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She glanced at the window of her bedroom. At least it had been repaired already. Medichi had arranged for it, calling in a couple of favors to make sure that her home was safe once more. Safe. Now, there was a joke.
Militia Warriors swarmed the property, at least two dozen of them, some in front of her town house, some in her patio, a few more in the yard to the east of her home, a couple within her house, and another bunch traipsing along the exposed west side of her property. Behind the enclosed patio, Camelback Mountain climbed in a steep rocky incline to its twelve hundred feet.
The Militia Warriors treated her like a delicate orchid because she’d once been engaged to one of their own, her beloved Eric. Even though that had been fifteen years ago, the Militia Warrior family looked after her. The fact that she’d been attacked in her home had telegraphed through the ranks like lightning, and the assignment to protect her had been picked up by several of Eric’s good friends, a testament to his character and their loyalty.
However, not a single Militia Warrior was a match for even the weakest death vampire, which was part of the reason Second Earth was in such desperate straits these days. Knowing that these men were at risk had her pacing the patio and even rubbing her arms, though the June temp had already climbed past a hundred and it was maybe ten in the morning. What distressed her the most was that she didn’t want to be the cause of a Militia Warrior’s death. Should the enemy attack, men would die, good men, some of them with families, and all because of her.
She put her hand on her throat. The fangs in her neck had been savage but, because of her quick healing, and Horace’s help, she didn’t even show a bruise. She paced and shook her head. The death vampire who had attacked her, Crace, had intended to do damage, to hurt her, to make her scream. She had fought his hold on her because the pain had been excruciating.
She felt nauseated by the thought. She put her fist to her mouth and bit her thumb to keep from screaming.
How had this happened? Why had this happened? She didn’t have advanced powers, not like Alison, not like any of the Warriors of the Blood. Why on earth had Crace targeted her? It made no sense.
She had always felt inadequate that her ascension, which had required a warrior guardian, had been such a fierce disappointment to Madame Endelle and probably to the brothers as well. The side of right desperately needed powerful ascenders, but here she was putting so many in jeopardy—and for what?
Her eyes burned. The only remotely powerful thing she’d done was to have an inexplicable vision and arrange for Thorne to get over to the Superstitions and save Luken’s life. Everyone kept saying that she had saved Luken but Thorne had killed the death vampires, Thorne had gotten Horace and an ambulance to the Superstitions, Thorne, Thorne, Thorne.
She brushed her tears away and slapped at a few low-hanging ficus leaves as she whirled and paced the other direction. The three Militia Warriors in the patio looked anywhere but at her.
At least the attack last night had prevented a recurrence of the dreams she somehow shared with Warrior Marcus.
“Havily.”
A deep, warm masculine voice called to her from the sliders that led to her kitchen. She whirled and gave an odd wave as she caught sight of Medichi. Then she did the worst thing she could. She burst into a bout of really embarrassing girlish tears.
“Hey,” he called out. The Militia Warriors each took a step away from him in deference as he crossed the patio. He was so tall, so heavy with muscle that he seemed to take up the entire small space. He gathered her against him and held her close. “Hey,” he murmured again, petting her hair. She relaxed into his warm body.
“You didn’t have to come by,” she mumbled against his chest. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” The Warriors of the Blood fought all night and needed to rest during the day.
She felt him sigh. “I can always sleep,” he said. “So how you doin’, although I think I can guess.” He had a very deep voice and his chest rumbled against her face as he spoke.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” she whispered.
“Not one of these men gives a rat’s ass about that. We’re here for you. We’ll die for you and you’re worth every damn molecule of effort. Look at me.”
She drew back about half an inch and craned her neck to look up at him.
She heard a soft intake of breath as he blinked down at her. She saw his throat move in a rippling wave as he swallowed. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and seemed to gather himself. When he opened his eyes he said gently, “Call him back. We need him and you need him.”
She didn’t pretend she didn’t know he was talking about Marcus. And maybe she should call him back. Maybe it was the only sensible thing to do.
She was about to reassure him that she would think about it when another deep masculine voice called out, this one with more resonance and punch to his words. “How about you take your hands off her, ass**le.”
Havily gasped as Medichi’s hands fell away. The three Militia Warriors stationed in the patio turned in his direction, swords drawn, but each almost immediately pointed his sword toward the ground. “Sorry, sir,” flowed from mouth to mouth.
Medichi shifted and turned, which afforded Havily a perfect view of … Marcus. He didn’t look at her but glared at Medichi. His muscled shoulders were up around his ears and his hands were knotted into a pair of heavy fists.
Marcus was here? At her home? On Second?
Medichi took a step away from Havily, then another. He lifted his hands, palms facing Marcus. “I was just leaving,” he said, and before Havily could protest, the flutter of air near her told her he was dematerializing.
She lifted a hand in Medichi’s direction, not wanting him to leave her alone with Marcus, but too late.
She turned to settle a scathing glance on him. “Why are you here?” she cried, lifting an imperious brow and crossing her arms over her chest. She may crave him, she may even have thought she should consider asking him to come back for her sake, but ultimately, she still thought he was a horrible deserter and wanted nothing to do with him.
The terrible bond of the breh-hedden,
Breaks down walls.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 7
Marcus stared at Havily. The decision to come to her had cost him so much and now all he could do was stare at her and wonder. He drew in a long drag of air through his nostrils, letting the honeysuckle scent of her scrape his nose raw. He loved every millisecond of it, every flare of nerve ending as his brain pounded with the certain knowledge that he had come home. At long last, he was home.
