Veiled Page 3

  She turned toward him. Her lips parted and he understood why. The breh-hedden had added a pair of inciting scents to the picture the moment sexual desire rose. No doubt, she smelled his need, which she’d said reminded her of spicy ale.

  “Duncan,” she said softly, a plea in her voice.

  But he couldn’t act on what he felt. He’d tried to tell her what was wrong, but he found it impossible to explain why being close to her cut him up inside. He’d called it a snake that bites.

  Despite his almost painful craving for her, he turned on his heel and headed toward the entrance to Militia Warrior HQ. He wondered what Merl had meant when he suggested his disconnect from Rachel was part of his issue in not being able to harness his grayle power.

  Was it possible Rachel was the key to opening up his Third Earth abilities?

  ~

  Rachel watched Duncan go, her gaze fixed for a long moment on his broad shoulders, then moving down the beautiful line of his back. Duncan had a perfect physique with a lean waist and a firm warrior’s ass. The sexy, black leather kilt gave her all kinds of ideas. When she’d caught his spicy ale scent, she’d almost thrown herself at him. She needed him badly and still didn’t really understand why he’d cut her off.

  She knew he was in pain, enduring a kind of torment she might never fully understand. His father had been a cruel man and his mother had disappeared when he was six. She’d come to believe the combination of both circumstances had poisoned her man. It was possible he’d never come back to her despite the pull of the breh-hedden.

  Meanwhile, she kept her tears to herself.

  She finished cleaning off her dagger then slid it into her battle-harness.

  Luken called to her. “You did good tonight, Rachel. Thanks for stepping up.”

  She waved in his direction, but she was too tired to offer more than a half-smile. She thought Luken was one of the finest men she’d ever known, much in Duncan’s mold. The problem was Duncan didn’t believe he was worth a damn. Maybe that was why she had tremendous grace for him right now. And she loved him. He was her man, her breh.

  She rotated her throwing arm slowly then pulled her elbow with her opposing hand to stretch a few of her nagging back muscles. She was exhausted, as usual, from the night’s work, and really sore in a variety of places. It was a testament to a month’s training that she no longer lost her cookies at the sight of blood or blown-up wreckers. For the past month the team had either battled death vampires at the Second Earth Borderlands as part of their training, or faced off with wreckers in the Third Earth darkening grid.

  And of course, since Yolanthe now had a bead on Duncan, the game had taken a brand new terrifying turn.

  She was learning a lot, but progress was way too slow. The entire team lived with a constant sense of urgency, a collective need to be heading to Third. From the beginning, Endelle’s vision had made it clear the fate of two worlds depended on the black ops team getting to Third and doing some good, especially Duncan and Luken.

  Luken was worried, though he hid it well. Merl was right. How could a team of Second ascenders hope to do battle against the most powerful forces on Third Earth? The disparity in preternatural power alone made the situation untenable. But none of the men were quitters and each would die doing all they could to make the team work.

  She was no different. Once having committed to becoming a warrior, she was all in.

  She headed to the bathroom and did a superficial clean-up, removing as much of the blood spatter as she could. She didn’t like to shower at HQ, but she wasn’t exactly ready to head home either.

  Her black leather flight suit and weapons harness would have to be laundered. She had twelve battle suits in all and now understood why Luken had insisted so many were necessary.

  Every night ended in some kind of damage to her uniform and so sweat-stained both laundering and mending were needed by the time dawn rolled around.

  Besides, she had an itch and she was hoping against hope maybe she could talk Duncan into sharing her bed tonight. She’d caught his scent. He wasn’t indifferent to her. Maybe she could seduce him, despite his troubled spirit.

  Well, a woman could dream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Change comes,

  Not when the spirit grows willing,

  But when the battle has exhausted the flesh.

  Collected Proverbs -- Beatrice of Fourth

  Endelle sat on the side of her chaise-longue in her secret, India Two home. Her tigers roared at her monkeys, who in turn kept screeching their replies.

  She held a sketch pad in hand with several pieces of chalk in a container next to her. Spread out around her feet were a dozen drawings. She’d always loved designing her clothes, one of the activities of her 9000 years of vampire service, which, like good sex, had helped keep her sane.

  She wasn’t an artist, not being able to truly translate all she saw in her head onto paper. But she’d gotten good enough over the years to render sufficiently detailed drawings for her head seamstress to interpret her concepts with ease. The talented woman had a crew of ten at her beck-and-call and could execute even the most complicated outfit in a matter of hours.

  As her gaze roved the scattered drawings on the floor, her eyes suddenly popped wide. She felt as though she’d been caught in some kind of trance because until this moment, she hadn’t recognized the obvious theme.

  But there it was with swords, intricately carved wood shields, metal headdresses with horns, tough thigh boots, and spikes on leather wrist guards. One short skirt was made of chain-mail, another of black leather, and a third of crimson silk embroidered with gold daggers.

  Seems she had war on her mind.

  Setting her chalk and her sketchpad aside, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She’d been feeling a tremendous pressure lately, wishing it would go away. Not a headache, exactly, but a weight within her mind. Yet no amount of self-healing would relieve the sensation.

  Earlier, she’d met her favorite prostitute at the door, only to hand him his usual fee, wipe his mind clean, then send him away without having taken him to bed. Though she was desperate for release, she knew the man’s usual oral gifts weren’t going to get the job done.

  She rose from her seat and moved into the stone-paved courtyard. The air was humid and heavy, just like her spirits. A tiger rubbed his head against her hip, and she took a moment to scratch his face with her fingernails. The beast chuffed at her in gratitude then flopped down at her feet.

  But she kept moving.

  She had her routine: massages as often as needed, lots of government meetings she detested, and a once-a-week workout with her favorite for-hire boy-toy here in India.

  The long courtyard had a large rectangular pond and in the center an island housing a mature Indian laurel. Lily-pads dotted the dark green lake and the monkeys raced from the branches of the tree to the tall, two-story roofline and back.

  Usually, she could figure out exactly what was bugging her without having to blink twice, but her current mood had her flummoxed. And she’d rather have ants chewing on her butt than spend even a second analyzing her innermost psyche.

  What held her attention the most was the fucked up vision she’d had about Luken and his not-so-bright future on Third Earth. She’d ordered him to pull a black ops team together to handle forays into Third Earth and some of the results had been nothing short of spectacular. Three Militia Warriors and one peace-loving female had risen in the space of a single, astonishing month to Warrior of the Blood level.

  Unheard of.

  During the celebration, however, Merl had killed her feel-good.

  Standing beside her at the induction ceremony, he’d muttered, “Much good any of this will do us on Third. Your team might as well be throwing dead fish and hoping they somehow turn into grenades.”

  She’d almost jumped down his throat, but dammit the bastard was right.

  The black ops team wasn’t anywhere near ready to battle the powe
rful Militia Warriors and death vampires they'd be confronting on Third.

  What the hell had she been thinking trying to create a black ops team out of Second ascenders? Except she’d seen both Duncan and Luken battling on Third Earth and she’d felt compelled to act. She also knew from the vision both Second and Third Earth were on the brink of total domination by a psychopath even more formidable than her former adversary, Darian Greaves. Even thinking about Chustaffus and the slave world he’d built on Third sent icy chills down her spine.

  Damn that vision to all thirteen layers of hell. And the day she decided a series of most-excellent orgasms wouldn’t fix her up, was the day she knew she was in some deep, stinky shit.

  Only where exactly was a woman of her stature and power supposed to find answers? If she didn’t know what to do, who would?

  As she moved along the stone path around the perimeter of the pond, her thoughts turned once more to Luken. She pressed a hand to her breastbone, her throat tight. An ache had formed in the middle of her chest like a stone and seemed to grow bigger each time she thought about the blond, god-like warrior.

  He’d always been the peacekeeper among the Warriors of the Blood and a favorite of hers, when he’d served under Thorne and later as the leader of the team. Of course, this was in times past, before the breh-hedden had picked off several of her elite troops. With a woman to love, each man had morphed into something new, with greater powers and a bigger role in her government.

  Luken hadn’t yet been so fortunate. He was still very much a bachelor. And worse, the only vision Endelle had ever had suggested Luken’s time was up.

  For a month now, the vision burned in her head with a creeping, constant fame. Luken had been high in the air, battling death vampires, and one of them had sent his blade through Luken’s spine. She’d watched him fall through the sky, presumably to his death.

  But what had the vision really meant?

  The added, constant pressure in her head made her wonder if maybe she was meant to do more than just assemble a black ops team? Was some ascended element working on her, trying to move her down a different path?

  She wasn’t a woman of great faith, not after having lived such a long time and seen what murderous intent most humans were capable of no matter what dimension. If anything, she imagined the Creator walking around, gripping his hands, shaking his head, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking to pull man out of the mud in the first place.

  Maybe she didn’t have answers to her questions, but her instincts warned her some kind of action was necessary. She couldn’t let Luken go to his death on Third without putting up a fight.

  As she made her way back to her chaise-longue and all the warrior costumes she’d sketched, she still had no idea what the hell she should do. Except of course, she’d definitely get her staff going on a few of these sketches. The more she looked at them, the more her heart settled down.

  She might as well have some fun while she watched two worlds go to hell.

  ~

  Rachel sat on a stool at the bar in the Ops Cave, arms aching, thigh muscles on fire. She was edgy as well, but not from either the nightly drills, battling death vampires, or the recent escape from Yolanthe’s clutches.

  Instead, her libido was wearing on her. Maybe it was a warrior thing, but she needed to be on her back and Duncan doing what he did best. However, the man was barely speaking to her unless it related to the business of making war.

  And no arguments on her part had changed a damn thing.

  She sipped a glass of water. The men drank harder stuff, but her stomach was too unsettled to chance it. Nausea had accompanied her battle training. And why wouldn’t it? No one should have to see such a large amount of blood and other kinds of human debris, night-after-night.

  The first time she’d seen a Third Earth wrecker killed, she’d thrown up the contents of her stomach, then continued on with a long bout of the dry heaves. Same thing had happened when one of her daggers had found the throat of a ‘pretty boy’ for the first time. The beautiful death vampire had fallen over, and she’d watched the life drain out of him.

  Though she didn’t wield a sword like the men, she practiced throwing her daggers two hours every night. More than once, she’d saved one of her team a lot of hurt by intervening with a sharp blade.

  For the first week, she didn’t understand how the men faced the battlefield night after night. A month later, she’d built an iron wall around her initial sensitivity and horror. She no longer had nightmares either, but slept like a baby.

  Duncan had helped. He’d reminded her in detail how death vampires were addicted to a powerful substance which could only be reached at the point of death. Once enslaved to dying blood, getting the next fix was all the pretty boys thought about. They were in most respects similar to the vampire lore of Mortal Earth, with pale, almost bluish skin and mesmerizing beauty.

  By her third week of training and battling, she’d come to celebrate each death along with the men, knowing how many lives she and her team had saved.

  Her purpose in the field also included learning how to shield all the warriors, not just Duncan. Because even the lowliest Militia Warrior on Third would outmatch the most powerful Warrior of the Blood on Second, her ability to shield the team had become her most significant contribution.

  The trouble was, the whole team pretty much sucked in terms of having the chops to battle on Third Earth. So how the hell were they supposed to go to Third and save the world?

  With dawn closing in, the team now lounged in their hang-out at Militia Warrior HQ. Luken had commandeered the large rec room specifically for the team.

  By quickly acquired ritual, they were all here or in the immediate vicinity. The bathrooms and locker rooms were nearby and the men often made phone calls arranging hookups or any other point of business after a night of fighting. Or sometimes one of their number ordered pizza and wings and they’d dig in as a team.

  She’d passed Duncan on the way in, but he hadn’t even made eye contact with her. Typical. He’d been talking to good-natured Alex, probably comparing notes on how much they each despised Merl.

  At least he was talking to someone.

  She leaned an elbow on the bar, then lifted her ponytail. She was still hot and sweaty, grateful the Ops Cave had the air-conditioner blasting. She wasn’t sure why, but her breasts hurt something fierce. Maybe her weapons harness needed another adjustment.

  She flipped the side tab, which let out the seam a little on the thick metal-and-leather garment. She almost groaned with relief. She switched to the other side and repeated. Better. Much better. She’d have to remove the harness in order to do a full adjustment involving the side straps and locking mechanism, but for now, she wasn’t in quite as much discomfort.

  But what was with her breasts? Was this another result of the freaking breh-hedden that besides craving sex with her man, her breasts had gotten bigger? Forget implants, just get struck down by vampire mate-bonding and snap, bigger boobs.

  Yeah, she was tired.

  She sipped some more. The cool glass against her lips felt like heaven as well. She was tired and she wanted her bed. Yet, more than her bed, she wanted a man. She wanted Duncan.

  Her gaze took a slow drift around the room. Duncan still hadn’t come in, but what a collection of muscle.

  And here was the other side of the equation. It did not help her overwrought libido to be surrounded by so much masculine gorgeousness. Whatever else the black ops team might be, these men rocked.

  Owen sat next to the pool table, a beer in his left hand while with his right he made a fist and flexed his bicep. He had a healthy bruise across the top and was probably performing a bit of self-healing. The sight of the bulge, however, accompanied by a sexy flex-and-release put a hitch in her breathing.

  Owen was an intense warrior and ridiculously handsome. He had a cleft chin, brown hair with natural golden highlights, and hazel eyes. A sexy three-inch scar ran at an angle below his left
cheekbone, acquired before he ascended. Over the last month, since the team had formed, she’d watched women touch him there, knowing full-well they’d be touching something else later.

  What was it about a scar on a man?

  Merl didn’t have any scars, at least none she knew of, though she had glimpsed a tattoo etched down the center of his back. He was a powerful Third ascender and sat in a corner apart, a hard expression on his face. Gone were his flirtations from a month ago and he no longer stuck close to Endelle. In many ways, he seemed like a different man altogether.

  He held a cigarette in one hand and with his other rubbed the stem of a martini glass. He’d switched up his more recent Grey Goose martinis for a sweeter French version, with pineapple juice and blackberry liqueur.

  Merl with his light blue eyes was fiercely independent, a man unto himself. He didn’t give a damn what any of the other warriors thought of him. He looked rugged to Rachel in a way that made her certain he’d lived for centuries and not just decades.

  She’d tried talking to him a few days ago, but he’d clammed up, shifting his gaze purposefully to Duncan. She’d gotten the message. Merl might not be one of her favorite people, but he worked hard now to respect Duncan’s claim on her, such as it was.

  Damn breh-hedden. Duncan had become as distant as the faintest star and about as warm.

  “Rachel,” Joshua called to her. “I gotta ask. Do you remember a time when you weren’t a warrior?”

  Joshua, brown eyes glittering, had settled into the couch, stretching out his long legs. He shifted to sit low so his head would hit the back. He was as badass as they came, with thick, dark brown hair and bulked up shoulders. He had the look of a hunter, his gaze constantly searching whatever space he happened to be in. He’d removed his leather wrist-guards, putting his tattoos on display. Black flames, morphing into birds in flight, began at the wrist and rose almost to his elbows.