But the little peach smiled and lifted both hands as if in surrender. “I come in peace and with a reward, for it would seem the Ruler of Second Earth has brought to justice one of the most deplorable war criminals of the past century.”
The cage rattled. Rith tried to sit up but Greaves merely looked at the man and he settled back down, his eyes once more rolling back in his head.
“We brought your pet back,” Endelle said. “Thought you might be missing him.”
His large brown eyes opened wider still. “I am sorry, but I don’t take your meaning. But never mind that, we have a presentation to make.”
As if on cue, another entourage entered, or rather poured into the landing area. Music started, a lively march, Sousa maybe. Lots of trumpets. There must have been at least forty scantily clad beauties, all in full-mount and chosen, no doubt for matching wingspan and color, for the wings were all in shades of cream and white, but average in size. They arrayed themselves in equal numbers on opposite sides of the cage.
Thorne growled. “What the fuck is this, Greaves?”
But Darian moved close to Endelle and two more beauties, not sporting wings this time, moved in front of them both. They carried one of those ridiculously oversized checks.
“I will apologize for keeping you waiting, but it took a few minutes to print your name on the check.”
A host of reporters and flashing cameras came next, also like a flood that had been restrained then unleashed, many of them calling out questions that none of them would answer.
“Who caught the monster?”
“Will he stand trial?”
“Madame Endelle, is PETA suing you?”
Thorne wanted to get the hell out of there. He was the only real security for Endelle in this huge farce, though, so he stuck close but folded his sword away. The blade was extremely sharp and the grip, identified only to him, was always a potential danger to anyone who got too close and accidentally made contact.
Endelle, still to Thorne’s surprise, didn’t seem to be reacting to much of anything. He didn’t get it. Usually, she’d be snarking away, snapping at Greaves and never for a second tolerating his present proximity.
“You still smell like lemon furniture polish,” Endelle muttered. But she smiled for the cameras.
The cameras flashed away.
Greaves didn’t respond to the snipe, but stepped forward and made a rousing speech about the Coming Order, his plans to assist the Ruler of Second Earth in improving all of Second Society, blah, blah, blah.
When Greaves was finished, however, he made a sweeping gesture and the entire press corps reversed direction and headed back into the hallway beyond. The winged beauties followed, as well as the two lovelies carrying the oversized check.
Greaves’s uniformed warriors took charge of the cage. Without even looking at them, he lifted his arm and vanished.
Just like that, Thorne was once more alone with Endelle, except for the landing area security detail. They squatted near the side wall shooting craps over a pair of tickets to Dark Spectacle.
Endelle turned to him, her jaw still grinding. “I think we’ve just been had.”
“Ya think?” She was being way too calm given what had just happened.
“Well, you don’t have public enemy number one show up in a cage with a bow and expect anything else. My guess is that Greaves will have COPASS do a monthlong trial, televised of course, presided over by Greaves himself, staged, filmed, edited. Maybe he’ll even throw in a few spectacle-grade flying swans and geese for good measure.”
Finally, Thorne took her elbow and squeezed. Hard. He rarely touched Endelle, but she was bugging the shit out of him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
“With me? Nothing much. Did I tell you Braulio came to call?”
“Who the fuck is Braulio?”
Endelle lifted her arm and vanished.
Thorne folded after her, following her trace, straight to her office. He found her leaning over her desk, her hands planted on the marble.
Now he was fucking worried. “All right. Give. Who the hell is Braulio and why are you acting like this? You’re not yourself or haven’t you noticed?”
She lifted up and turned toward him. “Everything is changing, heating up. I’ve got a sick-gut feeling now, Thorne, like things are going to start moving … fast … and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t stop it. I can’t fix it. I can’t do a damn thing. I can’t even get into the Superstitions and something’s going on over there.”
He would sift through most of what she’d just said later. For now, he addressed the one thing that possessed his mind. “Give me the word, and I’ll use my best hand-blast and take the front door off the Fortress.”
“Can you contact Marguerite telepathically?”
“No. And believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Fuck. All right.” She looked up at the clock. “Shit. You’ve got to get out to the Borderlands.”
“This is more important.”
“No. It’s not. Not yet. Let me talk this over with Fiona. She was able to contact Marguerite when no one else could. Marguerite has to be the red variety of obsidian flame.
Thorne shaded his face with his hand. He kept shaking his head, back and forth. “She’s been incarcerated for a hundred years. This isn’t fair to her.” And it wasn’t fair to him. He needed her. He wanted things back the way they were so that he could keep seeing her, keep in control of his demons.
“Then you probably understand what Fiona’s feeling. Her life hasn’t been any different. She was a blood slave for over a hundred years and now she’s saddled with all this gold shit.”
“Then Jean-Pierre must be in hell.”
“Understatement.”
He moved to lean his ass against the edge of the desk as well. He was six-five and weighed in at 260. He was one of the most powerful vampires on the face of Second Earth, but this situation made him feel about as powerful as a fucking cockroach.
He drove a hand through his hair and pulled out his cadroen. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
“Are you sure Marguerite isn’t your breh? Because you’re acting like all these other assholes.”
“She isn’t fragrant, so no, she’s not my breh, but we’ve been lovers for a century and I love her. All that just doesn’t go away because you moved her somewhere else.”
Endelle’s shoulders slumped. “Well, shit, motherfucker.”
Yep, that about summed it up.
Jean-Pierre extended his preternatural hearing, listening for Fiona. He smiled. He had her back in his house, and Endelle’s mist covered his entire property. He had his woman as safe as he could make her. And … she had kept herself safe as well without his help.
She hummed while she was in the shower, and the sound was très jolie.
He stood in his kitchen preparing a simple meal for her for this early part of the evening. He would grill chicken over mesquite wood chips later, but for now, oui, something simple.
He had taken her to Alison’s for the afternoon then had left her there so that he could purchase a gift for her, something he hoped would please her very much. He did not mean it to be serious at all. He needed to keep their relationship very light, simple, like the food they would eat.
If he could learn to manage things between them, perhaps the next few days or weeks would show them both how to move forward without being so enmeshed in the breh-hedden, without feeling the need to complete it. Perhaps the sensations would pass and he could go back to making war, and she could serve Endelle in the capacity of obsidian flame without needing his constant protection as a Guardian of Ascension.
This was what he wanted, to keep everything simple so that he could continue to make war. Perhaps he would even return to the Blood and Bite and to all the women he once made love to night after night. Oui, now it began to seem as though each of their lives could return to some sort of normalcy.
He rinsed a container of strawberries in a stainless-steel colander. He scooped the little leaves off some and sliced them. Other smaller strawberries he cut in half, while still others he left whole. The largest strawberry, the size of a small fist, he left whole as well.
He extended his hearing and this time heard the blow dryer and more humming. He listened a little harder and realized she was humming “La Vie en Rose.”
He put a hand to his chest. He wished to God that he did not like this woman so very much, that he did not love her.
He believed in many kinds of love. His for Fiona he decided was a soft version of passionate love, very tender. He thought it beautiful in its way and so he had said, Je t’aime.
But tonight, he would not speak of love. Words were not necessary for what he planned for Fiona, the gift he had purchased for her, and the champagne he would pour for her.
Tonight was for celebration because the great evil known as Rith Do’onwa had been caged and taken to COPASS in Prague Two, where he would be tried at the International Court for his crimes against humanity. Thorne had told him of the farce at the landing area, that Greaves had arranged a disgusting ceremony for the supposed capture of Rith, so it was a very questionable success. Marcus had even texted that he’d seen the footage on the evening news. Such complete bullshit.
Or as the Americans liked to say, Whatever.
In March, in high country, the air was cool enough so that he had a fire crackling on the hearth. But he also left the window open to let the moist creek air rise into the living room. The couch was a soft brown leather, and over the lounge portion, he had draped something called a throw, knitted of every color of the rainbow with long fringe. He had put it there for several reasons.
He looked at the throw and one image came to him, full of prescience, so strong that he had to put down the sharp paring knife and plant his hands on the counter to catch his breath. How beautiful Fiona would look on that throw, so close to the fire, the shifting light moving over her golden skin and chestnut hair, catching perhaps the silver-blue of her eyes.