Obsidian Flame

Grace shifted her attention to Marguerite. “What did you mean, I’m in danger?”

Marguerite’s large brown eyes opened wide. “This asshole is here to destroy Leto, or didn’t he tell you that? He’s also here to take you away, to take you to Paris One, to live with him, to never see your friends or your brother again, or the Convent.”

Grace turned to him. “Yes, he said as much. I feel drawn to you, a sense that I must be with you, but I can only go on one condition.”

“I’m not fond of conditions. You should know that about me. I prefer to rule in my own small petty way. But tell me your condition.”

“That Leto be allowed to live.”

He laughed. “No. Non-negotiable, as is your coming with me or not. You will come with me and then you will come with me, repeatedly.” She’d been married. She didn’t mistake his meaning. He continued, “You will learn to love your life and I already know some of your tenderness. I believe you will come to love my sons. They are very young and miss their mother, who died recently. As for all this repression”—he swept an arm to encompass the cell, most of which was still hidden behind the shifting swirling mist—“today, you will leave that behind as well.”

“I will not go with you.” She backed up. “Not if Leto dies.” She felt torn, ripped apart inside. She felt drawn to this difficult man as much as she was drawn to Leto, as though both men were intended for her, as though somehow their fates were inextricably linked together. To lose one was to lose the other. Here was a great mystery.

He moved into her fast and put his arms around her. But Marguerite did the same thing from behind, her arms wrapped tightly around Grace’s waist.

She felt Casimir’s fourth dimension power. She felt herself begin to leave, to fold, right out of Marguerite’s tight grasp.

But suddenly the vibration beneath her feet, that power that came from the earth, increased, flowing in a new, heavier wave up and up. At the same time, this earth-based power recognized Marguerite. That was the only way Grace could explain the meeting of Marguerite’s power with her power.

When the two touched, Casimir’s attempt to fold her out of the Convent ceased as well. Her feet landed back on the stone and Casimir flew away from her, slamming against the wood door of the cell. He looked down at his arms as though they were burned. He was breathing hard, his dark eyes wide.

Then he stared at Grace and murmured “no” in a long slow sweep of air.

She felt Marguerite shift to stand beside her. She met the woman’s surprised stare. “Did you feel that?”

Grace nodded.

“But what was it?”

Grace shook her head. “I’m not sure yet. It emerged yesterday for the first time and helped me bring Leto out of Moscow. Greaves had discovered that Leto was a spy and meant to have him killed. But … just now, while you were touching me, the power grew stronger, as though it recognized you. Did you feel it?”

“Hell, yes, I did.” She glanced at Casimir. “Surprise, asshole.”

“Grace, you must listen to me,” Casimir cried. She turned to meet his eyes, which were almost wild. “You’re obsidian flame, the third leg of the triad. Now you must come with me. I’m the only one who can protect you.”

Grace shook her head. “Obsidian flame? I don’t think so.” But even as the words left her mouth, from deep within she felt the call, heard the whisper, obsidian flame.

Now she understood. Over the last few weeks, her wings had changed from a predominantly light blue with a smattering of black dots toward the base of each, to blue with a black flame marking. Obsidian. Flame.

She said as much to Casimir, adding, “But Sister Quena said it was the mark of the devil.”

Casimir drew close once more, although this time he held his hands up as if in surrender. “Grace, please listen to me. Greaves intended for you to die today. He will not let obsidian flame stand. If you want to live, you must come with me.”

In a very swift movement, he lifted his arm and before she could protest, the mist shifted a third time, separating her from Marguerite and forging a new barrier in a diagonal through the room. What choice did Grace have now?

She lifted her chin. “I will not go with you,” she stated.

Casimir smiled. “I’m not exactly giving you a choice.” He put his hand on her shoulder, and she half expected to feel herself whisked away from the Convent. Instead he leaned close and sniffed her skin right at her temple.

Shivers chased down her neck and over her shoulders. His spiced wine scent cascaded over her so that she breathed him in deeply. His lips, which were moist, ran in a line of slow kisses over her cheekbone heading toward her lips.

She couldn’t help the desire she felt. Her mind was clogged with a heady aroma of mulled wine and her thoughts dissipated, spreading out and becoming very loose so that all she could think about was how heavenly his lips were. She began to turn her face into him and up so that with two more kisses, his lips were on hers.

Heaven.

Absolute heaven.

There are numerous detailed stories about the occasional, but rare, visitation of Third Earth entities to Second Society. The decoration of hair with long, narrow braids, studded with ceramic and glass beads, is a persistent theme within these anecdotes.

—Treatise on Ascension, Philippe Reynard

Chapter 12

Thorne rarely fought in such tight spaces, and he’d never fought when the mist could twist and turn so abruptly. He’d had his sword lifted high ready to strike down a pretty-boy; then the mist shifted and suddenly his sword met Luken’s. His arm vibrated from the strike so badly that his bicep cramped.

Luken was one big motherfucker. He grinned as he said, “Sorry, boss, but looks like we’re right on schedule.”

At least it gave them a break, the ability to breathe for a minute, to wait. Thorne bent over at the waist and planted his hands on his knees. Damn, there were a lot of death vampires in this fucking hallway. Sweat poured from him.

But honest to God, the waiting was worse. Or maybe it was the lack of sound from anywhere else in this compacted battleground. Nor could he reach anyone telepathically. The mist had that effect as well.

He’d tried to reach the other warriors but nothing returned to him.

His arms and legs shook. He had so much battle adrenaline in his system that he could have puked. The only thing he knew was that the mist shifted when it shifted, and nothing could happen until it did.

He rose. “I was afraid I’d find death vamps inside the Convent cells, but I haven’t, have you?”

Luken’s mouth was a grim line. “No. I found one pounding on a locked door and laughing. He didn’t giggle for long.”

Thorne smiled. “No fucking doubt.”

“You got that right.” Luken had large light blue eyes, but his somewhat angelic appearance with his mass of long wavy blond hair was completely misguiding. The man was a massive killing machine with heavier, meatier muscle than any of the warriors. Luken had been the one, just a few weeks ago, to knock Thorne unconscious in Endelle’s office when the breh-hedden had taken possession of Thorne’s mental faculties. That was the exact moment he’d caught Marguerite’s rose scent for the first time, an event that had coincided with her disappearance from Second Earth and the beginning of her bid for freedom.

Luken glanced up the hall then down. “If I remember the vision correctly, I should be on this side of the mist when it shifts. There will be three death vampires in this location”—he grinned at Thorne—“and two for you. After your little vacay, think you’re up to it?”

Thorne laughed and as the mist shifted, he flipped him off. Luken grinned a little more.

Thorne turned and two death vampires were on him, long black hair gleaming, dark eyes glittering, and that pale almost bluish skin a beacon in the dimly lit Convent halls. They both came from his left.

He turned and, with his left hand, grabbed a dagger from his weapons harness. In a single smooth stroke he jammed it into the throat of the pretty-boy whose sword was high, inches away, and ready to cleave Thorne’s head in two.

Thorne dropped and with preternatural speed rolled beneath the second death vamp, then thrust his sword up. He caught the second bastard in the gut. The momentum of both death vamps, one with a knife in his throat, one with his stomach slit open, forced them into a collision. They bounced off one wall and fell into a writhing heap.

Thorne did what he had to do.

He took the head of the pretty-boy he’d gutted. The other one, trapped beneath his buddy, stared up at him, the hilt bobbing as he tried to swallow or breathe or maybe both.

Thorne reached down and grabbed the dagger, pulling it out. Blood spurted with each thump of the bastard’s heart. It wasn’t long before his eyes glazed over.

Two more down. His tally was already at five. The vision had shown about thirty death vampires in all. Casimir wasn’t taking any chances. Too bad he hadn’t known that Marguerite would be able to reach pure vision.

He had half a minute or so before the mist shifted again. Sweat dripped down his face. He folded a cloth into his hand from his Sedona house, wiping his face then his knife. He slid the dagger back into its sheath on his weapons harness. He really hated this fourth dimension shit and all this silence.

He withdrew his phone from the pocket at his waist and thumbed. Ten seconds later Jeannie began her cleanup job. He couldn’t imagine trying to battle on these stone floors, all slippery with pretty-boy blood—not to mention the sheer gymnastics it would take to circumvent these big bodies while trying to wield a sword.

“Close your peepers,” Jeannie said.

He did. The light flashed. Thank God for Jeannie and the women at Central.

The mist would shift soon. He could feel it now, a very faint vibration in precise timing with Marguerite’s vision. He dropped into a half crouch, his sword in both hands and upright.

But when the mist shifted again, he faced one huge-ass death vampire, bigger than any he’d ever seen on Second Earth. In the vision, the bastard had looked smaller. What the hell? He had to be at least as tall as Medichi, maybe even taller.