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Damn. Kerrick’s thoughts flew back to Alison, and desire pumped through him so fast he had to turn back into the bar. Holy shit. He only had to think about the blond goddess and he was hard as a rock. He eased back onto his stool and spent the next minute memorizing the labels on the bottles opposite.
Normally he’d be out there taking care of business as well, easing his tension, letting the ache of his solitary life leak out of him for a minute or two, yet ever since he’d held Alison in his arms, he’d lost interest in smelling anything but lavender.
Kerrick brought his tumbler to his lips once more. As he took another hefty swig, his gaze hit the mirror opposite and landed on a space between a bottle of Absolut and another of Bacardi Superior. In that small, mirrored spot he caught Thorne’s tight expression as he stared into his tumbler.
Shit. Boss looked fazed, his expression fixed and staring. He clasped his hands on the bar, caging his tumbler of vodka. His right thumb dug into the well of a long deep scar, a sword wound that had nearly severed his left thumb from his hand many centuries ago. Thorne bore his responsibilities seriously yet he’d never appeared quite so blasted, and it wasn’t just because of the drink. Something was eating at him.
Thorne had seen over two thousand years of mortal and immortal life, and he’d borne the weight of the Warriors of the Blood for the last millennium. He was even responsible for handing out the Militia Warrior training assignments, although lately none of the brothers had been to the camps. Greaves had kept the Borderlands lit up for months so that improving Militia Warrior skills had fallen by the wayside.
Worse for Thorne, however, was his duty to Endelle. As her numero uno, he was linked to her telepathically, and that had to be one helluvan assfuck.
As Supreme High Administrator Endelle was in charge, but damn she gave bitch a bad name. She had reason, of course, since for God only knew how many centuries she’d shouldered the burden of keeping Greaves from nuking two worlds.
And Thorne served as her second-in-command.
Tonight he looked it as he sat rubbing his thumb into the scar, his eyes glazed, the lower half of his face hanging low like gravity had him by the jaw and was pulling hard.
“Hey,” Kerrick said quietly. “Why don’t you head out there and get busy?” He jerked his head to the dance floor where couples waited for the music to resume.
Thorne’s face moved through half a dozen expressions, ending in horror. “What the hell are you talking about? You know I’m celibate.”
Kerrick looked at him hard.
Thorne flipped him off but not in a friendly way.
“I meant no disrespect.”
Thorne turned and faced him. His eyes grew wet and he pinched his lips together. He shook his head several times. He clearly wanted to say something. He ground his molars then muttered a couple of obscenities. Finally, he said, “Aw, f**k. Just forget it.”
“Done.”
Thorne caught Sam’s gaze then swirled two fingers in the air. Once more Sam picked up his phone and ordered the music on full blast.
As the Black Eyed Peas’s “Pump It” started up, Kerrick returned to his glass and took a strong pull. Was this his future in a few more centuries? Staring mindlessly into a mirrored wall and lying to his friends, drinking like a fish, walking around like a dead man? Now, there was a vision to get excited about.
Once more he thought of the ascendiate, of Alison, but he clamped down hard on the images racing through his brain. Lust was too small a word for what he felt when he thought about her.
He ordered another Maker’s and decided he’d spend the next few minutes sinking into his own tumbler. Just as he raised his glass to his lips, the door to the club opened. A number of scents plowed into his brain and he sorted through them one after the other. The last faint bouquet reached him like the rumble of a tank just beyond the hill.
Lavender.
However, as he rose and stared at the doorway, only two Militia Warriors crossed the threshold. He waited, but no one else followed.
He turned back to drop onto his stool then sipped his Maker’s. Great. Now he was imagining Alison’s scent.
The rite of ascension only creates difficulty for those with highly evolved powers, but the contributions of service, which follow, astonish even the gods.
—From Treatise on Ascension, Philippe Reynard
Chapter 6
At eight o’clock Alison stared up at the sign hanging from a scrolled wrought-iron standard. The words THE BLOOD AND BITE gleamed in a beautiful red script against a black background just like the card she’d found at her feet earlier.
Beneath the words, like the card, a red rose lay prone.
Why was she here? She pressed a hand to her stomach then took a deep ragged achy breath. She could lie to herself and say she’d come solely to figure out why she had found a business card, bearing the club’s logo, lying at her feet. But the truth went deeper—so deep she trembled.
Oh, God. Was her future inside this club?
Looking up at the sign, however, she shuddered. The name of the club, the Blood and Bite, harked back to vampire lore. What kind of person would name a club something so obvious and so absurd? She could only imagine that those who frequented the establishment sported artificially sharpened incisors, tattoos, a whole lot of piercings.
Though the quite beautiful sign alone offered sufficient warning to make her skitter back into her log, right now she had to at least have a look inside.
Taking another cavernous breath, she put her feet in motion.
When she entered the club, the darkness of the environment as well as the flashing strobes shut her vision down for a few long seconds. As she waited near the entrance, her heart pounding, her fingers touched something soft.
Glancing to her right then squinting, she discovered she was looking at a long length of scarlet velvet. Her fingers glided down the soft fabric. How strange.
As her vision adjusted and she glanced once more around the club, she caught sight of a lot more red velvet covering a host of booths to her right. The choice struck her as bizarre, out of place, yet very sensual, which all added up to purpose. A woman might let down her guard in a place lined with such a sensual fabric. She had an odd impression she’d walked into a velvet trap.
The music pumped through the building. Gwen Stefani’s “The Sweet Escape.”
Her heart rate kicked up another notch.
The club was jammed, a real hot spot. She shifted her gaze in the direction of the dance floor. She could only see the bouncing heads and arms of a whole lot of people. She could barely make out a bar off to the left. To the right were rows of the velvet-clad booths, which, given their tall backs, provided a great deal of privacy. Did she just hear a moan?
