Born of Ashes (Guardians of Ascension #4)(47)
Author: Caris Roane

Fuck.

He glanced down at the healers, still sitting with their hands in the air, and barked, “Continue, goddammit.”

Bodies hinged forward as three pairs of hands began more magical work.

He leaned back on the couch and swallowed hard. He strove to take deep breaths.

But breathing like that now brought Rith’s strange odor leaching into his nostrils. What the hell was that metallic smell?

He glanced at Greaves, created a powerful shield around his telepathy, then sent, I think I want to do a preliminary test run of our little bait-and-switch. I need to find out more about Fiona’s abilities.

You would be wise to do so, but if you have the opportunity, please destroy her. The future streams are all lit up about her right now. Her powers are growing. If you can kill her, do not hesitate. I’ll send you a pair of death vamps to assist. Is all of this agreeable to you?

Of course.

I’ve also decided we should move forward with our public relations plan where Rith is concerned. Unless he dies during your test run, please see that he’s delivered to the appropriate entities.

Caz smiled. Happy to. I can hardly tolerate his smell. So what is that? Rust?

Chinese herbs of some sort.

Disgusting.

Very.

Then he threw up again.

* * *

Jean-Pierre sat on the couch in the room he always thought of as the Oak Creek room. He had built the room right next to the creek, on a platform suspended six feet over the water so that with the window open, as it was now, he could hear the rush of water below. The fresh smell of the creek also flowed into the room, a soothing humidity against the arid Arizona land. Sedona was located in what was called “high” country at four thousand feet, but, oui, still very dry.

He sipped a glass of Medichi’s very fine Cabernet Sauvignon, from his own vineyard on the east side of the White Tank Mountains. His label bore a pair of wings, quite beautifully designed by the horticultural artist known as Tazianne.

Fiona stood by the open window, also with a glass in hand. Her hair was damp from her shower and she wore a flowing nightgown of cream silk, très jolie against her wealth of chestnut hair. A deck ran around the outside. She had spent an hour out there first, but in March the temperature in Sedona was perhaps too chill at midnight to be enjoyed.

His wounds, cuts, and bruises were healed, but not his soul. He had gone to Copán Two in order to be of use. Instead, the Upper ascender who had been harassing the warriors for months had been waiting for him. The bastard could have killed him outright, yet did not. Would he have done so if Fiona had not come to him in her miraculous way and alerted him to his enemy’s location? According to Endelle, the Upper ascender had rules he had to follow, and he was not permitted to slay lower ascenders. On the other hand, Jean-Pierre never wanted to be in a situation where he must discover if the Upper ascender always played by the rules.

He sipped and let the wine roll around on his tongue, savoring the almost coarse bite, the peppery flavor. He and Fiona had not spoken very much since their return to his house probably two hours ago. In this most essential way, they seemed to be alike. Grief weighed her shoulders down and kept her eyes wet with tears. He felt as though a beam had entered his chest, filling it from one side of his ribs to the other.

He sighed and sipped.

Fiona brought her goblet to her lips then drew it back, her lips trembling. “Come sit beside me, chérie,” he finally called to her. “Let me hold you.”

She turned to him, a sad smile trembling on her lips. She crossed the room to him, setting her goblet on the table at his elbow. She sat down beside him, very close. He put his arm around her and held her. She put her hand on his chest. She took an occasional harsh breath, as though holding back her pain by force of will.

He turned toward her and kissed the top of her head.

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming once more. “This war hurts me,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Je comprends. I understand, very much.”

“There is something I want to tell you, to share with you.”

He stilled. He could imagine many things she might say, but he feared the worst: that because of her suffering she had decided to leave his house despite the current danger she was in. “What is that, chérie?”

She leaned into his shoulder, and her hand drifted over his pecs. “I was the first of the blood slaves, the one Greaves experimented on. That much you do know. But what I’ve never told anyone is that I memorized the name of every woman who was brought into the facility, whether she lived one day or fifty years. I remember them all and when I can’t sleep I repeat their names.”

“Were you saying them now, by the window?”

She nodded, which made a glide against the T-shirt he wore. She plucked at the front of the shirt.

“Fiona, I would take this from you if I could.”

“I wish that I could be rid of it, yet all throughout my captivity, saying their names was sometimes the only thing that kept me from going mad.”

He loved her for this, for the tenderness of her spirit that would keep such a memorial in her heart, to those who had died.

“I almost didn’t make it back the last time I was drained. Did you know that?”

“Non.” Mon Dieu, how his heart hurt thinking of her being drained and not having the will to return. The thought that he might never have known her added new girth to the beam in his chest.

“That day, just a little over five months ago now, I was prepared to die because it was Carolyn’s birthday and my will to live was gone. I survived because somewhere in my death-dreams, I came across James.”

“James? The Sixth ascender?”

Again the sliding nod against his chest. “I fought my way back and first I met you, then a few days later there was Carolyn and Seriffe and my three grandchildren.” He felt her lift her hand and wipe away more tears. “I’m so grateful that I came back but right now my heart is so heavy knowing that more lives were lost tonight. I learned from Bev just a little while ago that Greg had a family. His wife had just given birth to their fourth a few months ago.”

“Oh, chérie. I am so sorry.”

“He told Bev that he had bought tickets to Dark Spectacle as a surprise for his wife. Now that surprise is gone and the thousand more he would have given her over the coming decades, centuries. All gone. I’m so sad.”

He kissed her forehead again. “Chérie, chérie.” He kissed her once more and she lifted her face to him, her sweet, drenched, mourning face, and he pressed his lips to hers, meaning only to offer comfort, as much as he could. How much he valued her tender heart and her openness with him.