Obsidian Flame (Guardians of Ascension #5)(49)
Author: Caris Roane

How had Marguerite tolerated this woman’s domination for all those decades?

Before Sister Quena could begin her tirade, however, he said, “Your Convent will be under death vampire attack in approximately four minutes. If you have a lockdown drill, implement it now, or many of your devotiates will die tonight. Your choice, Madame High Administrator.”

Whatever else the woman might be, she was a ruler first.

She reached beneath her desk and clearly pressed a button because a split second later, bells rang shrilly and at sharp intervals, echoing from one end of the long building to the other. Beyond the door to her office, he could hear soft-padded running—but not a single spoken word or cry of alarm.

He glanced at Marguerite. She sent, We had regular drills. No one will be the wiser as to what’s really happening. Everyone will obey.

He nodded. He despised the methods used to exact this kind of discipline, but in a moment like this one, he valued the result because lives would be spared.

The air shimmered and by long habit, even though he knew who was coming, he stepped away from Marguerite and folded his sword into his hand. He crouched.

Luken arrived first, sweating, blood-spattered. Bits of black feathers stuck to his arms. “Thorne,” he murmured. His light blue eyes had a haunted look. We need you, came rushing into Thorne’s head, followed by, Sorry, boss. We’re good. He nodded several times, but he flashed his sword into his hand as well. “We under attack?”

“Yes. I’ve summoned Santiago and Zach.”

“They’re feuding.”

“I know.”

Nothing more was said.

Sister Quena stood tall and straight-backed behind her desk, very serious. She had a clicker in her hand and pointed it in the direction of a bank of monitors on the west wall. She clicked one after the other. Security cameras popped online. There were at least a dozen of them.

Thorne shifted his attention and his gaze moved briskly from one to the next. All the areas of the Convent were clear.

The air shimmered once more, on opposite sides of the room. Thorne dropped into yet another protective crouch, stepping between the closest shimmer and Marguerite. Luken matched his movements.

Zach and Santiago.

Thorne felt a sudden rush of emotion. He’d missed his men. He’d hated being away from the action, away from his responsibilities. Christ, he’d only been gone a week or two. Why did it feel like a century?

He shook off the sensation.

The newcomers didn’t look at each other, but they were so fixed on Thorne that even if he hadn’t known there was a problem, he’d have smelled it a mile away. Santiago and Zach were good friends, close friends. So what the hell?

But he didn’t have time to ask the usual questions or even to knock their heads together.

He folded his sword away, drew the men in close, and explained that he’d have to do a quick, very painful mental download for any of this to work, that their friendly Fourth ascender had set up a shitfest on Leto’s behalf, that yes, Leto was in the Convent, and that no doubt Greaves had orchestrated this little party.

“Madre de Dios,” Santiago murmured. “Leto is here?”

“Yes, but in the vision he didn’t look so good. I don’t think he can fight.”

“So he’s finally giving up his spy gig?”

“Looks like it.” Thorne glanced from one familiar face to the other. “You boys ready for this?”

Luken smiled. “Hell, yeah. Do it.”

Thorne started with Luken, putting his hands on his face and letting the images fly. Luken jerked and emitted a faint groan indicating the damn thing hurt, but he hung on. The download lasted fifteen seconds.

He did the same thing to Zach then to Santiago. When all three men were up to speed, he gave his commands in shorthand.

Sister Quena called out, “The monitors. What is happening?”

Thorne turned to glance from screen to screen. It was as though watery waves cloaked half of them. Through the waves, dark figures floated through. “It’s started. Let’s go.”

He turned to Marguerite. “Do what you feel is best from minute to minute. I trust you.”

She was white-faced but she nodded.

* * *

Grace turned in a circle. She didn’t understand what had just happened. She was now alone. “Leto?”

But nothing returned to her except the low beautiful sounds of church bells.

“Hello, Grace. Don’t be afraid. This won’t last very long.”

She turned around as a feeling like dread and excitement all jumbled together passed straight through her chest. She could sense the darkness in the stranger, but his voice did something to her, sent a vibration swirling in her lungs. She was so drawn to him she couldn’t breathe.

He was recklessly handsome, with long curly black hair, well past his shoulders, and he had dark glittering eyes. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Leto, closer to her height. He had a narrow attractive nose and full lips. His skin was very pale in contrast with his hair and eyes.

Death vampire? She didn’t think so.

The vibration she had come to know, that was peculiar to her, rumbled beneath her. The stranger looked down at the stone floor and his brows rose.

She drew the power into her and stretched out a hand to him. He looked at her fingers and frowned. When the power reached him, he arched and his lips parted, but then he seemed to settle down even though he appeared to be in pain.

She could see inside him. He was dark and he was light, so very human, so very good and so very bad. He was a being torn apart by the choices of his life, and he had lived a long time, five millennia. She could sense these things but she couldn’t read his memories, only the aftertaste of his decisions, the happiness, the decadence, the bounty of passion, and more often than not the guilt. In this, the stranger seemed very much like Leto.

She had a sense, however, of the man he could be, one full of great acts of kindness and of self-sacrifice. But right now he was a terrible cynic, the worst she had ever known.

“What is your name,” she asked. “And where is Warrior Leto? What have you done with him?”

He approached her and she lowered her hand. She didn’t fear him and yet part of her knew she should because the darkness in him was very dark. He wore very tight black leather pants and a silk shirt that caught the light in muted purples and green. The cuffs and collar were broad and the sleeves almost billowing. “My name is Casimir.”

“I saw you in Moscow Two.” He smelled of something spicy and something more, like mulled wine—like he would taste extraordinary on her tongue and for reasons she couldn’t explain she wanted a taste.