Burning Skies (33 page)

Parisa blinked. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know the truth. I want to know why you’re pretending to be a mere mortal when clearly you’re already ascended.”

Havily put an arm around Parisa’s shoulder. “Show Madame Endelle your fangs. Your vampire fangs.”

Parisa just looked at her then shook her head. “How do I show her something I don’t have?”

“Like this,” Havily said. She smiled very big, pulling back her lips just a little, so that her incisors showed. She lengthened them.

Haltingly, Parisa drew her lips back.

Endelle left her controlled position by the window and moved back to the three women still clustered near the door. She got up close and stared into the woman’s mouth, but there were no fangs.
There were no fangs.
“Jesus,” she whispered.

“What?” Parisa asked.

“It’s not possible to be ascended and not have fangs. Vampire fangs always come with ascension.” Endelle still didn’t know what she was looking at. “You make no sense to me but I still can’t believe you’re not ascended. Let’s see your wings.”

Parisa looked down at her shirt and shook her head. “I can’t. Not … not like this.”

“Well, take your fucking clothes off.”

The fake-mortal blushed.

Endelle groaned. “Creator, save me from modesty. Parisa, I know this is trying but it would help me a great deal if you would mount your wings.”

Parisa removed her red tank and then her too-tight bra, oh-so-slowly.

“For fuck’s sake, we’re all girls here. Who gives a rat’s ass except, well now, don’t you have the prettiest breasts. I actually think they might be bigger than mine. Huh.”

“You’re not helping,” Alison cried.

Endelle again rolled her eyes.

“Try to ignore Madame Endelle’s lack of manners,” Havily said, glaring at Endelle. “She lost her filters a few millennia ago. Now take your time, and as soon as you’re able, mount your wings.”

Parisa, still wearing her jeans, closed her eyes. After a few minutes, her wings flew through the wing-locks, interfacing at the same time with the mesh superstructure.

Endelle took a step back. She gasped. “Holy shit.” Parisa’s wings were huge, especially for someone who was apparently un-ascended. “You’ve got goddamn
royle
wings. I’ve not seen these wings on anyone in five, maybe six millennia. Well, have you flown yet, un-ascended ascender?”

“I’ve only jumped from a sixteen-foot railing, but I have longed to fly. I have had such yearnings to take to the skies. But I was afraid to because—”

Endelle nodded, “You were afraid you’d get caught. Well, if you really are what you say you are, that was a smart move. A lot of idiots on Mortal Earth. You would’ve been taken to Area Fifty-one and dissected.” She let her gaze drift over the wings, which were among the most beautiful pairs she had ever seen and that was saying a lot. She glanced at Havily. “And she’s been here how long?”

“Almost eighteen hours now.”

“Wow. Okay. Parisa, this might feel uncomfortable but I need to get inside your head. I need to see exactly what’s going on with you. When I came at you with my mind earlier, you were a wall of shields, which reminded me of Morgan here. But if I’m to know how to act on your behalf, I must see exactly who and what you are, do you understand?”

“No,” Parisa barked, but then her lips curved.

Even Endelle smiled. “Keep doing that. You’re going to need a sense of humor on Second Earth, especially with this level of power. Ready?”

Parisa nodded.

Endelle placed herself within a foot of the mortal and put her hands on either side of her head. “Now you’re going to release your shields so that I can see your life. I want you to relax and just let everything go.”

Endelle closed her eyes and as if by magic the woman’s shields melted away. She eased her mind within Parisa’s; when she felt no resistance or panic, she dove and began a long run through the woman’s head. This would tell her everything she needed to know.

By the end, she pulled out of Parisa’s mind and stared at her. “Well, you are definitely mortal and un-ascended but are you kidding me? Sage? Warrior Medichi smells like sage?”

Steps on the path grow clumsy,

When the shoes outgrow the feet.

—
Collected Proverbs,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 14

Crace walked in a slow circle all around the patio in the center of the Commander’s peach orchard. He had been in this place many times before. Greaves liked to entertain here.

The hour wasn’t yet noon. He knew Greaves tended to work around the clock so he figured meeting his master here, at this hour, would be as acceptable to the Commander as any other. He still wore his leather kilt and battle sandals but nothing else. He’d thought about changing to something more suitable but he just didn’t give a fuck. He had work to do after this meeting that wouldn’t involve a shirt and tie.

The setting was also symbolic since below the orchard, running for miles under the earth, was Greaves’s compound and Command Center, many stories deep, and the place where he barracked the death vampires he imported nightly from all over the world. Crace was fairly certain Endelle had no real idea of the vast nature of his growing empire or that the compound itself was in a continual state of expansion deep within the earth.

The peach orchard was a calculated work of horticultural advancement and preternatural power. An environmental shield, constructed by Greaves, allowed for a dozen microclimates. Each microclimate created a month of the year and therefore peaches were being grown at every possible stage of the trees’ annual cycles, which meant that fruits were being ripened on the stem every goddamn month of the year. Not only had Greaves won awards, but the sheer power of sustaining these microclimates kept High Administrators around the world in a state of awe. There were so many ways to win a war.

Crace approved of the strategy. Let the sheep be seduced however they may.

On the other hand, with Crace’s evolution of physical and preternatural power, he’d begun to view the Commander in a different and perhaps less exalted light. Some of the glimmer on Greaves’s shining armor had dulled in his opinion.

From the first he’d had a lot to offer and now he had even more, which meant it was high time Greaves allowed Crace some real autonomy and some say in the progress of the war. At the very least, he ought to be able to direct things in Metro Phoenix Two without hindrance from that bastard Rith.

As far as he knew, Rith’s primary function involved surveillance. He was a goddamn spy. Not even a lowly administrator, never mind a High Administrator. So what the hell did the man bring to the table? Squat.

Beyond that, Rith had his own ideas about how the pursuit of the two women should be conducted. He had commandeered critical personnel to perform surveillance at Endelle’s headquarters. Crace knew, he
knew,
Endelle would protect them. No way in hell would Her Supremeness let Rith or his cronies get within a hundred yards of either the mortal-with-wings or ascender Morgan.

Trying to apprehend them at headquarters was about as useful a strategy as tickling a flea’s balls. He’d argued with Rith, but the vampire had been adamant and refused to be moved from his position. He also had Greaves’s sanction. Rith, in his opinion, was a fucking idiot.

Crace knew exactly where the women were. By an instinct he couldn’t explain, he could sense they were holed up at Warrior Medichi’s villa. Not only did the location make sense because it belonged to a Guardian of Ascension, but the property couldn’t be goddamn located, which meant mist. But not just any mist. Endelle’s fucking mist.

They were there. All he needed was every resource placed in the surrounding vicinity and as soon as either of the women made an appearance, dammit, he’d have them.

But Rith didn’t put stock in Crace’s
intuition
and he had his forces scattered from Sedona, by Thorne’s house, down to Tucson, where Warrior Santiago had his main residence. So … fuck.

What he needed, therefore, only Greaves could give—permission to redirect personnel.

The air shimmered next to him. A moment later, the Commander appeared, his expression inscrutable, his bald head gleaming, the claw on his left hand snapping once. He looked like a picture out of
GQ.
He wore, as always, fine-pressed wool, the best of Hugo Boss. His shirt was lavender silk. He smelled, also as always, of lemons and maybe turpentine, a really odd juxtaposition to his suave, immaculate appearance.

Whatever.

Crace was about to speak, but the second snapping of the claw gave him pause. Greaves didn’t always sport the unnatural appendage, just when he wanted to remind his subjects of his inherent preternatural power.

“To what do I owe the honor of
this summons,
” the Commander said, his voice low and way too soft.

Crace felt the first inkling of his error by the way sweat popped out all over his forehead. The second inkling came from a wave of nausea. Jesus.

He wasn’t daunted, though. He had a mission—to acquire his blood donor no matter the cost. “Warrior Medichi’s villa should be our only priority. The women are there. I know it in my gut, but your servant, Rith, has staff as well as several squadrons of death vamps stationed at every property throughout the Sonoran Desert, even Tucson. I demand—” His voice broke off as Greaves’s large round eyes narrowed.

Crace hissed since within the space of a millisecond he found himself facedown on the rough patio pavers. He also felt a blade at his neck. His head was turned onto his right cheek so he could see his master’s fine Italian footwear moving from one end of the patio to the next, which meant that Greaves held him down and kept the knife at his neck by the sheer breadth of his personal power.

After what seemed like a century, the Commander seated himself opposite on a cement bench. He crossed his legs at the knee, the gentleman that he was.

Crace couldn’t turn his neck far enough to see anything more than the lowest button of the Commander’s coat. If he dared to move even one centimeter more, the blade, which had already broken skin, would slice deep, too deep. As it was he could feel the blood weep down both sides of his neck. His heart beat like a jackhammer.

Fuck. He had so many beautiful plans. Was he really going to die now?

He heard the heavy sigh.
“What am I to do with you, my dear Crace?”
Greaves’s long-suffering voice had split-resonance and at the same time rattled through Crace’s mind. He closed his eyes and moaned. Voice and mind-speak combined, especially weighted with resonance, caused so much searing pain, like knives whirling through his head and slicing the whole time.

“I fear you’ve gotten a little ahead of yourself here, especially with me. Since when do you decide, ever, that I must come to you?”

He wanted to bleat his apologies, to retract his words, his request for an audience, but he couldn’t make his lips move.

“So impatient. I thought you had grown a little at the end of our last adventure with ascender Wells, but I do believe you’ve actually regressed. I am so very disappointed, although this I believe is my fault. I should never have given you
dying blood.
And yet how could I have known you would take to it with such fervor?”

The blade disappeared, and Crace took his first normal breath. He remained, however, in the prone position.

“You may rise.”

As Crace pushed up from the patio, his arms shook. Christ, his powerful, muscled arms actually shook.

Even so, he wanted to argue, but as he rose to his height and looked down at his still-seated master, he felt very small and insignificant, a cockroach that the sleek Italian shoes could squish with just a thought.

“You will do as you are told, Crace. My servant, Mr. Rith, has done as I have asked him to and you will respect his position in relation to me.
Are we in agreement?
” The last phrase was spoken both aloud with resonance and telepathically, which meant the knives started whirling through his head again. Crace fell forward straight onto the pavers once more, his cheek yet again pressed into the rough cement-formed, terra-cotta surface.

He lay prostrate until, after several minutes, he realized he was also alone and he wasn’t held fast to his position.

He drew back to his knees. He took several deep breaths until his heart settled down, his head didn’t hurt quite so much, and his hands stopped shaking.

He tried to take Greaves’s rebuke to heart, he really did, but all he felt was enraged and the object of his rage had a wide forehead, a broad nose, black hair and came from somewhere east of the Caucasus. Bastard.

He gained his feet. He shifted his attention to the north. After all, from this position Medichi’s villa was only a few miles away. Greaves and Rith could go fuck themselves for all he cared. He knew Havily Morgan was there, waiting for him. Even if Endelle’s mist did protect the property from detection, GPS could at least put him at the boundaries, where he would wait.