He couldn’t keep pretending that he could follow the path laid out for him, to enter his father’s import business, which had extensive dealings with Mortal Earth export firms run by Second Earth expats who still lived on the grid and were monitored by the bureaucracy of COPASS.

What had begun as a simple organization, the Committee to Oversee the Process of Ascension to Second Society, had turned into an administrative monstrosity with fingers in every lucrative pie to be found in the financial sector of Second Earth.

Arthur’s disgust was profound.

He’d learned only a week ago that he was related to one of the infamous Warriors of the Blood, Warrior Jean-Pierre, a circumstance that explained so much from a genetics standpoint. He had always excelled at sword-work and at hand-to-hand combat. He’d received Militia Warrior training from the time he was eight, the youngest age a boy or girl could enter the various youth programs that focused on weapons training and military discipline.

He’d taken to it all with ease and with a superior skill that kept Militia recruiters knocking on his parents’ door once a week for the past decade. Now that he was nineteen, they received personal visits even from Colonel Seriffe’s staff, and the colonel at times headed the entire Militia Warrior operation worldwide.

As he stared out into the dark night, as he felt the future looming closer and evil not far distant, he stepped back into the shadows and changed into flight battle gear. He’d gotten really good at making the change and only had to do a minimal adjustment at the waist this time, although one of the two daggers he sported needed to be secured a little deeper into the sternum piece.

Yeah, he was uneasy. He even tied back his long hair with a strip of leather. He might have been teased about pretending to be a Whatbee, the nickname given to the Warriors of the Blood. But when you were six-five, weighed 220, and bore the weight of a man’s muscle even if you still hadn’t reached the legal age to drink, people left you alone.

He flexed his right hand. Even though his sword wasn’t in his hand, it needed to be. He felt it with every breath of his body.

He heard an infant cry, a distant sound. Someone coughed. A couple argued. The village was settling in for the night.

He nodded to one of the villagers, a good man who patrolled at night, a three-hundred-year-old ascender who served as a Militia Warrior for the colony. Much good he could do if something really bad came into the village. He wasn’t military-trained. Maybe he could sound an alarm or maybe he would be dead before a shout of alarm could leave his throat.

He thought about going to Diallo’s house, waking him up, but Diallo’s gifts ran in a different direction.

Diallo was a brilliant administrator, a leader. He had vision, kindness, and empathy. More than anything else, he rehabilitated Seers who had been abused on Second Earth.

The vibrations through Arthur’s body got stronger. He stepped off the porch and once more wanted his sword in his hand, but he waited.

He paced in front of his cabin then began moving in the direction of Diallo’s large house, the biggest house of the settlement, which overlooked the entire valley. He stretched his preternatural vision and slid deep into the surrounding forest.

Something was there.

Something was definitely out there.

Waiting.

For orders, maybe.

He just wished like hell he knew what to do.

Movement to his left dropped him into a crouch, a fighting stance. In the moonlight, he recognized Diallo’s tall, lean shape. The vampire wore an animal-skin vest, his bare arms exposed to the cool March air. He was well muscled but no fighter. His dark skin caught the light as he moved toward Arthur. Diallo lifted a hand to sustain the silence.

Arthur nodded.

Diallo had never worn a more serious expression, his black brows low on his forehead. “Do you feel it, Arthur?” The accent was slightly British.

Arthur nodded. “Yes. What do the future streams say?”

“They are quiet, which I don’t understand at all.” His voice was deep and rich. “Something is wrong. It’s a very powerful force, perhaps powerful enough to shut down the future streams. There is only one I know of with this kind of power: Owen Stannett, who recently fled from the Superstition Seers Fortress.”

“You think he might be here?”

“I think he might have found something in the future streams to draw him here, yes.”

“After our Seers?”

Diallo looked down at him and smiled. “Yes, after our Seers.”

The word had flowed easily from Arthur’s tongue. He was committed to the colony. The Seers were definitely his as much as anyone’s, his to look out for and to guard. Diallo treated the Seer population extremely well, and brought Fortress refugees here anytime he could. He often had his most powerful Seers hunt for refugees whenever they were called to enter the future streams.

“What do you think he wants with them?”

“What they all want: foreknowledge and therefore power. If he succeeds, he will incarcerate them.”

That which waited began to move.

Arthur thought the thought and at last brought his sword into his hand.

That which is hidden,

Will be made known.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 4

Thorne had his arm around Marguerite’s waist, a tight grip, too tight perhaps. The vibration took hold of him, the unique sensation of gliding through nether-space. He could feel Marguerite gliding as well. A brief blanking-out occurred, then awareness as his feet touched down.

As he materialized, he was immediately confronted by the young man from the vision, who crouched, sword in hand, then moved in front of the black man, a protective maneuver that Thorne approved of.

Both the young warrior and the black man spoke at once, but kept their voices low. “Warrior Thorne.”

“My God,” the black man said. “A Warrior of the Blood, here in our colony.”

So they knew who he was. That was a damn good thing.

“And you are?” he asked, his voice perhaps too loud in the sleepy night of the village.

The black man spoke. “Diallo. I preside over this colony.” He gestured to the young warrior. “This is Arthur Robillard.”

Thorne stared at him. “Robillard. Then you’re related to Warrior Jean-Pierre.”

The youth nodded, a slow dip of his chin, his lips a grim line. He didn’t seem happy about it.

Diallo’s gaze shifted to Marguerite, and he sucked in a sudden breath. “You are the one.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Marguerite responded.

Thorne’s hand tightened around her waist. “The one what?” Again, his gravelly voice was a little too loud.

“She’s a Seer of vast power.”

“So?” Marguerite snapped.

“You are the one destined to change everything.”

“Oh, whatever.”

“I don’t like to break this up,” Arthur said, “but there’s something out there.”

“You feel it then?” Thorne asked. He met the young man’s gaze, just a glitter in the dark.

“Like something crawling over my neck.”

Thorne nodded. “And how are you related to Jean-Pierre?”

“I’m his great-grandson but I just found out a week or so ago.”

“You have the look of him. When I saw you crouch, I saw him. Have you had any battle experience?”

“Some.”

Thorne narrowed his eyes. “How much?” He thought War games maybe, the kind done through youth military training exercises.

“Over the last year, I’ve killed death vampires. That kind of how much.”

The boy clearly had an attitude but … shit. “How many, for Christ’s sake?”

“Enough.”

“Ballpark?”

“Maybe twenty.”

Thorne’s neck whipped up and back. How the hell was that even possible? “And why are you out killing pretty-boys?”

“Well,” he drawled. “Someone has to get the job done.”

Thorne wanted to grab this young man by the nape of his neck and shake him hard. What right did he have to bust Thorne’s chops about the need for more dead death vampires—and what the fuck was he doing risking his life by attacking them in the first place? Even Militia Warriors, trained for years, had to work in squads of four just to bring down one pretty-boy. And this kid was killing them single-handedly? Unless …

“You work alone?”

“Sometimes.”

Sweet God almighty. “You mean there are others taking such stupid risks?”

Arthur’s jaw turned to flint. He even took an aggressive step toward Thorne. “I only speak for myself.” So the answer was yes. “When there ain’t anybody else around to do a job, then yeah, I do it. Have you got a problem with that, Warrior?”

Essentially, no, but this kid was young. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

He wanted to knock some sense into the kid, but now the hairs on his nape rose. From long experience, he knew exactly what that meant.

He released Marguerite and stepped away from her so that he could fold his identified sword into his hand. Swords could be identified to the Warriors of the Blood and to Militia Warriors as well. Just touching a sword identified to someone else would cause death. “Diallo, I’d appreciate it if you’d take Marguerite somewhere safe while Arthur and I tend to business.”

“Hey, don’t I get a say in this?”

Thorne just looked at her, his fingers working the grip. “You do if you can fight death vampires, because by my tally, my sense of what’s moving in the forest, we have at least eight pretty-boys coming straight at us.”

She lifted both hands. “Point taken.” She turned to Diallo. “So what kind of digs do you have in this place?”

Diallo smiled. “I have a cabin ready for guests at all times, but I also had a feeling.”

“You’ve been expecting us?”