Wings of Fire (55 page)

“Do you feel that?” Luken cried. He blinked several times, a hand pressed to his stomach.

“Oui,”
Jean-Pierre responded. “But what is it? I do not understand and it is getting much stronger.”

Luken cried, “Holy shit. Jean-Pierre, lengthen your vision. Do you see them? Do you see them flying? Together? Their wings are on fire.”

“Who?”

“Medichi and Parisa. Oh, my God. They did it.” His teeth chattered now and he was pale, so pale.

Jean-Pierre kept his hand around Luken’s. He engaged his vision and stretched.
“Oui,”
he cried. The breeze had strengthened to a strong wind, heavy pulses of great power. “I see them. Then it is true, not a myth.”

“Not a myth,” Luken said, his voice quieter.

Peace descended on Jean-Pierre, the likes of which he had never known. He watched above as every battle ceased, the opponents falling back and back toward each respective rim, divided now by what could only be called a
benevolent wind
—one that brought peace, great peace.

He kept his vision long and sharp as Medichi and Parisa passed overhead. They were but an enormous elongated shape of flames: brilliant gold, amethyst that leaped in rolling flares, an underbelly of blues and greens, and a tail perhaps half a mile long of deep purple and burnished gold.

So beautiful.

***

Parisa flew beside Antony, separated only by the span of each of their wings but bound by the
breh-hedden
and the phenomenon that was their
royle
wings.

The colors spun out in front of her, above her, beside her, and below her. She could not imagine what she and Antony looked like as they flew through the canyon and parted enemy from enemy, driving both sides back, Greaves’s forces to the South Rim and Endelle’s to the North.

Her heart was unbearably full, full to overflowing, of heat, of exhilaration, of peace. Yes, so much peace.

The moment they had launched off the North Rim, the process had begun. With each few seconds the sensation grew, so that she was fulfilling the myth as she flew beside Antony. Even she could sense the power that forged a wedge between the armies.

By the time they completed the run, the entire distance through the ranks, which had to be at least five miles in length, she was breathing hard. She wasn’t certain how to stop the flames and the wind, but when Antony dipped his wing once in her direction, she met his gaze and slowed as he did. The flames diminished more with each gradual cessation of forward speed.

After less than a minute, she hung in parachute position in front of him, her wings cupped at the apex. She was jostled back and forth in gentle motions by the early-evening breezes.

He nodded to her and sent,
Let’s find Endelle.

He launched the opposite direction—but at a much slower pace, so that eventually her breathing calmed down. All along the banks, Militia Warriors from Endelle’s ranks cheered them with loud shouts and fists thrust through the air one after the other, thousands of grateful voices rising to the stars above.

Parisa had seen so many warriors fall as they flew through the midair front lines, down into the now black abyss of the canyon below. The memory would haunt her for years to come, softened by the knowledge that many warriors had lived because of what she and Antony had done today.

As she plowed air beside Antony in search of Endelle, Marcus took up a wing position on her left flank; Thorne took up Antony’s opposing wing flank. By the time they reached Endelle, other Warriors of the Blood had met them in the air, all shouting their victory—Zacharius, Kerrick, and Santiago. They, too, fell in formation behind Thorne and Marcus. Luken, however, was nowhere to be seen, nor Jean-Pierre.

Antony called out in a strong voice, “Banking left?”

Parisa followed suit, dipping her left wing slightly then straightening to fly forward.

Within a few flaps she was drawing her wings in, slowing then popping her parachute configuration right beside Antony, to land six feet from Her Supremeness.

But Endelle merely nodded to her then to each of the warriors. Colonel Seriffe was on her left and Thorne, now landed, moved to stand at her right.

She was somber as she said, “Luken’s been hurt. He’s in the canyon below. Jean-Pierre is with him and apparently saved his life. I’ve already sent Horace to him.”

And with those simple words, whatever peace and exhilaration had defined the last fifteen minutes of Parisa’s life dissipated. An evening breeze carried moans from every quarter, and a terrible hush had settled over the Militia Warriors who were alive and uninjured.

“The losses have been
unacceptable,
” she said. “But we thank Warrior Medichi and ascender Lovejoy for having the courage to work together this evening and create something I have not seen since Luchianne flew the air currents of Second Earth. May you be blessed by the use of your gifts in service to our great society.” She paused and swallowed hard. “And now, let us tend to the wounded and to those we lost today.”

I have only one regret in my life—that I turned my only son over to the system of fostering prevalent among the ancient tribes of Europe, Mortal Earth, so long ago, for nothing but destruction has followed that decision. Will I ever be forgiven for bowing to the custom of the day against my every proper maternal instinct?

Perhaps. But I will never forgive myself.

God help me.
Effetne!

—
Memoirs,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 25

Five days after the battle, Endelle stood on the North Rim where so many of her Militia Warriors had died, where Luken had once again almost died. She was sobered and alone.

She had been in memorial services for four days now.

The loss of over a thousand men and women had pared something away from her, some laxity in her attitude toward Darian Greaves.

The enemy had suddenly become
her enemy,
despised of old, yes, but now she felt something more, something deeper, something she had never known in all these millennia. She wanted revenge, deep, abiding, permanent revenge.

And she had the power to set anything in motion she wanted to.

She felt the air stir beside her, but she already knew the signature.

“Hello, Shorty.”

“Good morning, Endelle.”

She was both surprised and not when he slipped his hand into hers. She felt his Sixth power flow through her, and her chin came up. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. A moment later, she felt … comforted.

In any other circumstance, she would have made a joke, teased him about his height, how his hand was actually smaller than hers—that sort of absurd hilarity.

But it would take some time for her sense of humor to return.

Instead, she spoke of recent events. “Greaves has been running his extremely well-edited footage of the battle, calling it an enormous victory for the ALA. Of course none of those clips shows Medichi and Parisa’s affect on the battle.”

“Did you expect something different?”

“I never believed it would come to this. I thought I had time to keep building and working. I never thought he would attack.”

James didn’t say anything, just stood beside her staring out at the quiet battlefield. But his comforting stream of power continued to pulse through her hand and up her arm.

As she stared out at empty airspace to the rim opposite, nothing looked changed. Of course, the environmental teams had already been through repairing horticultural battle damage. Second Earth’s version of tree-huggers. Whatever.

“He attacked because of the future streams,” James said. “You need better Seer information.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You must make a change. You know what I’m referring to.”

“It will break Thorne’s heart.”

“Yes, it will.”

Endelle had been avoiding this moment for over a century, from the time she’d first seen Thorne’s woman hidden deep within his mind. She hadn’t meant to invade such a private space, but the memory had glowed bright, the way the ribbons of the future streams were said to glow.

So she had pushed her way into the memory and seen what she was never meant to see.

Thorne’s woman was a Seer with third, perhaps even fourth dimension capacity, well beyond anything she had ever known before, and Thorne had been protecting her from Second Earth involvement all this time.

But dear God, what would it do to Thorne if she used his woman as a pawn in this terrible game of war?

***

Greaves sat down in a chair covered in crushed purple velvet. He repressed a shudder. The vampire opposite him had the fashion and decorating taste of a pimp from a few decades past. Greaves deeply disliked him, the way he lounged so casually, several lines of cocaine splayed out in precise order on a glass coffee table in front of him. All he needed was two half-naked women draped over his shoulders to complete the absurd portrait.

“You’ve always hated my hedonistic inclinations,” Casimir said. He smiled. He had large, beautiful teeth, the body of a god, the appetites of Lucifer. His booted foot swung up and back. His snug white pants concealed none of his considerable assets. If Greaves had been otherwise inclined, he would have thought Casimir was trying to seduce him.

“Not your hedonism. You of all men should know that I share your proclivities.” He waved a hand around the room. “But I do find your outward expression quite ridiculous.”

The vampire leaned his shoulders more deeply into the black leather of the couch. “What do you want, Darian? I take it this isn’t a social call … unless you want it to be.”

Greaves ignored the invitation. He swung many ways but he drew the line at sex with the Prince of Darkness. Even a sociopath had his standards.

He sighed.

The moment had come.

He had been dreading this interview for a good number of centuries. He had believed he would never be required to make the request because his plans had been going so very well. But then, he had hoped against hope that the Upper Dimension would not become involved, that his seizure of smaller realms would have lulled it into believing that his ambitions were negligible—until too late, of course.

However, now that three of the Warriors of the Blood had completed the
breh-hedden
and increased their powers exponentially because of the women involved, the handwriting had simply appeared on the wall in a way he could no longer ignore. If he’d had any doubts on that score, they were settled by the fact that the most recent bonding had resulted in the loss of his voyeur-link with Parisa. Then there were the wings the happy pair shared. Not to split metaphors too heavily, but the use of
royle
wings had been the nail in his coffin.

God, what a show that had been, and such a peaceful sensation. Talk about
spectacle
. It really was too bad that he hadn’t been able to use the footage in his propaganda campaigns, but the energy the couple used showed up on film only as strange flashes of light.

It had been no accident that his minions had failed to kill them all. Forces were at work, some based in destiny and accompanying misfortune, some in the fulfillment of myth, some by the hand of an Upper ascender. It was because of the latter that he’d orchestrated this unfortunate meeting.

He had no choice now but to speak words that brought bile rising from his stomach. “It would seem I need your help.”

The large white teeth made another appearance. “The cost will be high.”

He nodded. “Naturally.”

Casimir glanced at his well-manicured nails, buffed to a gleam. “I saw your mother recently in one of my visits home.” Casimir was a Fourth ascender.

“And how fares the great philosopher of Fourth Earth?”

“Beatrice is lovely as always. She has not aged a day.” He laughed at his little immortal joke. “She is as sanctimonious as ever, though, quite judgmental—I despise her for that—but beautiful. You have her eyes, you know. Sometimes it is most unsettling to see you, my friend, and at the same moment to recognize Beatrice’s large round eyes. Yes, very unsettling.”

“Is she still
building
things?” Beatrice had always had a passion for architecture.

He waved a hand, a sensual, delicate motion. “Her latest project is some sort of rehabilitation center surrounded by a lake. The lake is supposed to have healing properties, and the inmates are baptized in it. Can you imagine? I’ve dubbed it
the lake of fire.
” He chuckled, but the sound had resonance and floated around the room until it settled on Greaves’s shoulders, a heavy weight.

The time to negotiate had begun. “So tell me your price.”

Casimir’s teeth gleamed once more in the dim, dim light. “Oh, I think you know what I’ll require, at least at the beginning.”

Greaves felt his mind slide around loosely. How stupid he had been. He had thought perhaps wealth, or an endless supply of mortal women, or the right to half his kingdom, but he should have known better. Casimir always went to the heart of things. He preferred to draw blood at the outset.

“So you want Julianna.”

He shrugged. “I have gazed upon her, so yes, of course.”

That was a lie. Casimir may have actually
seen
Julianna, true, but her beauty was not what drew him. Greaves’s unfortunate attachment to Eldon Crace’s former wife was what Casimir had noticed.

Greaves sighed. His left hand twitched, but he didn’t bring forth his claw. There would be no point. A Fourth ascender had advanced powers and would not be intimidated by anything so vulgar.

The question in life was always the same:
What are you willing to do to get the things you want?

Oh, damn.

***

Rith trembled on his chaise longue in the underground cavern of his St. Louis Two blood donor facility. He pulled himself out of the future streams, sweating and nauseous.

Not only had his plans with Parisa failed, but his future had taken a terrible turn.

He had been such a fool from beginning to end where Parisa Lovejoy had been concerned. She had been the cause of this new horror. He should have gone with his instincts and killed her at the outset. Even if he had secured her death later—while he had her in his control at his temple, say—his future might not look so bleak.