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Could she get there again without having an erotic dream of Marcus or without seeing someone she loved caught in a burning sky?
She closed her eyes. She concentrated very hard. She tightened every muscle in her body. She thought about different places and willed herself to move there. She even thought about Marcus’s bed on Bainbridge Island, but nothing happened.
She sighed. She was so tired. She needed sleep badly.
The trouble was she feared waking up on top of Marcus again.
She put a hand to her chest and pressed hard. She needed to let him go. She really did. They could never have a life together. Her loyalty was to the Warriors of the Blood and he had betrayed them by leaving Second Earth and exiling himself in Seattle One.
But the mere thought of him, of being with him, of being engaged sexually with him, sent her fatigue flying away from her brain.
She groaned and rolled out of bed. She wore another cream lace nightgown, this one with a pleat down the center just below a high bodice. She wondered if Marcus would like it. Of course he would. He wore Tom Ford and looked like he stepped from the pages of GQ. And she loved his hair longer. She was used to warrior hair, which she thought extremely sexy.
So what did it mean that she and Marcus had been brought together like this? Some horrible trick of fate? He was so the last man she would have chosen for herself—except in physical essentials, of course. What red-blooded female wouldn’t want Warrior Marcus? He was built like a Greek god, or in this case a Sumerian deity.
She paced her bedroom, the soft fabric of her long nightgown brushing between her legs, the silky texture a sensual glide over her skin. Even her nightgown made her wish for things she shouldn’t be wishing for.
She paced to the windows and felt a vibration of air behind her. She whirled around, her heart flying upward. “Marcus?” she whispered. Had he come to her? Had he needed further talk? Oh, would he take her to bed? Hope soared. “Marcus?”
A man emerged—a very large muscled man with pale, bluish skin. “Not exactly.”
She took a step backward. “Who are you?” She didn’t know the vampire but he was huge, warrior huge. He was muscular and fighting-lean but he didn’t have a sword in his hand; nor did he wear a weapons harness. He didn’t even have on a shirt, just a black leather kilt and battle sandals. His complexion was very pale and he was unearthly beautiful. Oh, dear God.
“My name is Crace,” he said quietly, his voice a seductive lure.
She was about to lift her hand and dematerialize but his hand shot up into the air and she felt the field, a powerful one, fall around her. Panicked, she tried again to dematerialize but couldn’t. She couldn’t even move.
“What do you want?” she cried.
His gaze drifted down her body, paused at her br**sts, then fell the length of her. He blinked and brought his eyes back to meet hers. “First, your blood, at least some of it. Then we’ll just have to see.”
Oh, God, oh, God.
She had only one recourse. She drew inward mentally and sent a cry for help straight to Warrior Medichi. Death vampire, she sent. In my bedroom.
“Shit,” the death vampire cried out. “You’ve got a f**king link. Well, he won’t get here in time, my dear.”
Then the big body, bearing fangs, descended on her. Behind him she saw four additional death vampires, waiting, more beautiful unearthly creatures that moved like fog into her bedroom, apparently ready and willing to watch the fun and wait for turns.
As sharp fangs punctured her skin, she cried out in pain. The monster tore her neck open. Oh, God. Her mind spun. Would the link work? God help her if it didn’t.
* * *
Deep within Medichi’s mind, Havily’s cry for help sounded like the shriek of a hawk. When her words pierced his brain, he cried out in agony because he couldn’t stop what he was doing to fold to her position. Three death vamps had him fully engaged on Mortal Earth, at the White Tanks Dimensional Borderland.
He had to get to her.
Time to get f**king serious. He dipped his chin and pulled his dagger from his weapons harness. While clanging swords with his right hand he let the dagger fly and caught the pretty-boy to his left straight in the eye. The bastard flew backward screaming.
Behind him, he felt the air move. He spun, ducked, and shoved his sword deep into the belly of the second vampire. At almost the same moment, as he moved with preternatural speed, he whirled back and his sword rasped against metal once more.
His last opponent was skilled, a Japanese warrior who knew how to wield a sword. A battle, blade upon blade, would take too f**king long. Medichi dematerialized and re-formed behind the bastard, catching him straight through the spine.
He didn’t wait to see if more came; nor did he call Jeannie at Central for cleanup. He had to get to Camelback Mountain. Now.
He folded to Havily’s patio. Behind the master bedroom window he saw an enormous warrior framed in the moonlight, bending her flailing body backward as he drank from her. She screamed and beat at him with her fists, but what chance did she have with that much raw muscle? Her movements slowed until her arms fell to her sides.
Even in the dim light, Medichi saw red.
He extended his hand, set up a field, and shattered the window, drawing it toward him, away from Havily.
The warrior drinking from her throat lifted his head. Medichi watched in slow motion as his fangs left the white throat. A smile formed on the bastard’s face. A look of euphoria hit him as he dropped Havily, letting her fall to the floor. Her eyes were closed, her body limp.
Medichi lowered his chin and went for him, sword in hand, but even before he reached the low windowsill the warrior lifted his hand. He dematerialized and four death vamps came into view. Medichi stepped over the threshold, ready to engage, but they disappeared as well, which meant the first bastard possessed enough power to take them along for the ride. Holy shit. Who was this ascender with the brawn of the Warriors of the Blood and power that came close to echoing the Commander?
Whatever.
Right now, Havily came first.
He folded his sword to his villa, fell to his knees, and examined her. Sweet Jesus, her throat was a mess. He lifted Havily into his arms, but she started fighting him and shouting, which was a good thing, except her nails bit into his arms.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispered. “Havily. It’s me. Antony. I’m here. I’m here. He’s gone.”
She stilled, gasped, then cried out, a hand clutching her bloody neck. “Is he gone?”
“Yes. He’s gone. You’re safe now.”
