Born of Ashes

Her heart felt ridiculously warm, like she’d just made a new friend.

She turned to Jean-Pierre. His gaze fell to her breasts and he pushed the comforter away from them. He sighed. When he spoke, his gaze remained pinned to her nipples, which she knew had beaded in the cool morning air. “Thorne wants to see us in five minutes. He’s bringing Endelle along.”

She was about to nod and get up off the mattress, but he pushed her back and before she could protest, he had his mouth around her breast and was sucking at just that right pressure, not too hard, not too light.

Her back arched. Dammit, her warrior could get her going faster than lightning.

She moaned then shoved at his shoulder. “Would you stop that?”

His mouth popped off her breast and he looked up at her with all those big teeth. He looked so beautiful, even happy, and almost relaxed.

“But your breasts are like food to me, a feast fit for the gods, and I am a man who is starving.”

He was nothing less than temptation on two legs. Oh, dear God. She swallowed hard. “Now we only have four minutes and thirty seconds to get dressed, brush our teeth, and move our asses to administrative HQ.”

“Would you not like some coffee first?” He looked so innocent that she fell for it.

“We don’t have time for coffee. Oh, you mean coffee, as in … Jean-Pierre, what a rascal you are.”

She lifted her arm and without one more word of explanation or discussion, she folded straight to his master bathroom and hopped in the shower. Five minutes or no five minutes, she was not going to HQ without showering!

He took me to the grotto,

And explored the damp, weeping walls.

—The Forbidden, Devotiate Grace

Chapter 12

Thorne pounded on the marble of Endelle’s desk. “Do something now! You heard Fiona. Marguerite is obsidian flame.”

Endelle sat in her chair, staring up at him, a mulish set to her chin. “She might be obsidian flame. We don’t know for sure.”

“She had a vision of black and red flames,” Thorne shouted. “How much more proof do you need?”

Fiona stood beside Jean-Pierre near the never-used fireplace on the west wall. He held her hand because she’d drawn close the moment Thorne’s face turned beet red and Endelle sent a shower of brilliant white fireworks in the direction of the tall ceiling.

“Goddammit, Thorne. Take a fucking chill-pill. Fiona, get your ass over here. I want to know how you contacted her. Tell me everything.”

Fiona huffed a sigh. She really didn’t like the idea of walking into the middle of the whirlwind, but she didn’t have much of a choice. Not really.

She released Jean-Pierre’s hand and moved to the end of the desk. The marble slab, supported by woolly mammoth tusks, was the size of a yacht. She thought maybe she’d be safe so long as she didn’t stand on one side or the other.

Endelle rocked back in her black leather executive chair. She leaned her head against the Appaloosa horsehide. Even though it was barely dawn, she’d changed her clothes and now wore a beige snakeskin halter, a heavily embroidered white leather mini skirt, and around her neck a collection of rattler tails. Vintage Endelle.

Fiona described how she had awakened to the sound of Marguerite’s cry for help then launched into exactly how she had contacted then recontacted the powerful Seer.

“All right. I concede you have a connection with her, but one vision about red and black flames does not an obsidian flame make. I’d have to see her myself, do some serious mind-diving, and I can’t do that right now because I have a treaty with Owen Stannett.” She didn’t look at Thorne, but even Fiona felt the waves of anger radiating from him.

“This is fucking bullshit,” Thorne shouted, leaning over the desk so that he was just three feet away from her.

Fiona took a step back. Way too much emotion in this room right now.

Endelle turned slowly in his direction, her eyes hooded. “You know what’s bullshit? You. You’re fucking bullshit. You could have told me about Marguerite decades ago and we could have gotten access to all the future stream information we needed. We could have shut Greaves down by now. But you kept your woman a secret because she got your rocks off. That’s bullshit, Thorne. How many Militia Warriors and ascenders and mortals have died because you couldn’t bear to part with your favorite piece of ass.”

Fiona didn’t need an invitation. She scurried back to her much safer place beside her own Guardian of Ascension. The air in that room crackled with fury and maybe a whole lot of guilt.

“You would say that to me?” Thorne breathed hard. “You would fucking say that to me when I have bent over for you and taken it and taken it and taken it until I’m bleeding from my fucking eyes? You know why we’re in this war up to our necks in alligators, because you’re the worst at what you do. You’ve given Greaves all the ammunition he needs, day in and day out, to simply walk away with two worlds and you sit there and tell me somehow, because I protected Marguerite from Owen Stannett, that this entire fiasco is my fault. Go to goddam fucking hell, you bitch.” The resonance he put in that one word, and that he spoke it from his mind as well as his voice, dropped Fiona to her knees.

She covered her ears and screamed. The pain was beyond bearing, like knives in her head, flipping and slicing. Tears streamed down her face.

Jean-Pierre dropped beside her and petted her back. Then suddenly he was on his feet and moving. “You hurt her, you motherless piece of shit.”

Fiona struggled to right herself, to call Jean-Pierre back, but there was nothing she could do. She leaned against the fireplace and rocked, her hands still to her ears as the warriors, like two bucking broncs, went at it.

Thorne head-butted Jean-Pierre. He staggered back, then launched at Thorne, tackling him around his waist and throwing him to the zebra skins. He straddled Thorne and with preternatural speed started landing punches in quick succession until Thorne scissored his legs in a quick jerk and caught Jean-Pierre around the shoulders with his powerful thighs.

The men rolled and rolled, banging into the wall by the door. Jean-Pierre broke free and leaped to his feet. Thorne did the same. They crouched and circled. Thorne moved in and punched Jean-Pierre two times, really fast, in the left eye.

Jean-Pierre caught him low, throwing a hard punch to Thorne’s ribs. Thorne doubled over. Jean-Pierre swung up hard and caught Thorne’s chin, throwing him up and over. But Thorne gained his feet in time to block two more punches then get in a solid right hook of his own.

Jean-Pierre’s head snapped back. Thorne moved in, punching and punching.

Fiona saw a shadow and looked up and to her left. Endelle stood on her desk and boxed along with her men: left, right, left.

Fiona lowered her hands and found blood on them. Thorne had just busted her eardrums. Great.

The men continued to punch and Endelle kept throwing air punches. Fiona drew her phone from the pocket of her cream linen pants. She called Bev over at Militia HQ. “Thunder God Warrior HQ. Bev here. How can I help?”

“Hi, Bev. We have a sitch over at administrative HQ. Two of the WhatBees are going at it.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Yeah, we’ll need a healer in I’d say maybe two minutes. And Thorne used his resonance, telepathy, and his voice. My ears are bleeding.”

“Again?”

“What can I say? I’m hopelessly sensitive. I’ve finally got Seriffe trained not to do that to discipline his men while I’m around but Thorne was a little distracted.” She paused and cupped the phone. “He called Endelle the b-word.”

“Holy cactus shit. Wow. Okay, let me check things out.” Fiona heard some tapping on the computer. “Yeah, it looks like Horace is still over at the Cave taking care of Zach. A skin-burn I think. I’ll see that he makes a final house call before heading home.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

She put her phone away.

The men were breathing hard and the punches had slowed. Wouldn’t be long now. Fiona rubbed her temple, but her head hurt and her ears rang.

Thorne now faced Fiona. She winced and rubbed her ear, and still came up with a whole lot of blood.

Thorne must have seen her because he cried out. “Aw, shit, Fiona, did I do that?”

“Yep.”

Unfortunately, his remorse caused him to let his guard down. She watched Jean-Pierre wind up and was just shouting at him not to do it when he let his fist fly. Thorne flew backward about nine feet, almost hitting the couch by the east window. His eyelids fluttered.

He was on his back and he wasn’t moving.

“And he’s out!” Endelle shouted. She jumped off the desk and held up Jean-Pierre’s arm. “The winner.”

Jean-Pierre, however, shook her off and returned to kneel beside Fiona. Fiona looked around his shoulder and caught Endelle’s eye. “Horace is on his way.”

“Good call, I guess. Fuck, are your ears bleeding again? What is with you?” She rolled her eyes and returned to jump up and sit on her desk.

When Thorne finally gained consciousness and sat up, Endelle said, “I’m leaving her at the Superstitions … for now. We’ll see if Stannett behaves himself. If not, I’ll give you permission to take a tank into that goddam place.”

“Well, that’s something, I guess.”

He put his head in his hands and groaned.

Fiona looked at Jean-Pierre and met his gaze. Both eyes were bruised and swollen, his lips bleeding. “Do you think you could cool the caveman shit for at least one minute? You know my ears are unusually vulnerable.”

“I am sorry, chérie,” he mumbled, squeezing the words out since his lower lip was about twice its normal size. “But I cannot bear to see you hurt.”

At that she smiled. “If you’re going to be my guardian, you might want to get used to that.”

Endelle busted up laughing. “Ain’t it the fucking truth.”

Half an hour later, when Horace had Fiona healed and had begun working on both of Jean-Pierre’s black eyes, Fiona approached Endelle.