Wings of Fire (33 page)

But what distressed her most of all was that she was sharing Antony’s bed as though they’d been lovers for years. Where was her choice in any of this? She hadn’t exactly
chosen
Antony. He’d simply shown up in her voyeur’s window about the same time she’d mounted her wings for the first time.

Her previous life, the one she’d lived as a librarian on Mortal Earth, had been a life of her
choosing.
No one had forced it on her. No one had come along insisting that she shelve books to assist the war effort. No, she’d become a librarian by choice.

Now she was locked into some kind of übersexual relationship with Antony and as pleasurable as it was,
what was it really?
Well, if she’d understood everything that had been going on since she’d first been brought to the villa, her entire relationship with Antony was because of the
breh-hedden,
something she didn’t understand, but which had also locked her down and helped force her into this box.

Right now, she felt no different, well maybe a little different, than when she’d lived in Rith’s house in Burma, like a jewel that was owned by someone else and needed constant guarding and polishing and tending.

Her thoughts weren’t entirely fair, maybe not as rational as she wanted them to be, but something about Greaves having possession of her mind had sunk her, put cement in her spirit and taken her to the bottom of the lake. Maybe she needed to cry. She worked at it, and squeezed out a couple of tears but she just wasn’t in the mood to give vent to her feelings through her tear ducts.

No, that wasn’t what she needed.

She needed the link broken, but how? Maybe Endelle could do it. Everyone kept mentioning how much power she had.

Then again, Endelle certainly couldn’t change the fact that she was sequestered in this villa, unable to even walk about on the grounds without Antony glued to her side.

And now she had a voyeur-link with a monster.

When she left the bathroom, she’d come to at least one decision. She intended to move into one of the guest rooms. Not the original one she’d used—it was across from Marcus and Havily’s room—but one closer to Antony.

With the towel still wrapped around her, she padded through the bathroom. She was surprised to see Antony sitting up in bed, his arms folded across his bare chest, his long hair hanging around his shoulders. He was looking in the direction of the den, through to the windows that opened onto the front lawn. She knew he could hear her, but he didn’t turn in her direction. He just stared across the room.

She rounded the bed and stood a few feet away facing him. His gaze was still fixed in the same direction. She waited.

“You were in the bathroom awhile.”

“I was thinking. And I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. I woke up to an empty bed and I panicked. Then I realized you were probably in the bathroom. I got up and checked. I could hear you breathe and sigh. Your thoughts were very loud, I just couldn’t read them.”

He sort of smiled, a half smile.

“I’ve had a lot to digest.”

“So have I.” His frown deepened. “I think we should complete the
breh-hedden.
”

Somehow it was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She even moved back a full step. “Why?” she asked. Okay, so she’d almost shouted the question.

Maybe it was the tone of her voice, which she admitted did sound incredulous, even to her, but his brows shot up and his arms unhinged but they didn’t come apart all the way. He looked wound up, braced for anything, tight.

He heaved a sigh. “Because if we complete the
breh-hedden,
which involves moving into each other’s minds at certain times, then I’m guessing that no one can form this kind of voyeur-link with you ever again. Certainly not without my knowledge.”

“You want to complete the
breh-hedden
so you can have charge of my mind?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. He pushed a hand through his hair on the left side until it hung away from his face. “Not have charge, never that. But maybe I could protect you better.”

“Lots of maybes.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, the very edge, as in she took up three inches of mattress at the most.

Her head wagged back and forth and her gaze fell to the dark planked floor. The villa was beautiful and the wood gleamed, another lovely prison. “I don’t want to complete the
breh-hedden,
and I don’t want you to move into my head … ever.” She turned to him. “I’m not even sure that I want you, really want you. I feel trapped, Antony. This … this
thing
grabbed hold of both of us and chained us. That’s why we’re here. Then Madame Endelle assigned you as my Guardian. Well the
guard
part of that word feels about right.”

He looked appalled, his eyes wide, his brows raised, his lips parted. His cheeks had a drawn look, liked he’d sucked in the shock of her words and couldn’t let it back out.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “I guess you have been thinking.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, I’ve just realized how inaccessible you are.”

She stood up and stared at him. “I can’t believe you just said that.” Thoughts of Jason and the way he’d broken up with her shot through her mind. He’d used that word to describe her as well, but this wasn’t fair at all.

“But it’s true, isn’t it? At least be honest with yourself about what it is you’re doing right now, about all the things you just said to me. You just said,
I’m not even sure I want you.
”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant this
breh
thing has charge of us both right now. Maybe you don’t even want me.”

He blinked, a strange slow movement. “Maybe the fuck I don’t.”

She was breathing hard, and panic began to rise. What was she doing? Was she breaking up with him? Had she been cruel? By the look on his face the answer had to be yes.

She felt an urge to apologize, but when she opened her mouth what came out was, “I want to move into one of the guest rooms.”

“Fine. Take any one you want. It doesn’t matter to me.”

She felt the bitterness in each word. Fine. This was for the best. She needed space. She’d been needing space for three long months.

She gathered up some of her clothes and left the room.

***

How fucking strange.

Medichi stared at the closed door, the carved wood panels that comprised a thick private partition between his room and the rest of the villa.

His arms hung loose at his sides now, like they had nowhere of importance to be. Less than an hour ago, one of his arms had held his woman tight, now he had no woman, just this pit in his chest that had taken the place of his lungs.

Parisa wasn’t completely off base. She had posed at least one rational question. How could either of them know what was real or what was just some bullshit preternatural creation of the
breh-hedden
?

There was just one problem.

He pulled her pillow up to his nose and smelled. Tangerine. The whole time she’d been talking and arguing and looking edible with just a black towel around her luscious body, the whole time she’d been yelling, he’d been hard as a rock and ready for her. Goddamn
breh-hedden.

On the other hand, he took a deep breath and admitted the other truth, the one that lurked in the back of his head: He was just a little bit relieved that she wasn’t here, wasn’t beside him, wasn’t reminding him of his new duty as a Guardian of Ascension, as her
breh.

Fuck. Him. Because he almost smiled.

Relief flowed through him like a dam had just given way.

He was free.

Shit. He was free and he loved it, bastard that he was. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He cared about Parisa. He really did. Or maybe it was just that he felt he should care about her.

But time peeled away in a great rush and as had happened a thousand times since his ascension so many centuries ago, the image of his wife in his arms, bleeding her life away, beat the shit out of him.

He understood then what haunted him about Parisa, about how protective he felt toward her, about how the
breh-hedden
had fucked him over. He’d lived a relatively secure life in his Italian world. His family had owned a small country house for over a century and had worked their vineyards and olive groves for multiple centuries before that.

So when the enemy came, he’d been unprepared. He wasn’t responsible in the sense that he had failed to do a soldier’s duty. He’d failed because he was a man, not a soldier, and overtaken by superior numbers and weaponry.

But now he was a warrior, seasoned and powerful, and he’d already lost Parisa once while under his protection.

She had been returned to him and in the overwhelming aftermath, the pure heady relief of having her under his roof once more, he’d been unable to stay away from her. He’d needed her in his bed, needed to bury himself inside her, to feel that she was truly alive and safe in his care.

In his care.

She didn’t want to be in his care.

She wanted to be as free of the
breh-hedden
as he did. She wanted her freedom. He wanted to be free of the guilt of keeping her safe when he knew damn well that was an impossible task. He’d already failed once. He would again.

So … shit.

He could train her, though. He could continue to layer skill upon self-defense skill. He could help her with flying, with the dagger and sword. He could teach her more about her shields and how to withstand Rith’s attempts to enthrall her.

Yes, he could do that.

But would it be enough?

This was a world at war.

Nothing would ever be enough until Greaves was dead and buried and his emerging empire crushed.

But how the hell would that ever happen?

The first path seduces by promise,

The second appeals to pride,

But the worthy path demands surrender.

—
Collected Proverbs,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 16

When Parisa left Antony’s bedroom, she made her way to her original guest room because it was familiar, most of her clothes were still there, and she was really upset.

She got dressed in jeans and a cherry-red silk tank top as her mind spun in circle after circle trying to make sense of the stupid
breh-hedden,
and the hunky man naked in bed at the end of the villa, and how her body kept crying out for him.

She was reeling and she knew it. She also knew something else. If she didn’t let this out, she’d go crazy. But who could she talk to? Right now, it couldn’t be Antony. The truth was, the whole time he’d been sitting up in bed, he’d shed his sage like a spice grinder; leaving his room had been a supreme act of will.

Her thoughts turned to Havily. Yes, Havily.

She left the guest room and headed to the leather-and-book haven to make her phone call.

Havily, bless her, said she’d be at the villa in five minutes and she’d bring coffee.

While Parisa waited, she opened her voyeur window, thought of Fiona, and made a swift check of the room. The windows were still really light. She closed the window and as before with just a sneak-peek, no pain. Well, at least that was something.

She made her way to the foyer, barefoot, and waited. A few minutes later, there she was, the red-headed beauty, and Parisa’s first ascended girlfriend.

The relief she felt was surprising but if anyone might know what she was going through, it was Havily. Three months ago, Havily had walked through her own private
breh-hedden
heaven-and-hell combo.

With a mug of coffee in hand, Havily suggested a walk through the formal garden. It was still hot for September, but Parisa didn’t care. It was just great to be with a friend, to be outdoors, to be chatting about the weather, about the flowers, about nothing important.

Parisa walked on as many of the grassy portions of the garden as she could find. Sometimes she had to step onto gravel, but mostly she found lawn to cross.

Havily asked to hear her version of what happened at the Toulouse farmhouse. Parisa told her from beginning to end.

“To have come so close to rescuing Fiona, to have seen her, and to have watched Rith drag her away, you must be really upset.”

“I am. Jean-Pierre almost had him but Rith blocked the trace.”

Havily whistled. “That is a lot of power. As far as I know, none of the Warriors of the Blood can block a trace.” She was quiet for a moment then asked, “How did Jean-Pierre take it? I mean none of the warriors likes to fail … at anything.”

Parisa glanced at her, uncertain what she should say. “I’m not sure if I should tell you, but I have a feeling Marcus will know by the end of the day anyway.”

Havily stopped her with a gentle hand pressed to the inside of her elbow. “What happened?”

Parisa shook her head. “It was the
breh-hedden.
”

“What?” Havily cried. “You mean, Jean-Pierre?”

Parisa nodded. She let her friend figure the rest out.

Havily gasped. “Fiona? The blood slave?”

“Exactly. Do you remember when I was first voyeuring Fiona in the library? You were there and you were standing next to Jean-Pierre.”

“Yes. Oh, now I remember. He asked if someone was baking something.”

Parisa nodded. “He said he smelled croissants.”

Havily bit her lip. “Croissants?” She chuckled. “Oh, I know it isn’t funny. The
breh-hedden
has its truly horrible moments, but these scents are ridiculous and so…” She waved her hand in the air.

Erotic.
That’s what Parisa thought but she didn’t want to say it aloud. She knew by the faint flush on Havily’s usually creamy cheeks that her thoughts had taken a similar turn. Parisa knew that Marcus, for Havily, smelled of fennel, which Parisa couldn’t imagine being in the least seductive. But then until she’d caught Medichi’s sage scent, never would she have thought to experience such terrible
need
from a spice reminiscent of poultry and Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.

“Wow,” Havily murmured. “So, the
breh-hedden
strikes again. Do you realize that makes four warriors?
Four!
”