His warrior brothers were close by, waiting, he supposed, until he finally regained his senses and told them why he had just done what he’d done.

The Cave was a men-only club, not because they didn’t allow women but because most women were revolted by the place—beat-up leather sofas, a few stricken end tables, a pool table that took the brunt religiously of all the warriors’ tempers. A huge flat-screen TV hung at an angle off the wall awaiting repair … yeah, for three months now.

Chasing after Alison like a madman, his vampire body raging to protect her, the experience had left him wired, like he’d been up for three nights driving across a couple thousand miles of open land.

“I must have been out of my mind,” he mumbled. He took another swig of Maker’s.

Thorne sat down beside him then grasped the back of his neck. “You lucky sonofabitch! This has to be the breh-hedden. I mean, we all thought it was a myth but this has to be it!”

The other warriors drew close then offered up their congratulations as well, thumping him on the back, calling out the appropriate jibes.

He sat holding the tumbler, unable to respond, his chest in agony.

So the breh-hedden had come to him and the woman meant for him was here. Unfortunately, he couldn’t act on it, couldn’t go to her, couldn’t bring her close. Any degree of proximity to her was a death sentence.

The litany of his failures wasn’t particularly long but it was complete. He’d majored in failure. He’d gotten an A+ in all the big fuckups of his life. The hell he’d add one more to the list, and this had failure written all over it. If he ever claimed her physically, her death would essentially be guaranteed. “I won’t see it through.”

All the hearty backslaps, the jokes, the good-natured taunts ceased.

“What?” Thorne cried. “You can’t turn it down. She’s here. The woman meant for you, who can engage your mind, an ascendiate who matches you in power and can I just say, holy shit but she’s beautiful.”

Kerrick felt his biceps flinch possessively. His fangs thrummed and started to emerge. He dipped his chin, sucked in a gulp of air, then threw back the last of the Maker’s. He turned to face Thorne, his boss, his best friend, his brother. He shook his head. He tried to swallow but couldn’t dislodge the lump in his throat. After a few more breaths he said, “I won’t marry again, not so long as I’m a warrior, no way in hell. And I sure as shit won’t complete the breh-hedden with that woman.”

“How can you even think about turning this down?” Luken asked. “The recorded documents say that completing the breh-hedden is about as close to heaven as you can get.”

Kerrick met his gaze knowing the golden warrior couldn’t possibly understand. “Well, take a wife and lose her because you’re a Warrior of the Blood. Hell, take two. See how that feels. Birth a couple of Twolings and have the Commander blast them into a fine spray of blood and bone just because he wants to hurt you. Believe me, you’d rather cut your own heart out than try again. I shouldn’t have married the second time. I knew it going in and I will always blame myself for Helena’s death and the deaths of our children. Eternity alone? Not such a bad fucking idea.”

“Aw, hell,” Thorne muttered.

The room writhed with the singular reality of the warrior’s life. They were all goddamn targets, every day and every night, and anyone connected to them.

Curses rent the air, issued from one warrior to the next, passed around like a peace pipe. The air cooled, and his determination shored up.

“Your call,” Thorne said quietly, his gaze shifting to the bar then back to Kerrick. “Whatever you want to do, we’ll all support you. There’s just one thing—I’m not so sure you can refuse the breh-hedden.”

“Well, fuck that,” Kerrick said, rising to his feet. “I’ll just have to be the first.”

Thorne nodded then turned away. He punched at the air several times. Kerrick watched him cross the room, heading in the direction of the pool table. Once there, he slid his hands beneath the top then lifted. Thorne had heavy broad shoulders and muscles to match. Grunting, he gave one hard jerk, which flipped the damn thing onto its side, breaking two of the four legs supporting the heavy table. One more dip of his knees and Thorne, in his rage, flipped the pool table all the way over. Christ.

Kerrick stared at the massive legs, two leaning and broken, two standing straight up. He started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Others joined him. Somehow this was just perfect. If Thorne lost it, none of them would be far behind.

They were all on edge, riding their nerves like horses whipped to a frenzy.

The war had shifted, ramped up. They all knew it but couldn’t talk about it. What was the point? They were fighters, they had to fight, and they would do what they had to do.

Still, an undercurrent ran through the Warriors of the Blood, a goddamn streak of lightning that never let up, kept them juiced, warning them something big and bad was on the horizon. Thorne’s behavior alone told them what they needed to know.

The simple question rose to his mind: How are we—seven men—supposed to keep on fighting death vamps imported nightly from all over the fucking globe, one after the other, squad after squad?

His laughter blew out, a candle snuffed in the wind. He crossed to the bar, set his tumbler down, then made his way to the upside-down pool table. He clapped Thorne on the shoulder. Thorne met his gaze, bleary hazel eyes in pain, lots of pain. They all felt it, every damn one of them.

Medichi came forward next and shoved at the back of Thorne’s head then put his hand on his other shoulder. Luken followed, another hand on Thorne. Jean-Pierre’s hand slid around his waist. Santiago let go of a long string in Spanish, but it sounded soft like a prayer. His hand found a place next to Kerrick’s. Zacharius, however, stepped between Thorne and the upside-down table. He smiled a crooked smile, held out his hand, and folded his sword into his palm. “With you to the end, boss,” he said, nodding.

“To the end” slipped from one voice to the next, another kind of prayer, a shared promise among warriors, one that had been spoken from the beginning of time.

“Well, shit,” finally erupted from Thorne’s mouth. Like a signal flare, the warriors moved away from him, except Luken who once more slapped Thorne on the shoulder as he stared at the pool table. Despite Thorne’s mass, the power of Luken’s friendly shove rocked Thorne forward.

“Thanks, boss, you just won me a hundred bucks. I bet Santiago we wouldn’t go another month without having to replace the damn thing.”

Thorne shook his head from side to side, a weary gesture. He turned to face Kerrick looking like ten kinds of ruined.

Kerrick had his own problems, however, and he needed to address them now. “I want out tonight.”

Once more Thorne’s head wagged. “Endelle has already assigned you to guardian duty.” His voice was rough, low, desperate.

“Thorne, you gotta back me on this one.”

Thorne planted his hands on his hips. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure you can handle another warrior being so close to her, day and night, for at least three days?”

Kerrick’s jaw hardened. “I’ll have to.”

Thorne held his gaze steadily for a long moment then finally said, “You sure about this?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Head home but keep your phone at the ready.”

Kerrick nodded. “You’ll call if things go south?”

“You know I will.”

Thorne cleared his voice. The gravel deepened as he addressed the warriors. “Endelle will no doubt be on our asses all night. So just be prepared.”

A string of softly muttered obscenities rumbled through the room, every mouth grinding molars. The air smelled burnt.

Shit. This really can’t be good.

Whatever.

He’d be going back to his house. No, not to his house, to his basement, the hole in which he lived, his shrunk-down but oh-so-necessary existence.

At least he wouldn’t be seeing Alison again. Hopefully not for a long, long time.

Dreams create the gateway,

But the feet must cross the threshold.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 7

As High Administrator Crace reviewed yet another report about the mortal female Alison Wells, he had a new sweat issue developing. Even his breathing had taken on a gurgling sound.

He sat in his recently commandeered office, his brow low as he held one of several reports in hand. How was this possible? He’d never heard of a human of Mortal Earth capable of dematerializing. Shit.

He looked around. At least he had an office now.

At ten he had removed one very pissed-off general from his massive seat of authority. Though not as large as the Commander’s office, the general’s workplace proved the axiom “Size matters.” Crace might have taken the smaller space offered to him, but the general had made the mistake of curling his lip at Crace upon introduction so of course he’d had no choice but to dispossess the bastard.

The space was pristine, as it ought to be, a reflection of the disciplined military mind. The desk was clean, large, and rectangular, the chair, ergonomic. One wall of the office held a bank of four-drawer black steel, locked-down filing cabinets. On top of the cabinets sat a long planter that extended the entire distance of the file drawers. Maidenhair ferns filled the space spreading all the way to the ceiling.

He approved. The plants cleaned and humidified the desert air. The oxygen kept the mind sharp.

In his office in Chicago, he had a full-time Japanese gardener who kept both his indoor and outdoor gardens in immaculate condition. He had won successive awards for his specialized azaleas. He missed the calming effects of walking the gravel paths, and with his Guccis sliding over his damp ass right now he sure as hell could use a little calming green.

On his desk was the latest PC, the CPU built into the large screen. The keyboard was also ergonomic. Though the hardware appealed to his aesthetic sensibility, he was old-school and liked the feel of the reports in hand, the slick outer binder, the individual sheets between thumb and forefinger as he turned the pages