“Aw, hell,” Thorne muttered.
The room writhed with the singular reality of the warrior’s life. They were all goddamn targets, every day and every night, and anyone connected to them.
Curses rent the air, issued from one warrior to the next, passed around like a peace pipe. The air cooled, and his determination shored up.
“Your call,” Thorne said quietly, his gaze shifting to the bar then back to Kerrick. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll all support you. There’s just one thing—I’m not so sure you can refuse the breh-hedden.”
“Well, fuck that,” Kerrick said, rising to his feet. “I’ll just have to be the first.”
Thorne nodded then turned away. He punched at the air several times. Kerrick watched him cross the room, heading in the direction of the pool table. Once there, he slid his hands beneath the top then lifted. Thorne had heavy broad shoulders and muscles to match. Grunting, he gave one hard jerk, which flipped the damn thing onto its side, breaking two of the four legs supporting the heavy table. One more dip of his knees and Thorne, in his rage, flipped the pool table all the way over. Christ.
Kerrick stared at the massive legs, two leaning and broken, two standing straight up. He started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Others joined him. Somehow this was just perfect. If Thorne lost it, none of them would be far behind.
They were all on edge, riding their nerves like horses whipped to a frenzy.
The war had shifted, ramped up. They all knew it but couldn’t talk about it. What was the point? They were fighters, they had to fight, and they would do what they had to do.
Still, an undercurrent ran through the Warriors of the Blood, a goddamn streak of lightning that never let up, kept them juiced, warning them something big and bad was on the horizon. Thorne’s behavior alone told them what they needed to know.
The simple question rose to his mind: How are we—seven men—supposed to keep on fighting death vamps imported nightly from all over the fucking globe, one after the other, squad after squad?
His laughter blew out, a candle snuffed in the wind. He crossed to the bar, set his tumbler down, then made his way to the upside-down pool table. He clapped Thorne on the shoulder. Thorne met his gaze, bleary hazel eyes in pain, lots of pain. They all felt it, every damn one of them.
Medichi came forward next and shoved at the back of Thorne’s head then put his hand on his other shoulder. Luken followed, another hand on Thorne. Jean-Pierre’s hand slid around his waist. Santiago let go of a long string in Spanish, but it sounded soft like a prayer. His hand found a place next to Kerrick’s. Zacharius, however, stepped between Thorne and the upside-down table. He smiled a crooked smile, held out his hand, and folded his sword into his palm. “With you to the end, boss,” he said, nodding.
“To the end” slipped from one voice to the next, another kind of prayer, a shared promise among warriors, one that had been spoken from the beginning of time.
“Well, shit,” finally erupted from Thorne’s mouth. Like a signal flare, the warriors moved away from him, except Luken who once more slapped Thorne on the shoulder as he stared at the pool table. Despite Thorne’s mass, the power of Luken’s friendly shove rocked Thorne forward.
“Thanks, boss, you just won me a hundred bucks. I bet Santiago we wouldn’t go another month without having to replace the damn thing.”
Thorne shook his head from side to side, a weary gesture. He turned to face Kerrick looking like ten kinds of ruined.
Kerrick had his own problems, however, and he needed to address them now. “I want out tonight.”
Once more Thorne’s head wagged. “Endelle has already assigned you to guardian duty.” His voice was rough, low, desperate.
“Thorne, you gotta back me on this one.”
Thorne planted his hands on his hips. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure you can handle another warrior being so close to her, day and night, for at least three days?”
Kerrick’s jaw hardened. “I’ll have to.”
Thorne held his gaze steadily for a long moment then finally said, “You sure about this?”
“Yeah. I’m sure.”
“Okay. Head home but keep your phone at the ready.”
Kerrick nodded. “You’ll call if things go south?”
“You know I will.”
Thorne cleared his voice. The gravel deepened as he addressed the warriors. “Endelle will no doubt be on our asses all night. So just be prepared.”
A string of softly muttered obscenities rumbled through the room, every mouth grinding molars. The air smelled burnt.
Shit. This really can’t be good.
Whatever.
He’d be going back to his house. No, not to his house, to his basement, the hole in which he lived, his shrunk-down but oh-so-necessary existence.
At least he wouldn’t be seeing Alison again. Hopefully not for a long, long time.
Dreams create the gateway,
But the feet must cross the threshold.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 7
As High Administrator Crace reviewed yet another report about the mortal female Alison Wells, he had a new sweat issue developing. Even his breathing had taken on a gurgling sound.
He sat in his recently commandeered office, his brow low as he held one of several reports in hand. How was this possible? He’d never heard of a human of Mortal Earth capable of dematerializing. Shit.
He looked around. At least he had an office now.
At ten he had removed one very pissed-off general from his massive seat of authority. Though not as large as the Commander’s office, the general’s workplace proved the axiom “Size matters.” Crace might have taken the smaller space offered to him, but the general had made the mistake of curling his lip at Crace upon introduction so of course he’d had no choice but to dispossess the bastard.
The space was pristine, as it ought to be, a reflection of the disciplined military mind. The desk was clean, large, and rectangular, the chair, ergonomic. One wall of the office held a bank of four-drawer black steel, locked-down filing cabinets. On top of the cabinets sat a long planter that extended the entire distance of the file drawers. Maidenhair ferns filled the space spreading all the way to the ceiling.
He approved. The plants cleaned and humidified the desert air. The oxygen kept the mind sharp.
In his office in Chicago, he had a full-time Japanese gardener who kept both his indoor and outdoor gardens in immaculate condition. He had won successive awards for his specialized azaleas. He missed the calming effects of walking the gravel paths, and with his Guccis sliding over his damp ass right now he sure as hell could use a little calming green.
On his desk was the latest PC, the CPU built into the large screen. The keyboard was also ergonomic. Though the hardware appealed to his aesthetic sensibility, he was old-school and liked the feel of the reports in hand, the slick outer binder, the individual sheets between thumb and forefinger as he turned the pages
All well and good.
But the contents.
Holy hell.
He had spent the last hour reviewing the stack of reports, a foot deep, which Commander Greaves had provided for him concerning the mortal ascendiate Alison Wells. Suffice it to say his chest now felt strapped with steel bands and his briefs were, yeah, damp.
So much for an easy kill.
What he had believed would be a simple task—offing a female mortal—had taken on the quality of a nightmare, the one where you tried to run but your legs wouldn’t move.
He read, The mortal is the most powerful ascendiate since Endelle’s arrival nine thousand years ago. She has all of Second’s abilities.
Jesus.
The Commander had sent his spies after the ascendiate every day for the past year, assessing her, reading her powers, watching her activities. There was even an absurd notation about the level she had achieved at sudoku.
Of course his mind tripped over this information and fell
flat with the next bit. The ascendiate will no doubt have a Warrior of the Blood in full guardian mode protecting her during her rite of ascension.
Sweet Jesus.
So, yeah. He was in the middle of a nightmare. As he continued to flip pages, a new thought emerged, one that kept tightening his groin with possibilities. If he were to drink the woman to death himself and seize her powers, would he then be as strong as Commander Greaves? Stronger?
He flexed his buttocks and shifted in his seat to make room for a sudden erection.
The Commander materialized in front of his desk. “Lay that thought aside, Crace. Make no mistake. Once you got near enough to ascendiate Wells with such a proposition in mind, she would incinerate your gray matter.”
Crace looked up from the reports then shot to his feet.
Shit.
The Commander had read his thoughts before he’d appeared in the room. Crace had to be smarter than this.
“Commander,” he murmured. He bowed low, remaining in the same position in hopes his obvious excitement would diminish quickly.
“The Committee has been informed of the ascendiate’s refusal to join my ranks. You hereby have permission to proceed in preparation for an imminent rite of ascension. Lay in your plans. Keep me informed. I’ll be in Geneva for the next few hours. After that I have several High Administrators to tend to. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in Phoenix Two. In the meantime, please move from your hotel into the suite next to my chambers here in the compound. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Commander. Thank you, Commander.”
Permission to proceed.
Move to the suite next to the right hand of God.
He rose from his bow, his vocal cords humming, his parted lips ready to engage the Commander. Unfortunately, his deity had vanished.
Crace released a sigh. He sat back down, aware again of his clinging pants. He really needed to change them again, but he didn’t want to leave his desk. He could not believe all this good fortune was happening to him. A chance at the Round Table and now the suite next to the Commander. His star was rising, ascending.
He laughed at his joke.
Okay.
This was good.
Holy shit … the suite next to the Commander.
His arousal throbbed. He needed his wife. He had already summoned her from Chicago. She would take up his rooms at the Bredstone Hotel, and later he would get the relief he needed: her body, her blood, her mind.
As he glanced at the reports once more, a plan began to form. He believed in keeping things simple. The ascendiate would be answering her call to ascension soon, at one of the Borderlands, near a dimensional Trough, and when she did, he would have three squads of death vampires in place to finish her off. Simple, to the point, the task accomplished.
Since her warrior guardian would probably be at the Trough as well, he would need to send along at least one of the Commander’s generals, a powerful warrior, to make certain the guardian died along with her. Fortunately, Commander Greaves had turned a Warrior of the Blood over a century ago. Yes, the warrior General Leto would do, a most appropriate assignment for him.
What could be simpler?
Oh, God, a seat at the Round Table.
* * *
Havily tapped her foot and glanced at her phone.
For the twentieth time she stepped in front of the sliding doors.
Nothing.
She called Central. Again. She heard Jeannie’s voice then suddenly the doors flashed apart, a soft whoosh of air over her face.
Finally. She glanced at the time. Just after ten o’clock.
She had been kept waiting an hour.
She slid her phone back into her pants pocket, picked up her carry-case and her briefcase, then marched through. A path of lights lit the way to the office.
Her steps slowed when her peripheral vision caught sight of the chaos of the administrative pool. She stopped and turned in horror. There were rows and rows of desks going on forever, each one piled high with papers. She shook her head back and forth, back and forth.
This is ridiculous.
Had no one heard of a paperless office?
She dipped her chin and resumed her course, picking up her pace. She turned down the wide corridor to the left. At the far end, a wedge of light angled into the hallway. Madame Endelle’s office.
After passing a dozen glass-walled executive offices, also piled with papers, she reached the doorway. She drew in a deep purposeful breath and at the same time crossed the threshold.
Endelle glanced up at her. Barely a glance, a brief batting of thick black lashes, nothing more as she resumed reading a report on her desk. “I need you on liaison duty, Havily.” Liaison duty? Endelle never spoke to her directly about liaison assignments. “This is important.” She tossed a clear lavender folder in Havily’s direction across the desk. The folder slid just to the edge. “Everything you need to know is in there. Things will get messy, but I have Kerrick on guardian duty so you probably won’t need a flak jacket. Nice to see you again, blah-blah-blah. Thorne will contact you when you’re needed. Good night.”
Havily stared at the bent head. Madame Endelle shuffled papers and started reading another report. She felt a quick flush to her cheeks, a familiar tingling, which meant she ought to retreat right now and gather the reins of her vampire temper. “I beg your pardon?” The words came out clipped, even brittle, certainly a challenge.
Endelle froze, lifted an icy gaze, then eased back in her chair, back against a mountain of light blue feathers. How did she do that? How did she sit in a nest of her wings? Havily’s back ached just looking at the bent and contorted feathers.
Endelle’s chin rose and her gaze came at Havily full-throttle, two hostile brown eyes, lined like ancient oak bark. She wore some kind of animal print, cheetah perhaps, which added to the sense of menace in her eyes. “And apparently I beg yours. What the fuck do you mean by talking to me like that? You have your assignment. Thorne will call you when he needs you. Now get the hell out of my office.”
Again Havily felt her cheeks tingle, another warning to start moving backward, to put her feet on the bicycle pedals and start wheeling out of the office, at light speed, preferably. Instead she actually stepped forward. She had waited for years to speak to Madame Endelle face-to-face. She dropped the briefcase from her left hand and heard the soft thunk on the carpet. Her right arm came up, then the rest of what she accomplished, to her horror, occurred in preternatural time.
Before Endelle could blink again, the proposed military-admin complex lay before her, on top of the report she was reading, the portfolio as the base, the entire thing an architectural pop-up. It was a work of great beauty, and took up a good portion of Endelle’s oversized desk.
Far more important than the physical structure was the complete reorganization of duties and responsibilities, which would create an efficiency currently lacking in Endelle’s operations. Havily moved to the side of the desk so that she could see the Supreme High Administrator as she began her prepared speech. She started to explain the freedom that would accrue to Madame Endelle by adopting her plan. She didn’t get more than four sentences in when Endelle’s wings shifted color from the present light blue to a dark midnight black. She rose to her feet. Her nostrils flared.
Despite the displeased nature of these signs, Havily pressed on, giving statistics about hours and efficiency, when suddenly the architectural mock-up burst into flames, a monstrous sudden conflagration. As the flames reached to the ceiling, Havily backed up several feet, almost to the fireplace.
The next moment the flames disappeared abruptly, as well as even the smallest dust mote of her project. Vanished. Gone. Kaput.
Havily had the mildly hysterical thought that her work of three years had just gone up in smoke.
Her lips parted. Of all the things she had expected to happen during the interview, she had not expected this, a complete unwillingness on Madame Endelle’s part to hear even a word she had hoped t
o say, the speech she had practiced before her mirror dozens of times.
The Supreme High Administrator held Havily’s gaze for a long, tense moment, then said, “I’m trying to keep a mortal alive, not to mention attempting to prevent all of Second Earth from falling into the hands of a monster, and you brought me a goddamn dollhouse? Just do your fucking job, Morgan, and get the hell out of my office.”
Havily glanced at the lavender folder, which had fallen to the floor in the chaos. She held out her hand and brought it in a long glide through the air into her palm. She turned on her professional black heels and left her briefcase sitting there. What was the point? She hoped Endelle tripped over it.
She moved swiftly down the wide corridor with all the glass walls and ignored the tears tracking down her cheeks.
When she was within ten feet of the sliding doors, something large whizzed past her head—oh, her briefcase, in the form of a rocket—which then struck and demolished one of the glass panes leading into the hall. She paused for a moment, staring at the shattered glass.
Perfect.
She lifted her arm and dematerialized back to her office. She walked the length of the room back and forth, forcing her heart and mind to settle. Her disappointment was severe, painfully so. The tears wouldn’t stop. What was wrong with the Supreme High Administrator that she would not even listen to an idea?
She breathed in as she took brisk steps. She swiped at her cheeks, folded a tissue into her hand, and blew her nose. She had so much to contribute. She could make a difference in the war. Why couldn’t she get Madame Endelle to hear her?
After a few minutes, she began to calm down. A few minutes more and she brought the lavender folder once more into her hands then popped it open.