She shook her head in disbelief. She recalled the moment in the downtown alley when she had chosen, chosen, to demonstrate her power because she knew something momentous would happen, an action that had led to the opening of Second Earth to her. But how, how, had her journey brought her here, to a place where she would have to attempt something so impossible? “And I can’t refuse the challenge, can I?”
This time his head did a back-and-forth wag, only very slowly. “You entered your rite of ascension when you sent the hand-blast up into the Trough. I’m sorry, Alison. No going back, not at this point. And until your ascension ceremony takes place tomorrow night, you’re fair game. Again … I’m sorry.”
She wanted to kick something. “Is this why you’re so angry? Why you’re as cold as ice this evening?”
His chest rose then fell. “Yes.” He thawed a little, his shoulders falling. He rubbed his fist over his forehead. “I tried last night to change things but Endelle wouldn’t talk to me. I even called Harding who heads the fucking Committee, but he was about as useful as rat shit.”
“I can set up a field, though, right?”
He nodded. “You know my reservations. Leto has advanced powers like you, like me. Don’t cast a field unless you know you can contain him.”
She nodded. Okay … no fields unless she was certain. So how the hell was she supposed to be certain?
She turned away from him. Her eyes burned. Dammit, she did not want to cry, only how was this right or fair? What had she ever done to deserve being condemned in this way?
She thought about the despair she had sensed in Kerrick at various points during her all-too-brief acquaintance with him.
She began to understand.
“I let you sleep as long as I could, but the contest takes place in just under an hour. Endelle sent battle gear, and you’ll need to eat. A meal has been prepared.” He sighed. “You must ready yourself to depart.”
She moved away from him intending to return to the guest room, yet her instincts wouldn’t let her. She turned back to him and drew close once more. She met his gaze and reached out with her empathy. She found his familiar despair edged with, yeah, his deeply embedded guilt.
She thought of all he had done for her, all he had given her in making love to her, in being able to handle her absurd power. She put a hand on his cheek and he caught it with his, pressing hard.
“Kerrick, you’re not responsible for this.”
His face contorted as though she had struck him.
She cried, “Dammit, listen to me and listen good. I chose to ascend even though I’d already watched you slay a death vamp, a creature who stated very clearly that he’d come to kill me, to take my blood. I knew when I threw that hand-blast into the Trough that I wasn’t going on a trip to Disneyland. Darian chooses to commit vile, despicable acts. Others cave to his seduction and trickery. You are not to blame for any of it.”
His jaw worked as she had so often seen it move, as though trying to crunch marbles. His chest once more moved up and down, this time in even deeper breaths. The therapist in Alison heard a shrill clanging of bells, a warning that something needed to be addressed right here, right now. How many times had she seen this before in her clients, that stolid look that was really only a wall of glass, which a few pertinent words and some strong coaxing would shatter?
However, that sort of effort always took nimble moment-by-moment processing and she certainly didn’t have the time right now to help him through. But she would wager her life that the despair living in Kerrick had been with him from the time he ascended to Second Earth. She knew this in the same way she knew that the sun rose in the east and set in the west.
Her feet began moving again, cool slaps against cold tile. When she reached the guest room, she saw black leather battle gear, as supple as velvet, hanging on the end of the rack. Only then did the tears come. Somehow a female battle costume suit, with leather boots, brought the reality of the situation home to her. She would be going against a former Warrior of the Blood. How the hell was she supposed to survive that?
Spectacle,
The lifeblood of a society,
A meager reflection,
A ribbon around the hardship of life,
The challenge of the universe.
—Collected Poems, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 18
Crace paraded his wife up and down the second tier aisle of the Tolleson Two arena, a long walkway around the Commander’s half of the enormous building, a path designed for exhibition, for show, for demonstration, for greeting equals, for letting those beneath one’s station know just how inferior they were.
He was in his element, that public place of societal ranking that most pleased his simple avaricious, power-hungry soul. Best of all, however, was Julianna, whose beauty and bearing were unequaled.
Julianna walked regally, her head held high, her neck encased in a stiff elegant ruff that spread to her shoulders and was attached to long lace sleeves. Her gown, all in white and embroidered with seed pearls, was cut very low, displaying her full perfect breasts. He had suckled them earlier and made her cry out more than once. His beloved had the most tender erotic breasts and came so easily beneath his mouth.
How he loved her.
Yet oh, how he loved more this moment of triumph. He shouldn’t be gloating, but the ceiling began to withdraw and because he had worked for the past thirty hours to pull in every favor owed to him throughout the North American continent, as well as China, he knew this spectacle would outshine them all.
A full double orchestra played Beethoven’s Fifth, a rather ostentatious choice, but then why the hell not? His future was being decided tonight and why not let the inevitable celebration begin now?
He had paid a visit to Leto in the locker room and oh, how magnificent the warrior had appeared in his black leather kilt, bare oiled chest, and determination crowding his blue eyes. Crace’s heart swelled at the memory.
“The roof is fully drawn back now,” Julianna cried, her gaze fixed upward. She released his arm then clapped her hands since she had a particular love of fireworks.
The distant thumping started and the night sky filled with a rainbow of sparkling color. The crowd shouted its appreciation as great bursts of light revealed mystical creatures in every bejeweled shade beneath the sun. Once fully formed in the air, the creatures began to move, to fly in vast arcs above the crowd of some fifty thousand spectators. There was only one place such fireworks existed: in imaginative Beijing Two. Yes, Crace had called in a few favors—but to great effect, for as one the crowd moaned, gasped, and squealed.
In the midst of the moving glittering lights, several squadrons of trained swans flew in organized patterns, guided by actors from the nearby live theaters, all in full-mount and in splendid swirling costumes, so that very soon the upper reaches of the arena were full of that which all ascenders adored, hell, all mortals and ascended vampires alike … spectacle.
The crowd cheered and suddenly he felt the master’s presence beside him. “Well done, High Administrator Crace. An excellent beginning.”
Crace turned and bowed, drawing his wife to face the Commander. This was one of the best uses he had for his beloved spouse. She dipped a very pretty curtsy, and the Commander’s gaze drifted to her beautiful breasts, now peaked from the excitement of the fireworks and pushing hard at all those seed pearls.
“Julianna,” his deep smooth voice flowed.
“Commander.”
However, the master was never gauche and shifted his gaze to Crace. He even planted a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done well.”
Crace drew in a deep breath. Such bountiful praise. He felt dizzy, and visions of Geneva did an elegant Fred Astaire tap dance in his head. He could feel the soft black leather cushion beneath his ass. The right hand of God.
The Commander merely nodded, offered a small bow, then vanished.
“He is always so elegant,” Julianna murmured.
When he glanced at his wife, he saw the flush on her cheeks and her swollen lips. He frowned suddenly. He recognized her state of arousal. She’d been exactly there not an hour ago. A quick search of her mind told him he wasn’t the focus of her interest.
From the moment he met his wife, he had loved her, almost to the point of madness. Only one thing exceeded his devotion to her—his devotion to his master. For the first time he wondered if there was one thing after all he would not do for his deity.
Sweet Jesus. A shiver of fear shot straight through his heart because he didn’t know if he could ever choose between his wife and Commander Greaves … ever.
* * *
Sometimes life, ascended or otherwise, just sucked.
Alison stood beside Kerrick in what looked like your basic locker room. She was silent, shocked out. From the corridor beyond she could hear an orchestra booming out Beethoven’s Fifth.
Spectacle.
And she was the star attraction.
Great. Just great.
She shook her head. This couldn’t be happening.
She glanced around trying to figure out what a dedicated therapist from regular old Mortal Earth was doing, dressed all in black leather, preparing to battle a warrior vampire from Second Earth.
Even thinking the question threatened to send her into a tailspin. She felt hysteria rising as though thick hands gripped her ribs in an attempt to force the air from her lungs. She wanted to open her mouth and scream.
Instead she drew a breath, then another, then another even though her heart pounded so hard her ears thumped.
She glanced up at Kerrick, looking for some kind of support or understanding, but he was shored up within the fortress of his own mind. And why wouldn’t he be? The man lived with guilt stacked so deep in his soul he couldn’t move or think straight. She knew that now. Even though he was not to blame for this ridiculous situation, he shouldered the responsibility anyway.
So, here she was … alone. What a familiar sensation.
The dream hadn’t lasted long, the deep connection to another human being, immortal though he was, the sense of sharing, of working things out together. There was no togetherness here, just Alison trying to find the courage to take one more step down a road that still didn’t make a lot of sense.