Wings of Fire (24 page)

She nodded.

He made the call. “
Allo,
Marcus? I hope I do not disturb you.”

Havily gasped but she was true to her promise. She pressed her lips together in a punishing line and remained silent.

“I’m in the middle of a staff meeting,” Marcus said. “Can this wait?’

The warriors always took one another’s calls, day or night, meetings or no meetings. Jean-Pierre continued to stare at Havily. He once more took in the set of her chin. His resolution strengthened.

“In five seconds,
mon ami,
I’ll be linking my mind with Havily’s and sharing my battle experiences. It must be done.” He said nothing more but ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He counted backward.
“Cinq, quatre, trois, deux…”

The air shimmered beside him and a second later Marcus went chest-to-chest with him. “The fuck you will,” he shouted. His brows were little more than slashes above his light brown eyes, but right now they seemed to sink into his eyes. His face turned the color of a beet, the rich hue of rage.

Jean-Pierre stepped away from Marcus with a wave of his hand in Havily’s direction. “You must settle this with your
breh.
She has threatened to ask Luken to help her, which is something I believe we must avoid for Luken’s sake. But after listening to her, I believe you to be in the wrong.”

The moment Marcus turned in Havily’s direction and began chastising her about Luken, Jean-Pierre crossed the lawn to join Medichi and Parisa, who both stood with eyes wide as the shouting began.

Jean-Pierre gestured to the door. “Perhaps we should go into the villa?”

He held the door wide for them. Parisa walked swiftly before the men. Within seconds the door was shut upon the war that now raged on the front lawn of Antony’s home.

***

Parisa didn’t understand why the warriors were so resistant to training the women connected to them. Maybe she could never understand, not being male. Antony hadn’t exactly been eager, to say the least, but Marcus was particularly adamant. Was it because they had completed the ritual, the
breh-hedden
?

She glanced at Antony. He frowned at the door. The words of the argument were indistinct, but the highs and lows, the sharpness of tone, slid easily through the thick wood.

Antony gestured with an arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Oui,”
Jean-Pierre said. He nodded a couple of times.

Jean-Pierre was not as tall as Antony; none of the warriors was. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Marcus and was just a little shorter than Kerrick. He had the most interesting lips of any man Parisa had ever seen: a full lower lip and the upper in two points that would have been pouty on a woman. He looked … sensual. His eyes were gray-green and in turns thoughtful and amused. She’d always had the impression that he was the kind of man who would probably make his lover mad as fire with a joke at just the wrong time for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of her.

He extended his hand as well to the doorway, an Old World gesture. She led the way. Coffee sounded good. Her mind still fluttered like a flock of birds. She had wanted to continue the training, but nothing could be done until Marcus and Havily had settled their differences.

Downloading the battle memories had been fantastic. Even now, as she walked through the sitting room, she matched the roll of Antony’s walk if not the length of his stride. She knew what it was to move, to run, to fly in his skin; which muscles flexed and how they reshaped every movement when he thrust or sliced with his sword.

Taking a lesson in swordplay afterward had been like talking in shorthand. She simply
knew
how to wield the long thirty-inch blade.

Another lesson in daggers would be next. She couldn’t wait.

Antony made coffee with a French press, which of course Jean-Pierre had given him years ago. The warriors seemed to speak in shorthand as well. She sat at the island and sipped her coffee from a heavy white mug, the kind that reminded her of old-fashioned diners.

The men also held mugs and stood facing each other between the island and the refrigerator. She sat on a stool opposite, her elbows propped up on the dark soapstone. She squirmed on the stool. She was feeling muscles she was pretty unfamiliar with, small ones on the insides of her thighs, muscles low on either side of her back. Her calves and triceps burned. Her mind may have known how to do battle, but the rarely used muscles were starting to fire up—and not in a good way.

“Why is Marcus so distressed about teaching Havily?” Parisa asked.

Antony slid his glance to her. “It’s hard to explain. I didn’t want to at first, either. In fact, I have to say that my first instinct, a crippling one, was to lock you up in my bedroom and never let you out.”

Parisa knew what he meant, but other images flashed through her mind and brought warmth to her cheeks.

He frowned slightly then his nostrils flared. His eyes widened. She shifted her gaze quickly to the light brown coffee in her mug. She liked cream, lots of cream in her coffee. Her cheeks were now flaming. She took a hurried sip and came up choking.

“Are you all right,
cherie
?” Jean-Pierre asked.

Choking was an excellent excuse for her red face. She coughed happily and bobbed her head several times. “Fine. I’m fine.”

But when a cloud of sage suddenly swept over her, she didn’t dare look at Antony. Instead she swiveled completely on the stool so that her back was to the men. She coughed a few more times then tried to take deep breaths.

She glanced down at her breasts. Her bra and T-shirt were too thin. Her nipples were drawn into stiff peaks. There were so many ways that this experience, this
breh-hedden,
had become something of a torture.

She slipped off the stool and meandered toward the door. Maybe she could walk it off. Maybe if she moved around, she’d stop feeling so much.

“Parisa,” Antony called to her, a question in his voice.

“Mmm?” she responded, sliding the mug up to her lips and taking a sip. Her forearms in that position covered her nipples. If this was the way it was going to be, she was so getting a different wardrobe. The size of her breasts had always been something of a struggle. It wasn’t like either of the men in this room would fail to notice her arousal.

Oh, God. She was about to die of embarrassment.

“Do you think you’re ready to voyeur Fiona? Jean-Pierre has suggested, rightly so, that we should think about moving fast on this.”

“I agree. Yes, let’s do it.” With her mind turned to more important things, she lowered her arms and walked toward them. Two pairs of eyes dropped to her chest and she gave a little squeak. Ooooh, shit.

Jean-Pierre turned politely away but Antony’s lips parted and he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her breasts.

“Well, let me see,” she said, drawing her cup once more toward her lips. “Where would be the best place to do this? Also, I’d like to touch your mind and see if you can see the vision as well. Endelle can.”

But Antony leaned in her direction as though he could move through the island.
I’d like to touch something else,
he sent.

Antony,
she chided.
Jean-Pierre is right here.

He’s looking out the window.

Stop it with the sage.
Her lips trembled.

Let me see you again and I will.

She was shocked and yet he was serious. She lowered her arms, and his lids fell to half-mast. He drew his mug to his lips and sucked a stream of coffee into his mouth with a hiss that made her thighs tremble. She knew,
she knew,
that if Jean-Pierre hadn’t been in the same room, Antony would be all over her.

She had slept in his bed all night.

She had awakened to his big warrior body spooning her.

She had turned into him and stroked what was already hard and ready between them. The lovemaking had been brisk. She’d risen to her orgasm within a handful of minutes. Her body was like dry kindling to his lit match.

She knew one thing—she wasn’t wearing a snug T-shirt around him anymore. In fact … “Will you both excuse me for a minute? I’ll be right back.”

She met Antony’s surprised gaze but shook her head at him. She didn’t want him following. She set her mug on the counter then hurried into the adjoining parlor, breathing a sigh of relief: Neither man could see her from this point on. She needed a different shirt and she needed it now. She also needed some distance from the sage-machine in the kitchen.

She passed into the foyer and realized she couldn’t hear Marcus and Havily arguing. Good. Maybe Havily would join her in Antony’s lessons. Marcus would have to return to work, but maybe Jean-Pierre could spar with her.

She passed into the formal living room and glanced out the front windows, but couldn’t see them from that vantage.

She moved down the long central hall, aiming for Antony’s bedroom, but when she reached the hub of the guest room suites, opposite the library, she heard Havily moan, a distant sound from behind the closed door of their bedroom. She should have kept going but for some reason she stopped in her tracks. The voyeur in her raised its ugly head and she took several steps in the direction of what used to be her guest room on the right and what was still Marcus and Havily’s room on the left.

Rhythmic thumping met her ears and she put her fingers to her lips. She shouldn’t be doing this, but she was caught by the sounds of their lovemaking. The squabble was over. She wondered if Marcus felt a need to stake his claim all over again.

Probably.

When the moans turned to cries, when she could hear Havily calling out Marcus’s name, she woke up to the improper nature of what she was doing. She retraced her steps to the central hall then ran the rest of the distance to Antony’s bedroom.

She went inside and closed the door behind her. A second suite of guest rooms separated Antony’s vast master suite from Marcus and Havily’s rooms so she couldn’t hear them anymore. She took several deep breaths, forcing her body to calm the hell down.

She pushed away from the wall and moved into the bathroom suite, which contained two enormous closets. She just hoped she had something suitable to wear that would allow her a little modesty.

***

Jean-Pierre had felt trapped in the kitchen. Even though Medichi was the third warrior to be struck by the
breh-hedden,
the varied ways the obnoxious ritual affected the lives of the men involved was getting on his nerves.
Mon Dieu,
Parisa’s nipples had been ripe as plums, ready to be plucked, and Medichi stared at her like he was most willing to do the plucking.

All Jean-Pierre had been able to do was get out of the way. He was surprised, however, when Parisa left the kitchen. Surprised even more when Medichi did not follow.

Of course, that left Medichi bent over the island, his elbows holding up his head. He’d dragged the
cadroen
from his hair, which hung in thick straight walls on either side of his face. Jean-Pierre could not see any part of his face, but he understood his suffering. The
breh-hedden
was nothing less than torture.

Jean-Pierre remained by the window overlooking the front lawn. Marcus and Havily were no longer there. He was not certain where they had gone. Right now, he did not know what to do so he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out at the front landscaping.

“Sorry about that,” Medichi said at last.

Jean-Pierre shrugged. “It must be very difficult.”

“Oui,”
Medichi responded.

Jean-Pierre glanced at him.
“Oui?”

“Oui.”
Medichi’s smile broadened, then dimmed. “Hey, I’ve been around you a long time. I know a little French. And I am sorry.”

The sounds of quick footsteps could be heard in the foyer. A moment later Parisa, now wearing a long, loose blouse, appeared in the doorway. She cast each man a quick smile. Though her shoulders looked tight, she said, “I’d like to be in the library when I first voyeur Fiona. Will you both come with me?”

***

Rith seethed. An unusual state for him.

Even though the Seers had predicted Parisa’s escape, he had not meant for her to leave; he had meant for her to die. But just when he’d folded to her bedroom to get the job done, he’d found the bed empty. After a quick search through the house, he’d discovered her nude in the backyard. Disgusting. He still couldn’t believe she had escaped. He still couldn’t believe she’d cared so little for modesty that she’d flown into the air with nothing on.

Worse, of course, now Greaves had a link with the woman, a very intimate mind-link. Rith despised her for it.

He was in France now. He had several emergency transfer locations. This one was just outside Toulouse Two, in the south of the country. The blood donors were situated quite nicely in three bedrooms at the end of the hall. Drugged, of course. The necessity of moving them had created a great deal of anxiety and more chatter than he could tolerate.

He sat very still in front of his desk, in his Herman Miller Embody Chair, his feet flat on the floor, his shoulders relaxed, and his spine perfectly aligned. His computer was in front of him.

He’d developed a program to track the predictions from the Seers Fortresses of the highest-performing groups, Mumbai, Johannesburg, and Bogotá. The program ran constantly. He could watch it stream; anytime two or three Fortresses delivered the same prediction, the various reports were automatically shuffled into a separate document.

But the information that came through was always the same—Greaves would make use of the newly forged mind-link to his advantage.

He couldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it. But he was nothing if not a great believer in acting on Seer information.

From the time he had learned of Parisa Lovejoy, the mortal-with-wings, he had wanted to capture her for the Commander. Greaves would have use of her, and he would do anything for his master. There had just never been a hint from the Seers about a possible mind-link. If he’d known, he would never have abducted her.