Ascension (Guardians of Ascension #1)

The vein in her neck started to pound. She put her hand there and stroked up and down. The slash over light brown eyes sank lower, a predator’s stare, and she watched his fangs descend onto his lower lips. Oh, how she wanted this vampire who could put his fangs into her neck and take right now what she wanted to give.

When he started to rise from the couch, a gasp rose out of her throat. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she tore her gaze from his and looked at Thorne.

He grabbed her arm. “What is it, Havily? What’s frightened you?”

“I must go.” And before he could argue with her, she lifted her free arm and folded. Unfortunately, her mind was so confused, she ended up not in her home but standing in the middle of the fountain outside her town house complex.

She felt the water on her heated skin and started to laugh. To say she needed a cold shower was to say the very least.

As she stepped out of the fountain, however, she just couldn’t figure out the why of what had just happened. In what dimension did it make the smallest sense that she could ever desire a vampire, warrior or not, whom she despised for the deserter he was?

The future speaks in a dream,

But morning unveils all truths.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 13

Crace sat on a stone bench in the very center of the Commander’s extensive peach orchard. Waiting. At least he wasn’t sweating this time, although what he felt was far worse—like he’d been stabbed in the chest.

From the time of his ascension he had known hunger, his basic personal drive not just to get ahead, but to rule. With the single exception of his lovely wife, his beloved Julianna, he had only one great love—his ambition.

From the moment he first saw the Commander during his rather mundane rite of ascension he knew he would one day align with him, belong to him. He understood the Commander, because he shared the same naked, unrefined, crippling need to have power and more power and more power.

Two dimensions? Oh, come on. Greaves had more vision than that.

The opportunity to work beside Commander Greaves had meant, literally, the world to Crace. Yes, Geneva was part of it, a huge part, but his sensibilities went deeper. He thought of the Commander as a true comrade, a brother-in-arms in spirit, in motivation, and in a complete lack of scruples.

He tapped his left foot on the intricate pattern of the patio made up of terra-cotta pavers. He had arrived early just to think. His wife would join him when she had put the last touches to her coiffure, the subtlety to her makeup, her ensemble. She was fastidious in such things.

The orchard, near the base of Estrella Mountain, was a thing of beauty. The trees were laid out as though radiating from a large hub, the circle ever widening as it traveled in what seemed like miles in every direction. The entire orchard was covered with a variety of shields, which allowed for a gradation of microclimates. Some trees were heavy with ripe fruit, others just budding, others in a state of wintry rest. Beneath the trees, a natural collection of grasses and weeds grew. The Commander had won awards for his organic methods.

More than any other aspect of the Commander’s life, this orchard and what lay below typified his essential character. Beneath the rows of peach trees, buried in the earth, was the Command Center for his entire global operation. Below the Command Center ran miles of bunkers and a variety of training facilities for his army. Below the bunkers was a vast cavern dedicated exclusively to research and development. The Commander had a passion for armaments. He was creative with weaponry of all kinds, always working on improved killing methods.

An hour earlier, despite the failure in Carefree, Greaves had requested that Crace and his wife join him for breakfast. He would serve mimosas, fresh peaches, egg-white omelets, and all because he knew such a breakfast would delight Julianna. In the center of a table covered in beautiful Irish linen sat an elegant arrangement of orchids growing from a bed of some sort of small-leafed green ground cover. Yes, Julianna would be enthralled by the attention to detail.

There was so much to admire about his deity.

How heavily he sighed.

He had showered and shaved. He wore a formal white tuxedo, black trousers, the finest black shoes. He had tried to scrub the stench of his failure off his tanned arms, legs, and face but couldn’t. He bled remorse from every pore of his body.

He sat on the hard stone awaiting his wife’s arrival. She had told him to quit being so nonsensical, that the Commander, being a practical, sensible man, would not, would not in any way blame Crace for the failure of an entire regiment to slay the ascendiate. In her opinion such an elegant private breakfast meant he held Crace no ill will.

Usually, Crace’s wife knew best. She had great abilities. She could sense things before they happened. He therefore shouldn’t feel as though he would soon be ground to dust by his deity’s displeasure.

Yet how could it be any different? The Commander would hold him responsible for what had happened in Carefree.

Crace rarely despaired. An optimist by nature, his present sensations were foreign. He didn’t like the way his body felt, heavy in every muscle, tight around his heart, tense in his lungs. He even had to force himself to breathe.

Was it his fault the ascendiate had so much power? She had disabled his men over and over from a series of hand-blasts. Hand-blasts. He could not even conceive how she’d done it. He shuddered at the memory. Beyond the hand-blasts, however, who could have foreseen that so noble a warrior as Kerrick would have called an illegal emergency lift? It was unheard of.

And just how had the pair known to take off in the ascendiate’s fucking Hummer? How had they been warned? He shuddered all over again.

He felt the air stir and he rose to his feet.

He melted at the sight of his incomparable wife. She had the beauty of Aphrodite, and looked particularly splendid in a peach-colored soft linen gown—an excellent choice given the occasion—her dark tresses arranged in several loose elegant knots down the back of her head. She wore soft pearls, which the early-morning light and the shields over the orchard set in a gentle glow. She was perfection, her taste unequaled. Gems of any sort would have been wholly unsuitable. She had taught him this, and many other things. She knew how to present herself in such a way to add to his worth and to his power.

She had sharp blue eyes, angled slightly at the corners along with her brows. Her cheekbones were high and pronounced, her lips full. Her breasts were large, round, very supple, and moved completely unfettered beneath the fabric. The sight of her breasts so well displayed, yet still covered modestly, brought a sharp arousal. She approached him, kissed his cheek, and took his hand in hers. She whispered in his ear, “You will take me to bed after this, you will drink from me, and I will soothe your fears.”

She always did. He drew in a deep breath and relaxed … a little. She was the best of wives. He was the most fortunate of men.

The air stirred once more. She stepped away from him slightly. Given his rank, she did not believe in public displays of affection. When the Commander appeared, she offered a courteous inclination of her head coupled with a slight curtsy, a tradition she had begun and which had caught on throughout Second Earth. “Julianna, how lovely to see you.”

“And you, Commander.”

“Please. Call me Darian.”

His wife, his darling wife, merely smiled, offered another bow, then said, “As you wish, Commander.”

Crace marveled at her adroitness. She always passed the Commander’s little tests, which seemed to please him immensely, for he smiled and even chuckled. She lifted her hand to him.

He approached her and took her proffered hand, offering a polite kiss on the arch of her fingers, a sign of great respect. Crace felt a wave of heat roll from his wife. A surprise. The Commander’s gaze dropped oh so briefly to her breasts. Crace followed suit and found his wife’s nipples peaked, stretching the lovely peach linen. He understood in this moment all over again how clever his wife was. He blinked and more of his fears dissipated.

The Commander lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. A moment later three wait staff materialized as well as a large serving cart.

Julianna clapped her hands in an innocent expression of pleasure at the meal the Commander had provided for her. Naturally, Greaves seated her himself. And naturally, Julianna smiled up at him, just over her shoulder, and whispered her thank-you.

Crace sat down to eat with his fears settled to a dull roar, so much so that by the time the meal had been consumed and the champagne had eased through his veins, he leaned back in his chair.

“I was sorry to hear of Warrior Kerrick’s illegal maneuver,” Greaves said. “Wholly unexpected.”

“Yes, it was, Commander.”

“Very well. We shall simply move forward.”

Crace withheld the gasp rattling in his throat. There would be no recriminations. Thank the Creator for small mercies.

“I want you to see Harding and make arrangements for the next leg of this journey. We will have every legal right to pursue any course we wish. I rely on you, my dear Crace, to make the finish remarkable.”

Crace stared into the eyes of his deity. Make the finish remarkable. Every legal right. The emergency lift may have saved the ascendiate’s life, but it had also given the Commander a profound, irreversible advantage.

On Second Earth, there was always one way to make anything remarkable.

Spectacle.

Yes, spectacle.

Within his mind, he began to weave a glorious exhibition. He would use swans, of course, and fireworks. He would call in a favor or two from Beijing. The local theaters would have all the actors he required for a full-mount display … yes, he knew exactly what needed to be done. And of course the event would be televised worldwide. Yes, that would work … remarkably.

As for the ascendiate, well, her demise would be the highlight of the entire evening, of course.

“I believe I have the answer,” he said.

Crace felt a now familiar pressure in his head. Greaves’s serious expression softened then lightened. He nodded several times and afterward smiled.

“My dear Crace, you have outdone yourself. You are to be congratulated.”