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She caught his gaze and held fast so that he stopped moving. “You think I didn’t feel guilty as hell about what happened to them?”
He looked away. Jesus, the pain of the whole damn thing started at his feet, flowed up his legs, hit his abdomen, and twisted his stomach into a knot. Shit. “It wasn’t your fault.” Not even a little since he knew exactly where the blame lay.
She released a sigh. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, to come back, even once, but it’s f**king great to have you here.”
Marcus resisted the pull, the deep tug on his soul whispering to him that he was home. He had known Endelle all of his ascended life, four millennia. They had a long history together, twice as long as even Thorne. But the hell he was staying. He just couldn’t.
“Three days, Endelle, from the time the female answers her call to ascension until she ascends, and not a second more. So why did you recall me? Why now?”
Endelle shrugged. She drummed her fingers on her desk. “I have a spasm in my back telling me the Commander’s ready to give us a good assfucking.”
“Your language has gotten even more flowery since I was here last and speaking of flowery, what the hell have you been doing? Have you got a PlugIn bouncing a perfume around? It’s even stronger in here. Sort of like honeysuckle.”
Her brows rose to perfect black arches over her brown eyes. She actually leaned back in her chair, and a smile formed off to the left side of her mouth. “Something flowery, huh? Sorry. No perfume, no PlugIns. Maybe one of the admins brought in a spray-bottle of Febreze. Of course, there was a woman in here a couple of hours ago. Maybe you’re smelling her perfume.”
He felt uneasy, like his nerves were being scraped raw one at a time. He glanced around. “Whatever it is, it’s bugging the shit out of me.”
“Affecting your Johnson?”
He just stared at her. Like hell he would cop to that.
For some f**ked-up reason, Endelle started to laugh. “Well, well. Isn’t this a kick in the pants. Two in one night. Can’t be a coincidence. Jesus. I’m starting to feel … hopeful.”
“What the hell are you rambling on about? Two what?” He kept glancing around trying to place the scent, which right now tickled his balls. Jesus H. Christ.
“So,” Endelle drawled. “You still know how to use a sword?”
* * *
Within the dream, the downtown Phoenix alley pulsed with energy. Alison walked along the fractured asphalt, her heart light, her mind aglow. She had been waiting for this her entire life, for an event so extraordinary that her life would be changed forever, transformed, that all would at last make sense to her, the strangeness of her abilities and powers, her sense of not fitting in, the deep longings she experienced that had for the past few weeks formed a powerful ache in her chest.
The dream shifted. Suddenly Darian appeared, the man now known to her as Commander Greaves. He materialized in front of her, beckoning her to come to him, to be with him, to serve him. Fear rained down on her head in heavy waves. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her legs trembled. The alley had become a place of danger.
Darian smiled in his gentle manner at first, then his large round eyes narrowed. A feral light entered his eye. His left hand transformed into a frightening claw.
Her heart thundered against her ribs. She had to leave the alley now. She tried to move, to turn away from him, to go the other direction, but her feet wouldn’t move. He advanced, closer, closer. There is still time. Come to me. The claw reached for her.
Alison woke up. Sat up. She was soaked and trembling. She covered her face with her hands. What was happening to her? Why the dreams? Why Darian? Why the alley? Why this longing so fierce that her heart felt ready to burst?
Why vampires and a vampire club?
She slid her legs over the side of the bed. She wore a camisole and soft cotton pajama bottoms, but the damp fabric irritated her suddenly too hot, too sensitive skin.
Sleep would not find her again anytime soon. The dream had wrecked her in every possible way. She even fought a heavy bout of tears.
Her thoughts turned back to the club, to seeing the warrior called Kerrick. Some of the tension inside her eased as she brought forward her memories of him.
At the medical complex, he had called himself her guardian. What had he meant by it, and what exactly was this dimensional world in which he lived? And why was she so ridiculously attracted to him?
She stood up, crossed her arms over her chest, then paced her bedroom, back and forth. She just didn’t understand her present reality. She felt compelled to action, to do something, but what?
She glanced at the clock. The minute hand ticked just past two in the morning. She made a quick decision. She would go to the alley right now. There had to be a reason why this particular Phoenix backstreet kept calling to her, kept appearing in her dreams.
As she dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and a light sweater, doubts assailed her once more. Two in the morning didn’t exactly bring out the best in a city, especially in some of the impoverished areas adjacent to downtown Phoenix.
On the other hand … the dreams! She was sick of them, of waking up to them, of waking up sweat-slick because of them.
The night’s events had tossed her life up into the air, and she needed to find out exactly where all the pieces were meant to land. After all, there had to be a very specific reason why she kept dreaming about this godforsaken alley.
* * *
At a quarter past two in the morning, Kerrick awoke to a stiff neck. He’d fallen asleep in a chair in his library and apparently crunched his neck in the process. He rubbed out the muscles, finding some relief though not much.
He looked down. He’d dropped off to sleep with a book about ascension history on his lap written by a rather pretentious Frenchman by the name of Philippe Reynard. Reynard taught at the university in Scottsdale Two and had risen as the acknowledged expert in his field. However, the information Kerrick sought, as in how to overcome the breh-hedden, or even any useful information on the subject, just hadn’t surfaced in this really pompous tome, Treatise on Ascension: A Cultural Perspective and Analysis. Jesus.
Reynard had called the Warriors of the Blood “the righteous backbone of modern society, the hope of the future, the wellspring of all good things.” He liked a compliment as well as the next guy, but this bullshit rankled. The warriors were anything but righteous, and as for a wellspring of all good things, “a death squad for pale blue things” would have been a lot more accurate.
Well, thank God he had the night off. Things seemed to be pretty quiet. Thorne hadn’t called once. Good. He could rest, set his resolve, and put some strategies in place for avoiding all contact with Alison should she choose to ascend.
