Grace in the midst of vengeance?

Who was this man? Warrior? Guardian? Vampire?

She took a step away from him.

He rose to his full staggering height. As her gaze slid up his back over his long black hair to his profile, desire once more, and so inappropriate, returned in full measure. She had never seen a face so pleasing, his nose straight and strong, his lips full, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His thick black hair invited exploration. His eyes were an exquisite green, an almost emerald hue.

His height dwarfed her six feet. She actually felt feminine next to him, an unusual sensation. A deep yearning threatened to swallow her whole. She took another step back. She didn’t know this man, or angel, warrior, vampire.

So what on earth was he, and what did all of this mean?

He drew a credit card of sorts from the pocket of his kilt then thumbed it. When he brought it to his ear, she realized he held a phone.

He spoke in his low voice. “Hi, Jeannie. Yeah, I got him. One to pick up. Let Thorne know. The other signature?” His gaze snapped to Alison, “She’s right next to me. I’ll disperse the mortals and call back for the second removal.”

Disperse the mortals? Second removal?

The unreality of the situation once more worked in her mind. Psychotic break seemed more reasonable to her right now than any of what she had just witnessed—still witnessed. She blinked hard. Maybe if she relaxed all this would simply disappear. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

She opened her eyes but her warrior-angel was still there. He smiled crookedly. “Sorry, beautiful. I’m real.” He added, “You must think you’re going out of your mind.”

“Bingo,” she whispered softly.

He returned his card-like phone to his kilt pocket and, with his deep resonant voice thrumming over her body like a base viol, he said quietly, “You might want to cover your eyes.”

Just as her hand came up to her face, a blinding light filled the courtyard for the space of maybe a second or two.

Sliding her hand away, she saw that the body of the killer had disappeared as well as any remnants of his death. The cement in the area looked pristine.

She recalled the window glass she had shattered, the pocket of time she had frozen, the retrieval of the glass, time withdrawn, a mistake made right. She stared at the warrior next to her. What he did, what he could do, matched her abilities. She had such powers, perhaps not exactly the same as his, but earth’s basic laws of physics had a different meaning to her than to anyone else. She could pull things from other places on the planet into her hand. She could bake a cake from scratch while sitting in another room.

She thought of the statue. She held her palm out. She brought the absurd unity sculpture into her hand in the way he had retrieved his sword for battle, as if from nowhere. She needed this warrior-angel-guardian to see.

He glanced at it and his jaw grew hard. His brows drew together, forming a furrow. He met her gaze once more and nodded. He held his sword out then released it, not to fall on the cement but to be returned from wherever it had come—wherever the hell that was. She thought the thought and sent the statue back to the coffee table in her office.

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I have no idea what to do with you.”

That makes two of us, she sent.

Kerrick struggled although he hoped none of it showed. The blond goddess looked confused, frustrated, even despairing though his concern was not fixed on her plight. Instead madness seized him. This woman was still a field of lavender and he wanted to tramp through that field for the next century, maybe forever.

So who are you? The stream was telepathic, which would reach her mind, yet not penetrate. She could choose to answer or not.

Her brows lifted and her lips parted. She sucked in some air, something she seemed to be needing a lot of, then answered from her mind: Alison Wells, and you are Kerrick? Warrior Kerrick? Is that right?

He nodded. He squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus, you smell like lavender.

“Oh,” she said aloud.

When he opened his eyes, her fingers were pressed to her lips. “I’m smelling Moroccan spices,” she said aloud. She smiled suddenly. “Not cloves exactly. More like … cardamom. Yes, you smell like cardamom. I love that spice.”

Oh. God.

She could smell what he was giving, a scent that had only one meaning in his world and could only be detected by someone meant for him. Shit. He was in so much trouble. Again, he had the feeling Endelle had set him up. “I find you … lovely,” he said, gritting his teeth because this was an understatement. “Which explains the scent … again.”

Her brow puckered. She was so beautiful. Achingly. She looked confused, yet her blue, gold-rimmed eyes glittered. He watched her swallow and another heavy wave of lavender swelled over him. He had to get away from her but he couldn’t make his feet move.

Her gaze began a sudden strip search and wandered over his body from head to foot. He wanted her looking and was glad he wore just the leather kilt and simple weapons harness over his chest. The winged battle gear gave her a lot of landscape to cover.

She closed the distance between them, then put her hand on his arm, as though to make certain he was real. She looked up into his eyes. He knew he should stop her from touching him, from being this close, but he couldn’t.

“Warrior Kerrick,” she whispered, as though trying to understand. Her blue eyes darkened.

“Just … Kerrick,” he said. His voice sounded like it had fallen down a hole.

He could hear her heart slamming against her ribs. Lavender once more rushed at him and he knew, he knew, if he took her somewhere private right now, he’d have her under him in a split second.

Never in his life had he experienced anything so overwhelming as looking into her eyes. He wanted in, not just now. He wanted in forever. Who was she that a mere mortal would have such a profound call on him? How could just being near her make him want to throw to the winds, without a backward glance, the vow he had taken so many decades ago?

A window opened and golden sunshine poured in, teasing long-dead hope to life. Could it be different with this woman who had such power? Could he do what he had been unable to do for his first wife and their son? For his second wife and their two children? Could he keep Alison Wells alive? Could it be different?

Those clear blue eyes beckoned to him like nothing before. Everything about her called to him.

His body tensed. He strained toward her.

His phone buzzed.

“Shit,” he muttered. He scowled heavily and drew back. He plucked the phone from his waist and swung it to his ear. “Yeah, Jeannie.”

“Just thought you should know, the female is all lit up and right next to you. Any trouble?”

Plenty. “No. Don’t worry. She and I are talking right now.”

“Aaah. She likee. Smart woman. Does she know you’re a vampire?”

“Jeannie,” he muttered, a hint of warning in his voice.

“Okee-dokee, then.”

“Jeannie, one of these days…”

“Promises, promises.”

He thumbed the phone and replaced it. He felt disoriented. Everything seemed to be changing beneath his feet and he couldn’t find solid ground. And now this woman had met her first vampire. What would she think of spending time with the real thing, of maybe kissing the real thing?

He looked at Alison again, at the rumpled forehead, at the glitter of blue eyes, the swollen lips. He shook his head. “I can’t go there. I want to, but I can’t.”

She nodded in quick jerks, but she still streamed lavender like she’d bathed in it about a minute ago.

He nodded as well. “I realize this must be as confusing as hell and we will talk, but I have to take care of the rest of this first.”

She nodded again.

He took two steps.

I’m not going anywhere, she sent, the words hurtling into his brain and freezing his steps again. He turned back to meet her gaze once more.

Cardamom, she sent. Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Unwittingly—he was sure of that—she released yet another wave of lavender, which almost brought him to his knees. Whatever this was between them, it was goddamn mutual.

He trembled inside as he turned away and drew his hands into knotted fists. He couldn’t do this. He refused to do this. Whoever she was, whatever she was, he couldn’t get involved, not with her, not in this way. She wasn’t just sex to him. No, she was a helluva lot more. She was mainline heroin, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d get sucked into something he had vowed never to do again.

He moved in the direction of the stairs. He laid his hand on shoulder after shoulder though not for comfort. The spectators in turn ambled off to their various offices, no longer remembering the fatality below.

He moved back down the stairs to the crowd gathered around the body and with the same steady, quiet effort sent the rest of the spectators away from the emergency personnel. He approached the EMTs, who in turn no longer remembered that a woman had died. They reentered their vehicles and one by one drove away.

The breh-hedden occurs so infrequently there is hardly sufficient information to make informed opinions as to its validity. This author believes Warrior of the Blood mate-bonding must be part of ascension mythology. Nothing more.

—From Treatise on Ascension, Philippe Reynard

Chapter 4

Alison watched Warrior Kerrick put his hands on person after person. What did they see? Surely not a long-haired warrior the size of an NBA player wearing a black leather kilt and looking like a god. She was amazed as each individual simply turned away from the crime scene and went back into the medical complex.

He worked steadily until even the police and emergency vehicles pulled out of the parking lot. Finally he stood over the covered body. Once more he drew his strange phone from the pocket of his kilt, spoke to a woman he called Jeannie, and made the deceased woman disappear.

He returned to stand before her. He closed his eyes for a moment, his nostrils flaring. When he opened his eyes he scowled. “Why do you have to smell like lavender?” Once more his heavy spice, rich cardamom, flowed around her.