His gaze shifted to Sam, who wiped more glasses, all of which already sparkled like diamonds. He arranged them in neat tidy rows, adjusting for eighth-of-an-inch discrepancies. He polished all the bottles as well, a kaleidoscope of ambers and blues, melons and greens against the mirrored wall. He tidied and swept. The man had pride.
Another bartender, Sam’s nephew, served drinks up and down the bar, but Sam stuck close to Thorne. If a Warrior of the Blood was present, Sam served him personally. He had for over a century now.
Thorne tapped his glass on the counter. Sam moved forward then poured the Ketel again.
“You might as well tell me,” Sam said, a soft shout above the music.
Thorne’s gaze snapped to his. He scowled. He shifted his knee into the bar then formed a protective triangle with his hands around the tumbler. With his right thumb he rubbed the deeply grooved scar running down the inside of his left wrist, an old cut that extended almost to the center of his hand. Sam drew close, turning an ear toward him.
“Nothin’ to tell.” Shit, his voice sounded more gravelly than ever. Too many nights not sleeping.
Sam snorted. “You were with Endelle. There’s always something to tell. You’re bleeding from the stripes on your back.”
Thorne wanted to laugh at the image, but couldn’t. He dropped his gaze. He lifted the tumbler once more to his lips. A heavy sigh swept out of his parched throat, and he soothed it with a long solid slide of vodka. He let the burn float back up. He no longer winced. He hadn’t winced for years. He’d made a pact with Ketel and they’d both kept it … diligently.
Something dug at the back of his mind. What was it Kerrick had said? An itch he couldn’t scratch? Damn straight he had an itch.
Thorne met Sam’s gaze again. “She’s bringing Marcus back.”
Sam dropped the glass in his hand then swooped with preternatural vampire speed and caught it before it hit the floor. “Holy shit,” he muttered as he rose upright. His head waggled back and forth. He was a small man with a barrel chest. His shoulders were broad and he had no hips. He wore suspenders because there wasn’t a belt capable of holding up his pants. “Things are so bad, jefe? I thought she said she’d only bring him back if he sucked the black off the bottom of her stilettos.”
Thorne shrugged but then what the hell else could he do? The decision was already made.
He had only one response right now—he tapped the bar again.
His phone buzzed as Sam refilled his glass. He glanced at the message. He smiled. “Luken just texted,” he called out. “He took six down and he’s headed in.”
Sam let out a whoop. “Six. That Luken. He’s one powerful warrior.”
Thorne nodded. Luken was the peacekeeper of the bunch, and with Marcus heading toward Second later tonight, Luken’s ability to keep the brotherhood on an even keel would be put to the test.
“All the warriors in later?”
“Within the hour.”
* * *
Alison stood with her arms wrapped around her stomach, no less than six feet away at any given time from the winged man called Kerrick, Warrior Kerrick. Over the past ten minutes he had made his intention clear—he meant to protect her. What had he called himself, her guardian? He had reiterated, about a dozen times, that the death vamp wouldn’t be taking her blood tonight. What did any of this mean?
Right now her head was spinning and because of all the adrenaline in her system, her arms and legs shook like she had a chill. Was she looking at her death, right here, right now?
Despite the number of times the death vamp shifted his position, however, Warrior Kerrick had kept his powerful winged body between her and the beautiful pale-skinned creature still on the railing.
She understood the warrior’s tactic: to bring the killer in close, rather than risk becoming separated from her, which would leave her vulnerable to attack.
Oh, God. Was this even happening? She shifted her arms tighter around her abdomen. The shakes swept through her once more. Okay. She had to get control of these sensations. She refused to look at the black-winged creature any longer. She focused instead on … Kerrick. Yes, his name was Kerrick … Warrior Kerrick.
She drew in a deep breath. Better.
As much as she might question the reality of the situation, she had to admit that if this was still part of an elaborate hallucination, she had one fine imagination.
The warrior’s skin was a rich golden color, in marked contrast with the pale death vamp. He wore a black leather kilt and a harness, which ran down the center of his back between his wings. On his feet were gladiator-like sandals. He looked made for war, an ancient kind of war, a war conducted in the desert.
The argument between Kerrick and the killer continued, always with the warrior’s refusal to negotiate. The death vamp often flew away from the railing to make a pass or two and look at Alison, but he never failed to return to the refuge of the two-story catwalk perch, a standoff that afforded her the chance to continue her appraisal of her would-be guardian.
She couldn’t fathom either the magnificence of the wings, taller than his height by several feet, or the intricately muscled back that supported them. The feathers were a very pure white in contrast with the killer’s glossy black pair. She wanted to move forward and touch them, to see how they did what they did. Was the structure hard or soft, and how could wings of this size emerge just from his back? On the other hand, how could she do half the things she could do—read minds, send hand-blasts of inexplicable power, dematerialize, capture pockets of time in order to reassemble smashed windows?
The man, the warrior, stood at least six-six and every exposed part of his body bore heavy, ripped muscles. He had thick wavy black hair, which appeared to be damp, flowing away from his face to his shoulders and a few inches beyond. Every muscle in his body had been honed, probably from years of this kind of police or military service, or whatever it was he did.
She glanced from him to the death vampire. The creature with the black wings resembled the mythical vampire—he was beautiful in a way that mesmerized, and he used his fangs to drink people to death. In contrast, Kerrick was nothing like the popular freakish, emaciated images. No, he was all man, warrior, and incredibly built. Not the stuff of night-feeding vampire legend at all. He was so much more than that—moral, protective, a self-proclaimed guardian.
She had touched his mind.
He. Was. Honorable.
The longings she had felt earlier returned in full measure and intensified, crushing her heart. She bent over slightly. She worked to catch her breath. What was this deep internal sensation, this yearning? And why did it possess her so profoundly in this moment?
A shiver stole across her shoulders and she straightened. What had Joy told her not an hour ago, to go out and find a bodybuilder, that maybe such a man could handle her array of abilities? Could this man—warrior-vampire-guardian, whatever he was—could this man take all she could give?
She struggled to breathe, and a peculiar humming vibrated strangely through her body. Her lips felt swollen and her skin tingled … everywhere. Desire, forbidden for years, descended deep into her abdomen. Oh, God, she actually clenched as pure sexual need wept from her.
The winged warrior straightened suddenly. He turned back to her, his eyes almost crazed. He pointed his sword at her. You must stop that now. Funny how she knew he meant her desire for him.
She nodded several times then gasped as the killer launched from the railing. For a painful second she feared she might have just cost the winged warrior his life. And how typical would that be?
To her surprise, Kerrick simply turned and, in a blur of motion so fast as to be imperceptible, launched himself at his opponent.
In the next moment the airspace between the second and third stories of the complex became a vortex of spinning, writhing wings, clashing swords, and feral grunts.
She watched, astonished at the quick brutal movements. Within a matter of seconds, however, stillness hit the air. The black-winged body shuddered and fell to earth. Hard.
With a gasp Alison moved toward the creature, wanting to offer her help, but blood poured from a deep wound in his chest and flowed onto the cement. Her stomach churned. She covered her mouth. There was no way he could survive.
His head was cradled in a nest of broken black wings, and he lifted a hand toward her. He was so beautiful.
You must come to us. You must help us end this war.
What war? she sent. She received no answer. His eyes closed as his body shook uncontrollably. A moment later, he fell still.
Kerrick floated down beside her. He began drawing his wings into his body. She shifted and watched as one by one the feathers began to narrow to incredibly fine points and disappear into the rolling landscape of his back. Was it her imagination, or did his muscles thin out and reconfigure to a more normal masculine shape as well?
She blinked several times. Her head felt full of clouds.
Wings? A sword battle in midair?
She reverted her attention to the death vampire at her feet. She shook her head, stunned.
Death vampire?
Was any of this real?
She forced herself to breathe. She felt light-headed, unsteady on her feet. She opened her lungs, drew air. Her left arm was still wrapped tightly about her stomach but her right hand now covered her mouth.
Kerrick dropped to one knee and placed his hand on the forehead of his enemy. His shoulders slumped.
Her empathy kicked in, one of her softer gifts. She read him in another deep intake of air. She felt his soul-weariness and saw the darkness within. He had carried this burden for a long, long time, longer than a few decades.
A sense of his life passed through her mind. She perceived centuries, only how was that possible? Then again, the man had enormous wings, so apparently he existed outside the bounds of earthly possibility right now. Centuries, then, yet despair pounded from him in hard anguished waves. She wanted to touch him, to settle her hand on his shoulder, to give him just a little relief. But what did she really know of him—and worse, would she hurt him accidentally if she got too close?
With his hand still on the killer’s forehead, he closed his eyes then murmured, “May the world be eased by your departure and may you find peace.”