Thorne shook his head. “So exactly what are we talking here? How much?”

He dropped his voice one more notch. “Like I was the fucking German army and she was Poland.”

Thorne frowned, caught Sam’s eye, then popped his glass on the bar again. Sam moved in smoothly and filled. Thorne took a swig and met Kerrick’s gaze. “Is she here?”

“Nope, and believe me I’d know.”

“She’s fragrant, then?”

“Yep.”

“Damn. You know what this means, although, hell, I thought it was a myth.”

“We all did. I’m trying not to think about it. Besides, even if she shows, I have no intention of going after her.”

Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. “Think about it, though. If she’s so powerful, she’ll be right for you. This could be a good thing.”

Kerrick really didn’t want to hear any encouragement, not from Thorne, not from any of the brothers. “I took vows after Helena died.” EOS. He finished off the Maker’s.

Medichi leaned in from the side. “I’ve got a question.”

Kerrick turned in his direction and waited.

He swirled the Cabernet in his wineglass. He was the tallest of the brothers, topping out at six-seven with lean, powerful muscles. “What the hell are you ladies talking about?”

Before Kerrick could answer him, Zacharius rounded Medichi and butted in as well. “Yeah. You exchanging recipes or what?” Kerrick flipped him off.

Zacharius was the man, a vampire full of shit and swagger. His thick curly black hair, when he chose to release it from the cadroen, drove the ladies wild.

Thorne’s gravel-pit voice broke over Kerrick’s shoulder. “Well, assholes, though it’s none of your business, we were just discussing warrior mate-bonding. Any thoughts?”

Zacharius turned white and headed back to his stool. Medichi crossed himself. Both warriors hunched over their drinks and disappeared for a while. Kerrick waggled his empty glass at Sam. Sam nodded and refilled.

A feminine moan shifted his attention down the bar, just past Zach. Jean-Pierre whispered a string of tender French words into the ear of his now panting female. He traced a long index finger along her collarbone. The other hand slid deep into her skimpy blue silk top.

Sam called to him, “Jean-Pierre, you know the rules. Mist and a booth or I’ll have to throw you out.”

Jean-Pierre met his gaze and lifted an arrogant brow. He bared his fangs and a lovely Gallic growl eased out of his throat.

Kerrick had to smile. The barkeep was half Jean-Pierre’s size, a small vampire, born on Second Earth, who’d find himself broken in half if he pushed the warrior. One of his privileges, however, since he served Endelle by keeping the club specifically to serve her warriors, was to order even the Warriors of the Blood around, at least on his premises.

Sam tipped his head to his bouncers, and a couple of giants stepped forward. Kerrick’s smile broadened. Regardless of their size, if they intended to engage Jean-Pierre, they’d both end up in the hospital in less than a minute.

When the warrior didn’t back down, Thorne lifted his head from his drink. “Goddammit, Jean-Pierre, get a booth. Now. Though why you have to forget the rules every other night…”

Jean-Pierre shrugged, laughed, then wrapped a ripped arm around the female’s shoulders and drew her away. The only order he would ever take was from Thorne.

He had a different take on the cadroen as well. He tied up his wild-looking brown waves with varying strips of brocade, a leftover affectation from his years at the court of Louis XVI.

“Fifteen minutes,” Thorne called after him.

“Quinze, bah.” He made use of his tongue again and the female sagged against him.

Zacharius hooted after Jean-Pierre, who in turn flipped him off. Jean-Pierre disappeared behind a layer of mist as he hauled his mortal female into one of many red velvet booths.

Fifteen minutes.

As usual, the warriors would be working the Borderlands throughout the night, on both Mortal Earth and Second, hunting the Commander’s death vampires. Kerrick’s muscles twitched. Fifteen minutes? He couldn’t wait.

Movement at the entrance caught his attention. Alison? Adrenaline punched through his veins once more, but it was only Luken and Santiago, the two remaining warriors. They strolled in, tall powerful vampires, each six-five plus.

Damn but if a petite redhead didn’t run at Santiago, leap on him, and throw her legs around his hips. He caught her easily and sucked on her neck. Her giggles rose above the noise of the club. Alcohol tended to elevate any voice, so even with the music off until Thorne wanted it back on, the place was alive with whistles, catcalls, and loud conversation. There were other sounds as well. Those, however, Kerrick ignored.

He picked up his glass, slid off the stool, and once more leaned his hips against the bar. He hooked Luken’s arm and palmed his hand.

Luken nodded then spoke in a low voice. “Heard about the mess in downtown earlier. Kids. Shit.”

Kerrick was taken right back there to finding the mortal woman and her children, broken and drained. He nodded then sucked back the rest of the Maker’s.

Luken clapped his shoulder, afterward moving down the row to greet his brothers. Kerrick followed with his gaze. Luken kept the peace and eased suffering. He was a massive warrior, with more muscle than even Kerrick, yet lean as hell. He had the heart of a saint and it meant something to have Luken acknowledge when shit went bad.

Kerrick shifted his gaze to the dance floor. Several couples remained, chatting, waiting until the music came back on, exchanging a few erotic kisses. Even Santiago waited with his redhead, his lips still fixed to her neck. He had the whole Latin thing going on and knew how to work it.

One Militia Warrior already had his fangs deep, his body arched over the female, who, hell, looked like she was ready to come.

Damn. Kerrick’s thoughts flew back to Alison, and desire pumped through him so fast he had to turn back into the bar. Holy shit. He only had to think about the blond goddess and he was hard as a rock. He eased back onto his stool and spent the next minute memorizing the labels on the bottles opposite.

Normally he’d be out there taking care of business as well, easing his tension, letting the ache of his solitary life leak out of him for a minute or two, yet ever since he’d held Alison in his arms, he’d lost interest in smelling anything but lavender.

Kerrick brought his tumbler to his lips once more. As he took another hefty swig, his gaze hit the mirror opposite and landed on a space between a bottle of Absolut and another of Bacardi Superior. In that small, mirrored spot he caught Thorne’s tight expression as he stared into his tumbler.

Shit. Boss looked fazed, his expression fixed and staring. He clasped his hands on the bar, caging his tumbler of vodka. His right thumb dug into the well of a long deep scar, a sword wound that had nearly severed his left thumb from his hand many centuries ago. Thorne bore his responsibilities seriously yet he’d never appeared quite so blasted, and it wasn’t just because of the drink. Something was eating at him.

Thorne had seen over two thousand years of mortal and immortal life, and he’d borne the weight of the Warriors of the Blood for the last millennium. He was even responsible for handing out the Militia Warrior training assignments, although lately none of the brothers had been to the camps. Greaves had kept the Borderlands lit up for months so that improving Militia Warrior skills had fallen by the wayside.

Worse for Thorne, however, was his duty to Endelle. As her numero uno, he was linked to her telepathically, and that had to be one helluvan assfuck.

As Supreme High Administrator Endelle was in charge, but damn she gave bitch a bad name. She had reason, of course, since for God only knew how many centuries she’d shouldered the burden of keeping Greaves from nuking two worlds.

And Thorne served as her second-in-command.

Tonight he looked it as he sat rubbing his thumb into the scar, his eyes glazed, the lower half of his face hanging low like gravity had him by the jaw and was pulling hard.

“Hey,” Kerrick said quietly. “Why don’t you head out there and get busy?” He jerked his head to the dance floor where couples waited for the music to resume.

Thorne’s face moved through half a dozen expressions, ending in horror. “What the hell are you talking about? You know I’m celibate.”

Kerrick looked at him hard.

Thorne flipped him off but not in a friendly way.

“I meant no disrespect.”

Thorne turned and faced him. His eyes grew wet and he pinched his lips together. He shook his head several times. He clearly wanted to say something. He ground his molars then muttered a couple of obscenities. Finally, he said, “Aw, fuck. Just forget it.”

“Done.”

Thorne caught Sam’s gaze then swirled two fingers in the air. Once more Sam picked up his phone and ordered the music on full blast.

As the Black Eyed Peas’s “Pump It” started up, Kerrick returned to his glass and took a strong pull. Was this his future in a few more centuries? Staring mindlessly into a mirrored wall and lying to his friends, drinking like a fish, walking around like a dead man? Now, there was a vision to get excited about.

Once more he thought of the ascendiate, of Alison, but he clamped down hard on the images racing through his brain. Lust was too small a word for what he felt when he thought about her.

He ordered another Maker’s and decided he’d spend the next few minutes sinking into his own tumbler. Just as he raised his glass to his lips, the door to the club opened. A number of scents plowed into his brain and he sorted through them one after the other. The last faint bouquet reached him like the rumble of a tank just beyond the hill.

Lavender.

However, as he rose and stared at the doorway, only two Militia Warriors crossed the threshold. He waited, but no one else followed.

He turned back to drop onto his stool then sipped his Maker’s. Great. Now he was imagining Alison’s scent.

The rite of ascension only creates difficulty for those with highly evolved powers, but the contributions of service, which follow, astonish even the gods.