Born of Ashes

How much he wished even for just a moment to reclaim his life, that he might give himself fully to her as he had once given himself to his wife. Whatever Isabelle’s reasons had been for her betrayal, he should never have closed his heart and his life to love because of it. That had been his real foolishness.

As his ability to breathe diminished, his mind seemed to grow and expand. He allowed himself to love Fiona. He gave his heart, so that it was as if a cool breeze swept through him and he could see things he had not seen before: that he had diminished his own life by not giving himself to love, that his own powers had been hindered because he had been restrained, even bitter.

How strange at the point of death to be so overcome by truth. He understood something about his real power. Fiona had even alluded to it several times—how much he was like Alison in empathic abilities. He felt them now and they were strong, very strong.

Understanding.

Of others, of their strengths and weaknesses, of what they needed in the moment of greatest stress.

As he released the past, as he embraced love truly for the first time in so very long, his mind flowed back to the last time he had trained Fiona. Though he had been right that she needed to allow possession during channeling to truly gain access to the power of obsidian flame, he had been wrong to pressure her. The last thing that she had needed or could have absorbed was that pressure.

As her teacher he had erred, he could see that now. He even saw that if he had covered her in his love, in his full acceptance of who she was, she might even now have complete access to her powers.

If he could go back, he would undo the mistake.

If he had been open and loving with Fiona, instead of proud in his defiance against love, would they be here, right now, trapped?

Fiona, he whispered through her mind.

I’m here.

You must forgive me.

For what? For what? What could you have possibly done that would need forgiveness.

I should not have pressured you about allowing a possession of your channeling abilities. It was wrong of me. I am so sorry.

What do I care about that, she sent, when you have been so tender and forbearing and I’ve been so stubborn.

Chérie, he sent, you must listen. I do not have much time. I kept my heart closed to you because of something that happened so long ago. I wish that I could have opened myself to you, truly given you all of my heart. This you deserve, to have all that is in my heart, in my soul. I give it to you even now.

“Jean-Pierre,” she whispered aloud, her voice catching on a sob.

I will miss you, chérie. In whatever plane I go to, ah, chérie, I will miss you so very much.

* * *

Fiona couldn’t bear the words he spoke. They were like a sharp knife slicing through her heart, her chest, down and down until she felt split into two parts. The pain was enormous.

What had she done? Dear God, what had she done?

More important, what was she doing?

From the time she had been rescued from New Zealand, she had made herself a promise to hold to her freedom, something that had sustained her for the past five months as she grappled with her recovery. She had come to understand how important, even critical, a sense of autonomy, of freedom, and personal control had been for her to come to terms with her slavery. For that reason she had recovered so very fast and had been able to set her sights on those things she could control—like being able to identify Rith’s remarkable mist signatures on the Militia grid.

But something had been lost as well; she could feel it as a truth rising from her spirit to invade her mind. She didn’t understand all that the ascended world of the vampire was meant to be, and her emerging powers had become a terrible burden. But here she was, with so much power, yet without the ability to save the man she loved.

What was she missing, not seeing?

Jean-Pierre had begged her forgiveness for not opening his heart to her but she had never felt unloved. He was so incredibly tender with her, so patient, an excellent teacher.

The only time he had pushed her had been where her powers were concerned, about obsidian flame and allowing … a complete … possession.

Her brain lit with a thousand little lights. She held Jean-Pierre’s fingers tight. A path out of this terrible trap streaked through her mind.

Possession. Her ascended life had always been about possession, about feeling trapped. Even the early lovemaking with Jean-Pierre had required a thrall so that she could tolerate the sensation of his weight on her. So much of her fear of being trapped had disappeared, but not about letting Jean-Pierre or anyone possess her in order to explore and expand her obsidian power.

But tonight that would change.

Jean-Pierre. She called to him, but would he answer? Could he?

She tried again. Jean-Pierre, hear me please.

Fiona … so tired.

Possess me. She slid her mind next to his, and felt his shoulder against her shoulder, his hip against hers in that strange obsidian way.

Possess you?

If we worked together, right now, if I allowed you to take possession of me as you wanted to, then I think we can get out of this.

No. This would hurt you.

Not anymore. Please. I’ve erred, I can see that now. If you’ve held back, so have I. Please, do this thing. You can possess me and together maybe we can break these bonds.

He didn’t speak. Instead, she felt his energy rise and begin the strange vibration next to her. She felt him push against her. Before, she would have pushed back and held him at bay. This time she simply let him come to her, all his energy, all that he was, and he took possession of her. All his power was now her power and his mind was her mind. She was no longer just Fiona, but she was both Fiona and Jean-Pierre.

She rose up and looked at Casimir, at his arrogance as he stood examining his nails waiting for Jean-Pierre’s death.

Casimir lifted his gaze. “Is he gone?”

“Not yet.” Fiona looked down at Jean-Pierre, then reached to the binding around his throat. All that Jean-Pierre was came into focus as vast vibrating energy within her body. She put her hand next to the strangling tape, touched it, and felt his power, her power, flow down that arm, and in a very small hand-blast she severed the plastic.

Jean-Pierre took in a deep breath and another and another.

Down his body, together they severed binding after binding.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She looked up at Casimir. It was so strange to see him both from her eyes and Jean-Pierre’s.

She held her right hand out and a sword appeared in it. Another flash of thought and she wore her black yoga pants and a white tank top. Black flats.

Casimir sent his minions to attack her and now they had swords. But she was no longer Fiona, she was Jean-Pierre and she moved like lightning until two heads rolled on the black stone floor.

She moved past them and headed toward Casimir. She had never felt such power before, more than she could have imagined. She could even see the future in small increments, just a second or two before things happened. She held out her left hand and it wasn’t a hand-blast she sent toward him, but a wave of her obsidian power that cascaded over him and dropped him to the floor, his eyes rolling in his head.

She kept the same power pulsing over him. She knew she could take his life.

Casimir, she sent. You should not have done this tonight. Release the audience at once.

She held his mind in a firm grip and felt his own wave of power as he tried to thwart her. But she knew her strength now, at least in this moment, possessed as she was by Jean-Pierre.

“Release them,” she cried, using resonance, her voice, and mind-speak all at one time.

He rolled back and forth, screaming with the pain of what she had just done, in the way she would cry out in agony when someone used the same skills near her. Blood poured from his ears.

But still he remained stubborn, refusing to obey her. He held his hands to his ears.

She moved closer and this time she split her resonance three times. “Release them!” she shouted.

The hold he had over the entire assemblage broke, a snap that felt like a huge whip in the fabric of space and time. A roar of applause could be heard from above the cavern, a distant noise like a waterfall. For the audience, only a split second had passed, and they were marveling at Casimir’s recent feats.

She released Casimir and he rolled on his side to look at her, his ears still streaming. He could hardly move, she could see that. He was in her power. She flexed her sword and lifted it high. She felt all of Jean-Pierre’s strength in her body.

She was about to bring the blade down on Casimir’s exposed neck when she realized that the shields around the Las Vegas arena had disappeared. Marguerite shrieked at her from the distance of the Superstitions.

She held the bloodied sword in her hand and Jean-Pierre’s mind flowed over hers. I can feel it as well. Marguerite is shouting for you, crying out for you, for us to stop the killing. What does it mean?

Fiona extended the thread of her telepathy swiftly through nether-space until she touched Marguerite’s mind.

I’m here. Jean-Pierre is with me.

You have less than two minutes, Marguerite cried. And Casimir must live. There is something he will do in the future that must be done. But right now Greaves intends for Casimir and for all the High Administrators in the theater to die. Explosives have been set throughout the building. I’ve seen all this in the future streams, so go, fold everyone out of the building.

At that moment Jean-Pierre separated from Fiona, pulling back, folding the sword from her hand.

He was off the table now and moved to stand over Casimir.

“Casimir, you must leave,” he said. “A very powerful Seer has prophesied that you must live, that you have a role in the future to play. We are trusting this Seer to be right, so leave. Go.”

Casimir stared up at him. “Greaves will be here soon. I summoned him.”

Fiona shook her head. “No, Casimir. He will not. His intention is for you to die, for all of us, in an explosion. We only have a minute to change all of this. So do as Jean-Pierre has said. Fold.”

Casimir frowned, his brow heavy over his dark eyes. He didn’t lift a hand or an arm. She didn’t think he could. But suddenly he was gone.