As he met his deity’s gaze, he felt nothing, just a vast cold emptiness in his chest. He didn’t even sweat.

“Why so despondent, brother ascender?” the Commander asked, a faint smile on his lips.

Yes, he supposed despondency had layered ice over his sweat glands and emptied his heart and lungs of all sensation. So why the fuck did the Commander smile?

“Warrior Kerrick lives,” he stated, reminding his deity why it was that a smile made no sense right now.

“Damn shame, of course. But look how close we got. I haven’t been able to get that close … ever. Just once successfully, to Kerrick’s wife and children, but that hardly counts.”

Crace sighed. He knew he was going to die. He’d failed his deity time after time over the past three days. His execution stood in the wings, waiting for the Commander’s pleasure.

“I must say,” the Commander said, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes narrowed. “I believe this experience has been very good for you. I think you’ve grown. When you arrived, you were so glib, so sure the task would be simple. Frankly, I thought you a fool. But right now your mind has a proper attitude. Yes, I believe you’ve grown.”

Crace held back another weighty sigh. “These are very kind words, master.”

The Commander released his hands, turned, then sat down on one of the stone benches. “You must learn patience, my dear Crace, as I told you from the beginning. You must learn to take the long view of such things. I strive to remind myself that you are not even two centuries on Second Earth yet. A few more centuries, given the level of your powers, will do much to sharpen your abilities and give you a sense of peace within your life.”

Much chance of a long view of anything.

“You are not sweating as you usually do.”

“A man does not sweat when he’s certain of death.”

“Then you should always remain certain of death, my friend.”

Crace now stood dead center of the orchard and of the patio. Commander Greaves was a man of subtlety and not easily read. However, Crace understood something right now. “You mean to keep me alive.” He was absolutely shocked.

“You are still of much use to me. I would be foolish to dispense with so much acquired knowledge.” He narrowed his eyes. “I had intended to end your service to me but I was and still am rather impressed with this last scheme you concocted. It should have worked. I believed it would. We were neither of us prepared for Kerrick’s ability to survive. He shouldn’t have but then Alison was involved and she is far too powerful.” He shook his head. “You see, even I am surprised. And I am never surprised.”

Hope floated to the surface of Crace’s heart and eased the tight knot in his chest. He drew a real breath, the first since the ambulance had departed from Madame Endelle’s palace. He’d been in the wings, waiting and watching, protected by the Commander’s superior mist as he observed the work of the death vampires. When the most insidious part of his plan unfolded, when the newly created ascender actually fired on Warriors Luken and Marcus, he couldn’t believe his luck. Even when Warrior Kerrick intervened and took the blast instead of the other three, he’d nearly revealed his position by shouting with triumph and joy. Then the worst had happened. Alison had brought Warrior Kerrick back to life. He still couldn’t believe the bastard lived. The blast should have taken out all four ascenders. So much power among the warriors. No wonder the Commander aimed most of his effort at trying to bring down the Warriors of the Blood.

He offered a simple bow. “I am yours to command, my master, now and forever.”

The Commander rose. “Ah, I simply adore your manners, quite perfection. I believe Julianna has taught you well.” He took Crace’s arm and wrapped it about his own. “But come, we have plans to make. Unfortunately, it would seem the gods have for the moment favored the Guardians of Ascension—but the tide always turns, and that, my dear Crace, is the real nature of life—the tide always turns. We just need to give it a loving nudge. In the meantime, I fear we have another ascension to prepare for. My Seers have been very busy. This time a mortal with wings.”

Crace stopped walking. “A mortal with wings? But … that’s impossible.”

Greaves fell still. “The very same thing I said about Alison when I learned of the extent of her abilities. But come, let us see Harding. He will desire sustenance by now as well as a reason to overlook our little invasion of Endelle’s palace. And if you like, you shall have sustenance as well.”

Crace shuddered.

Yes, he would like sustenance.

Yes, indeed.

A good friend speaks what no one dares to say.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 22

Alison cut the tags off a new silk blouse, a green blouse she had purchased earlier at a pricey Scottsdale Two shop. She had worn a similar blouse the night she had first met Kerrick, the night she had been introduced to the world of ascension, to the world of the vampire.

A sob caught in her chest. She willed away the spasms yet the tears remained. They fell, streamed, ran down her face. Her nose was a mess. She kept blowing her nose, shaking her head, cutting off tags.

She had erred and she didn’t know how to make things right, how to move forward.

Havily had let her stay in her town house, in the spare room, just as she had once promised. Alison had needed new clothes, so she had gone shopping. Such a normal thing to do, especially after she had almost killed her boyfriend.

Her throat hurt. More tears splashed all around the bedroom.

Three days had passed. She had spent three days at the hospital, chained to Kerrick’s bed, willing him to get better hour by hour, even after the chance of his dying had long since passed. She had willed his healing to improve, she had begged Horace to come to the hospital and use his healing powers, she had consulted with the surgeons, she had gone to the hospital chapel and begged the Creator to speed his healing, to make him well, to make things right, to erase the past, demolish the night of her ascension celebration, to forgive her, forgive her, forgive her.

Kerrick would live. After taking a hand-blast to the abdomen, he had come back from the dead. He’d survived surgery. He would live to fight another day.

Now she bent over a pair of DKNY jeans, her favorite. Tears plopped, darkening the denim in grief-stricken polka dots. She cut off more tags. She hiccuped as she straightened. She folded the jeans over a hanger. She shoved the hanger into the closet. Looked at all the new clothes. She whipped around and folded more tissues from the box in the bathroom. She sounded a horn with her nose and wiped. She wiped some more.

Kerrick had almost died.

The thought broke her. She dropped to the carpet between a double bed and mirrored closet doors. Great rolling sobs charged out of her body. Heavy waves of grief and regret punched the air.

What a fool she had been to have thought Second Earth would be different for her.

Havily appeared in the doorway. She rushed forward and called to her in a sweet repetitive flow of words, “No, no, no, no, no.” She dropped beside her and surrounded her with her arms. “Don’t cry, ascender. Don’t cry. He lives.”

“I almost killed him. I almost killed him.”

“He lives.”

“He died.”

“You brought him back.”

Alison rocked.

Havily rocked with her, whispering tender words in her ear, “He lives, he lives, he lives.”

Alison hiccuped again. She honked into the tissues. She rocked a little more. She shifted toward Havily and met her gaze. “I can’t be with him, can I?”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. I have too much power. I should have known. I should have known.”

* * *

Havily folded a fresh tissue from the bathroom and wiped Alison’s cheeks. She thought, I feel this way, too, like I could fall on my face and sob like a baby.

She shouldn’t feel so desolate, not after what happened, not after Marcus had morphed into a crazed beast, not after he’d tried to have his way with her against the wall of the third rotunda of Madame Endelle’s palace, right in front of the Creator and everyone.

She didn’t understand her attraction to the man at all. He was the antithesis of what she desired for her life. She wanted a man who felt as passionately about Second Earth as she did, about desiring to make a significant contribution to the improvement of society and certainly to the ending of the war.

Warrior Marcus—and surely he didn’t deserve the appellation warrior—knew little of selflessness. He had only aided the warriors by order of the Supreme High Administrator.

No. Warrior Marcus was not worth even one thought, let alone the thousand she had spent on him since she had first caught his fennel scent at the Cave.

Now he was gone. He’d returned to Mortal Earth for good.

Tears fell from her eyes, soft streams of incomprehension.

“I’ve made you cry,” Alison wailed, her sobs coming harder.

Maybe weeping was infectious. The trouble was, Havily didn’t understand the source of her anguish except she kept remembering Marcus, weighed down by Luken’s mountain of a warrior body, his arms shaking as he crawled toward her, trying to get to her. He kept calling out, Havily, I’m coming. I’ll protect you.

The tears flowed faster, harder.

Marcus had left late that night, after Horace had healed him, after he had begged the warriors to forgive him for his unconscionable behavior. He hadn’t even come to see her, not even to apologize … although, she hadn’t wanted, expected, or needed an apology because she had been an oh-so-willing participant in his I-must-have-you-now assault.

She folded more tissues from the bathroom. She handed over a little stack but kept a similar thick wad for herself. She blew her nose.

When Marcus had pinned her against the wall, she hadn’t been frightened, not in the least. Surprised, maybe. Hungry for him … oh, God, yes, so hungry.

Maybe she’d been celibate too long. After all, she hadn’t looked at another man, hadn’t been remotely interested, in fifteen years. Her mission had consumed her waking hours. The belief she could make a difference in the war through administrative restructuring had replaced romantic love, had become her raison d’être, her purpose, her lifeblood. She didn’t need love. She didn’t want love. Truly.