Wings of Fire (8 page)

The warriors, almost as a unit, froze and stared at Medichi.

“Yeah. Right now. At the Cave.” He willed Thorne to say yes, to direct the warriors to the rec room.

“Shit” came out like a soft whistle from between Thorne’s teeth. He glanced around. “Well, fuck. To the Cave, laddies.”

Medichi didn’t wait. He lifted his arm and folded. He touched down on the chipped black tile of the floor, then moved to stand near the pool table, his hands on his hips. He took deep breaths. Was he really going to do this?

Yeah. The time had come. The moment Central found anything in Burma, he’d fold to the location and do whatever it took to get to Parisa, including mounting his wings in front of God and all creation. So yeah, he needed to get this over with.

He felt the air move several times as seven big warrior bodies filled up the Cave. It was dark inside, a real hole in the wall in downtown Metro Phoenix Two.

Ratty brown leather couches, more like barges, lined two walls. A TV came on via motion detector whenever a warrior entered the space. It was turned to CNN—Marcus’s request. He liked to keep on top of happenings on Mortal Earth.

The pool table had been recently replaced but already had a huge gouge out of one corner. The pocket was missing and had been replaced by a duct-taped black trash bag.

Medichi took the plunge. “I’m going to show you first, then you’ll understand a few things.” He stripped off his black tee. Damn, was he really going to do this? Parisa’s arrival had changed everything. Every damn thing.

He met Marcus’s gaze. Marcus dipped his chin once, his expression solemn, even hard. Marcus had seen the scars on his back the same day Medichi had met Parisa.

Medichi turned slowly until his back was to the men. He heard the soft, strained gasps. With his right hand he swept his long hair forward over his shoulder so that what he’d kept secret was a secret no longer.

He felt sick in his gut. He was showing them just how he’d failed his wife the night she’d died. His scars didn’t represent what he’d suffered. His suffering had been nothing. No, the horrific silver stripes represented Maria’s death.

For the first few seconds, a variety of profanities flowed, even Jean-Pierre’s
Merde
. He gave them a good long minute to look.

It was Kerrick who spoke first. “We always wondered. What the fuck happened? Who did this to you?”

He turned back to face them, but his gaze found the floor and couldn’t seem to move anywhere else. Guilt held him fast. He told the story in as few words as possible. A northern tribe descending on the countryside. Rapists. Murderers. He spoke of the whip, the laughter, the drunkenness, and finally his wife and unborn child. He talked of the sudden emergence of power that saved his life, but arrived too late to save his wife’s.

When he was done, his brothers shifted through the room like rivulets of water seeking a place to drain. All except Thorne. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands.

For several minutes, no one said a word. They didn’t look at him, either. Each expression was lost, haunted. Who among them hadn’t suffered some tragedy or terrible loss or physical pain because of the nature of life or because of the war?

Finally, Santiago approached. He was too beautiful for words, this brother, with his thick, wavy black hair, dark eyes, and skin the color of a deep tan. He put his hand on Medichi’s shoulder. He met his gaze straight-on. “I have felt your pain,
mi hermano,
but I have a scar that’s worse than anything you have shown us tonight.”

Shit.

Well, if that didn’t make him feel worse.

The brother lifted his chin. “Do you remember a year ago that woman with the hair the color of a brilliant sunset and her eyes the precise shade of a violent sea?”

Medichi frowned. Sort of. He had a sudden fear that the woman had harmed Santiago permanently in the jewels. “Yes.”

Santiago pounded his chest with his fist. His eyes looked wild, maddened. “She cut up my heart and bled me until I should have died. I tell you, the scar is deep,
hermano,
deep. I should have died that night.”

Zacharius moved in close. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t remember a woman ever sticking you with a blade?”

“Who said anything about a weapon?” Santiago cried. “I begged her and begged her to go into the booths with me at the Blood and Bite. But she refused. I still bear the scar. What are Medichi’s wounds when a woman has rejected such an invitation?” He swept a dramatic hand over his groin. “I ask you.”

Everyone groaned, but Medichi laughed. Tears started to his eyes, but he laughed. “You are so full of shit.”

“What?” he cried, his hands flung out in front of him. Then he slung his arm around Medichi’s shoulders and hugged him. He even kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry about your wife and son,” he whispered.

“Gracias, amigo.”

Medichi laughed again. There were times when the brotherhood functioned just as it should and Santiago’s absurdity had done what nothing else could have. The tension in the room thinned as the laughter flowed. Luken put Santiago in a headlock and slapped the top of his head a few times.

Thorne drew close and with his lips pressed tight together asked, “Did the scars affect your wings? I know you can fly. Are they damaged somehow? You don’t owe us anything, Medichi. What you’ve shared tonight honors us.”

Medichi met his gaze. The concern in Thorne’s eyes almost undid him again. He shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. My wings are fine. But it’s time I started flying in battle. I’ve put it off way too long. When Jeannie calls with word about Parisa, I’ll be in the air if I have to. I’m not holding back any longer. However, there is something I want you to know, and you’ll understand better if I just show you.”

“All right, then,” Thorne said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He turned his back to his brothers once more and focused. A few seconds later the apertures down his back wept and his wings began to release. The sensation was pure heaven, but as before, a few gasps and another stream of profanity hit the air.

“What the fuck,” Zach cried. “You’ve got
royle
wings, just like Parisa. What the goddamn fuck?”

***

At eleven o’clock in the morning, Parisa sat in the garden waiting for Commander Greaves to visit her. He had never done so before. She sat on the teak bench beneath the tamarind tree, her nerves on fire and her heart beating a dull thud. Rith had sent her out here to wait an hour ahead of time, which didn’t help her growing distress. What did he want with her, and why had he waited all this time to see her?

Rith’s dark demeanor hadn’t changed. He still watched her with a cruel light in his eye as though waiting for her to make a mistake so that he’d have an excuse to harm her.

She smoothed her hands over the cream silk dress she wore. For Greaves’s visit, Rith had made sure she was well groomed, and that included her finest dress. Her makeup was flawless: The Burmese women loved to give her cat-eyes with heavy black eyeliner to bring out the amethyst color. Her dark brown hair had been sculpted into several loops down the back of her head. Talk about a gilded cage.

But whatever Rith was, Greaves was so much worse. In her opinion, he personified hypocrisy. He spoke and dressed like an aristocrat, but if even half the stories about him were true, he created death vampires of all those who served him. He might have the manners of a gentleman, but he had the soul of Lucifer and intended nothing but pain and suffering to the two worlds he meant to conquer.

A loud crash sounded from the direction of the house, like china shattering on the planked wooden floor. Parisa turned toward the porch of the large British Colonial. She saw movement just beyond the open doorway but couldn’t make out what was happening. Figures grappled back and forth in the shadows. Grunting followed, and Rith cried out.

She rose from the teak bench as an unfamiliar woman appeared in the doorway. She wore loose light blue flannel pajama bottoms and a navy tank top. Her wavy chestnut hair hung to the sides of a beautiful face. She had large light blue eyes, almost silver in appearance, but wild looking. She was Caucasian, something Parisa had not seen in three months.

Parisa couldn’t breathe. The woman caught sight of her and shifted in her direction. Parisa backed up until her legs hit the teak bench.

The woman raced toward her and knocked her into the bench. She fell on her, grabbing her shoulders. “Help me,” she pleaded in English. “You have to help me. Get me out of here. Please, please.”

When Parisa realized she wasn’t being attacked, she held on to the woman’s shoulders. “You’re being held against your will?” It couldn’t really be a surprise that another woman might be trapped in the same house, but Parisa hadn’t seen or heard anyone else on the premises before. Where had she come from?

A shift of shadow near the porch drew Parisa’s eye. Rith appeared in the doorway. She had never seen him look so angry, his chin low, his lips curved down. He pressed a cloth to his forehead, then looked at it. He tossed the cloth aside and moved swiftly in their direction, hips low, knees bent, hands splayed like claws.

“I—I can’t help you,” Parisa said. “I’m a captive as well.”

“What?” The woman looked at Parisa’s hair, her cream silk gown. “But you look so lovely. I thought this was your home.”

“Oh, God, no.” Parisa looked down at their joined arms. A tremor went through, a soft vibration, a
knowing
. She knew without understanding why that her future was connected to this woman. She stared into the silver-blue eyes. “I feel as though I know you.”

“What are you doing to me?” The woman looked at their joined arms as well. “What is that vibration?”

Rith was almost on them. “What’s your name?” Parisa asked.

“Fiona. Fiona Gaines. Of Boston from a long time ago. Who are you?”

“Parisa.”

Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “Today would have been my daughter’s birthday. I … I can’t take being here anymore. Help me, Parisa. Please—”

Rith’s strong pale hands caught Fiona’s arms and pulled her away, a solid, heavy jerk. Because Parisa was unwilling to release the woman, she grabbed for her waist and fell forward onto Fiona, causing all three to tumble onto the lawn.

“Let go of her,” Rith shouted.

Parisa refused. She wanted to help this woman, this fellow captive. Rith jerked and rolled in the direction of the house where the lawn slanted. Fiona rolled with him, which meant that Parisa’s arms were quickly twisted as she got caught in the tumbling. She had no choice. She released Fiona. She cried out at the pain, not just of having her skin stretched and bruised but because of the separation from the unknown woman.

She sat up and watched the struggle. She rose to her feet ready to do battle as well but Rith caught her movement and lifted a hand in her direction. The gesture was way too familiar. Parisa had made use of her own palms earlier in her captivity and had been punished for it. There was nothing she could do, though. The next moment the hand-blast caught her in the chest. She flew backward into the bench once more and struck her head. Hard.

She slid to the ground on her side. Stars danced over her eyes. She blinked. More stars.

From the odd angle, she could still watch the struggle play out as Rith slapped Fiona several times until the woman fell limp into his arms. Vampires had a lot of physical power, even average-looking vampires like Rith.

He tossed her over his shoulder and carted her back into the house. Once she disappeared inside, Parisa had the strangest sensation that her life had just changed forever.

She sat up slowly to lean against the teak bench. Her head throbbed. Who was the woman? Why was Rith holding her captive—and were there other women hidden away somewhere inside the house?

She felt a vibration in the air and rose to her feet, an abrupt movement that caused her head to swim.

Greaves materialized in front of her. His brows rose as he looked her up and down. A frown appeared between his thick arched black brows.

She reached up and felt through her hair. Some of the elegant loops had come loose and now hung in an awkward mass down her back. She glanced at her gown and saw the grass stains where her knees must have slid over the ground. There was blood on the fabric as well, but she had no idea whether it was from her or Rith or Fiona.

Rith came running from the house. “My most humble apologies, master. We had an unfortunate accident just a moment ago. I will make the woman ready for you.”

Greaves turned slightly toward him and inclined his head. “Yes, please do.”

Rith swept to Parisa’s side, hooked her beneath her arm, and dragged her on running feet from the garden. “How dare you involve yourself in that way?” he hissed, over and over.

A few minutes later, with her coiffure restored by two trembling Burmese servants, Parisa returned to the garden as ordered. She wore a new gown, a light green silk dress, tight at the waist and long at mid-calf, very conservative.

Reentering the garden, she saw Greaves from behind. He sat in a large teak chair, elbows planted on the wide arms. From her vantage, since the teacup was missing from the saucer, she presumed he was drinking his tea.

His bald head reflected the dancing shadows of the lacy tamarind leaves overhead. She rounded the table upon which the tea service sat and took up her place again on the teak bench.

He wore a charcoal-gray suit that bore a faint and oh-so-elegant pinstripe. His tie was lavender silk; a black onyx ring graced his right pinkie. He was handsome, though completely bald, and had the most innocent expression in his large, round brown eyes, a look akin to child-like wonder.

Whatever else this monster was, his appearance was tailored, crisp, clean. Yes, a very tidy monster. His sole imperfection was his left hand, which he held curled inward as though slightly crippled.

The elegant monster smiled, showing even white teeth.

Parisa sat with her hands held in a loose clasp over the fine green silk. Her fingers trembled but then why wouldn’t they since her mind kept flashing on images of Fiona. Where was Rith keeping the woman?