“Carla had a date.”
“That Militia Warrior again?” His gaze scanned the horizon, ever-seeking. Dawn, unfortunately, was still a couple of hours away, and since death vamps preferred to hunt at night he’d be stuck out here for a while.
“Yeah. She’s really into him. He’s six-four, two sixty, all muscle, just like you warriors.”
“Well, you just make sure he treats her right. If he doesn’t, you know where to find me.”
He heard a very deep sigh. “Aye-aye, duhuro. So, what kind of numbers are we talkin’ about at the Superstitions right now?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Holy shit. At least you got ’em all.”
“Amen to that.” Sweat once more rolled down his face, dribbled off his nose. He folded a washcloth from his house in Sedona Two and scrubbed his face. “Luken got sliced across his left quad. I had to bring Horace in to do his healing magic.”
“Ouch. Tell him to feel better.”
Thorne just grunted. He heard a series of taps on the screen, then Jeannie came back on line. “Cover your peepers.”
Thorne called out to Luken and Horace, who both closed their eyes. A flash of light and this time a faint rumbling. Twenty-three was a big number.
When the light disappeared, Thorne looked around. All the carnage had vanished. Thank God for technology. It wasn’t so long ago he and Luken would have spent part of each night doing the large folding work themselves, which wasn’t too bad. But on-the-ground debris work was one helluva job: dropped weapons, body parts, feathers, you name it.
For some reason his knees went watery and he sat down on the ground. “Thanks, Jeannie.”
“You headed over to the Convent later?”
“What do you mean?” How does she know?
“You always do about dawn.”
“I do?” Jesus. Had he been so obvious? He needed to break up his routine, although the thought of anything preventing him from going where he needed to go tied his stomach into a double knot. A visit to the Convent had become part of his survival strategy.
“Hey. Everyone knows you’re worried about your sister. How’s she doin’?”
Oh, yeah. His sister. “She’s the same. Excessively devoted.”
“Convent,” Jeannie murmured. He could feel her shudder.
“I hear ya. Horace is just about finished. Holler if you need me.”
“Always do.”
Thorne thumbed his phone and remained sitting on the ground, his forearms resting on bent knees, his leather kilt hanging low. He reached out with his senses, but didn’t detect any shift in the airwaves or cooling of temps. He sniffed the air. Only the sharp smell of the desert returned.
He glanced at the tall, thin healer, his head bent over Luken’s thigh, his hand on the wound, his brow furrowed. A faint glow emanated from the area he worked. Luken leaned back on his palms, his expression disinterested. After a few centuries, what was one deep cut? After all, the artery hadn’t been hit.
“How you doin’, Luken?”
“What? Oh, fine. I was just thinking how beautiful the desert is at night. Just listen to the quiet, and shit, those stars are something else. You don’t see them like that near the city. And I love the smell. Like sage, I guess.”
Leave it Luken to marvel at the work of the Creator after having been flayed like a fish.
A few seconds more and Horace drew upright. Luken rose to his feet as well, shook out both legs, then stomped around. “Horace, you are a f**king genius.” He faced the healer then clamped his hands on both shoulders. “As always, thank you, my man.”
Horace looked up at him and smiled. “My pleasure.” When Luken’s arms returned to his sides, Horace bowed, an absurd sign of respect, which the warriors couldn’t seem to train him out of. He bowed to Thorne as well, lifted an arm, then vanished.
Luken moved to stand in front of Thorne. “Jefe?”
“Yeah?” Thorne looked up. Luken’s legs and shin guards were spattered with blood. He rubbed his hand along the scar by his thumb, savoring the feel of the ridges, thankful he still had all five digits intact.
Luken shook his head. “Twenty-three of those bastards and I almost bought it.”
Thorne’s throat tightened. “I know.”
“Thanks for having my back.”
Thorne just shook his head. The interior of his chest still burned like a sonofabitch. He wanted his Ketel. Now.
* * *
Kerrick looked into blue eyes, which were little more than a soft glitter in the darkened car. The smell of lavender rushed at him, bathed him, worked his senses into a frenzy.
So she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to open that door.
Goddamn breh-hedden.
His vows rushed at him and his heart pitched south. Memories ripped through him, of a lost village twelve hundred years ago, of Marta, his first wife, and her torn-up, drained body. Fast-forward several centuries—Helena and their two children vaporized in an explosion. And during all those twelve hundred years, he had battled with a sword every day and every day he took life again and again. Christ. Before the sun had even set this evening he’d battled four death vamps and sent them to perdition.
“I kill, Alison. That’s what I do.”
He heard her heart rate increase. She couldn’t disguise such a reaction, and still she said, “You are a warrior.”
He nodded. “I am a warrior. I’ve also taken vows. I will not marry again.”
He heard a slight intake of breath then a slow release of air. “I never thought to marry in the course of my life.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
He turned toward her, shifting in the too small seat. “Why not?”
“I hurt a man once. I…” She lifted her chin. “I almost killed him.”
He checked the growl forming in his throat. “Did he hurt you? Was that why?”
She shook her head then winced. “He got hurt because of who I am. When I asked you to kiss me, I wanted to know if—” She looked away.
“You’re worried you’ll hurt me.”
She nodded and her gaze fell to her lap. “I know what it is to take a vow. It’s just that it would be really nice … once … to know I could kiss a man, be with a man without hurting him.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” he stated.
“So you say.”
He really shouldn’t open this door. His vows spun around in his head, slamming against the inside of his skull, but she was next to him and she had said words he said to himself. They get hurt because of who I am.