Wings of Fire (16 page)

A shimmering in the air appeared not far from him. Shit. He should not have come. He held his sword in a firm grip as he shifted to face his new enemy—but it was only Thorne.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Thorne cried. He scowled at Jean-Pierre. “And I sure as hell don’t remember you asking for permission to come back here. Now you have two questions to answer.”

Jean-Pierre had nothing to tell him. “I am not certain why I came,” he said. “I was distressed and felt compelled to return. Perhaps we missed something.”

Thorne looked around and shook his head. “I had the same damn feeling. Endelle wanted me to come back and have one more look, but goddammit, Jean-Pierre, you should have checked with me first.”

“Would you have let me come?”

“No,” Thorne barked. He barked a lot these days.

Jean-Pierre merely smiled and shrugged.

Thorne did as well. It was so much like their
chef,
their boss, their leader. He had a quick temper, but his rage disappeared as fast as lightning.

“Well, now that you’re here we can have a look around together.”

Jean-Pierre took his time. He went into every cell, and with each successive room his spirit grew heavier. His anger grew and grew. He raged that such horrible things had been done to innocent women.

When he reached the last cell, the aroma of bread—no, more like croissants—permeated the room, but he did not know why. There was a vent above, but that was true of all the cells. Had someone baked something recently? If so, then why did not every room smell like this one?

All that he knew was he wanted to linger, to stay close to the aroma.

“What is it?” Thorne asked.

Jean-Pierre turned and looked at him. Thorne stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. He scowled as always, his hazel eyes red and so very sad. He carried a terrible load. Jean-Pierre had no intention of adding to his concerns.
“Rien,”
he responded. “I have found nothing.”

And that was the truth. Nothing except an aroma of croissants that made no sense in this dungeon of terrors.

***

Parisa had just slid into a clean bra and underwear when a knock sounded on the door, but it sounded faint, not like Medichi. “Who is it?”

“Havily. Can I come in?”

Something inside Parisa’s chest warmed up, as if someone had just turned up the heat beneath a pot. “Just a minute.” She searched for and found a black silk robe in her closet. She shrugged into it as she crossed the room. Opening the door, she smiled.

Cradled in one arm, Havily carried a huge vase full of at least two dozen white roses. “You’re home,” she cried. She opened her free arm.

Parisa burst into tears and fell into that welcoming embrace. Havily held her close and sniffed as well.

“You’ll spoil your beautiful makeup.” Havily always looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of
Vogue.
She wore Ralph Lauren, and her red layered hair floated around her shoulders.

“I missed you, girlfriend. I’ve had no one to fly with.” She sighed as she released Parisa. Moving into the room, she expanded on her theme. “Alison doesn’t have her wings yet and besides that she’s
really
pregnant now and
feeling
it. But even if she did have her wings, Kerrick would throw a hissy-fit.”

Parisa laughed and closed the door behind her. It was very difficult to picture a Warrior of the Blood throwing anything that could resemble a hissy-fit. He might throw a tornado of rage, but a hissy-fit?

“How are you and Marcus doing?”

Havily looked around the room and headed to the table by the window. She settled the vase there. Then she looked back at Parisa. “Are you even staying in this room?”

Parisa felt her cheeks warm up. “I’m not sure … no. I guess not.” She shook her head. “As long as I’m here I’ll be at the end of the hall.” She pointed in the direction of Medichi’s bedroom.

Havily’s chest rose and fell with a sigh. “I thought that might be the case. I’m glad. Parisa, he’s really suffered. Did you know he started drinking limoncello?”

She nodded. “I saw him once or twice.” Her gaze fell away from Havily, and her mind grew a little fuzzy. “I found I couldn’t voyeur him as much as I wanted to, not because I was unable but because it just hurt so much to see him and not be able to communicate with him. We kind of fell into this routine that I would voyeur him when I was ready for bed and he was through fighting for the night.”

She didn’t realize Havily had crossed the room until she felt an arm around her shoulders. Then Havily drew her into a big hug and held her for a very long time.

Finally she drew back. “There’s one thing I really need to know. Were you hurt? Did Rith
hurt
you?” Her voice sounded scraped and raw.

Parisa knew what was on everyone’s mind. “I wasn’t raped. I thought I would be. I thought it would be the first order of business. I guess that’s what a woman will always think when she falls into the hands of a bad man. But I wasn’t. I don’t know why. The truth is, I don’t know why either Greaves or Rith allowed me to live.”

Havily shook her head slowly. “I don’t have answers for any of that. We … I didn’t think you’d be coming back. There were so many attempts on your life as it was.” Then a smile suffused Havily’s lovely face.

“What?” Parisa asked.

“I’m just so damn glad you’re home.” Once more her eyes filled with tears, and once more Parisa was gathered up into a welcoming embrace. But when she drew back this time, Parisa said, “I’m going to see Endelle. That’s where I’m headed once I get dressed.”

“She said you were coming to see her. That’s why I thought I’d come by first. I figured if you could see Endelle, you could tolerate a visit from me.”

Parisa laughed. “I’m going to ascend, Hav. I wasn’t going to, not before I was … taken. But now I have to find them. I have to search for them. I think I’ll be able to find them because I met one of them, a woman named Fiona. She said she’d been a D and R slave for over a hundred years.”

“D and R?”

“Death and resurrection. That’s what they call it because they’re drained of their blood, filled with donated blood, then brought back to life.”

Havily’s eyes grew pinched. “Oh, God. So it’s true.”

Parisa nodded but didn’t match the tears in Havily’s eyes. What good were tears? She needed to get busy, to prepare herself, and to find the women. “I have to get ready now but I’ll see you soon?”

“Of course. I have to change clothes and head to the palace myself. I work with Endelle four hours a night in the darkening.”

Parisa nodded. Darkening work was critical for the war effort, and only Madame Endelle and Havily had darkening capability. It meant they could split-self; the second self would travel through a region of nether-space called the darkening and hunt for Greaves. The work was difficult and tedious, but when they found him he always had death vampires ready to fold to Metro Phoenix Two. The more death vampires Havily and Endelle blocked, the fewer the Warriors of the Blood had to battle every night.

Havily blew her a kiss then lifted an arm and vanished.

Parisa took a step back. She’d forgotten how often everyone did that. For the past three months, no one had dematerialized in front of her, not even Rith.

She moved to the closet and shifted hangers to look through the wardrobe. Half the clothes still had price tags on them. Shopping with Havily seemed like a hundred years ago.

She paused for a moment and dropped her chin. Wow. She was home—sort of. She was back in Medichi’s villa, but she had another home on Mortal Earth in Peoria, a neighbor of Phoenix. That home would have been vacant for almost four months now, from the time that Marcus and Havily had first materialized into her courtyard to visit her and protect her. Her wings had been in full-mount and she’d been naked. Not long after, Crace had come to kill her.

For just a moment as she pulled a cornflower-blue silk top off the hanger, all the reasons she had decided back then not to ascend flowed through her. She’d only spent a few days on Second Earth before Rith had kidnapped her, and those days had been nothing short of a nightmare. That experience had been the primary reason she had planned on refusing her ascension.

At least Crace was dead by Warrior Luken’s hand, thank God, but everything had led her to the conclusion that she wasn’t built for war.

Then Rith had enthralled her just beyond the white-washed building that housed the olive press.

She gave herself a strong shake and slipped the blouse over her head. But she was here now, her thinking and therefore her life altered dramatically, and she was about to face the most powerful ascender on the planet, a woman who had venom for blood.

She straightened her spine and found a black silk pencil skirt. She didn’t want to face Madame Endelle in something casual. Not when she intended to make at least one serious demand of a woman who never gave ground to anyone without a fight.

***

War changed people.

Endelle looked down at the survivor, otherwise known as Parisa Lovejoy. She had lovely eyes—not lavender, not rose, that place in between. Amethyst.

Parisa had been taken from the villa three months ago a naive, frightened, overwhelmed young woman. She returned with a fire in her eye that had nothing to do with the warrior at her back.

Endelle glanced at Medichi. His jawline had turned to stone.

Huh. This couple had been arguing.

Arguing among the
breh
-couples seemed to be an epidemic these days. Alison had thrown a Jimmy Choo sandal at Kerrick and left him with a goose egg for a few hours until his normal preternatural healing kicked in. Havily had been screeching into her iPhone at Marcus most of the day, something about how she needed to be trained with swords, knives,
and
guns. Marcus was dragging his heels. Leave it to a man to want to protect his woman but not give her the tools to protect herself when the dumbfuck wasn’t around.

And now it looked like the latest duo slammed with the
breh-hedden
had already been at each other’s throats, metaphorically and physically, because, wow, Parisa had one bite mark on her neck. Jesus H. Christ.

The woman’s complexion was flushed, too. She’d gotten good and well fucked. She really shouldn’t be complaining, but here she was all fired up.

“So what is it you want, Parisa?” Endelle asked. Funny how when someone else had a rock in her shoe, she could be relaxed and gracious.

Parisa lifted her chin. “I want to ascend right now. No ceremony, just give me a pair of fangs so I can get on with what I have to do next.”

Endelle worked at not smiling, but it was tough. So their little librarian had made up her mind and the rest of them could go fuck themselves. She liked the spirit. Hell, she even approved. Ascension wasn’t for sissies. And before her captivity, Parisa had been a little too much on the feminine-sniveling side to please Endelle. But here she was showing some balls.

Yeah, Endelle approved. “And what is it you have to do next that’s got your thong hiked up around your waist?”

“I have to go back for them.”

“Back to Burma?”

Parisa clamped her lips shut. She even breathed dragon-like through her nose a couple of times. Then she marched in Endelle’s direction, her arms spread about a foot apart, her hands straight out in front of her as though she meant to shake both of Endelle’s hands at once. That or she was trying out a Frankenstein impersonation. Endelle was pretty sure neither was what she intended.

She was a bit surprised, however, when Parisa drew close enough to stand right in front of her and one extended hand landed on either side of her face. Parisa pushed back Endelle’s yellow headband of cockatiel feathers. The amethyst eyes closed and Endelle felt a hard push against her mind. She really didn’t think the librarian could hurt her, so she released her shields.

And she really shouldn’t have done that. The images flew like knives at first. She had to remind herself to relax and let them flow. Holy fuck the mortal-with-wings had power.

Endelle relaxed and the shared memories slowed down.
Start over,
Endelle sent.

Parisa took a quick breath and the images ceased. Then they renewed, beginning with a young woman in light blue flannel pajama bottoms and a dark blue tank top racing across a green lawn, begging for Parisa’s help. Tangling with that bastard Rith followed. Later, Parisa woke up with the woman’s name on her lips,
Fiona.

That’s when the nightmare started. Endelle felt her stomach squeeze up in slow stages, hardening into a knot. She watched the whole show, the glass cells in a stone-like dungeon in which all the women lived, then the focus on the woman Fiona who was strapped down on a table, dead, really dead. Eyes glazed, blue lips, white complexion. But the techs brought her back, draining a bag of blood into her and using the defibrillator.

Finally, Fiona took a renewing breath, blood was forced down her lips, and … holy shit, was that an orgasm?

When the woman lay alone in her cell, the images stopped.

Parisa drew back. She met Endelle’s gaze but tears now tracked down her cheeks. Endelle didn’t hesitate, not even a split second. She grabbed Parisa and hauled her into her arms. She let Parisa cry and didn’t think less of her for it. The whole time she stared at Medichi over the young woman’s head.

Even Endelle’s eyes leaked a little, and her tears plopped onto Parisa’s head. “I didn’t know,” Parisa whispered. “I was there for three months and I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” The same words flowed over and over.

She’d heard rumors for decades that Greaves was experimenting with women, turning them into blood slaves, but she’d never believed it was possible. She thought about the small dose of blood the woman, Fiona, had been forced to drink. Without a doubt, Greaves must have been sharing his blood with the donors, not just keeping them alive but helping to bring them back to life. With the increase in preternatural powers, an ascender’s blood gained restorative properties as well.

When Parisa was no longer trembling or weeping, she pulled away from Endelle. Parisa met her gaze fully once more, but her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose swollen and dripping. Endelle folded a tissue into her hand from the desk behind her and handed it to the young woman.