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“I’ve got your back. ”
Kerrick whirled and glared at Thorne. “Do whatever the fuck you want. Just keep away from the woman. ”
Thorne nodded. “Understood. ”
Kerrick wanted to knock him flat … for no reason. He shifted back around, his hands closing into heavy fists. He flexed his wing-locks.
The row of booths was jammed with people, coming and going. The wet sounds of sex slugged at his ears and ratcheted his temper up a notch, and then another. He didn’t know what he would do if he found her engaged in any of these acts.
He sharpened and lengthened his vision.
Halfway down the crowded row, the path cleared and he had a perfect view of a tall woman who faced two Militia Warriors.
Alison.
Alison.
Time froze; his feet as well. He couldn’t move. He could only look, wonder, crave, stunned like a beast caught in the headlights.
She was sexy as hell with soft crimped curls dangling past her shoulders and down her back, so different from the tight, controlled twist at the medical center. She wore a short black skirt, which revealed long legs that kept on going. Her scarlet halter was cut low enough to expose a swell of high firm breasts. God, her beauty lit up his head. His body followed. He craved her.
The trail of her scent reached him and struck hard. Woman and heady lavender formed a cocktail and set off grenades throughout his suddenly starved body.
Breh-hedden ripped through his head.
Bonded-mate.
In a fraction of a second he slid his mind over hers, pressed hard, broke through her shield—damn, what power—and finally read her. She stumbled because of it but at least now he knew what was going on.
She had come to the club because of a series of dreams and because of the card he’d left her. So he was right. She had been in the middle of a call to ascension. She’d also come in hopes of a slow dance against a hard male body. He could give her a slow dance and anything else she wanted.
He also read the lustful state of the warriors who had tried and failed to sink her into a seductive thrall. He had to get her away from them. The muscles in his arms tightened and a maroon haze clouded his vision. His mind shouted to her, Come to me now.
She shifted her gaze to him and looked him up and down. The lights flashed erratically in the dark club, and his vision adjusted for every discrepancy. The sun might as well have illuminated her every feature. Her cheeks turned a dusky rose, her lips parted, and her breathing grew shallow.
Oh, yeah, she liked what she saw.
His mind reached for her again, Come to me, Alison.
Much to his shock, she shot back, And who the hell are you to command me?
Damn, she didn’t remember him. He wished now he hadn’t sliced her memories. Still, he had no intention of arguing with her.
He lowered his chin and moved with preternatural speed. He intended to rescue her from the unwanted attentions of the two males and to claim her for his own. But by the time he reached her she had disappeared. She had folded from the club.
He clenched his fists again, drawing his forearms up at the same time. Sonofabitch. Though he had the capacity to mentally trace her path, he couldn’t give pursuit because he couldn’t fold from location to location. Goddammit. He stood within an arm’s reach of his woman yet because of his folding weakness, she might as well have been in Paris or Beijing rather than fucking Phoenix One.
Unfulfilled need raged through his body. He lifted his head and roared at the ceiling, the full-throated cry of a male caught in the hard-core grip of breh-hedden and unable to complete the act.
The maroon sheen darkened his eyes further. His neurons scrambled. His thoughts lost all remaining sequence. The two Militia Warriors, smaller in stature than any of the Warriors of the Blood, backed away. Thorne shot in front of them and shouted, “Fold! Now!”
Kerrick slammed into Thorne as he reached for the warriors, but grabbed air. He turned to Thorne and lifted his fists ready to do battle. Thorne caught one of his bunched hands in a powerful grip, held on, then folded them both out of the Blood and Bite.
Kerrick blinked. A new location. He vaguely recognized the Cave, the place where the Warriors of the Blood went just to chill, usually after a night of battling.
There was no lavender here, and in quick stages his consciousness returned.
More figures entered the space. A wall of hard male bodies appeared, some in flight gear, others dressed in cargoes and tees like he was. Some smiled. Others watched, stunned. His mind opened suddenly. He recognized the men, warriors all—Thorne, Medichi, Luken, Santiago, Zacharius, and Jean-Pierre. His Brothers of the Blood. What the hell was he doing here?
“Get him a drink,” Luken called out.
“I’m on it,” Medichi said, heading to the bar opposite the pool table.
* * *
Liaison Officer Havily Morgan knew she could make a difference in the war, if given half a chance. She was sure of it. She felt it to the tips of her fingers, to the ends of her toes.
Central had just called. The Supreme High Administrator had finally summoned her, and though the hour was late, nearly nine o’clock, she didn’t care. At long last her chance had come to begin her campaign.
She stood in the center of her living room, a hand pressed to her chest, her heart ramming out a fast cadence. She was dizzy, excited … and, yes, relieved.
Fifteen years ago her fiancé, a dedicated Militia Warrior, had been taken from her, his body brutalized by a death vamp and drained of his precious blood. Since that time Havily had lived with a fire in her belly, driven to make sure that his death had not been in vain.
She had met him shortly after his transfer from Los Angeles to Phoenix. She had fallen for him so fast, a brilliant tumbling that had led to a betrothal a mere six months into his tour of duty in the Valley of the Sun.
She had waited a long time for love, nearly one full century from the time of her ascension. Losing Eric, after having waited for decades for exactly the right man to come along, had destroyed her heart, her belief that she would ever know love in this ascended world.
Her life had been altered irrevocably when he had failed to come home after his shift, when she’d received the dreaded call, when she’d learned of his horrible fate.
Yet out of her suffering her passion had been born, passion for finding a way to change the course of the war. Above all, she had promised herself that Eric’s death would not be in vain.
Unable to serve on the front lines, since she was in no way suited to wield a sword, she applied herself to figuring out what she could do. The more she researched the difficulties facing Madame Endelle as Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth, especially from the time the first High Administrator defected to the Commander’s side, the more she saw what needed to be done. Call it a vision, but she knew, she knew, that a completely redesigned military-administration complex would go a long way to preventing more defections from the ranks of the High Administrators.
And tonight she would begin the process of making a difference in her world.
She smiled. She looked through the window at the night skyline visible from her Camelback Mountain home. Her town house was situated at the foothills, and the location gave her a stellar view of South Mountain as well as Endelle’s administrative headquarters farther to the east. She had bought this house in order to be close to Madame Endelle’s place of rule.
Still buzzing with excitement, she hurried to her office. Madame Endelle had demanded her immediate presence, so she had only a handful of minutes to make her preparations. Her primary concern was which of her presentations to take with her. She immediately dismissed the idea of PowerPoint since it would involve setting up a screen, running cables, and interfacing with a computer and digital projector. She sighed. Endelle would not have the patience for setup time.
She wished she had the p
reternatural ability of presenting her vision directly from her mind to the screen. However, to her knowledge no one could stream mental images, at least not on Second Earth. Maybe Third or Fourth, but not Second. There were a great many limitations to personal power on Second.
Okay. No PowerPoint.
Still, she smiled. She could not believe this was happening. Madame Endelle had summoned her. All her e-mails had finally gotten through. Or perhaps her beautifully crafted professional correspondence, for which she used the best letterhead with a watermark depicting a pair of full-mount wings, her own design. In the end, she had only one real choice, a project that had taken a full three years of off-hours to create. On a table tucked into a corner to the right of the door sat a large portable display case, in black leather, which bore a sturdy handle.
The size of the case was deceptive. Once she set the case on the table and unlatched the sides, the cleverly designed multi-layered complex, coupled with her telekinetic powers, rose to a height of five feet, spreading some eight feet in length and another three feet in width. She had worked with an architect for months to get every detail exactly right.
Beyond the excellence of the architectural display, she was ready for this moment. She had practiced her presentation over and over. Fifteen years of hard work and she now had her meeting.
She waved a hand and changed into her best Ralph Lauren jacket, black of course, including a black pleat-front blouse. She wore four-inch heels, putting her at six-two and hopefully somewhere near Madame Endelle’s six-five height depending on the size of heels the Supreme High Administrator wore. Havily intended to leave nothing to chance.
She stepped in front of a full-length mirror. Appearances were important, especially to Her Supremeness. She chided herself for using the slang appellation. Madame Endelle. Madame Endelle. She repeated the words and kept her voice clipped and formal.
She scrutinized her reflection. She didn’t have time to affect a formal chignon so she left her hair loose, a flow of soft peachy-red over her black suit. She nodded. Her makeup was still flawless from the morning’s effort. Thank God for improved cosmetics on Second Earth. She nodded again.
Her eyes, however, were a little bloodshot, not unexpected given the lateness of the hour.
No more stalling. Havily Morgan, get your beautiful self over there … now.