“If Warrior Kerrick recovers fast enough, and why the fuck wouldn’t he, they’ll leave in her car before Leto touches down. And you know what that means.” He got close into Crace’s face. “Once they’re on the move, we won’t be able to get to them. Remember? No wings on Mortal Earth and no Second ascender I know of has the ability to fold to a moving object. Even if they stop, the grid won’t be able to find either of their signatures for hours. So unless Leto touches down fast enough with the bomb he took, it looks like we’re at square fucking one!”

Crace ignored the general. He took a step back and turned to stare at the grid where not only the ascendiate’s powerful signature pulsed, but Warrior Kerrick’s as well.

Shit.

For the space of about five seconds he thought about cutting his dick off.

* * *

Marcus flew straight up into the cold, dry desert night air, chasing the last of the death vamps. Goddamn he’d forgotten what this was like, the sheer blaze of adrenaline, his wings plowing the air, his sword pressed against his thigh.

Power. That’s what this was. The incomparable sensation of sheer physical and preternatural power combined. What a rush.

The pretty-boy had thought to outfly him, the last of the death vamps left alive after Leto took two others and headed into the Trough.

But this one was flat-out scared. As he ought to be.

Marcus lowered his chin. He focused on the death vamp’s mind and sent, You started drinking people into the grave and now you think to run from me?

In response, he heard a kind of mental shrieking. He laughed and worked his wings in long hard thrusts. With each one, he drew closer to his prey until he reached forward and grabbed the asshole’s ankle. He gave a solid jerk and a twist, which sent the bastard into a wicked spiral, his wings locked in place, his body spinning out of control.

Marcus halted midair and watched. After a few seconds, he drew his wings into close-mount, tight against his body, then headed like a rocket after the bastard. He kept his sword close, caught the pretty-boy’s arm, and unfurled his own wings at the same time. He floated both of them back to earth. At the last moment he flipped his enemy onto hard solid ground.

The death vamp’s spirit was broken as he looked up at Marcus. There was no more fight left in him.

How familiar all this felt, like hopping on a Harley after not riding for a few months. He knew just how to hold the clutch and rev the gas. He lifted his sword and at the last split second, as the blade swept in a load-bearing arc through the air, he saw the relief in his enemy’s eyes.

He severed the head. Nothing less would do.

But the finality of the act caught the back of his knees and brought him hard next to his enemy, onto the grass of the Second Earth park. His body shook, adrenaline slamming through his veins. He leaned over, breathing hard. He barely kept the nausea at bay.

He looked around. There were bodies everywhere. And body parts. And broken feathers. God, there were feathers everywhere.

He had expected a real high, a warrior’s high. He had looked forward to it. Instead a terrible emptiness followed, something he had forgotten.

He thumbed Central and spoke to Jeannie. Two seconds later a bright flash and all the gore disappeared.

Maybe there had been more than one reason why he’d exiled himself to Mortal Earth.

* * *

Kerrick opened his eyes as he flexed his right arm. He had a clear view of an alley and everything looked quiet, but his mind fuzzed in and out like a computer screen hit with a virus. He couldn’t place his current location. Damn.

It was still dark, though. Somehow, that was a good thing. His back, his left hip, and his left knee hurt like hell. He looked at his arm again then wondered why he wasn’t covered in blood from all the fighting.

What fighting?

Sudden images flashed over his brain. Oh, yeah. He’d been battling Leto and a host of death vamps, twelve if he remembered right. He had worked hard to shift the battle away from the Trough and then the ground had dropped out from under him anyway.

He’d fallen … a long way.

Oh, yeah. He’d been dumped. Hence, the absence of blood and sweat. Traveling through a dimension like that, instead of just folding, had a cleansing effect on the clothes and the body, like he’d showered up and put on fresh gear.

Now he was on Mortal Earth.

He just couldn’t exactly remember why he was here. He had a mission, but what?

More images crowded his mind.

A woman and his sword rattling on the ground.

He sniffed the air. He smelled something very familiar. He lifted his arm and dragged his nostrils over his skin. A rich scent hit him like he’d walked into a perfume shop. Lavender. A woman, not any woman, his woman, Alison—yes, her name was Alison. She had touched him recently, within the past few minutes.

In exactly how many dimensions was that even possible?

The scent of lavender took him on a rocket ride and he hardened painfully. A moan drifted out of his mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips. He tasted blood not his own.

His breath stopped. This was her blood. Oh, God, how had he gotten her blood on his tongue? He knew it as though he’d read her DNA signature a thousand times.

Oh. My. God.

He remembered now. She had pressed his lips back and touched one of his fangs a little too hard and pierced her skin. He had sucked her finger.

The blood on his tongue sent him spiraling into a cursed need to commune with her. His fangs thickened in his gums. He swallowed potent saliva. He throbbed everywhere.

But what the hell was she doing in this alley below the Trough? He was at the downtown Phoenix Borderland. Still night. A Borderland. The Trough. Alison.

Shit. Of course. Her call to ascension. The sand of the wash shooting up into the air.

He took deep breaths and calmed his body.

He had to think straight. He wouldn’t be mate-bonding with this woman. He’d taken vows. Never again would he put a woman’s life in jeopardy because of a mating. Never.

Yet by some wretched twist of fate she’d been plummeted into the danger of his world, on his watch, and now it was up to him to keep her alive.

He sat up and rubbed his neck. He could feel his bruised bones knitting together rapidly and his muscles and skin repairing at lightning speed. Christ, his head still felt thick. He shoved a hand through the loose strands of his hair, pushing it away from his face. He drew the pick from the cadroen then rebound his hair.

He was in Phoenix One, all right, below the Trough to Second Earth, one of several favorite descent points of the pretty-boy bloodsuckers. Oh, shit, he could feel the air above him start to pulse.

Yep. Leto and his playmates were on the way, only this time they’d be armed to the teeth. Swords were the only battle weapons allowed on Two. On Mortal Earth, however, there were no limits, with the exception of atomics and full regiments.

If he didn’t take action, he and Alison would be toast in little less than a minute.

So where was she?

He could feel her presence now as well as smell her. Even her heartbeats sounded in his ears.

He gave his head a shake and cleared away the last remaining aftereffects of the fall.

He drew in a sharp breath. His nostrils flared. Her scent stroked him again. In twelve hundred years he had never been so affected by a woman, but Alison was a perfect mate, designed to torture him even at inconvenient times. Her pheromones charged the air and dragged over his skin like sharp, erotic fingernails. So this was what the breh-hedden did to a man? And just how easy was this going to be to disengage? Holy hell.

He paused. He reached out with his mind, located her, then turned around on the hood of the car, crouching low. He looked through the windshield.

Time once again slowed to a standstill.

There she was staring at him, her large blue eyes opened in surprise. Sweet merciful God. He wanted her. He wanted her like he had never wanted a woman before, like he had just figured out what woman was.

Heat and desire cascaded off her body in brilliant red waves. His lips curved. The not-so-subtle mating experience was apparently mutual.

As cold air spilled over the car, he drew his mind out of his present need. He had to get Alison to safety … now.

He rolled off the hood then picked up his sword. He caught her gaze again as he rounded the driver’s side. She tracked his moves and stared at him unblinking. Her lips were parted in a soft expression of shock.

He strode to the door then jerked it open. “Move over … now … or we’ll both be dead in about twenty seconds.”

She compressed her lips and searched his face. He could see her mind spinning, processing. A moment later she slid her backside over the lump of her purse, which she tossed into the backseat, then latched her seat belt like her fingers were on fire.

He folded his sword back to the locked case in his basement before he climbed into the driver’s seat. As he slid in, his knees hit the steering wheel. He moved the seat back with a swift jerk but even then he barely fit into the confined space.

He looked at her as he started the ignition with a touch of his finger. “Let me say this again: whatever you do, don’t handle another warrior’s sword. They’re forged to individual recognition and if you touch one, other than your own, you’ll die. Got it?”

He hoped the woman had good instincts. If she was able to blast a hole in another dimension, she ought to. On the other hand, instincts often went to character and right now he knew nothing about this woman except of course that he wanted to be inside her, like now.

“Got it,” she said. She finally blinked.

He met her gaze. He hoped like hell she had a sense of humor because damn, she was going to need it over the next few days. Okay, hours. Whether she understood it or not, her life had just been blown all to hell.

He put the gearshift in reverse, stepped hard on the gas, and began backing up.

Slowly.

He gripped the steering wheel and withheld a lengthy string of expletives.

The car chugged along like it had all night and all day to get out of the alley.

Dammit.

He hit the steering wheel. “What the hell is this?” he cried.

“Well, it’s a 1993 Nova,” she said. “Top speed sixty if you don’t mind the shaking.”