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Despite the displeased nature of these signs, Havily pressed on, giving statistics about hours and efficiency, when suddenly the architectural mock-up burst into flames, a monstrous sudden conflagration. As the flames reached to the ceiling, Havily backed up several feet, almost to the fireplace.
The next moment the flames disappeared abruptly, as well as even the smallest dust mote of her project. Vanished. Gone. Kaput.
Havily had the mildly hysterical thought that her work of three years had just gone up in smoke.
Her lips parted. Of all the things she had expected to happen during the interview, she had not expected this, a complete unwillingness on Madame Endelle’s part to hear even a word she had hoped to say, the speech she had practiced before her mirror dozens of times.
The Supreme High Administrator held Havily’s gaze for a long, tense moment, then said, “I’m trying to keep a mortal alive, not to mention attempting to prevent all of Second Earth from falling into the hands of a monster, and you brought me a goddamn dollhouse? Just do your f**king job, Morgan, and get the hell out of my office.”
Havily glanced at the lavender folder, which had fallen to the floor in the chaos. She held out her hand and brought it in a long glide through the air into her palm. She turned on her professional black heels and left her briefcase sitting there. What was the point? She hoped Endelle tripped over it.
She moved swiftly down the wide corridor with all the glass walls and ignored the tears tracking down her cheeks.
When she was within ten feet of the sliding doors, something large whizzed past her head—oh, her briefcase, in the form of a rocket—which then struck and demolished one of the glass panes leading into the hall. She paused for a moment, staring at the shattered glass.
Perfect.
She lifted her arm and dematerialized back to her office. She walked the length of the room back and forth, forcing her heart and mind to settle. Her disappointment was severe, painfully so. The tears wouldn’t stop. What was wrong with the Supreme High Administrator that she would not even listen to an idea?
She breathed in as she took brisk steps. She swiped at her cheeks, folded a tissue into her hand, and blew her nose. She had so much to contribute. She could make a difference in the war. Why couldn’t she get Madame Endelle to hear her?
After a few minutes, she began to calm down. A few minutes more and she brought the lavender folder once more into her hands then popped it open.
“Alison Wells,” she murmured. “Blah-blah-blah … preternatural empathy, dematerialization of objects, mental shields, blah-blah-blah.” With so much power, the Commander was probably planning her demise. Even with all seven warriors guarding her ass, Alison Wells would not likely survive her first two hours on Second. Hah!
These truly ungenerous thoughts had an effect. Havily’s rage fled as her conscience kicked in. To say she was severely disappointed was to say the least. She knew she had it in her power to make an enormous change for the better in Endelle’s administration. However, this ascendiate, the mortal Alison Wells, should not have to pay for her temper.
As she read the document, her eyes widened and she sucked air between pursed lips. The mortal could even dematerialize! Good God, she was powerful. She’d probably been in hiding on earth, maybe not literally but in a dozen other ways. She would need information, and lots of it, just to keep her sanity.
Very well.
She turned her organized mind to the task at hand and moved to her desk. She began making notes, all sorts of notes, starting with, Attempt to explain a difficult, callous, and quite ancient Supreme High Administrator to a hopeful ascendiate.
* * *
At midnight, as promised, Marcus folded to the steps outside Endelle’s administrative headquarters. He hadn’t been on Second in a very long time, not even to see what changes had occurred. As he looked up at the massive building then turned around in a circle, the architecture stunned him, as did the extensive intricate landscaping. Hanging gardens cascaded from dozens of floors.
Since he’d built half his massive fortune on the highly lucrative trade between Mortal and Second Earth, he’d seen many pictures, of course. However, the photos failed to capture the beauty of the modern world Second ascenders had created. Phoenix One had many strong buildings, but nothing like this.
The air smelled different than on Mortal Earth as well, cleaner, of course. There were fewer inhabitants to wreck the environment and there was also a deep commitment to plant life, which went a long way toward keeping the planet healthy, clean, oxygenated.
He took a deep breath. His chest felt strangely tight, absurdly emotional. Second had been his home for thirty-eight hundred years before he’d had his fill and returned in self-exile to Mortal Earth
Now he was … home.
Goddammit. His ascended vampire nature knew the difference between Mortal Earth and Second. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, to have such a profound sense of belonging.
He ground his teeth. Whatever the global society had been able to achieve in terms of the environment, however, the power struggles had been a disaster and his sister’s death had been the last straw. He’d blamed Kerrick for having married her, for having made her a target, and yet he’d also blamed so many other things. The Commander, for instance, should have been offed centuries ago, and Endelle’s administration was a sinkhole.
He moved into the building. Not knowing the layout, he took the elevator to the top.
Once in the hall, he saw the broken glass and paused. Turning around, he noticed that a black briefcase lay against the far wall where the glittering debris trailed to an end point.
Instinctively, he dropped into a crouch. His wing-locks set up a steady vibration. He took deep breaths. He extended his senses, reaching for the enemy target. Nothing returned to him.
Huh.
As he rose, he assessed the situation then snorted. Someone had lost her temper, no doubt. Typical.
He didn’t bother with the sliding doors. He stepped over the low metal casement of the broken window. The lights were off over the entire southern stretch of workstations. His gaze made a quick pass, hunting for anything out of place, a wink of light, a piece of furniture, anything.
But the only thing he detected as unusual was an odd scent in the air, a kind of perfume that made his neck muscles jump … and, shit, his groin muscles tighten.
What the hell?
He looked up and down the wide hallway. All he saw were a few ill-tended palms in enormous bronze pots and a row of sickly-looking pink plants fronting the glass office wall—nothing that could account for the fresh and rather sweet floral scent that assailed him. He flared his nostrils, parted his lips, and took in the scent, breathed it in, all the way into his lungs and into his brain. He exhaled and breathed again.
