Ascension (Guardians of Ascension #1)(22)
Author: Caris Roane

Crace flared his nostrils then smiled. “Cold in early March. You know Chicago. We only have two kinds of weather—winter and the Fourth of July. However, the weather’s perfect here in Phoenix.”

The Commander nodded, his fingers steepled, his expression thoughtful. “And how fares your army?”

“We have followed your lead and work steadily to acquire one new recruit every week.” He was very proud of his record. The best time to recruit was during the rite of ascension when mortals were most vulnerable. Later, with a more complete understanding of the nature of dying blood, it was the rare ascender who opted for addiction and military service. Regardless, he made a powerful effort to recruit and had performed past expectation.

“You’ve done well. Ship fifty to me by the end of the week.”

Crace withheld the hiss forming in his throat. He was highly protective of his army for several reasons. First, to send them to Phoenix Two was nothing short of a death sentence for each squad, and second, the Commander always had quotas. What if he wasn’t able to fill the required numbers? Punishment would surely follow—or worse, he’d lose his chance at a Round Table appointment. Sweat leaked from the back of his knees and streaked down his calves. If only the pressure in his head would ease up.

“I would of course not hold you to your current quotas although I do recommend you replenish your forces as quickly as possible. I suggest you go farther afield. Head down to Texas. Who will know, except you and me, should a little meaningless rule get broken?”

“Thank you, Commander.” He’d just received permission to venture into a Territory aligned with Endelle. Truth? He enjoyed breaking the rules. He smiled.

“My, my, we are eager.”

Hell yes, we were eager. We should have had a promotion to the Round Table fifty years ago, but the Commander never did anything in haste. He should take a lesson from his superior; instead his gums flapped. “I’ve earned the post.”

The Commander’s eyes narrowed.

Shit.

The words came out in his quietest voice, and the talons flexed ever so slightly. “You’ve earned the post when I decide you’ve earned it. You must learn patience, Crace. Your eagerness has always been your downfall. Now, now, don’t despair. You will be happy to know that I have a job for you.”

At last. The reason for the summons. Crace released a deep breath, oh-so-quietly. He pressed his right hand over his heart and bowed, a less-than-elegant action in the sloped chair.

“I offer myself willingly.”

The Commander lifted a single sheet of crisp white paper, held between the long sharp claws. Crace’s gaze shifted to the talons. Sweat blossomed all over again. Greaves had so much power. No one else on Second had the ability to alter DNA and sprout a claw. He could retract the damn thing as well, although not for this interview apparently.

Sweet Jesus.

“Do this,” the Commander said, a smile easing over his fangs, “and you will sit at the right hand of God.”

He shoved the paper forward. It moved just a few inches, which forced Crace to haul his ass out of the low chair by pushing up on the arms with both hands. He took the sheet and slid back into place once more, the pooling sweat soaking his Gucci briefs.

As he glanced over the first few lines of the assignment, he shook his head. He didn’t understand. Was this all the Commander required?

He lifted his gaze and met the large round eyes of his deity. “You want me to kill a mortal woman?” He almost laughed. Could anything be simpler?

“Put your plans together. However, do not take even the smallest action until I have permission from the Committee. Even then, we can only begin the moment the ascendiate has answered the call. Are we clear?”

Crace stared at him, his lips parted. Of course he knew the rules, he just couldn’t believe the simplicity of the assignment. He even wondered why a man of lesser talents wasn’t brought in to get the job done.

The Commander smiled, just a little. “Is there a problem, High Administrator Crace?”

“Not at all.”

Crace knew joy. The sensation was a flock of butterflies flitting through his veins. He got a hard-on the size of a sledgehammer. Victory sang in his ears. He grinned though he knew he shouldn’t. Maybe this was a simple form of justice for all the labor he had performed, karma coming home to roost.

A fever now worked in him. “I will not disappoint you,” he cried. His hands shook. The paper rattled between his fingers. He had many things he wanted to discuss with the Commander. He had a thousand ideas about how to administer the Coming Order, the vast spectacle he would help create worthy of the Commander’s vision and power.

Kill a mere mortal woman and he had a seat at Commander Greaves’s Geneva Round Table.

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

And he had so many ideas for the Coming Order.

He was dizzy with excitement, a bride on her wedding day. He was ready to speak, to share the enormous plans he had. Instead the Commander rose to his feet. “You must forgive me for ending the interview. I have other matters to attend to.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Crace said, once more pushing himself out of the chair, his damn pants clinging to his thighs. The interview was over.

He bowed and remained in the subservient position as the master passed by. A scent of lemons arose along with a faint resinous smell, something like paint thinner.

A moment more and Greaves vanished. At the same time, the pressure within Crace’s head eased.

Of course Greaves had been in his head. Of course. Yet he had somehow cloaked his presence.

So much power.

Crace glanced at the paper. One final task to complete, and not nearly as difficult as a dozen others he’d performed over the decades. He smiled once more, baring his fangs. He laughed and threw in a throaty growl. He wished his wife were with him. She was the great love of his life, the partner in his ambitions, the finest hostess of the North American continent. Most certainly his darling wife would understand the monumental nature of this opportunity.

He’d take her, right now, here in the office of his deity, on the Commander’s big fat ebony desk. They would drink champagne and commune. Oh, God, would they commune.

Maybe he should bring her to Phoenix Two while he took care of business. He would have need of her, great desire for her body and for her blood.

He glanced once more at the paper.

Now where, oh where, to find the mortal Alison Wells?

* * *

After showering … again … Kerrick dressed in black cargoes, a snug black tee, and steel-toed boots. This time he pulled his hair back and secured the leather cadroen. The ritual bound him to the warriors, to Second Earth, to his avowal of service to all immortal ascenders. He took his vows seriously.