Greaves had mounted a major attack, but his army, composed as it was of both a militia contingent as well as hundreds of death vampires, had been a formidable opposing force.
Only the appearance of Warrior Medichi and his breh, Parisa, as they took on their finest combined quality of royle wings, had ended the battle. For whatever mystical reason, the phenomenon of royle wings had brought an end to the fighting, as though the presence of this preternatural power forbade violence.
She hadn’t been there, but Jean-Pierre had. He’d described it as a soft wind so full of peace that every sword had fallen from the hand metaphorically. So many lives had been saved because of Antony and Parisa, which was why Endelle had sent them on their ambassadorial tour, to display this power to all her allied High Administrators as a reason to remain aligned with her.
The war was a mess and now here she was, another kind of phenomenon, the purpose of which she still didn’t really understand. Endelle had seemed excited enough initially, but what good was obsidian flame in this situation? How could she possibly keep more Militia Warriors from getting killed?
Though she was reluctant to admit it, she couldn’t. Whatever obsidian flame was, the purpose was not like royle wings. She didn’t have the kind of power that could stop violence, put an end to a battle, halt a war.
So what could she do?
Seriffe sat back in his chair. He looked wounded as he dragged a few breaths into his lungs. Finally, he rose from his chair, like rising from a bed of ashes. He gathered himself, pulling in his grief, straightening his shoulders, setting his chin, the warrior that he was.
“You would leave this job if you could,” Jean-Pierre said.
Fiona shot a glance to him as Seriffe said, “I’ll confess that was exactly what I was thinking, but how could you tell?”
Jean-Pierre shook his head. “I am not sure, but it was not a difficult guess.”
“Yes, but I haven’t felt this way before today. For some reason, Greg’s death had an impact. I need things to change. If his death has affected my morale, then there’s a good chance that effect is moving through the ranks. Sometimes there is a last straw.
“Shit, I hope to hell this isn’t it. We’ve had a lot of transfers since the Grand Canyon battle and I don’t blame any of them. How the hell are my men supposed to take wives, have families, with the fucking mortality rate so high?”
Fiona knew Seriffe spoke, but her attention was fixed on Jean-Pierre. His statement about Seriffe wasn’t casual. Something was going on with him. With a jolt, she realized he was changing or perhaps had changed, as though a new power had come online.
She had asked him recently if he experienced empathy as one of his powers. He had denied it, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe he didn’t even know what was going on with him, but she could feel it, see it. His gaze was fixed on Seriffe, the way Alison would fix her gaze, as though looking into the soul. This meant something, but what?
“I would help you, Seriffe, if it were in my power. I, too, see the need among your warriors. Some are so very close to Warrior of the Blood status: Gideon, Duncan, others. And the need in our ranks is terrible as well. Greaves has been successful at turning vampires, so many of them. You know the hours we fight, every night.”
Seriffe shook his head. “Something has to change. Jesus.”
Fiona stood up. “I wish I could help.”
Both men looked at her. Jean-Pierre’s gaze now became stuck to her, his ocean-eyes shifting over hers, almost piercing her. “Perhaps your emerging power is meant to help.”
But she shook her head. “That’s just it. I don’t think it can help in this way, not with the Militia Warriors.” She looked away from him and as Seriffe had done, she shook her head. “I just don’t know what good it will do the war effort, to be obsidian flame.”
“Fiona, you have helped,” Seriffe said. “So very much. The rehab center, identifying all the blood slave facilities, even with this guy.” He jerked his thumb in Jean-Pierre’s direction. “You saved his ass in Copán Two.”
She knew all that, but it wasn’t good enough. “Still, with this new power, I just wish there was more I could do.”
“We all feel that way.”
Jean-Pierre said, “If we continue to work your powers, perhaps you will learn more of the application, the purpose for obsidian flame. Maybe there is something you can do beyond just channeling the powers of others.”
She shrugged. “Maybe, and of course I’ll keep trying. Of course.”
Endelle was kicking herself for taking Braulio’s advice.
Braulio. Long-lived lucky bastard.
What the hell had she been thinking to negotiate a deal with Owen fucking Stannett?
She stood outside the doors of the Superstition Mountain Seers Fortress, in the middle of the goddam cactus-and-rattlesnake-infested Superstition Mountains, banging on a rusted iron door complete with rusted rivets and rusted everything.
The place looked like a run-down Spanish presidio, a square structure, absurdly tall walls, flaking plaster on the outside. The only thing it lacked was bars over every window, but the windows were so small, bars weren’t needed. Nothing could get in … or out.
She pounded on the door again, then shouted, “Stannett, if you’re not letting me in then get yourself out here and explain yourself, you motherfucker.”
She could feel him inside … gloating.
COPASS law forbade her to cross the threshold without express invitation from the High Administrator of the Fortress.
Fuck.
Owen knew how to savor a moment. He leaned back in his executive chair, in his office, his booted legs propped up on his desk and crossed at the ankles. His new boots were beautiful: red leather heavily embroidered with black, yellow, and green thread.
He sipped a Starbucks nonfat latte as he listened to Endelle pound on his front door and assail his Fortress with a wholly improper string of profanity.
Did she really think he would let her inside his Fortress?
He smiled. He’d seen this moment in the future streams. He’d seen many moments, some that had shrunk his nuts to the size of peas. But this moment he’d worked hard to bring to fruition, just so that he could sit here, sip, and savor Endelle’s shouts.
The front door was a hundred yards away, about as far from his office as you could get, so he used a combination of preternatural hearing and some good old-fashioned voyeurism to see her and listen to her and generally bask in the perfection of the moment.
The Ruler of Second Earth stood outside his Fortress and had no legal way to breach his front door.
Hallelujah! Sometimes the heavens answered his prayers.
But the pounding stopped and the obscenities trailed off, and then she was gone.
Which meant that the next part of his life’s nightmare was getting ready to heat up.
He needed to get into the future streams to see what battles he had to face next. He really did. For one thing, though he had always known that one day Marguerite would reside within his Fortress, she was completely unpredictable, both in life and in the future streams. So he was at something of a loss as to what to do with her.
Besides, she’d hurt him. Though he was no longer in pain, the mere thought of getting near her again brought his nuts once more tight up against his ass, quivering in fear. In whatever way he moved forward with her, she would have to be knocked out, something he’d certainly be able to do within the next day or so.
She wasn’t eating, which of course meant she suspected he’d drugged her food. He had.
But that was not his only recourse. He could simply have a couple of his minions hold her down while he injected her. He was always amazed how far a little brute force could take a man. Although he shouldn’t have been since he’d been on the receiving end a few centuries ago.
He waved a hand in the air, pushing all his troubles to the side. For the moment, he sipped and savored a little more. The future would come whether he wanted it to or not, but for now, the pleasure of having this much power, having the most powerful Seer in the world under his thumb, and of having refused entrance to the most powerful vampire on earth—yes, these things satisfied his soul.
Thorne sat on a stool at the Cave, a half-emptied bottle of Ketel One sitting within fingers’ reach.
He waited for Endelle’s call. She’d promised to try to get into the Fortress, to make sure Marguerite was okay. He had little hope, but fuck, he couldn’t do anything, not legally. By COPASS’s decree, no one could go into the Superstition Fortress unless given permission by the High Administrator, and he believed Stannett would cut off his dick before he allowed Endelle or any of the Warriors of the Blood on his property.
At least that was one thing he respected about the bastard. He’d staked out his territory and he protected it like a man should.
Unfortunately, he had sociopath written all over him, so on a very instinctive level Thorne knew that evil resided in that facility. He knew it the way he knew that a death vampire’s complexion always paled to a faint bluish state once he started drinking dying blood.
Thorne was bleary-eyed, dizzy, almost completely drunk, and mad at the world. Yet he was anything but sleepy.
In fact, he couldn’t recall having had much sleep in the past forty-eight hours. Even when he went home, the longest he could keep his eyes closed was maybe two hours. Then he’d wake up.
This had been going on for so long, for so many years, that he couldn’t recall a time when he knew what it was to sleep.
But today felt like a ton of boulders had landed on each shoulder and he wasn’t bearing the load very well. Fuck. But then, when had he ever carried his burdens well?
Maybe in the beginning, when he’d taken on the responsibility as Endelle’s second-in-command. He’d been young in ascended terms, hopeful, full of enthusiasm like anyone starting out in a field of endeavor. His field had been war, battling death vampires, a noble one and he was built for it. Surely, with just enough diligence, he’d be able to end the struggle, hunt the last death vampire down to earth, slay him, then move on, maybe have a family, a real life.