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“Time to move on.”
Marcus gained his feet. “I did move on. I said to hell with this world and returned to Mortal Earth. I like it there … I mean here.” He swept an arm to encompass the downtown cross street and alley. “I’m only fighting because I promised Endelle one favor. After this gig is up, you won’t see me again … ever.”
Medichi nodded. “I know.” His eyes had gotten old in the past two hundred years even if his body had remained exactly as Marcus remembered.
Medichi’s gaze scanned the area. “You make f**king great mist and you fight like hell.” His jaw tensed, relaxed. “I would have died here tonight if it weren’t for you.” He nodded several more times.
“You gonna get soft on me and offer up a thank-you?”
Medichi turned his head slowly. His lips curved. “I’ll offer a f**k you.”
“Accepted.” Marcus looked away. “How soon before we have company again?”
“Any time now. For the past few months they’ve been coming in waves, not like before when you were here and we sometimes had hours until another squad showed up.” His head wagged. “I remember when we had time to take care of some business at the Blood and Bite. Not anymore. We’ll be busy just like last night … all night.”
Marcus drew in deep breaths. He could feel the air start to ice up. His wing-locks responded with a dedicated thrum. He stepped away from Medichi, not wanting to injure him. During a wing-mount, anyone too close could get knocked flat.
Medichi’s chest swelled. “They’re coming.”
Marcus looked up at the night sky. “Floating down on the Commander’s breath.”
“Three of his generals can perform the trick as well.”
“Shit.”
“You got it.”
The air turned icy cold. Marcus folded his sword into his hand. Medichi dropped the now bloody cloth, letting it fall to the asphalt. He whipped the dagger from the slot in his front harness.
Eleven so far.
Jesus H. Christ.
And now another squad … or more.
Marcus felt his wing-locks twitch all down his back. He took two more deep breaths and mounted his wings. Three times now, in one night. Goddamn, that felt good. His wings, light brown with bands of light green, expanded in a vast sweep over his head. His abs tightened as the death vamps dropped out of the sky.
“We need you, Marcus. Thorne will never say it but I will. We need you to come back.”
“Never gonna happen.” The air had dipped to arctic levels, and he shivered.
“Huh,” Medichi muttered.
“What?”
“That green banding on your wings. Same color as Havily’s eyes.”
Shit. Marcus really didn’t want an excuse to think of Havily … and now every time he popped his wings, dammit, he’d think of her.
Great. Just great.
He focused his attention on the pretty-boys. This group had a Latin look, brown skin, dark eyes, black hair, and so good-looking that for just a moment Marcus forgot why he had a sword in hand. “So goddamn beautiful,” he muttered.
“They all look alike to me,” Medichi said, laughing. “Hey, Marcus … you sure have one helluva pair on you. Wings, I mean.”
Marcus didn’t want to laugh, but he did. “Bastard,” he muttered. He held his sword straight up, both hands on the leather-wrapped handle, his gaze glued to the, yeah, two squads, eight death vamps, all winged up and flying in their direction. “Come on, motherfuckers. Don’t be shy.”
One second more and he launched into the air.
* * *
Alison couldn’t stop smiling. She had been working the sword in large, now familiar arcs and she was still surprised by how it felt. She paused, holding the sword upright in both hands. Even after several minutes small jolts of lightning still swept over her fingers and rippled up her hands and arms. How magical it felt. A rush of pleasure kept swirling through her head.
The sword was hers, 100 percent. She could feel it. She had the weirdest sensation of both ownership and belonging and she loved it. Home. The sword felt like home, which hardly made any sense at all.
She glanced at Kerrick. For the entire duration of her sword love-fest, he’d been pushing furniture to the edges of every room in the house. Right now he was corralling one of the warrior-sized leather chairs in the direction of the far wall near a massive fireplace built of stone.
This is so strange, she sent.
He gave the chair a final shove and it banged against the wall. He turned to look at her. “Third technology. One of the few gifts we’ve received from our next highest earth. More like a bond than ownership, right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
She started swinging her sword again, slashing, moving, twirling. She felt Kerrick’s learned experience in the muscles of her legs and arms, shoulders and back. Even her wrist moved differently and the sword made sense in her hand, an old friend.
“Jesus,” she murmured. She turned once more to meet his gaze. “This is like some kind of miracle.”
He was done moving furniture and stood in front of her. “You’ve got the right grip on your weapon and your stance is perfect.”
She nodded. Her mind still felt a little loose, like it had been stretched to great lengths and was finding its way back into itself. However, when he folded his sword into his hand, she felt a thrill roll through her, a warrior’s thrill. Holy hell. A smile pulled at her lips and cheeks. A smile? Goddamn, she wanted to fight and now she had a new vocabulary.
All down both sides of her back, angling in a wide V-formation, she felt a tingling sensation. Wing-locks?
What a rush.
She didn’t have them yet, of course. Kerrick said given her level of power she might develop wings before the first year was out. Right now, she did feel their presence, their beginning, and it was a rush. If she ascended, she would grow fangs and wings. Of course, that was one thought too many, and she weaved on her feet.
Better to focus right now on just the sword, just learning to fight for who-knows-what-reason.
When he narrowed his eyes and dropped his shoulders, her biceps flexed as though understanding exactly what he meant by those simple physical signs. She brought the sword in front of her and held it with both hands, fully upright. She felt a need to growl, which was ridiculous but then in this moment she was more warrior than therapist, more Kerrick in muscle memory than Alison.
He nodded in approval but his chin dipped and his eyes took on that fierce cut-emerald appearance, entirely without compassion.
