She had Seer contacts in the highly corrupt Mumbai Seers Fortress. Her first conversation with the High Administrator of the Fortress provided her with the simple information that little could be retrieved about Grace in the future streams because she was being blocked by more powerful Seers that were now attached to Madame Endelle.
Of course perfect Grace would have Endelle’s protection.
Realizing that she’d used the back scratcher too vigorously and was now bleeding, she set it down on her nightstand. She fingered the soft petals of the roses and pondered her present conundrum.
“Oh,” she murmured, as a new thought struck.
No one would be looking for Casimir in the future streams, and if Greaves was to be believed, he was out and about protecting Leto as his Guardian of Ascension. Grace might be beyond her reach, but maybe, just maybe her Mumbai connection could discover something about Casimir. She kicked herself for not having thought of it sooner.
She made her call to Mumbai. “Forget what I said about keeping after Grace in the future streams. I want you to look for Casimir of Fourth. Apparently, he’s on Second right now. And the moment you have word, you’re to call me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Julianna,” the deep masculine voice returned. “And you will of course tell your master how obliging I have been.”
“Yours will be the first praises I sing when he returns. And I will be sending the usual packet of rubies.”
She heard the deeply satisfied sigh before the obligatory farewells. She hung up before he’d finished his assurances of dying fealty to so important an ascender as she.
She decided to dress, then fold to the Sahara, where she could be alone for an hour or so to practice her hand-blast abilities.
As she sweltered in the hot desert, each time she drew her energy into her hands and released the blast, she pictured Grace’s brains exploding all over the sand.
The image made her seriously content.
Destiny, I have found, is one of the strangest phenomena in any dimension, for it consistently works against common sense and every practical goal man can conceive.
Memoirs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 15
Grace slipped on a simple white linen gown, something she’d made for herself while on Fourth Earth. Leto snored, a sound that pleased her more than she could say.
She left the room and crossed the narrow hallway to a second guest bedroom. The sun was rising on the opposite side of the house, so as she dropped to her knees in front of the window, the very tops of the White Tank Mountains were lit in a rosy glow. Militia Warriors still patrolled, a constant, slow, vigilant movement back and forth.
She saw a fainter movement past the tree line that separated the desert-like mountains from the traditional villa landscaping.
She extended her vision and saw that the same doe waited patiently for breakfast. She smiled, lowered her head, and closed her eyes. By long habit she ran through a litany of prayers, most of which she had constructed throughout the centuries. They eased her heart and mind and seemed to settle something deep within her so that she could move forward with the day’s enormous challenges.
Today she would practice once more with the women, and at eight o’clock, the spectacle event would take place. Because she hadn’t put any blocks in place, she felt Leto rise from his bed. When he found her, he didn’t speak but sank to the carpet behind her, joining her in her meditation.
She continued to pray until her soul felt at ease.
Her last thoughts were a basic giving of thanks for the simple gift of life.
When she opened her eyes and turned, she found Leto still on his knees behind her, one hand shading his face, his shoulders bowed. She saw in an instant the weight that he carried as a powerful ascender, as a warrior, as a trainer of Militia Warriors, as a gifted leader. She had often seen this same demeanor in Thorne.
Leto, she sent, thank you for joining me.
He lowered his hand and met her gaze. He pulled her back toward him and cradled her, his head bent over her shoulder as he nuzzled her face. He smelled so beautiful, of the forest.
She shifted in his arms and put her hand on his face. “What is to become of us?”
He kissed her and rocked her. “I will love you, I will work hard for you, and I will do everything I can to bring the stars down for you to hold in your hands. And I will strive to make this world a finer, better place for you.”
His vows, he was speaking his vows to her.
She could offer no less.
“And I will love you, Leto. As long as I draw breath, I will love you. I will do everything I can to bring the earth up to possess your heart. I will try to stay alive that we might know each other properly in the coming months and years.”
He thumbed her cheek, then kissed her. She felt his desire for her rise. In a soft voice, he asked, “What time do you have to be with the others at the workout center?”
“Eight.”
“Then we have some time.”
She saw the hopeful look in his eye, but her nerves were on edge. “You wanted me to share, right?”
“Yes, absolutely. Anything.”
“I’m afraid, Leto. There, I’ve said it. I’m afraid of what will happen tonight. I mean, I know the triad can do the mass folds. I’m not worried about that. But I fear everything else that can go wrong. And what if Greaves decides to attack at the spectacle?”
He kissed her, and she swallowed her fears, or tried to.
He drew back and petted her head, sweeping his hands down her hair, her shoulders, her back. “Every warrior feels this way before a battle. This is normal. I promise you.” He smiled and cupped her chin. “Let me ease you, Grace. Let me take care of you. Let me make you less afraid.”
The room suddenly smelled of the forest and Leto, and because she wasn’t blocking his sensations she could feel his arousal and what it was like to hold all her soft femaleness in his arms.
And because the war loomed so close and no one knew the outcome, she simply rose from the floor, took his hand, and led him back to the bedroom.
* * *
Endelle stood on a tall platform before three full-length mirrors in her large bedroom.
She knew how to rock the spectacle, and she wasn’t holding back now. She was having her final fitting for the hastily constructed regal costume she intended to wear for the event.
Poor Marcus would throw a bitch-fit, but it couldn’t be helped. He had wanted her to rein it in a bit, but this was her passion, what had helped keep her sane, especially in recent months since Thorne had broken his mind-link with her. As the administrator in charge of public relations for her, Marcus had done an amazing job. He’d single-handedly cleaned up her image all around the world and had somehow even gotten rid of those unfortunate Mardi Gras photos in which she had, oops, lost her top.