by Caris Roane
In rank, the Warriors were above her, but then they were above everyone, with the exception of Endelle, since they also served in the position of Guardians of Ascension and kept powerful ascendiates safe during their rites of ascension. Only Endelle had a higher rank. Even the High Administrators around the globe were lower in rank than the Warriors of the Blood.
For no particular reason her gaze drifted back to Warrior Marcus, who had given up the prestige of guardian status to take up a useless life on Mortal Earth. He still watched her. But as her gaze met his and held, her lips parted and deep, so very deep inside her body, desire spun an erotic slow dance almost as though the warrior held her in thrall.
How else could she explain her inability to look away, except to shift her gaze from one heavily muscled shoulder to the next, visible because of the traditional flight gear, solid ribbons of muscle that made the very tips of her fingers tremble and her tongue ride the back of her teeth.
An image took hold of her mind, of her hands on his back, her fingernails sunk into his flesh, her body beneath his as she held him tight … and he moved over her.
The fennel scent sharpened, broadened, laced with a pure male musk. She drew in a long deep breath, dragging air through her nose and into her mouth at the same time. She was intoxicated as another wave of desire traveled over her skin, into muscle and bone, then descended lower until she felt gripped from within. The very core of her wept as her internal muscles clenched, not just once, but over and over and over. She was … oh, God … she was perilously close to orgasm and all she was doing was staring at a warrior.
The vein in her neck started to pound. She put her hand there and stroked up and down. The slash over light brown eyes sank lower, a predator’s stare, and she watched his fangs descend onto his lower lips. Oh, how she wanted this vampire who could put his fangs into her neck and take right now what she wanted to give.
When he started to rise from the couch, a gasp rose out of her throat. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she tore her gaze from his and looked at Thorne.
He grabbed her arm. “What is it, Havily? What’s frightened you?”
“I must go.” And before he could argue with her, she lifted her free arm and folded. Unfortunately, her mind was so confused, she ended up not in her home but standing in the middle of the fountain outside her town house complex.
She felt the water on her heated skin and started to laugh. To say she needed a cold shower was to say the very least.
As she stepped out of the fountain, however, she just couldn’t figure out the why of what had just happened. In what dimension did it make the smallest sense that she could ever desire a vampire, warrior or not, whom she despised for the deserter he was?
The future speaks in a dream,
But morning unveils all truths.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 13
Crace sat on a stone bench in the very center of the Commander’s extensive peach orchard. Waiting. At least he wasn’t sweating this time, although what he felt was far worse—like he’d been stabbed in the chest.
From the time of his ascension he had known hunger, his basic personal drive not just to get ahead, but to rule. With the single exception of his lovely wife, his beloved Julianna, he had only one great love—his ambition.
From the moment he first saw the Commander during his rather mundane rite of ascension he knew he would one day align with him, belong to him. He understood the Commander, because he shared the same naked, unrefined, crippling need to have power and more power and more power.
Two dimensions? Oh, come on. Greaves had more vision than that.
The opportunity to work beside Commander Greaves had meant, literally, the world to Crace. Yes, Geneva was part of it, a huge part, but his sensibilities went deeper. He thought of the Commander as a true comrade, a brother-in-arms in spirit, in motivation, and in a complete lack of scruples.
He tapped his left foot on the intricate pattern of the patio made up of terra-cotta pavers. He had arrived early just to think. His wife would join him when she had put the last touches to her coiffure, the subtlety to her makeup, her ensemble. She was fastidious in such things.
The orchard, near the base of Estrella Mountain, was a thing of beauty. The trees were laid out as though radiating from a large hub, the circle ever widening as it traveled in what seemed like miles in every direction. The entire orchard was covered with a variety of shields, which allowed for a gradation of microclimates. Some trees were heavy with ripe fruit, others just budding, others in a state of wintry rest. Beneath the trees, a natural collection of grasses and weeds grew. The Commander had won awards for his organic methods.
More than any other aspect of the Commander’s life, this orchard and what lay below typified his essential character. Beneath the rows of peach trees, buried in the earth, was the Command Center for his entire global operation. Below the Command Center ran miles of bunkers and a variety of training facilities for his army. Below the bunkers was a vast cavern dedicated exclusively to research and development. The Commander had a passion for armaments. He was creative with weaponry of all kinds, always working on improved killing methods.
An hour earlier, despite the failure in Carefree, Greaves had requested that Crace and his wife join him for breakfast. He would serve mimosas, fresh peaches, egg-white omelets, and all because he knew such a breakfast would delight Julianna. In the center of a table covered in beautiful Irish linen sat an elegant arrangement of orchids growing from a bed of some sort of small-leafed green ground cover. Yes, Julianna would be enthralled by the attention to detail.
There was so much to admire about his deity.
How heavily he sighed.
He had showered and shaved. He wore a formal white tuxedo, black trousers, the finest black shoes. He had tried to scrub the stench of his failure off his tanned arms, legs, and face but couldn’t. He bled remorse from every pore of his body.
He sat on the hard stone awaiting his wife’s arrival. She had told him to quit being so nonsensical, that the Commander, being a practical, sensible man, would not, would not in any way blame Crace for the failure of an entire regiment to slay the ascendiate. In her opinion such an elegant private breakfast meant he held Crace no ill will.
Usually, Crace’s wife knew best. She had great abilities. She could sense things before they happened. He therefore shouldn’t feel as though he would soon be ground to dust by his deity’s displeasure.
Yet how could it be any different? The Commander would hold him responsible for what had happened in Carefree.
Crace rarely despaired. An optimist by nature, his present sensations were foreign. He didn’t like the way his body felt, heavy in every muscle, tight around his heart, tense in his lungs. He even had to force himself to breathe.
Was it his fault the ascendiate had so much power? She had disabled his men over and over from a series of hand-blasts. Hand-blasts. He could not even conceive how she’d done it. He shuddered at the memory. Beyond the hand-blasts, however, who could have foreseen that so noble a warrior as Kerrick would have called an illegal emergency lift? It was unheard of.
And just how had the pair known to take off in the ascendiate’s fucking Hummer? How had they been warned? He shuddered all over again.
He felt the air stir and he rose to his feet.
He melted at the sight of his incomparable wife. She had the beauty of Aphrodite, and looked particularly splendid in a peach-colored soft linen gown—an excellent choice given the occasion—her dark tresses arranged in several loose elegant knots down the back of her head. She wore soft pearls, which the early-morning light and the shields over the orchard set in a gentle glow. She was perfection, her taste unequaled. Gems of any sort would have been wholly unsuitable. She had taught him this, and many other things. She knew how to present herself in such a way to add to his worth and to his power.
She had sharp blue eyes, angled slightly at the corners al
ong with her brows. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, her lips full. Her breasts were large, round, very supple, and moved completely unfettered beneath the fabric. The sight of her breasts so well displayed, yet still covered modestly, brought a sharp arousal. She approached him, kissed his cheek, and took his hand in hers. She whispered in his ear, “You will take me to bed after this, you will drink from me, and I will soothe your fears.”
She always did. He drew in a deep breath and relaxed … a little. She was the best of wives. He was the most fortunate of men.
The air stirred once more. She stepped away from him slightly. Given his rank, she did not believe in public displays of affection. When the Commander appeared, she offered a courteous inclination of her head coupled with a slight curtsy, a tradition she had begun and which had caught on throughout Second Earth. “Julianna, how lovely to see you.”
“And you, Commander.”
“Please. Call me Darian.”
His wife, his darling wife, merely smiled, offered another bow, then said, “As you wish, Commander.”
Crace marveled at her adroitness. She always passed the Commander’s little tests, which seemed to please him immensely, for he smiled and even chuckled. She lifted her hand to him.
He approached her and took her proffered hand, offering a polite kiss on the arch of her fingers, a sign of great respect. Crace felt a wave of heat roll from his wife. A surprise. The Commander’s gaze dropped oh so briefly to her breasts. Crace followed suit and found his wife’s nipples peaked, stretching the lovely peach linen. He understood in this moment all over again how clever his wife was. He blinked and more of his fears dissipated.
The Commander lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. A moment later three wait staff materialized as well as a large serving cart.
Julianna clapped her hands in an innocent expression of pleasure at the meal the Commander had provided for her. Naturally, Greaves seated her himself. And naturally, Julianna smiled up at him, just over her shoulder, and whispered her thank-you.
Crace sat down to eat with his fears settled to a dull roar, so much so that by the time the meal had been consumed and the champagne had eased through his veins, he leaned back in his chair.
“I was sorry to hear of Warrior Kerrick’s illegal maneuver,” Greaves said. “Wholly unexpected.”
“Yes, it was, Commander.”
“Very well. We shall simply move forward.”
Crace withheld the gasp rattling in his throat. There would be no recriminations. Thank the Creator for small mercies.
“I want you to see Harding and make arrangements for the next leg of this journey. We will have every legal right to pursue any course we wish. I rely on you, my dear Crace, to make the finish remarkable.”
Crace stared into the eyes of his deity. Make the finish remarkable. Every legal right. The emergency lift may have saved the ascendiate’s life, but it had also given the Commander a profound, irreversible advantage.
On Second Earth, there was always one way to make anything remarkable.
Spectacle.
Yes, spectacle.
Within his mind, he began to weave a glorious exhibition. He would use swans, of course, and fireworks. He would call in a favor or two from Beijing. The local theaters would have all the actors he required for a full-mount display … yes, he knew exactly what needed to be done. And of course the event would be televised worldwide. Yes, that would work … remarkably.
As for the ascendiate, well, her demise would be the highlight of the entire evening, of course.
“I believe I have the answer,” he said.
Crace felt a now familiar pressure in his head. Greaves’s serious expression softened then lightened. He nodded several times and afterward smiled.
“My dear Crace, you have outdone yourself. You are to be congratulated.”
“You may congratulate me, master, when the ascendiate breathes her last.”
* * *
The lake.
Alison floated inside a familiar dream high in the air. She looked down at a very long, somewhat narrow lake, perhaps only half a mile across in the widest place. However, the body of water extended several miles in a north–south direction, making up in length what it lacked in width.
The floating was pleasurable.
Wait. She wasn’t floating at all. She was flying and she had wings, beautiful pearlescent light blue wings edged with gold at every tip, a shimmering gold. She felt euphoric and deeply content. She flapped her wings, which had mounted from within her back, like Warrior Kerrick’s wings.
What a strange sensation to feel the presence of wing-locks as well as the thickened muscles of her back and the heavy dose of hormones gliding through her veins. She had a sudden and tremendous sensation of power. She stretched out her arms and felt within her mind the key to movement—the wing-locks combined with thought.
Her wings were an amazing part of her, both mind and body. When she envisioned a downward thrust, her wings responded almost magically. Flight was therefore a learned skill, the way an infant would learn to bring his fists together and feel the clasp of his hands for the first time. Wings were another set of muscles to learn to manipulate.
Exhilaration. She envisioned a spin and her wing-locks responded until she was twirling oh so high in the air. On instinct, she spread her wings wide and the spiral stopped. She laughed.
Looking down, she spun in another circle, much slower this time, and discovered that the lake was at the foot of the range of mountains she knew well—the White Tanks. She also, for some reason, knew the name of the lake—White Lake. Yet how strange to see a body of water here. On Mortal Earth nothing much existed on the west side of the White Tanks except a small development of homes and the occasional lone house or trailer. Certainly not a lake.
As she glided over the water, she experienced a sense of destiny, of the future, that her future was here, with this lake. A strong yearning took hold of her chest, the same profound longing that had prompted her to answer her call to ascension. She felt protective of the lake, almost painfully so, as though the fate of the world depended on her ability to keep White Lake secure.
The word guardian slid through her head, the same word Warrior Kerrick had used to describe his relationship to her, that he was her guardian. And she was the guardian of this lake. Only what could it possibly mean?
As she drifted toward consciousness, the dream formed the backdrop of her mind. She awoke on her back in an unfamiliar bed staring up at a tall vaulted ceiling painted a beautiful burnt orange and overlaid with dark stripped branches. She had never seen a ceiling like this, a real work of art. So where was she?
The last ceiling she’d awakened to had been her own and … Kerrick’s arm had been slung over her chest. He had burrowed into her neck, teasing her awake with erotic movements of the duller parts of his fangs nudging her throat just above the vein.
Potent desire whipped through her at the remembered sensations, and she arched on the bed. Recalling the powerful orgasm brought her legs pressing together, trying to find some relief. Oh, what Kerrick had done to her. She slid her hand over her neck. She groaned at the memory of coming apart while he took her blood and tormented her with his fingers. She couldn’t begin to imagine what full-on sex would be like with him.
Once more her back arched off the bed.
Okay. She had to stop thinking about him, or at least about having sex with him. She had to dwell instead on exactly where she was and how she’d gotten here and why on earth she had been dreaming about a lake.
She sat up and looked around. Near an open doorway, leading to a bathroom, stood a rack hanging with clothes, women’s clothes. She looked down at the very soft, white nightie she wore, more like a tunic, she supposed. Where had this come from? She frowned as she thought about the blast, which had no doubt destroyed her home. Did she even have any clothes left? She mentally reached out to her house, but found her mind blocked very strangely. She couldn’t reach farthe
r than twenty or thirty yards from her present position.
Some kind of shield was in place, a very powerful shield, one she knew instinctively had been put there to keep her safe.
She flopped back down on the bed. She was right back to the very bizarre world she’d entered, from death vampires and warriors with rasping tongues and erotic fangs, to inexplicable mind-shields and dreams about a lake and being a guardian.
Ascension. Her ascension.
She closed her eyes and for a long moment took deep breaths. She let the reality of her present circumstances drift through her head. Last night, twice, she’d barely escaped with her life, once from the alley, once from the attack of death vamps at her home in Carefree.
And then there was Kerrick, her guardian, the one assigned to protect her, the one she felt drawn to like cactus to the desert. Her heart raced when she thought of him and of the wonderful musky cardamom smell of him, the one that made her think of exotic marketplaces in Morocco.
She had come to a new world, engaged a new life full of danger yet also of possibility.
An odd question surfaced. Just how was she going to explain to Joy, or to the rest of her family, her new life?
* * *
Kerrick sat in his kitchen at a stool drawn up to the large square granite island. He sipped his coffee.
Coffee was good.
God, he loved this era—plug it in, turn it on, cook, fry, bake, and boil. Centuries ago he would have spent a part of every summer day chopping wood in order to keep the home fires burning through the cold season.
