Wings of Fire (54 page)

As she rose higher and pulled back somewhat on her preternatural vision, she could see the breadth of Greaves’s assembled forces. His ALA was all in black with the occasional maroon slash of color for effect. Black leather kilts were the order of the day on both sides, but just to keep things simple Greaves’s army wore maroon leather weapons harnesses, which she thought was a nice touch although some contrasting embroidery would’ve livened things up a bit. If she got out of this alive, she’d tell Stannett to give Greaves a few pointers.

She rose up even higher. Off to the southwest she saw something else, something in flight, something massive.

“No fucking way,” she murmured as it came into focus. Just like that, she was worried. What people might dislike in war, they doted on when it came to display.

She drew her wings in slightly and floated back to the ground. Colonel Seriffe and Thorne flanked her. She turned to face them both, her back to the canyon.

“You’re not going to believe what
the little peach
has done.”

The men spoke in unison. “What?”

She shook her head. “If this doesn’t fucking take the cake. Tell you what, boys. Fly up about forty feet and take a gander off to the southwest. I want you to see this for yourself. Tell me what you think.”

The men stepped several feet apart. They’d already mounted their wings; now they unfolded them from close-mount into full-mount and in an almost choreographed movement flew straight up and out to hover above the maw of the canyon.

Thorne’s voice pierced her head through their shared mind-link.
Are you fucking kidding me?

Nope. Looks like Greaves has thought of everything.

So that no matter what happens today, he can’t lose. No wonder he chose dusk. I thought it was because the canyon just looked prettier at this hour.

She rose into the air again and flew behind the men.
At your rear,
she sent. It was the proper form of flight protocol address, but it always made her laugh.

Thorne dipped a wing and shifted so that he could meet her gaze. “When do you think the fireworks will begin?” he said, his voice gravelly but loud.

“Any fucking time.”

But as Seriffe turned to her, she saw the sudden raw state of his emotions and recoiled. He had three small boys and a wife. He adored his family and here he was facing the end of it all. If he died today, what would become of Carolyn and the little ones?

Aw, shit.

Almost on cue, yep, fireworks launched into the air and all the little video-bots floated into a variety of static positions to best capture a sky suddenly full of splashes of blue and green, purple, yellow—and every color under the sun.

She ordered the men back to the ground and followed suit. With her leopard flats on the soil again, she once more stretched her vision across the maw of the canyon. There he was. He even met her gaze and lifted his cup to her.

Goddamn fucking poser.

***

Greaves preferred a win–win, which was exactly what he had this afternoon. The fireworks were charming—not the most complicated designs and patterns he might have chosen, but he’d made this decision at the last minute so naturally there would be compromises.

Still, how could one ever go wrong with fireworks?

He sipped the last bit of tea. As squadrons of geese, swans, and ducks, as well as their magnificently costumed handlers, moved into position exactly between the rims of the canyon, he gestured for his aide to take the cup and saucer.

The young vampire didn’t look at him as he hurried to his side, bowed, then performed the task.

As the servant moved away, Greaves rose to his feet—the prearranged signal. All his generals moved back into the ranks, all with the exception of Leto, his second-in-command, who took up the position on Greaves’s far right. He kept Leto close, as always. Something wasn’t right with his favorite defector but he hadn’t had the time to pursue it yet.

He loved how swiftly the men moved, each disappearing into the ranks, barking orders until both divisions thrummed with battle energy, all to the pounding of the fireworks and the great flashes in the sky.

As he faced south, away from the canyon, he watched his death vampires rise into the air, a long glorious line of matched killers, stark white complexions with a faint bluish hue to the skin, huge glossy black wings and the fierce presence of muscled warriors. The promise? With the Coming Order, he would provide dying blood for all.

The sun was now almost set.

Let the fun begin.

***

Endelle shook her head.

Shit.

Fireworks were now blasting from both sides of Greaves’s forces, so that the sky above the canyon was full of light and sparkle. Yeah …
spectacle.

The squadrons of fowl drew opposite and very near to Endelle’s forces. Their corresponding handlers wore enormous gowns, men and women alike. The costumes hung down into the air at twice their height. Each wore a massive headpiece; their wings were at least warrior-sized to support the weighty attire.

Endelle shook her head and exchanged a roll of the eyes with Thorne. Whatever she thought of Greaves, this whole fucking presentation was goddamn brilliant.

For the next fifteen minutes, the spectacle parade passed, performing to music blasted from a new set of air-bots, heavy orchestral music, which she recognized as Holst’s
The Planets.

Jesus H. Christ.

Well, this might just be a little payback for her last spectacle event at the Ambassadors Reception at White Lake. Despite the incendiary bombs that had disrupted the fireworks display, killed eleven people, and burned out a number of famous public gardens, the ensuing press had resulted in a staggering response of support for Endelle’s administration. Both sympathy and accolades had flowed in from around the world.

Maybe tonight’s little display would twist the world around Greaves’s pinkie. Fuck. What the hell was she supposed to do to combat this? And just how many of her male and female warriors were going to fall to their deaths in the canyon tonight?

And—God forbid—would she lose any of her Warriors of the Blood?

She scowled up at the series of firework dragons that now flowed east over a dusky sky, above the final act of a thousand snowy white swans, moving in elegant wave-like patterns below.

She sent a message to Thorne.
Get Medichi on the com.

***

Medichi stood with his arms wrapped around Parisa, waiting, his gaze fixed to the skies as several new dragons appeared, all moving toward their position at the farthest left flank of Endelle’s forces. The swans were almost opposite them now.

“So beautiful,” Parisa murmured.

Dread filled him. His face had that tight, drawn sensation he got so rarely. The last time he’d felt this way was the moment he realized that he hadn’t been looking at Parisa at all, but a hologram.

His gaze fell to the army on the opposite rim, so far away yet so damn close. Once in flight, the far side of the canyon was only a few wing-flaps away. Though the Grand Canyon seemed to separate the two armies, it was nothing but an illusion.

He felt his phone vibrate and he released his right arm to fish out the black card. Must be showtime.

He thumbed the surface. Though he felt Parisa try to pull away, he didn’t want space; he met her gaze and tugged her back against him. She smiled, turning into him and falling against his chest. She was feeling it, too. So, not good.

“Give,” he said, his voice quieter than he had meant it to be.

A bunch of gravel came on line, “So you’re here.” The music blasted from both sides of the conversation.

“Yep. North end.”

“Endelle wants a word.”

“Hey asshole,” Her Supremeness said.

Damn that made him smile and shake his head. “Where do you need us?”

“Well,” she drawled as, the music faded out, “that depends. You complete the
breh-hedden
?”

“Yes.” He gave Parisa’s shoulders a squeeze.

“Anything notable happen?”

Now, there was a question. He could have answered that about a dozen different ways. Instead, he told her what he knew she needed to hear. “Our wings flamed—gold, amethyst, blue, green.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard her murmur,
Thank God.
“Good” snapped through the line. “I want the pair of you to mount up and do what you need to do. The truth is, I haven’t seen this done in millennia so your guess is as good as mine. Got it?”

“Yep.”

“And Medichi?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s all up to you right now.” Then she laughed. “But no pressure.”

The line went dead.

He shook his head.

“What?” Parisa asked. When she drew back this time, he let her.

“Showtime and we mount our wings.”

Parisa gave him a grim set of her lips then moved several feet away. He waited as she mounted her incredible, impossible wings, so massive for her body, all cream with beautiful bands of black, amethyst, and gold. Because of the wind eddies, she drew the wings into close-mount.

He smiled at her. His wings emerged in a sudden burst of power. He, too drew them in close.

“What now?”

He took her hand. “We wait.” But for what he wasn’t sure. Oh, God, how would either of them know what to do?

He glanced at his woman once more.

Worse, what if he lost her tonight after having just barely begun his life with her?

***

Jean-Pierre headed one thousand Militia Warriors at the southernmost flank of Endelle’s army. His heart thrummed in his chest, heavy now, almost painful.

The enemy was in the air across the canyon on the south rim.

Merde.

He lifted his sword and at the same moment mounted his wings. He heard the responding mounting of wings behind him, like a great wind.

This was his job to perform right now, as despised as it was. The enemy was better prepared in every sense. Camera crews were filming every moment of what Greaves most certainly intended to be a complete rout.

But, as was always said among the warriors,
fuck that.

Very precise.

The enemy breached the side of the canyon and hit the open air. The distance might still be great but wings moved the body swiftly, so swiftly.

He opened his mouth and, with his sword lifted high, let out a roar. The Militia Warriors behind him echoed it. He flapped his wings in long downward thrusts and rose into the air. He did not need to turn around to see if he was being followed. The anger and the power and the energy of Seriffe’s men pushed at him from behind.

He breached the North Rim wall and was over the canyon now, pulsing forward in slow, exact movements. From his peripheral vision to the left he saw that his warrior brothers had done no less. Closest to him was Luken, the most physically powerful of the brothers, plowing the air, moving forward just as he did.

All that he was as a warrior moved in him now, flooded his veins. The surface of his skin flushed hot. He was ready.

Leading the charge opposite him was a long, terrible row of death vampires. They began to break away in fours, some flying higher and higher, others lower. The ranks behind him would do the same, higher and lower to form a multiple-layered front line, offset so that if anyone fell into the canyon below, other battling pairs and groups would not be impacted.

But battle was chaotic and always the worst happened.

His peripherals closed down.

All he saw were eight death vampires in tight formation aimed at him. He would have expected no less.

On they flew, three hundred yards, two hundred, one hundred. He struck parachute-mount and hung in the air, his heart now hammering. Thirty feet. He did not wait but drew both daggers swiftly from his weapons harness and let each fly. The blades struck home. Two death vampires clutched necks, spun, and fell from the sky, tumbling down and down.

The remaining six were on him. He slashed, spun, levitated at lightning speed, whirled, cut, and the entire time kept his senses fixed on the location of each pretty-boy.

A battle haze consumed him now, the rage of serving for over two centuries, of facing an enemy that drank women to death. He became more animal than man, more flexing muscle and growling instinct.

He sent vampire after vampire into the abyss below, again, again, again.

Every few seconds, his peripherals registered the battle around him and down the line. Militia Warriors on both sides of the canyon fell in fading screams to the rocks and river below.

But when he heard his name called out, and recognized Luken’s voice, he flew high in the air and slaughtered within seconds the warriors who dared to follow. He stretched his preternatural vision and saw Luken tumbling to his death, one of his wings sliced through.

One glance at the battle showed Greaves’s numbers overwhelming the Militia Warriors.

He had a choice to make: to stay and support the Militia Warriors all around him, or to save Luken. But there was only one choice he could make.

He pulled his wings into close-mount, which made a rocket of his body. He headed to the bottom of the canyon. Within seconds he landed below Luken’s falling body. He sent a hand-blast upward beneath him, slowing the warrior’s fall.

Luken still hit the earth hard. He was stunned, shaking, and part of his left wing hung at a painful angle.

Jean-Pierre wanted to fold him to safety, but neither pair of wings would handle the trip.

Only at that moment did he see that Luken’s weapons harness had been sliced high in the abdomen as well and that blood poured from him.

He looked up. Greaves’s forces had pushed Endelle’s army a third of the way back to the North Rim. Yes, there were times when numbers mattered.

He took the warrior’s hand in a tight grip.

Luken’s face was pale. “Go, my brother. Save all that you can.”

It was a death sentence for Luken since his wounds made him open to attack. Yet Jean-Pierre had to return to the more vulnerable Militia Warriors.

Jean-Pierre nodded when a sudden breeze, very warm and strangely soothing, came from the east portion of the canyon.