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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 f**king 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.
