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Something had to break in Endelle’s direction soon. Greaves seemed miles ahead of Endelle’s organization, and not just in manpower; the ass**le had a workable plan and he was workin’ his plan. He spent the majority of his time coaxing High Administrators from all over the world to join his forces. When he got enough of them on his side and when his army, a combination of regular soldiers and death vampires, swelled to just the right proportion, well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen next.
In the meantime, it was up to the Warriors of the Blood to keep the number of death vampires in check. Only Thorne’s elite group had the preternatural power as well as the pure physical strength to slay death vamps night after night, usually battling alone and usually battling three or more of the pretty-boys at the same time.
There was another policing unit, of course, the regular Militia Warriors. These squads served Second Earth all over the globe and, like the Warriors of the Blood, worked to keep death vampires in check. However, it usually took at least four Militia Warriors to bring down one death vampire—and even then casualties were heavy.
The Militia Warriors had training camps and received regular instruction from the Warriors of the Blood, although in recent months, given the activity at the various Phoenix Borderlands, what training the warriors could offer to the camps had dwindled to a trickle.
Bottom line? Endelle’s administration was officially up shit creek.
Okay, so maybe Endelle was right. Maybe Marcus was necessary.
Who was he kidding? Marcus should have been recalled fifteen years ago when the first of the High Administrators had defected, the proverbial handwriting on the wall. But holy shit, his brother warriors were not going to be happy, especially Kerrick. Goddammit, Kerrick would have a seizure the moment he saw the sonofabitch. When Kerrick’s wife had died, Marcus had said things to him no man should ever say to another man.
His gaze shifted to Sam, who wiped more glasses, all of which already sparkled like diamonds. He arranged them in neat tidy rows, adjusting for eighth-of-an-inch discrepancies. He polished all the bottles as well, a kaleidoscope of ambers and blues, melons and greens against the mirrored wall. He tidied and swept. The man had pride.
Another bartender, Sam’s nephew, served drinks up and down the bar, but Sam stuck close to Thorne. If a Warrior of the Blood was present, Sam served him personally. He had for over a century now.
Thorne tapped his glass on the counter. Sam moved forward then poured the Ketel again.
“You might as well tell me,” Sam said, a soft shout above the music.
Thorne’s gaze snapped to his. He scowled. He shifted his knee into the bar then formed a protective triangle with his hands around the tumbler. With his right thumb he rubbed the deeply grooved scar running down the inside of his left wrist, an old cut that extended almost to the center of his hand. Sam drew close, turning an ear toward him.
“Nothin’ to tell.” Shit, his voice sounded more gravelly than ever. Too many nights not sleeping.
Sam snorted. “You were with Endelle. There’s always something to tell. You’re bleeding from the stripes on your back.”
Thorne wanted to laugh at the image, but couldn’t. He dropped his gaze. He lifted the tumbler once more to his lips. A heavy sigh swept out of his parched throat, and he soothed it with a long solid slide of vodka. He let the burn float back up. He no longer winced. He hadn’t winced for years. He’d made a pact with Ketel and they’d both kept it … diligently.
Something dug at the back of his mind. What was it Kerrick had said? An itch he couldn’t scratch? Damn straight he had an itch.
Thorne met Sam’s gaze again. “She’s bringing Marcus back.”
Sam dropped the glass in his hand then swooped with preternatural vampire speed and caught it before it hit the floor. “Holy shit,” he muttered as he rose upright. His head waggled back and forth. He was a small man with a barrel chest. His shoulders were broad and he had no hips. He wore suspenders because there wasn’t a belt capable of holding up his pants. “Things are so bad, jefe? I thought she said she’d only bring him back if he sucked the black off the bottom of her stilettos.”
Thorne shrugged but then what the hell else could he do? The decision was already made.
He had only one response right now—he tapped the bar again.
His phone buzzed as Sam refilled his glass. He glanced at the message. He smiled. “Luken just texted,” he called out. “He took six down and he’s headed in.”
Sam let out a whoop. “Six. That Luken. He’s one powerful warrior.”
Thorne nodded. Luken was the peacekeeper of the bunch, and with Marcus heading toward Second later tonight, Luken’s ability to keep the brotherhood on an even keel would be put to the test.
“All the warriors in later?”
“Within the hour.”
* * *
Alison stood with her arms wrapped around her stomach, no less than six feet away at any given time from the winged man called Kerrick, Warrior Kerrick. Over the past ten minutes he had made his intention clear—he meant to protect her. What had he called himself, her guardian? He had reiterated, about a dozen times, that the death vamp wouldn’t be taking her blood tonight. What did any of this mean?
Right now her head was spinning and because of all the adrenaline in her system, her arms and legs shook like she had a chill. Was she looking at her death, right here, right now?
Despite the number of times the death vamp shifted his position, however, Warrior Kerrick had kept his powerful winged body between her and the beautiful pale-skinned creature still on the railing.
She understood the warrior’s tactic: to bring the killer in close, rather than risk becoming separated from her, which would leave her vulnerable to attack.
Oh, God. Was this even happening? She shifted her arms tighter around her abdomen. The shakes swept through her once more. Okay. She had to get control of these sensations. She refused to look at the black-winged creature any longer. She focused instead on … Kerrick. Yes, his name was Kerrick … Warrior Kerrick.
She drew in a deep breath. Better.
As much as she might question the reality of the situation, she had to admit that if this was still part of an elaborate hallucination, she had one fine imagination.
The warrior’s skin was a rich golden color, in marked contrast with the pale death vamp. He wore a black leather kilt and a harness, which ran down the center of his back between his wings. On his feet were gladiator-like sandals. He looked made for war, an ancient kind of war, a war conducted in the desert.
