Wolrd of Ascension 01 - Ascension

  Sweet Jesus. A shiver of fear shot straight through his heart because he didn’t know if he could ever choose between his wife and Commander Greaves … ever.

  * * *

  Sometimes life, ascended or otherwise, just sucked.

  Alison stood beside Kerrick in what looked like your basic locker room. She was silent, shocked out. From the corridor beyond she could hear an orchestra booming out Beethoven’s Fifth.

  Spectacle.

  And she was the star attraction.

  Great. Just great.

  She shook her head. This couldn’t be happening.

  She glanced around trying to figure out what a dedicated therapist from regular old Mortal Earth was doing, dressed all in black leather, preparing to battle a warrior vampire from Second Earth.

  Even thinking the question threatened to send her into a tailspin. She felt hysteria rising as though thick hands gripped her ribs in an attempt to force the air from her lungs. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.

  Instead she drew a breath, then another, then another even though her heart pounded so hard her ears thumped.

  She glanced up at Kerrick, looking for some kind of support or understanding, but he was shored up within the fortress of his own mind. And why wouldn’t he be? The man lived with guilt stacked so deep in his soul he couldn’t move or think straight. She knew that now. Even though he was not to blame for this ridiculous situation, he shouldered the responsibility anyway.

  So, here she was … alone. What a familiar sensation.

  The dream hadn’t lasted long, the deep connection to another human being, immortal though he was, the sense of sharing, of working things out together. There was no togetherness here, just Alison trying to find the courage to take one more step down a road that still didn’t make a lot of sense.

  “At last, ascendiate Wells. So, let me have a look at you.”

  Alison heard the strong, feminine voice behind her. She whirled around and there, not ten feet away, stood Endelle, in full-mount, her wings a light golden brown. She recognized her from Kerrick’s memories, although her wings had been a different color—first yellow, then black when she’d become angry with Kerrick. She was a tall and extremely beautiful woman, thick black hair, olive skin, strong features, a beauty queen from the Middle East. She wore dark brown suede, lots of it, sculpted to her body, and a cape of what looked like mink. She gave an impression of ancient and modern blended. She was also a walking PETA nightmare.

  So here she was, She Who Would Live, the ruler of all of Second Earth, Her Supremeness, Madame Endelle.

  In the flesh, the woman responded, inside Alison’s head, just like that.

  Alison reached out with her empathy, without thinking. Endelle narrowed her eyes, “Not on your life, ascendiate.”

  Alison retreated. “My apologies. An old habit.”

  Endelle nodded. “Understood.” Turning to Kerrick, she said, “Make the introductions, Warrior. I’d like to formally meet the woman who’s been making my life a shitfest.”

  At these words Kerrick took a protective step closer to Alison, the only sign he was even aware of her. “Madame Supreme High Administrator, may I present ascendiate Alison Wells, previously of Carefree, Arizona, Mortal Earth. Ascendiate Wells, Madame Endelle, Supreme High Administrator, Second Earth.”

  Alison held Endelle’s gaze. More than anything she knew she was looking at her future in all its myriad forms. Kerrick had told her that only Endelle had ascended with the same levels of powers Alison now possessed. She also understood that Her Supremeness, as the warriors called her, should have advanced to an Upper Dimension millennia ago, remaining on Second Earth only to serve as a necessary force against the Commander.

  Endelle looked her up and down. Ponytail was a good idea, she sent. Black leather suits you. It’s probably a good thing your man can’t get past his anger right now, otherwise he’d be all over you.

  Without really thinking, Alison sent back, I think you might have some boundary issues.

  “Boundary issues?” Endelle cried aloud, taking a step forward, the tips of every feather shimmying. “You intend to start up your psycho-crap with me, ascendiate Wells?”

  Alison shook her head. “Not at all. I’m telling you I don’t intend to discuss my love life with you.”

  “Whatever.”

  Endelle’s wings reached all the way to the tall ceiling, while her wingspan took up at least a combined twenty feet, larger than even Kerrick’s. The present configuration meant that when in full flight, with the wings extended as far as they could go, my God, the span would reach over forty feet from tip to tip.

  “Let me speak plainly about today’s engagement,” Endelle said. “You have only one mission here—to put Leto in the ground. So do it, ascendiate. Know that I’m counting on you.”

  “Then you’ve backed the wrong horse,” Alison cried. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the last time I checked, I was a therapist, not a warrior. I have difficulty swatting flies.”

  “Listen, missy, where the hell do you think you are? A vacation in St. Croix? This is Second fucking Earth and you’re battling to stay alive. Get with the program and start focusing on taking the bastard out. I’ve seen your training and whatever you may think, you can do this. Furthermore, I expect you to.” She turned to Kerrick. “You need to talk to your woman and set her straight on a few things. Now.”

  She lifted her arm in a theatrical sweep then vanished.

  * * *

  Kerrick breathed hard. He had been working to keep his temper in check, but this last completely insensitive display by the ruler of his world put him straight over the edge.

  “So much for a goddamn pep talk,” Kerrick cried. “Dammit, I should have warned you. Endelle gives bitch a bad name.”

  He wanted to punch something. Hard. His hands bunched into fists and stayed there. He ground his teeth. He couldn’t bear what was happening to Alison, that she was being forced to battle Leto in front of tens of thousands of spectators. He felt unglued, coming apart at the seams, unraveling.

  He hated this farce, this arena contest, which had only one end as its purpose … Alison’s death!

  “Kerrick, how am I going to do this?”

  Her words, the desperation in her voice, the deep fear in her beautiful blue eyes, all did him in and he lunged for her, dragging her into his arms. He felt her sob against him as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Kerrick. Kerrick, she wept within his mind.

  He held her tight all the while stroking her back. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, he really did. His fears, however, kept him silent.

  After a minute, she drew back then looked up at him, her eyes wet. Lavender streamed over him until his senses reeled, his heart ached, and his knees turned to water.

  She released his waist and drew in a ragged breath. She wiped at her face with trembling fingers.

  Christ. He had to pull his shit together right now. In front of him was a novice warrior who would soon go into battle. He had to think of her in that way, not as the most precious part of his life.

  He folded a tissue into his hand from Queen Creek. He dabbed at her cheeks.

  “Endelle believes you can beat him,” he said. “Let that be your confidence.”

  “She really thinks I can beat Leto?” Hope fluttered in her eyes.

  “Yes. She said so last night. She told us we were a bunch of faithless vampires because you possess more power than you know. So take courage in her belief in you and let the images I gave you take over. Just remember, Leto is powerful so don’t try any special tricks unless you’re certain to prevail. Tell me you understand what I’m saying to you. Leto … Leto is a cunning vampire, a skilled warrior. I fought beside him for centuries. Be prepared for anything.”

  She nodded in a brisk flurry. “Yes. Yes. Be prepared for anything.”

  “Also, remember he has weaknesses, like any warrior. Find his and you’ll beat him, and don’t
doubt for a second he’ll try to wear you down.”

  She nodded all over again.

  This was better. Even some of his own fears subsided.

  In a brusque movement he drew her into his arms again then kissed her hard on the lips. She met the kiss, her lips parting. He groaned as he thrust his tongue into her mouth, wishing he could take her back to Queen Creek, take her to bed and keep her there … forever.

  He released her to settle his hands on her shoulders. “You can do this.”

  She nodded as if she understood even though fear still streamed from her like mist from damp earth.

  He felt a displacement of air at the back of his legs. He whirled and planted himself in front of Alison, bringing his sword into his hand at the same moment in case what was arriving wasn’t friendly.

  But Havily materialized in front of him, looking professional as always in a navy suit, her red hair in waves over her shoulders. He shifted to return to Alison’s side, folding his sword back to his weapons locker.

  “Hey, Havily,” he said.

  She nodded. “Good evening, Warrior Kerrick, ascendiate Wells. I’m serving as Alison’s Liaison Officer throughout the battle.” She settled her gaze on Alison. “If you have any questions about the spectacle event, I will do my best to answer them. I’ll be accompanying you onto the arena floor as well as serving you throughout the event.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Alison whispered. “I thought I would be entirely alone.”

  Kerrick looked down at her, wishing like hell he could take this away from her. “Havily will take good care of you. All you have to do is ask. Right, Havily?”

  “Of course, Warrior Kerrick.”

  “Good. I’ll escort you both to the top of the ramp then I’ll join the Warriors of the Blood. Havily, why don’t you walk Alison through the process from the time we leave this room.”

  Havily’s voice flowed, a soothing melodious lilt, as she explained the mechanics of what Alison could expect once she made her appearance in the arena proper.

  A few minutes later an assistant appeared in the doorway, with clipboard in hand, pressing his earpiece. He waved them forward.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  Alison’s head throbbed, her heart raced like a jackrabbit running for cover, and her knees had simply disappeared. She sure as hell couldn’t feel her feet.

  Was this really happening?

  She felt dizzy, disoriented, not exactly inside her body.

  Oh, God.

  Once in the corridor, Kerrick took up a place on her right and Havily on her left. The end of the hall seemed to be about ten miles away. Hey, when did she begin walking?

  She struggled to breathe. She kept repeating a single line in her head: I can do this … I can do this … I can do this …

  Okay.

  Okay.

  Suddenly the corridor was far too short and three seconds later she arrived at the arched opening to the arena proper. Havily caught her elbow and kept her from going farther. “We wait here for just a moment.” Smoke from the fireworks drifted in the air and numerous robotic television cameras floated everywhere, at least four not far from her. She let her gaze drift over the impossible sight of fifty thousand spectators. Endelle’s faction took up thousands of seats to the left, while the Commander’s vast army, in uniforms of maroon and black, sat opposite Her Supremeness.

  When Alison’s face appeared all at once on the dozen or so enormous screens stationed throughout the arena, the spectators erupted into a hurricane of shouts, cheers, boos, and stomping feet.

  Oh. God.

  Kerrick gripped her arm. She glanced up at him. He met her gaze, his expression fierce, but he said nothing. He just nodded once very firmly then departed, moving behind her.

  I can do this.

  She felt Havily’s hand on her back very gently, a tender and welcome support. The comforting gesture allowed her to finally draw a deep breath.

  “This looks like the Super Bowl,” she cried.

  Havily nodded. She leaned close and spoke into her ear. “It’s time for the next leg of the journey. You ready?”

  Alison glanced at her and snorted. Also leaning close, she said, “Do I have a choice?”

  Havily shook her head. She straightened her spine. “Give ’em hell, ascendiate.”

  She guided Alison to the edge of the cordoned-off battle terrain, a lake of black matting scored with two opposing white diamonds.

  Once at the rope, Havily stopped. The applause had not ceased, nor the stomping of feet, nor the boos during her entire march. Once again, on several well-placed screens she saw her face, her serious expression, as Havily leaned close and spoke into her ear.

  “The area to the left belongs to Endelle’s faction and the opposite, of course, to the Commander. When you hear the bell you must desist fighting of any kind and return to the white diamond on the floor nearest Endelle. I will bring you restorative drinks.”

  She then inclined her head and glanced in the direction of the stands. “You will want to acknowledge Madame Endelle at this time.”

  Alison followed her gaze and watched as the Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth nodded to her. Alison returned a formal dip of her chin. The Warriors of the Blood flanked Her Supremeness, four on her right and four on her left. They wore the same formal regalia as Kerrick. All remained seated. Beyond, thousands of Militia Warriors, both male and female, stood applauding, cheering and stomping their feet. Her gaze slid to Kerrick, seated just to the left of Endelle. He met her gaze, put a fist over his heart, then inclined his head to her. Though the gesture brought tears to her eyes, it also calmed her, eased her.

  At least until Havily motioned with a sweep of her hand to the break in the ropes.

  The time had come.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, in her head. Her ears rang. Once more, she couldn’t feel her feet.

  Before taking this last step, she glanced at Havily, who met her gaze, then sent, I will beseech the Creator for help on your behalf. She offered a solemn formal bow then turned and walked in her sedate manner to take up a seat in the front row among others dressed in similar formal business attire.

  Alison suddenly wished she was back in her beat-up Nova, heading for the library, or Starbucks, or the nearest AMC. She wished she’d never heard of the Borderlands or the Trough or Second Earth. And why on earth had she ever sent that hand-blast into the air?

  Too late now.

  The moment she stepped through the opening in the ropes, the decibels of the shouting on both sides increased exponentially. She moved to take her place in the white diamond, her back to the Supreme High Administrator.

  She scanned the rows opposite and her gaze came to rest on the Commander, on Darian, her former client, now her enemy. He sat on an elevated dais in a very large, tall-backed carved chair. She still wondered the why of it, the year of therapy, what he could have meant by it and why he had chosen such a public place to orchestrate her death.

  His faction was surprisingly lacking in pomp and splendor, but then that wasn’t really his style. His generals bore a few feathers and interesting hats, which harked back a couple of centuries. However, in the thousands of seats beyond him, his warriors, many of them death vampires, sat in quite plain black uniforms, the front-piece turned back to reveal a triangle of maroon. In stark contrast, the Commander wore one of his elegant suits, a crisp white shirt, and a maroon-and-black tie. No sash, no Roman-influenced headgear, no thick row of medals, no braiding.

  He appeared, therefore, as she had always known him, the way he had come to her office in his expensive wool. His beautifully shaped bald head glimmered beneath the powerful arena lights. He leaned to one side, slightly to his left, both wrists settled on the armrests of his chair. He appeared relaxed yet wholly in command. Power rippled over him, around him, through him.

  Had she ever really known him?

  The answer had to be no.

  Though his army continued t
o boo her presence, the Commander met her gaze, smiled, then inclined his head as though nothing more were at stake than the results of an egg-and-spoon race at a picnic.

  Whatever.

  Uncertain exactly what was expected of her, she rather thought that if she was going to fight one of the Commander’s most powerful generals, she ought to be armed. As soon as the thought appeared in her mind, her identified sword appeared in her right hand, a single, swift maneuver, her fingers wrapped around the leather grip.

  A tremendous cheer erupted from behind her along with a renewed vigorous stomping of feet. She took up the warrior stance, learned from Kerrick’s memories, then settled the tip of the sword on the soft matting. She waited now with her left hand behind her back.

  Endelle’s crowd continued to cheer and stomp, another show of support, which brought her blood pressure down a little and her determination skyrocketing.

  After a full minute of standing with her sword balanced next to her, Endelle’s army began to boo quite suddenly.

  The enemy’s chosen warrior approached, though from where she stood she could not yet see him. She saw the floating cameras, though, stationed just outside the arch of a tunnel at a diagonal from her position. A moment more and his face appeared on the screen, followed once more by a sharp increase in audience response.

  Alison drew in a sharp breath.

  Leto. The warrior who had come down through the Trough, who had thrown the shredder bomb in the alley, who had appeared on the street flanked by death vampires while Kerrick had driven her absurd little Nova away from the downtown Phoenix Borderland.

  Leto. Former Warrior of the Blood. The Commander’s right-hand general. A traitor.

  God help her.

  For a full minute he stayed just out of her range of vision but he used the cameras to incite the crowd with a ferocity of expression, which worked the warriors behind her into a fury of more stomping feet and shouting voices, a storm of rage.

  When he finally appeared, she worked hard to maintain her composure. Leto topped out easily at Kerrick’s height. He was quite handsome and wore his black hair pulled back in the traditional warrior cadroen, which she took as a reflection of his former Warrior of the Blood status. Beyond his height, and also like Kerrick, his shoulders went on forever. He wore a black leather battle kilt and black leather gladiator-like shin guards and sandals. He had oiled his bare chest, which emphasized his enormous pecs and solid rippled abs. As he walked, he carried his sword arrogantly balanced against his shoulder. He kept his gaze pinned to her, his lips a grim line, his chin lowered.