared into high gear.
The heady lush scent assaulted his nose again, sped into his brain, and this time triggered a host of reactions, each of which splintered one after the other and shot a cascade of fireworks through his central nervous system.
He smelled her. Alison. Alison.
Goddammit. She was in the club right now.
Urgency crowded him.
In a brilliant flash he transformed into a heat-seeking missile. He glanced at the entrance but saw only an array of Militia Warriors ready to pounce on new arrivals. Somehow Alison had come into the club and had already gotten lost in the play.
Holy shit.
He had to find her now.
He penetrated the various mists cloaking the Militia Warriors on the dance floor. She didn’t seem to be there. However, the club was deep and there were many hidden alcoves and way too many booths.
His mind touched female after female. He picked up each woman’s scent and cast it aside again and again, his search specific, his hunger rising, his fangs lengthening. Where was she?
Thorne’s commanding voice thumped the bar. “Leaving in four.”
When Kerrick turned around to face him, Thorne shifted to look up and met his gaze. Kerrick pulled his lips back over distended fangs and growled deep in his throat. His consciousness shuffled off to a distant part of his brain and watched this unheard-of behavior in astonishment.
“What the fuck?” Thorne muttered, leaning back. He grinned. “No fucking way. Medichi, Zach, you tracking this?”
Kerrick turned away.
He had to find the woman.
He stepped past the bar. He smelled the trail coming from the direction of the booths straight across from him.
His blood boiled. His shoulders hunched. His muscles flexed and twitched, ready to engage in battle over what he knew in the depths of his being belonged only to him. His wing-locks itched, ready to release full-mount, to catch her if he needed to.
“I’ve got your back.”
Kerrick whirled and glared at Thorne. “Do whatever the fuck you want. Just keep away from the woman.”
Thorne nodded. “Understood.”
Kerrick wanted to knock him flat … for no reason. He shifted back around, his hands closing into heavy fists. He flexed his wing-locks.
The row of booths was jammed with people, coming and going. The wet sounds of sex slugged at his ears and ratcheted his temper up a notch, and then another. He didn’t know what he would do if he found her engaged in any of these acts.
He sharpened and lengthened his vision.
Halfway down the crowded row, the path cleared and he had a perfect view of a tall woman who faced two Militia Warriors.
Alison.
Alison.
Time froze; his feet as well. He couldn’t move. He could only look, wonder, crave, stunned like a beast caught in the headlights.
She was sexy as hell with soft crimped curls dangling past her shoulders and down her back, so different from the tight, controlled twist at the medical center. She wore a short black skirt, which revealed long legs that kept on going. Her scarlet halter was cut low enough to expose a swell of high firm breasts. God, her beauty lit up his head. His body followed. He craved her.
The trail of her scent reached him and struck hard. Woman and heady lavender formed a cocktail and set off grenades throughout his suddenly starved body.
Breh-hedden ripped through his head.
Bonded-mate.
In a fraction of a second he slid his mind over hers, pressed hard, broke through her shield—damn, what power—and finally read her. She stumbled because of it but at least now he knew what was going on.
She had come to the club because of a series of dreams and because of the card he’d left her. So he was right. She had been in the middle of a call to ascension. She’d also come in hopes of a slow dance against a hard male body. He could give her a slow dance and anything else she wanted.
He also read the lustful state of the warriors who had tried and failed to sink her into a seductive thrall. He had to get her away from them. The muscles in his arms tightened and a maroon haze clouded his vision. His mind shouted to her, Come to me now.
She shifted her gaze to him and looked him up and down. The lights flashed erratically in the dark club, and his vision adjusted for every discrepancy. The sun might as well have illuminated her every feature. Her cheeks turned a dusky rose, her lips parted, and her breathing grew shallow.
Oh, yeah, she liked what she saw.
His mind reached for her again, Come to me, Alison.
Much to his shock, she shot back, And who the hell are you to command me?
Damn, she didn’t remember him. He wished now he hadn’t sliced her memories. Still, he had no intention of arguing with her.
He lowered his chin and moved with preternatural speed. He intended to rescue her from the unwanted attentions of the two males and to claim her for his own. But by the time he reached her she had disappeared. She had folded from the club.
He clenched his fists again, drawing his forearms up at the same time. Sonofabitch. Though he had the capacity to mentally trace her path, he couldn’t giv
e pursuit because he couldn’t fold from location to location. Goddammit. He stood within an arm’s reach of his woman yet because of his folding weakness, she might as well have been in Paris or Beijing rather than fucking Phoenix One.
Unfulfilled need raged through his body. He lifted his head and roared at the ceiling, the full-throated cry of a male caught in the hard-core grip of breh-hedden and unable to complete the act.
The maroon sheen darkened his eyes further. His neurons scrambled. His thoughts lost all remaining sequence. The two Militia Warriors, smaller in stature than any of the Warriors of the Blood, backed away. Thorne shot in front of them and shouted, “Fold! Now!”
Kerrick slammed into Thorne as he reached for the warriors, but grabbed air. He turned to Thorne and lifted his fists ready to do battle. Thorne caught one of his bunched hands in a powerful grip, held on, then folded them both out of the Blood and Bite.
Kerrick blinked. A new location. He vaguely recognized the Cave, the place where the Warriors of the Blood went just to chill, usually after a night of battling.
There was no lavender here, and in quick stages his consciousness returned.
More figures entered the space. A wall of hard male bodies appeared, some in flight gear, others dressed in cargoes and tees like he was. Some smiled. Others watched, stunned. His mind opened suddenly. He recognized the men, warriors all—Thorne, Medichi, Luken, Santiago, Zacharius, and Jean-Pierre. His Brothers of the Blood. What the hell was he doing here?
“Get him a drink,” Luken called out.
“I’m on it,” Medichi said, heading to the bar opposite the pool table.
* * *
Liaison Officer Havily Morgan knew she could make a difference in the war, if given half a chance. She was sure of it. She felt it to the tips of her fingers, to the ends of her toes.
Central had just called. The Supreme High Administrator had finally summoned her, and though the hour was late, nearly nine o’clock, she didn’t care. At long last her chance had come to begin her campaign.
She stood in the center of her living room, a hand pressed to her chest, her heart ramming out a fast cadence. She was dizzy, excited … and, yes, relieved.
