Wings of Fire (4 page)

She hated that she was so weak in this way. She hated that she was a prisoner. She hated that she still knew so little about ascended life and her powers. The only thing she had accomplished in three months was improving her flight.

Be wise and do not judge what creates love for others, since shoes often travel to unsuspecting feet.

—
Collected Proverbs,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 2

Rith was not an original thinker. He never had been. For that reason he relied on the future streams to guide him, all those beautiful ribbons of light that prophesied forthcoming events.

He reclined on the dark blue velvet chaise-longue in his small private room adjacent to his office. He clasped his hands loosely over his stomach. He stared at the mahogany ceiling. His facial muscles felt strange and lax, almost burdened, and his throat was tight.

He’d just emerged from the future streams and was devastated all over again. The same prophecy from last night had returned even stronger just moments ago, while the shower had been running and Parisa had been going through her nightly ritual.

Parisa Lovejoy was to share a bond with Commander Greaves.

It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.

Parisa’s unspecified yet critical role in the war against the Commander had already been foretold numerous times. Rith had recommended her death to his master over and over, but for whatever incomprehensible reason, Greaves tended to play fast and loose with Seers’ prophecies. He couldn’t be entirely faulted for this, since the prophecies didn’t always come to pass. And Greaves preferred to work every angle of a prophecy before acting, and often succeeded in his rather daring ventures.

But where the mortal-with-wings was concerned, the Seers’ predictions had been constant, and increasing in intensity in recent days. Rith had developed a sense of near-panic where Parisa was concerned. He was, himself, a man of power, perhaps more than the Commander realized, and of late he had developed a real
knowing
about just how dangerous Parisa was both to himself and to the Commander. He had several times urged Greaves in the proper direction, to get rid of the woman, but the Commander would not be moved.

However, even with all Rith’s
knowing,
even with the numerous prophecies and their intensity, what had finally pushed Rith over the edge was this latest future stream about a bond-forging event. A sense of deep despair and of jealousy now devoured Rith whole. He could forgive the predictions about Parisa’s danger to the Coming Order—but not that she would become so intimately connected to his master.

He could not imagine, even on a prophetic level, how Greaves could allow this travesty when even he, Rith Do’onwa, the master’s most favored servant, did not have such a bond.

Earlier, when Parisa had asked to fly one last time before nightfall, he saw an opportunity to kill her himself. If she left his artfully crafted domes of mist, he could follow after her and cause a most unfortunate but very fatal accident.

But she hadn’t left. She had floated above the tamarind tree and somehow read his mind. So now she was safe and secure in her bed and he had no means of taking her life.

Were all his centuries of service to be thus rewarded?

He knew only one thing: He must prevent this bond.

He loved Greaves as no one could love him. Greaves was his master; he would lay down his life for him. He wanted a bond, a link with the Commander. He deserved such a bond. Why should Parisa be allowed to forge one?

It was obscene.

Rith took deep breaths. He had to focus. He must find a way to counteract the event.

As he breathed, his mind settled. After a few minutes, his fierce jealousy abated.

He focused on the ribbons of light. Whenever a change in destiny was imminent, ribbons would glow. As he mentally reviewed all the critical people involved in the Coming Order, on both sides of the equation, he found a burnished bronze ribbon that grew so brilliant with light, even though his eyes were closed he felt the light burned through his eyelids.

He mentally picked up the ribbon, which belonged to Warrior Medichi. He slid his mind along the future streams and came to an image that caused his heart to seize, in part because of the nature of the vision but also due to its location. He saw the warrior trapped in a dark space, one made of oversized terra-cotta bricks. He knew this particular Second Earth temple in Bengal Two. He had built it himself, modeled on Mortal Earth structures, but with a very convenient basement designed just for his purposes.

He smiled now. Even though he wanted the mortal-with-wings dead, the sure knowledge that one day very soon he would have within his power a Warrior of the Blood changed everything. If the Creator was good and shined his favor upon Rith, he would fulfill this prophecy. Perhaps then his standing with Greaves would increase to include a forged bond as well.

***

Was Parisa still alive?

Medichi sat on the side of his bed, sleep-deprived and on edge. He was in the master suite of his villa, a retreat that had become a prison because the woman meant for him was missing … gone … taken. But in a few minutes, he would know if she still lived: She would come to him as she always did at this hour.

He’d been to the Cave, arriving later than usual, so that only Thorne remained. Thorne had been slumped on a stool in front of the bar, a bottle of Ketel One at the ready, his fingers sliding up and down a full tumbler, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Medichi had told him of the death vampire at the Grand Canyon and what he’d learned in the pretty-boy’s mind.

The news had brought a little life into Thorne’s red-rimmed hazel eyes. He’d even smiled and clapped Medichi on the shoulder. “We’ll find her and don’t worry, Carla will keep me up to speed. Jeannie, as well, when she comes on later today.”

Medichi had nodded.

Thorne had nodded.

Medichi had headed home and now here he was, sitting on the side of his bed, ready to complete his morning ritual, ready to hear Parisa’s voice in his head once again, ready to be assured that she was still alive.

Oh, God, please let her be alive.

He’d just showered and his long hair dripped at the ends, forming rivulets that tracked down his abdomen and down his back. He loosed the black towel from around his waist and laid it in a heavy loop across his knees.

At least he had privacy. The first time this had happened was three days after Parisa’s abduction. Both Havily and Marcus still lived in his villa. They were his closest friends, his strongest support, but that day Hav had brought tangerines home from the market without thinking what it would do to him, without remembering that for Medichi, Parisa smelled of tangerines, her special scent meant only for him. For Parisa, Medichi smelled of sage.

Havily should have known better. For her, Marcus’s special scent was like earthy grasses and fennel combined.

But Havily hadn’t remembered, and Medichi had been left aroused as hell with nowhere to go. Naturally, he’d complained of not feeling well and had retired to his suite of rooms at the south end of the villa.

The tangerines had acted as an aphrodisiac. He hadn’t wanted to pleasure himself but that was the curse of his situation: Because of the
breh-hedden,
the scent of tangerines meant Parisa, and Parisa meant pure hot-blooded sex.

Damn the
breh-hedden.
He’d been struck down the moment he’d smelled Parisa’s lovely pheromone-riddled tangerine scent.

The
breh-hedden
was a terrible mate-bonding ritual that occurred only between preternaturally powerful women and Warriors of the Blood. Before Warrior Kerrick had found his
breh
in Alison Wells, all the warriors had thought the ritual a myth. Then Marcus had bonded with Havily in exactly the same way. No more myth. Just hard agonizing reality.

So, yeah, the
breh-hedden
was alive and well among the Warriors of the Blood.

God, how he loved the smell of tangerines.

So it was that Medichi had pleasured himself. And for whatever reasons, at that same moment Parisa had found him with her voyeur’s window. But only when he’d released, his fist pumping hard, had he heard her beautiful voice in his head, a soft, melodic
Antony.
Several times before the abduction, he thought he’d heard her voice in his head, the emergence of her telepathic ability. So when he heard the sound again, he knew he had not been mistaken: He had heard her voice, and she was alive.

He’d rejoiced. He’d cried out. He’d wept because that’s when he’d felt her presence, very faint but very real and he knew she was still alive. He’d spoken to her for an hour afterward, even though she still couldn’t communicate mind-to-mind with him. He’d talked and talked about all that they were doing to try to find her, he encouraged her to stay alive, he promised her he’d never stop looking for her. He’d only stopped talking when he felt her drift away and finally end the communication.

From that moment until now, he’d repeated the ritual with her every morning after hunting down rogue death vampires. He would return to the villa, shower, and ready himself to meet his woman.

Right now, with the towel looped over his lap, only one question was in his mind: Would he hear her voice, feel her presence today? Was his woman still alive?

Jesus, his fingers trembled around the small silver bowl he held in his hands. In it, nine small Satsuma tangerines were piled one atop another, tempting him with the forbidden as though he stared at the apple from the Garden of Eden.

Time to get on with his morning ritual. He’d never been one to limit himself to the use of his fist. If he needed a fuck, he went out and got one. He’d worn out a lot of velvet in the booths at the Blood and Bite getting the release he needed. Mortal women flocked to the vampire club every night and kept the warriors of Second Earth satisfied—both the Militia Warriors and the Warriors of the Blood. The club had been designed just for that purpose and even sanctioned by Madame Endelle, the Supreme High Administrator of all Second Earth. But from the moment he’d met Parisa, the club had lost all appeal.

He set the bowl on his nightstand. Holding one tangerine in his hand, he plunged his thumb hard into the center, breaking the loose skin apart. He pulled the skin back. Juice flowed. He kept peeling until the wedges were exposed. He thrust his thumb into the middle once more, breaking up the wedges. More juice.

He shuddered. The smell penetrated his brain, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Yes, he was hard. What else would he be? From the moment he had first caught Parisa’s scent, the one thing he could count on was a fierce demanding erection when she was near.

The hairs on the nape of his neck rose and relief poured through him.

Now he felt her. Yes. He closed his eyes. He could tell she was near, just a strange rippling vibration along his back, now across his shoulders, now over his neck. She was here.

The terrible tension inside his chest, the frightful worry that she was dead, eased. For the first time in twenty-four hours he could breathe.

“I’m here,” he said aloud. “I’m ready for you.”

He put his mouth to the tangerine, suckled the juice, and groaned.

***

Parisa’s heart ached, a low throb deep in her chest, a pain that had become so familiar it was now a comfort.

She still lay on her side on her large four-poster bed, the window of her preternatural voyeurism open.

She could see Antony now. Like a good director, she could move her window to any position she desired. Tonight, thirteen-plus hours ahead of him, she panned her vision so that she could face him, as though she were standing right in front of him.

She drew a ragged breath as though her throat had shriveled. Yes, he was handsome—strong cheekbones and a sharp angled jaw—but to her he would always be
beautiful.
His hair was black, thick, straight, and long, almost to his waist now. He’d showered and his hair was damp, even dripping in spots. He took long, steaming showers after a night of battle. Many times she arrived early enough to watch him in the shower. He was lean and muscular, all warrior.

Yes, so
beautiful.

She moved closer, until she was a few inches from his face. She watched his tongue nestle within the tangerine, making small sucking noises. She knew that he was imagining his tongue inside her body. He’d told her that as well.
Desire
was too small a word for what she felt for this man, this warrior. She would be the tangerine for him and he could devour her.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as her need for him grew, her thighs trembling. She had to keep her voice quiet or the servants would descend on her.

She leaned in and kissed the air an inch or two away from him. He groaned, as though feeling how close she was. She watched his hand glide lower, sliding down his chest. She pulled the window back to watch. His abs were rippling, taut, rolling hard mounds she wanted to touch, to lick, to savor. His forefinger touched the narrow erotic line of hair that led down. Lower. Lower.

In her mind she spoke to him.
Yes, touch yourself for me. I’m here. I want you to know pleasure. Antony, hear me.

His groans thickened the air. With one hand he held the tangerine to his mouth, his tongue working feverishly. With his other hand he held himself in a firm grip, pumping now. His hips moved, jerking forward.

She panted and the core of her spasmed. She rolled onto her stomach and slid her hand between her legs. She pushed, pulled, pressed. Her hips bucked off the mattress as she watched him. His groans were loud in her ears. She could tell he was close. He opened his mouth, and the groan turned to a shout as he came.

She came with him, the core of her body rippling and tugging, streaking pleasure up through her tender flesh. She imagined him inside her and the sensation intensified. She withheld the gasps and moans that wanted to erupt for fear the servants would hear.
Antony. Antony,
sped along the telepathic highway.

All movement on his bed ceased, as it always did just at this moment. “I hear you,” he said aloud to the room. “You said,
Antony, Antony.
Twice tonight. I feel you near me, Parisa. I know you’re here and I know you’re alive. Thank God.”