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container next to her. Spread out around her feet were a dozen drawings. She’d always loved designing her clothes, one of the activities of her 9000 years of vampire service, which, like good sex, had helped keep her sane.
    She wasn’t an artist, not being able to truly translate all she saw in her head onto paper. But she’d gotten good enough over the years to render sufficiently detailed drawings for her head seamstress to interpret her concepts with ease. The talented woman had a crew of ten at her beck-and-call and could execute even the most complicated outfit in a matter of hours.
    As her gaze roved the scattered drawings on the floor, her eyes suddenly popped wide. She felt as though she’d been caught in some kind of trance because until this moment, she hadn’t recognized the obvious theme.
    But there it was with swords, intricately carved wood shields, metal headdresses with horns, tough thigh boots, and spikes on leather wrist guards. One short skirt was made of chain-mail, another of black leather, and a third of crimson silk embroidered with gold daggers.
    Seems she had war on her mind.
    Setting her chalk and her sketchpad aside, she rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She’d been feeling a tremendous pressure lately, wishing it would go away. Not a headache, exactly, but a weight within her mind. Yet no amount of self-healing would relieve the sensation.
    Earlier, she’d met her favorite prostitute at the door, only to hand him his usual fee, wipe his mind clean, then send him away without having taken him to bed. Though she was desperate for release, she knew the man’s usual oral gifts weren’t going to get the job done.
    She rose from her seat and moved into the stone-paved courtyard. The air was humid and heavy, just like her spirits. A tiger rubbed his head against her hip, and she took a moment to scratch his face with her fingernails. The beast chuffed at her in gratitude then flopped down at her feet.
    But she kept moving.
    She had her routine: massages as often as needed, lots of government meetings she detested, and a once-a-week workout with her favorite for-hire boy-toy here in India.
    The long courtyard had a large rectangular pond and in the center an island housing a mature Indian laurel. Lily-pads dotted the dark green lake and the monkeys raced from the branches of the tree to the tall, two-story roofline and back.
    Usually, she could figure out exactly what was bugging her without having to blink twice, but her current mood had her flummoxed. And she’d rather have ants chewing on her butt than spend even a second analyzing her innermost psyche.
    What held her attention the most was the fucked up vision she’d had about Luken and his not-so-bright future on Third Earth. She’d ordered him to pull a black ops team together to handle forays into Third Earth and some of the results had been nothing short of spectacular. Three Militia Warriors and one peace-loving female had risen in the space of a single, astonishing month to Warrior of the Blood level.
    Unheard of.
    During the celebration, however, Merl had killed her feel-good.
    Standing beside her at the induction ceremony, he’d muttered, “Much good any of this will do us on Third. Your team might as well be throwing dead fish and hoping they somehow turn into grenades.”
    She’d almost jumped down his throat, but dammit the bastard was right.
    The black ops team wasn’t anywhere near ready to battle the powerful Militia Warriors and death vampires they'd be confronting on Third.
    What the hell had she been thinking trying to create a black ops team out of Second ascenders? Except she’d seen both Duncan and Luken battling on Third Earth and she’d felt compelled to act. She also knew from the vision both Second and Third Earth were on the brink of total domination by a psychopath even more formidable than her former adversary, Darian Greaves. Even thinking about Chustaffus and the slave world he’d built on