Obsidian Flame
He guided the flight pattern just below the swans and geese, which had the dramatic effect of frightening the birds and sending them soaring off into the dark, cloudy night, their handlers after them.
Thorne smiled as he pressed on, covering the first mile of still-marching warriors, furious all over again at the sound of the masses of hard boots on asphalt. Heavy orchestral music thundered through loudspeakers positioned at fifty-yard intervals. Cameras were set up everywhere.
The most bizarre features was that there were no crowds, just an occasional stretch of grandstands that housed a screaming mass, waving flags with Greaves’s black, gold, and maroon insignia. At least six cameras surrounded each set of grandstands, filming the performers endlessly. Thorne didn’t know how they kept it up.
Of course, as the Warriors of the Blood flew past, the audience, in stages, recognized them and all the ecstatic cheering turned to silence.
Good.
But they hadn’t flown another hundred yards when all that shouting and cheering started up again.
When they neared the viewing platform, another set of grandstands was close by, this time containing dignitaries and notables, not the least of which was Daniel Harding, the head of COPASS.
Not unexpected.
As the geese and swans flew away, and as Thorne angled within thirty yards of the viewing platform, he focused on the loudspeaker system, summoned his obsiddy power, and sent a short circuit through the works. The occasional flash and pop traveled through the speakers until the loud orchestral music died.
He faced his palms toward the ground and sent a warning hand-blast among Greaves’s marching soldiers, now stopped in their tracks and staring up at him and his men.
The moment the blast released, the army scattered.
That much energy would have hurt.
In the empty space that ensued, the Warriors of the Blood, except Thorne, dropped down to form a circle beneath Thorne, swords drawn, each man in his fighting crouch.
Thorne flapped his wings slowly and sustained his position in the air. He flew forward then called out in a voice that bore three split-resonances: “I hereby declare this spectacle illegal. You will disband at once or suffer the consequences.” Because he’d split his resonance, dozens of screams followed. There were few ascenders powerful enough to withstand the combination of regular speech and split-resonance. If he’d added telepathy, he could have shattered some of the minds present.
He stared at Greaves and for one of the few times he’d known the bastard, Greaves appeared confused. But he rose from his chair very slowly then levitated.
He floated some ten yards in Thorne’s direction.
Thorne knew in that moment that even if Greaves came at him with every power he had, Thorne would take him on. He didn’t care in this moment if he died. He’d simply had enough of the direction the war had taken and he was taking his first stand.
If it was his last, so be it. He knew that his example would be honored and followed by a hundred good men, a thousand, a million.
Greaves waved his arm in an arc and the booming of the fireworks suddenly ceased. He called out, also splitting-resonance, “And I say that you are disturbing the peace, Warrior Thorne. This was a spectacle event, that is all.”
“Bullshit. Send your army home, or by God we’ll start sending them away for you.” Fiona was on standby. If he needed to, he’d let her channel him, and start shipping the soldiers away by the tens of thousands, to all sorts of hostile environments.
Greaves knew that Endelle’s faction had that power, since it had only been a few weeks ago that Endelle, inhabiting Fiona’s body, had accomplished exactly the same thing.
Greaves started to float backward. He lifted his right arm. Thorne almost relaxed, assuming he meant to dematerialize.
Instead, three death vampires, all wearing Third Earth braids, began to fly in his direction, one from the east, one from the south, and one from the north.
He folded his sword into his hand and let his obsidian flame power flow through his body.
He felt the quickening of strength and speed, the one he had known when Fiona assisted him. But this time that quickening came from deep within himself.
He could also feel the warriors below him begin to spread out in an ever-greater circle, giving him space.
He could feel them all, his warrior brothers, on guard below him, protecting him. If he needed help, they were right there for him.
Luken entered his mind: We’re good here, boss. Take these three blue pricks down. We’ve got your back.
And there it was, the truth more important than all the other truths. He was supported, backed up, and not alone in this fight. His men would die with him if they needed to.
On the Third bastards came, each the size of Luken, but physically stronger and faster.
Thorne flapped his wings, twisted slightly, and began a slow spin, keeping each of them in sight. He saw the strategy. They would launch at him at once.
He sent a message to Fiona: Strengthen my vision. He felt her next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, and it was as though he could see every infinitesimal shift of eyebrow, wing, shoulder, and hand of all three at once.
He knew he was glowing. He could see himself reflected in their eyes.
And so he spun.
The attack came, three blurring at him like lighting, swords whirling. But his enhanced vision saw each move as if in slow motion.
He sliced once to the south, once to the east, once to the north.
Down three Third Earth death vampires fell, one of them screeching loudly.
He stopped the spin and drew close to Greaves. He split his resonance again. “You will disband at once.”
Greaves started to lift his arm and with the intuitive sense that came from his obsidian flame power, Thorne knew his foe intended to launch an even larger force against him.
But Thorne focused on Greaves’s face and found the vibration that allowed his body to memorize the features, the size and shape of the head, the entire build—and suddenly he was Greaves.
The Commander’s eyes opened wide. Even his lips parted.
Finally, the bastard was impressed.
He lowered his arm.
A rolling cry of astonishment spread through the spectators in the grandstands. Thorne wasn’t surprised when people began vanishing. In ones and twos first, then in whole groups until at last, only Greaves, his generals, and his army remained.
Harding had been one of the first to leave.
“Well? What will it be, Commander?” Thorne smiled. His face felt different, his teeth, the shape of his cheeks, the arch of his brows.
Greaves returned to sit on his throne-like seat. This time he lifted his opposite arm and what do you know, his army began vanishing until at last even the generals were gone.
The floodlights faded as well so that in the end it was only Thorne and his silvery white wings that lit the space between them.
Greaves smiled. “It would seem you’ve changed.”
“I have.”
Greaves nodded. “I have only one thing to say. Take care not to mistake this night’s work for a serious victory.”
Then he was just gone, no lifted arm, nothing.
Gone.
The military spectacle review was over.
Thorne drew his wings into parachute-mount and lowered to the ground. But when his warriors caught sight of him, still holding Greaves’s form, he had eight swords pointed at his chest and back.
He smiled as he morphed back, though he stumbled once. Morphing was no easy task.
“Shit,” Luken cried out. “That was one fucked-up Halloween mask you had on.”
As he drew in his wings, Thorne glanced from familiar face to familiar face. Affection swelled. This was his family and always would be.
The warriors drew in their wings as well.
Jean-Pierre suddenly called out, “Incoming.” Thorne whirled in the direction of his sight line, had his sword at the ready, but it was only a frightened goose.
Strangely, the goose landed on Jean-Pierre’s outstretched crooked arm and immediately settled down though breathing hard.
The men busted up.
Jean-Pierre stroked his breast feathers. “What can I say, mes amis. I have a gift.”
Despite all the anecdotes surrounding the breh-hedden, I’m convinced, having experienced it once myself, that it is love, soaring as if on wings, that forms the true mystery of vampire mate-bonding.
—Memoirs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 23
An hour later the warriors and their brehs milled around Medichi’s villa foyer, sitting room, and dining room. Parisa had called in a couple of favors and an Italian feast had arrived. By noon everyone was well fed, and the warriors who had been battling all night found their beds calling to them.
Thorne spoke to each one, a hand on the shoulder, followed by a quick warrior hug. One by one they folded away with their women, as was the case.
After thanking Parisa and Antony for the food and the use of their home, he folded with Marguerite back to his Sedona home, back to the foyer.
And as his feet touched down, he had one singular thought: There is no place like home.
Finally, after three long torturous weeks, he truly felt as though he’d come home.
With his arm around Marguerite, he looked down at her and said, “I’m so glad you’re with me.”
Her eyes were shining as she met his gaze. “Me, too.”
He smiled and stroked her cheek. “Will you be my breh? Will you take this enormous risk and complete the breh-hedden with me?”
She nodded and smiled. “I haven’t changed my answer since you came back from the dead.”
He chuckled. But she stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, her hand on his shoulder. “Thorne, I don’t have any doubts. Just some nerves about what’s ahead for us. But this is my path.”
He drew back and slid his hand behind her nape. He squeezed then leaned down to return the kiss. Jesus H. Christ, his chest felt full of fire, a kind of wonderful agony he had never known before.
This woman was his woman, now and forever.
They were completing the breh-hedden, something he hadn’t believed they’d ever do. She had wanted her freedom and he hadn’t wanted one more responsibility.