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“Shit,” he murmured.
She laughed but tears shimmered over her vision.
“Don’t fight me again,” he said.
She sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“Don’t have a choice.”
She closed her eyes. Despair forged a wedge in her heart once more. She hurt to her toes.
He put his hand on her forehead. She surrendered. Her mind eased away and the next thing she knew she sat on the third step of the cement stairs, alone. She looked around mystified. Why wasn’t she upstairs in her office locking up for the night?
She crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed as though trying to hold something in, but what? She wiped her cheeks. She’d been crying but for the life of her she didn’t know why. The feeling was familiar, though. For weeks now her chest had ached, pulling her heart south, which spoke to every longing she had ever had for a full life, a complete life. Maybe she didn’t know why she sat where she sat, or the present cause for tears on her cheeks, but alone-and-weeping made complete sense.
She glanced at her feet and noticed a business card sitting between the tips of her shoes. She reached down and picked it up. A red rose, lying prone against a glossy black background, lay beneath words printed in a lovely scarlet script, THE BLOOD AND BITE.
How strange was this? She’d dreamed about this nightclub several times over the past two weeks.
* * *
Marcus stood behind his massive desk, phone receiver in hand. He was in shock. Goddamn shock.
He released his strangled grip on the phone then hung the damn thing up. He looked through the glass, which topped his desk, to the sculpted gnarled base below. The base had been assembled from massive pieces of driftwood retrieved from the coast of the Olympic Peninsula and topped by a custom four-inch-thick piece of glass the length and width of a small car. Fabricated by a local artisan, the table had cost him over two hundred thousand dollars, a drop in the bucket compared with his entire fortune.
Yet he felt in danger of losing everything because of this one single f**king phone call.
He glanced at his TV. CNN ran twenty-four/seven. He knew Mortal Earth. He’d made a life here, goddammit. This was his life, the life he wanted, the life he’d chosen.
He turned to face the window, each hand now in a tight fist. He had an office near the top of a high-rise, which allowed for a magnificent view of Puget Sound. Another storm pounded Seattle and rain hit the window in successive waves, like a thousand fingertips tapping the panes all at once, releasing, then tapping again. Usually the sound soothed him. Right now, however, nothing was going to take the edge off.
He hadn’t heard that particular voice, an edgy sharp female voice, in two centuries. Endelle had not spoken a word to him since he quit her elite group of warriors, not since he walked out on all the vows he had taken, not since the day he’d flipped off his warrior brothers and left them for good, yeah, two hundred years ago.
And now she’d called him back. She had a job for him, a critical job. The war against the Commander had heated up, her warriors were worked to the max, and she needed him to take Kerrick’s place because the bastard had a major ascendiate to guard, or would as soon as the female answered her call to ascension.
Whatever.
For a split second he thought about hunting for the mortal woman himself and warning her away from the shitfest called Second Earth. Then again, who was he to say what was right for anyone else? Even he hadn’t left Second because he didn’t love his world. He did. He left for other reasons, reasons that still haunted him.
Fuck.
At least he’d only have to return for a handful of days, a few pebbles from the ass-end of the riverbed of his life, Endelle had said.
Like hell it would begin and end there.
Nor could he refuse and she knew it.
Goddammit.
His week was jammed. He had meetings with three of his boards over the next few days. Several international construction bids were in the works and one major contract with a Second Earth import firm. Tomorrow night he was scheduled to have dinner with a representative from one of the Middle East royal families and in an hour, he had a fang-date with an exquisite Canadian actress. He had an emerald necklace to give her, and he’d planned on spending most of the evening buried inside her then wiping her memory about midnight. He would leave her with the necklace accompanied by a single memory of beautiful sex and a sweet but necessary good-bye. She wouldn’t remember he’d sucked on her neck though she might be a little dizzy over the next two days.
Now he’d have to cancel his evening.
Goddammit.
He turned away from the window. His gaze once more fell to the woody swirls beneath the thick layer of glass, all the twisted limbs, sea-worn, smashed about by the heavy Pacific waves, gnarled and smooth. He thought of Endelle’s eyes, the ancient lined appearance of her brown eyes. He thought about her sacrifice of service to Second.
He owed her this.
He pressed the tips of his fingers hard into the block of glass. Too hard. He eased back.
He’d made a life for himself on Mortal Earth, a goddamn beautiful life full of all the money he could want, all the women, all the toys. He’d just ordered a Harley 1200 Nightster and the newest Jaguar. Both would eat up the coastal roads like the blast of a rocket, rain or shine.
But he had to go. He had no choice. When he left the Warriors of the Blood he’d promised Endelle one thing—if she ever needed him, truly needed him, he would come. After all, he wasn’t a completely narcissistic bastard.
He thought about what he’d be doing over the next several days, putting his life on the line and all his plans on hold. He thought about his fang-date. To hell with it. Endelle and the warriors would have to wait until goddamn midnight before he left Mortal Earth. He’d get laid first.
Other thoughts intruded, thoughts beyond battling, the reason he’d left the warriors in the first place, the reason he no longer lived on Second. It was simple. At the time, if he’d stayed, he would have killed Kerrick for what he’d done.
He still would.
His fingers ached now from the pressure he once more leveled on the glass. Part of his mind warned him to back off, but the other part had turned a brilliant shade of red. His need for revenge hadn’t changed, not even a little. As God was his witness, he’d get Kerrick’s neck in his hands and he’d kill that sonofabitch.
The table shattered at the exact same moment a roar left his throat.
* * *
Kerrick felt blasted from the inside out. The sheer strain of trying not to think about Alison Wells made his eyes feel like he’d rubbed them with sandpaper.
