Wings of Fire (19 page)

Medichi turned to stare at the elegant redhead. Her hands were on her hips as she glared at her
breh.
Marcus glared back.

“They have an entirely different situation,” Marcus said, his brow low on his forehead, his nostrils flaring. “And I’m not discussing it. That subject is closed.”

“You want to know what else is closed?” Havily lowered her chin, and there was nothing sugary or sweet about her attitude.

Marcus growled low, his eyes glittering.

“Don’t even think it, Warrior. When I say closed, I mean
closed
.” Split-resonance.
Nice.

But again Marcus growled, and his lids fell to half-mast.

Medichi foresaw trouble back at the villa. Havily was damn serious, and Marcus’s testosterone had just leaped off the charts in a really unfortunate direction.

Medichi understood something about Marcus in this moment: The whole situation was arousing as hell to him. Yeah, Medichi so got that. The minute Parisa opposed him, about anything, it awoke some kind of bizarre sexual dominance instinct that sent electricity into his groin.

“Somebody get a hose.” Endelle laughed, then her gaze shifted to Parisa. “As for you, ascender, let me check your fangs. You disappeared before I could see if everything worked.”

“I’m not lowering my shields,” she cried. “Because if that freak tries to invade my mind once more, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Chill, ascender. You won’t need to lower your shields. Now c’mon, because the caterer’s telling me our dinner is ready.”

Parisa returned to the cradle of Endelle’s hands.

“All right, open your mouth.”

Parisa obeyed.

“Now lower your fangs. It’s not rocket science, just think the thought.”

Parisa closed her eyes and relaxed her shoulders.

Medichi watched her tense suddenly and then he saw them emerge, sharp, pointed, and erotic. This meant one thing—his woman could take his blood.

A shiver ran through his body so profound, he actually took a step back to balance himself.

Parisa’s head swiveled in Endelle’s grasp. “What’s with the sage?” she cried. She sounded a little funny because of the fangs. She put a hand to her lips then closed her eyes once more.

Slowly she opened her eyes again, then her mouth, and touched her teeth. She had drawn her fangs back into her gums. “Well, that was really weird.” But she looked over at Medichi again and must have realized his present conundrum. “Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah,” he said, but his voice had dropped about an octave. His eyelids felt heavy. The wave of tangerine that hit him forced him to take another step back.

“Your fangs are working all right,” Endelle said. “But I think we’re going to need another hose. Jesus H. Christ.” She made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. “Okay, you’re officially ascended. Let’s eat.”

She stepped away from Parisa and headed to her right, to the adjoining rotunda, her stilettos clacking across the marble floor. Her robe disappeared at the same time, revealing a leopard-skin dress. The warriors followed her. Trailing behind, Marcus and Havily argued in whispers.

“Babe, be reasonable,” Marcus said. “You’re protected because of the bond. Parisa will be, too, once she completes the
breh-hedden.
”

“Bullshit,” Havily whispered back. She quickened her pace and disappeared into the dining room.

“Babe,” Marcus whined, following after.

The ceremony rotunda was now empty.

Medichi kept backing up and Parisa followed after him, her gaze locked to his, her mind all but reading his. He backed up until he hit a wall and both he and Parisa were invisible to the other guests.

“I want a taste … now,” she whispered.

Medichi groaned and God help him, he was going to give it to her. Talk about playing with fire. She put her hands on his shoulders and rose up on tiptoes, her gaze pinned to his throat. With her heels she didn’t have that far to go, even though he was six-seven.

But he stopped her.

“Why not?” she asked, a squeak in her voice.

She stared at the vein in his neck, which throbbed heavily now. He wanted her to have it but he leaned down next to her ear and said, “If you take my vein I won’t be able to control what I do and I don’t think you want anyone finding us in here
like that.
”

He drew back. She blinked up at him. “Wrist?” she asked. Dear God, she licked her lips again, and the tips of her fangs showed.

“You’d better do it quick and when I say stop, you’d better stop.”

“Okay.” Could her voice sound any more seductive? And she was shedding tangerine like she was an orchard.

He offered his wrist. She took it in both hands, then licked a line over the collection of veins that showed blue. She looked up at him. “I used to watch you when you would take women into the booths at the Blood and Bite.”

“I know,” he growled. “You told me.” He should have been shocked. She was a good little librarian. Okay, maybe not so good, but it wasn’t helping the problem his erection was having with his tunic. He was making one fine tent out of it. Once more he leaned close to her ear.

“Lick it a few more times. Because you’re a vampire now, the veins will rise to the surface just right.” She obeyed him. Her tongue was small and wet, very feminine. He became a thin glass window that would shatter with the slightest pressure. “Yeah,” he murmured. He kissed her earlobe. “Now go ahead, do what feels natural.”

She did.

Her fangs struck and he hissed. The sharp sting, the knowledge that she had pierced him, that she could pierce him in other places, sent pleasure streaking up his arm and spreading like fire down his chest and into his groin. Then she started to suck, her head bobbing over his wrist. He groaned. He was so close to coming and she wasn’t even taking blood from his neck, for Christ’s sake.

She whimpered as he stroked her hair, her cheek, her chin.
Antony,
she sent, her voice plaintive through his mind.
I can taste sage as though your scent flavors even your blood.

He wanted her to take it all, to drink him empty, to take the last fucking drop. The
breh-hedden
roared through him as if his life force was her food.

The scent of tangerines rose into the air around him until he was mindless.
Antony, I don’t think I can stop. And I want you. I want you between my thighs … now.

He didn’t want to stop, either, but the voice that had been seductive had turned deep and guttural, more animal than woman. Dammit, he should have waited until they were back at the villa. He tried to speak, then thought—
Why not let her have a few more swallows?
He put his palm on her neck, riding the sucking bobs of her head, then moved in close and ground his erection against her hip. She made mewling sounds now and sucked harder. Dammit. For a terrible moment, he actually considered turning her into the wall and penetrating her. He knew she’d welcome him.

With a will that came from the simple knowledge that a room full of people waited for them, he used his free hand and slid a finger into her mouth. As soon as he broke the suction of her lips, she withdrew her fangs and took a deep breath.

His wrist was reddened from the sucking. He smiled. He’d wear it as a badge tonight. He wished it was possible to create a scar so that he’d always have a reminder of this moment. It was the rare scar that stuck, though, in the ascended world.

He held her close.

“I feel dizzy.”

“Sharing blood like this will do it.”

“All I could think about was how much I needed the rest of your body. How much I want you inside me.”

“I know. We’ll do that later.”

She shifted against him to look up at him. “But not much later.”

“No. Not much later because right now I’m in pain.”

Her smile cast the world in a beautiful glow. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, the taste of his blood lingering on her lips. He pulled back.

“Welcome home, Parisa.”

***

Thorne sat on Endelle’s right, always on her right, her right-hand man, her second-in-command, Thorne the Reliable, Thorne who sipped gazpacho from his spoon but couldn’t look at any of his warrior brothers.

Stannett’s recent fucking revelation ate at him.

The large soup spoon trembled in his hand and he set it down. Thank God there was so much noise at the table. Right now Endelle was yelling at Santiago, clear across the enormous round expanse of white linen, telling him that his latest blade design was more a short sword than a dagger. He was arguing back. To Santiago’s right, Havily listened with feigned interest. He doubted she cared about the subject at all. She probably just wanted an excuse to turn a cold shoulder to Marcus.

So the
breh-hedden
didn’t result in automatic relationship-bliss. But then what the hell did?

He was done with his soup. Hell, he hated these kinds of functions, wearing his dress uniform, his cape flipped back over his shoulder. At least they’d removed the ceremonial brass breastplates, which now sat in a row against the rotunda wall looking like disembodied chests. Next to the breastplates, the wall opened up to one of the several palace terraces.

Luken leaned close. “You think Parisa’s okay?”

Thorne glanced at the dark-haired beauty. She had such an interesting face, a slightly pointed chin, full lips, and those amethyst eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, the kind of flush that came from taking blood. Medichi had flashed his wrist when he returned from the rotunda with Parisa hugging his arm. The
breh-hedden
really was riding this pair.

He had to look away. Sex, or at least the promise of it, shimmered in the air between them. He could almost see the glow of expectation. If Parisa seemed a little remote, what of it? She’d been through hell for three months. She had a right to look remote.

But Medichi had that look, like he knew he’d be taking his woman to bed soon. It made Thorne want things he wouldn’t be able to have for another twelve-hours-plus. Once a day, he went to be with his woman in the Creator’s Convent. Once a goddamn day and no one knew. His sister was the excuse but yeah, he went to see his woman.

He picked up his wineglass and downed the remainder of the sangria. He then lifted it in the air and waggled it at the waiter. He wanted maybe two more to help him calm the hell down.

Stannett and his damn prophesy about an upcoming battle.

After waging war against death vampires all night, and bringing Parisa safely home from Burma, he’d spent the rest of the morning with Colonel Seriffe. With Endelle’s permission, he’d shared the prophecy with the head of the Militia Warriors. If Greaves intended an attack, the Militia Warriors would have to be involved. But the whole thing was fast becoming a nightmare. The Militia served both to keep the peace in regular ascended society and as backup against death vampire squads. But it was not a large force—maybe four thousand strong in the Metro Phoenix area.

Stannett’s Superstition Mountain Seers Fortress had once been the world’s most effective predictor of future events—it was the primary reason that until the twentieth century, Endelle had been able to control Greaves’s intrusions into Second Society. But under Stannett’s command, information from the fortress had dwindled to, as Endelle liked to put it,
a frog’s stream of piss.

Stannett had a lot of talented Seers, so either he didn’t know how to make use of them, or he had plans of his own. Thorne knew the bastard well. He suspected the latter.

Endelle was frustrated to the point of madness but her hands were tied, as they often were, by the Committee to Oversee the Process of Ascension to Second Earth. COPASS. Yeah, the acronym suited this body of assholes. They’d backed Stannett when he denied Endelle admittance to his facility. If she even asked for information from the future streams, he’d shrug, smile, and apologize that his Seers, for inexplicable reasons, simply lacked the expertise and power. All lies, but who could prove it? He was no longer required to let anyone audit or even see his organization.

“You okay?” Luken whispered.

Both of Thorne’s hands were shaking. “Sure,” he said, glancing briefly at Luken. “Too much Ketel One, but I’m cutting back.” It was both a lie and the truth. He was trying to cut back, yes, but that was only an excuse. In fact he knew something Endelle didn’t: The Seer whom Stannett had referred to—the source of the ominous prophecy—wasn’t at the Superstition Seers Fortress. She was at the Creator’s Convent. Thorne knew her well, really well. So, yeah, Stannett had spoken the truth about her abilities.

Where the hell was the waiter with his sangria?

He’d had more than one conversation with Endelle since Stannett’s revelation, but she hadn’t been all that helpful. Her latest suggestion was,
Would you please take a fucking chill-pill? It’s probably just some Seer shit.

But it wasn’t.

Christ. A major battle coming and he couldn’t talk about it to Endelle, because he’d vowed never to reveal the Seer’s identity to Her Supremeness. Endelle was obliged by COPASS law to send any talented Seer to the Superstition Fortress, and that place had to be a hellhole right now. It certainly wasn’t a bastion of freedom.

That Stannett played a double game by making frequent visits to the Creator’s Convent, and not telling Endelle, had made Thorne’s life close to unbearable. The Seer was his woman and had been his woman for the past hundred years.

Christ, what a fucking mess.

More sangria would really help about now and he almost barked at the waiter when he finally refilled his glass.

Endelle was still arguing with Santiago about his dagger. The Latin warrior stood behind his chair with his latest design in his right hand, its hilt encrusted with three rubies—always rubies for Santiago. He showed her some moves. Most of the brothers were watching. Santiago loved to put on a show, and thank God for it because the tremors had moved up Thorne’s arms.

They were all here, every damn one of them, all eight now because Marcus had returned, battling two nights a week. He loved them all. He needed them all. If he lost even one of his men, how would they survive as a unit, not to mention win this goddamn war?