Wings of Fire (56 page)

Instead, like a complete novice, he’d ignored the rising level of her powers and assumed his energy fields would keep both of his prisoners trapped so that they couldn’t dematerialize. By the time he’d lit the torch at the end of the room, they were gone.

Now the ribbon of light belonging to Parisa had combined with Warrior Medichi’s ribbon to forge an impenetrable prophetic signature, which he could no longer read. The couple had completed the
breh-hedden.
Whatever their futures might be, whatever roles they might play in the war, were now lost to him, lost to most of the Seers of Second Earth.

Still, Fiona, the one who had been the Commander’s first blood slave experiment, had risen to prominence in the future streams, a glowing light that he had been unable to resist reading.

He had picked up her ribbon of an intense silver-blue and ridden her prophecies. What he had found there made him rise from his chaise longue and head into the makeshift lavatory. He threw up into the bucket of water.

He had seen his death in glorious Technicolor at the hands of Fiona. Then he had seen his death at the hands of the Warrior Jean-Pierre. After that, he had seen Greaves himself, his beloved Commander, plunge a blade straight through his heart.

How was he to forge a life from the future streams when his own death had been foretold in three different ways?

***

A week after the battle at the Grand Canyon, Fiona sat in a large conference room at Madame Endelle’s administrative headquarters. The wall of windows to the east gave a view onto an expansive stretch of desert. It never failed to surprise her, since all she’d known for most of her hundred-plus years on Second Earth was a green garden and a large tamarind tree. Her eyes welcomed the change, surprisingly. But she supposed that from the moment of her rescue, when she was brought to Madame Endelle’s palace, which overlooked miles of the same Sonoran Desert, she would always think of vast blue skies, clumps of cactus and creosote, and tall stately saguaros, as the representation of her freedom.

Alison sat beside her. She looked very pregnant but very relaxed now. Each time she tensed up, she closed her eyes, calmed her body, and ran a soothing hand over her swollen abdomen. She was communicating telepathically with the infant now, getting better every day at helping Helena draw in her temporary wings and keep her sloshy amniotic haven from spasming.

Fiona had loved being pregnant, carrying her children—lovely Carolyn with her soft honey-brown curls and Peter who came out charging forward, ready to take on the world.

Fiona smiled at the blond beauty. Fiona was tall but still two inches shy of six-foot Alison. Height was a good thing when a woman was attached to a Warrior of the Blood—better kissing distance.

Parisa had made an effort to discover on Fiona’s behalf the basic events of her family’s lives. Her husband, Terence, had remarried five years after Fiona’s disappearance. He’d had a second family to whom he had been utterly devoted. She could smile at the thought. Terence had been a good man, a wonderful loving husband and an excellent father, his hand neither too heavy nor too light. Of course he would have married again.

Her adored children had not fared so well. Her son had died in a trolley accident at the age of twenty-five while pursuing a law degree. Her daughter, Carolyn, had drowned while out yachting two years later, but her body had never been recovered.

Fiona had shed a few tears that neither of her children had been able to live their lives, that each had died relatively young, neither having married or borne children. But in truth she had already grieved her losses for so many decades that a few days after receiving the news, her sadness had dimmed appreciably. More than anything, she needed time to recover and to gain a solid footing in this new world. That the fate of the blood slaves in the remaining twenty-one facilities weighed on her mind gave a strong indication in just what direction her first service to Madame Endelle’s administration would go.

Alison opened her eyes. “Sorry about that but it’s getting better.”

“Good,” Fiona said. “I’m so happy for you. There is nothing so wonderful as carrying one’s children.”

She felt a thousand years older than the therapist beside her, and perhaps in terms of experience and suffering she was. But the woman had a gift. There were moments when Alison reached out to Fiona, put a hand on her arm or her shoulder, and oh, such peace would flow, and some of that deep sense of being so very old would lighten, even disappear. She could even breathe more easily for a time.

She lived with tension constantly—that she would be taken again, spirited away, used for another century. She believed the sensation would go away in time, but how much of it? A decade? Two decades? She was a relatively wise woman, but damaged in her spirit. Who wouldn’t be after an ordeal that had lasted longer than a century?

“Now. Let’s talk about your future,” Alison said. “For the moment, Madame Endelle would like you and the other women to stay at the palace, at least for the next few weeks for security purposes, while you get your bearings. She’d also like you to consider taking charge of the remaining captives. We can see that each has turned to you for leadership and guidance since you’ve been here.”

“They’ll need counseling, a lot of it. I will as well. I want to be up-front about that.”

“Of course.”

Fiona’s gaze fell to Alison’s belly once more, but she looked away, her gaze skating back to the window. Fiona was still young because she was partially ascended. She could remarry in this dimension. Vampires took husbands, or wives as the case may be. They had weddings and bore children—Twolings. The thought appealed to her. She had always loved being married, having a family to look after.

The memory of Jean-Pierre, the night of her rescue, was suddenly within her mind, the full glory of him in his leather kilt, heavy sandals, and shin guards; the silver studs of his leather wrist guards, the brace of leather over his chest. She recalled her desire for him, which returned to her in a quick flush that almost brought a gasp from her lips. A sudden craving for coffee burst in her mouth and she swallowed hard.

It was the strangest thing and yet she’d already been told all about the infamous and troubling
breh-hedden
.

She shuddered. That couldn’t be her fate. Yet she had to admit that even a thought of the powerful French warrior sent shivers in places she’d ignored for, yes, longer than a century. These were modern times and sex had certainly transformed into a strange yet wonderful public conversation.

But in her day, the days of her marriage, it had been intensely private, a thing never discussed even between husband and wife. Fortunately, her husband had been generous in their marriage bed, and she had enjoyed what most women of her day were taught was a painful duty to be endured.

And Jean-Pierre had already proven to her, albeit unwittingly, that even his kiss could bring her to a place of ecstasy. Again she suppressed a gasp. What would lovemaking be like if just a kiss ignited her?

Alison frowned. “You seem distressed. Will the palace be all right with you? The security there is unequaled and we want you off the enemy’s radar, especially since it would seem you are Warrior Jean-Pierre’s
breh.
”

The
breh-hedden
. Even though she could be intrigued by the concept of sex with the warrior, she knew she was no more ready to be anyone’s
breh
than she was to take up a sword and battle Commander Greaves all by herself.

She met Alison’s worried gaze. “The palace will be fine, of course.”

“Good. For a moment there, you seemed upset, and that is not what I want.” She began to talk about completing the ascension ceremonies for each woman to make sure they would become fully acclimated to this larger world; it was thought this would be done after a few weeks of rest. She talked about several counselors she knew and trusted. She even spoke about possible vocational training, all sensible things.

Laughter sounded from down the hall and for a reason she couldn’t explain, a sudden chill traveled over Fiona’s shoulders, as if she were getting a virus. She could hear a woman’s voice. Two voices. Parisa, perhaps? Laughter again. No, not Parisa. Havily. Yes, Havily, the one who worked in the darkening with Madame Endelle, the one bonded to Warrior Marcus.

Now she could hear Colonel Seriffe’s booming masculine voice. She liked the colonel very much. He headed the Militia Warriors in Metro Phoenix. He was a tough, commanding man but there was always a warm light in his eye, as though he lived with a constant sense of hope no matter how bad things got. Yes, she liked him very much.

He was laughing now, and as she listened to his words, she realized he was bragging about his little boy, who had walked at nine months.

“Do you hear him?” Alison said, smiling. “He adores his children, and his wife can do no wrong.”

“In other words, he’s the perfect husband.”

Alison laughed. “You are more right than you know. He is one of those rare men who combine great strength at work with compassion and love at home. I’m afraid I tend to hold him up as a model too often to Kerrick. I have only to mention Colonel Seriffe and Kerrick bristles. Although, to be honest, sometimes I do it just to watch him pace a little, scowl, and glare at me. I can be very bad sometimes.”

Fiona laughed and something inside her started to relax as well. She and Alison had both turned slightly toward the doorway to listen. Havily’s excited chatter rose above even the colonel’s voice. It was so great to be hearing what would have been normal conversation when she was a young mother.
Is he walking? Cutting teeth? Picking the wrong things up and throwing them?
Havily’s three little girls had died before her ascension.

So much sadness in life.

Yet so much joy.

“Why don’t we go chat with the colonel? It sounds like he may have brought his entire family in today. Would you like to meet them?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

Alison rose, all stately six feet of her.

Fiona heard another woman’s laughter, and that earlier chill once more caught her across the shoulders. What was that? Maybe she was getting sick. Then she remembered—ascenders never got sick.

“Yes, he brought his wife. She’s a joy. I think you’ll really like her. In some ways, oddly, you remind me of her. Probably because your eye color is very similar, a lovely silver-blue.”

Fiona heard the rippling laughter and was transported back more than a hundred years. Her mother had had a laugh just like that. How strange.

Sadness crept in at the reminder of something so familiar to her, yet something she had lost when she’d been abducted. She felt an urgent need to remain where she was, maybe crawl under the conference table and stay there, oh, for a year, maybe a decade. She wasn’t stable yet. Her knees shook as she stood. For all her strength all those decades, of being killed and brought back to life month after month, for some reason coming to a place of safety at long last had robbed her of her staying ability; she felt almost unequal to meeting the colonel and his family.

But she wasn’t about to give in to such weakness. She’d always squared up to life, even when it was hard.

She moved next to Alison down the hallway. Colonel Seriffe came into view first. His wife was somewhere behind him, as was Havily. He had a little boy in his arms, dimpled fists, light brown hair in soft curls at the nape of his neck. So adorable. The sight of him, of a child thriving in this world, filled her heart with … joy.

But at the same time, a sense of knowing began a slow march down her spine. Again she had an impulse to run away and hide, but she didn’t know why. What was it about the presence of this family that threatened to undo her?

Still, she stayed the course. She straightened her shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. She focused on the child, the little boy, the one seated on the colonel’s left arm.

Suddenly, she felt as though she knew that little boy, but that was impossible. Yet the feeling remained.

Behind the colonel, Havily spoke to Seriffe’s wife. She could hear them chattering as Havily gestured in small wild movements with her hands, but the colonel’s broad shoulders and six-five frame hid most of his wife.

Two older children moved up next to their father, both with Seriffe’s dark hair and eyes. The toddler in his arms turned in Alison’s direction and held his arms out to her. He looked achingly familiar to Fiona. Surely she had seen this child before, somewhere. But she’d been in Metro Phoenix Two barely a week. Alison took him easily and started speaking softly to him. He put his little hands on her face, and Alison kissed his fingers.

Her mind swam with images from long ago. Her daughter had looked just like this child, from the large silvery blue eyes, to the light curly brown hair, to the sweetest smile in the world.

Her gaze slid from the little boy, to Seriffe, then his wife joined him. Fiona met her eyes. She knew this woman.
She knew her.
She couldn’t place her but another set of chills chased down her back, and this time her shoulders and arms as well, until her fingertips hummed with unsuspected power, even recognition. She knew her, but how? Had she been a blood slave who had escaped at one time, maybe decades ago? But that was impossible. Fiona would have remembered if any of the slaves had escaped.

Weirdest of all, tears started spilling from Fiona’s eyes and the woman’s eyes at almost exactly at the same moment. Fiona wept and the woman wept. But why? Fiona gave a little cry and the woman shook her head back and forth. She put her hands to her mouth and cried out behind her fingers.

“What’s wrong, Carolyn?” Seriffe asked. “Darling, what’s wrong? This is … Fiona. Oh … dear … God. You have the same eyes. I didn’t see it before.”

Havily drew up beside the young mother. “What is it, Carolyn? What’s happening? Fiona, are you all right? Why are you crying? Why are you both crying? What did I miss?”

Alison just looked from one woman to the next then echoed Seriffe. “Oh, dear God. It can’t be!”

The young mother, Carolyn, the one with the silvery blue eyes, finally said, “Mother? Is that you? After all these decades, you didn’t die? You ascended? Oh, God, Mother is that you?”