Obsidian Flame (Guardians of Ascension #5)(73)
Author: Caris Roane

However, a warning vibration from behind her followed. Thorne spun her to his side, holding her close, and brought his sword into his right hand. His knees bent. He was red-faced and grimacing, but holding his posture as Horace materialized.

Marguerite felt his whole body relax, and the sword disappeared. She recognized Horace from the Superstition Seer’s Fortress when Thorne and Jean-Pierre had busted her out of that shithole. They’d found Seers in every cell, badly abused, many of them pregnant. Horace had come to work his healing magic. Now he was here to help Thorne.

He bowed, an unfamiliar form of address, but Thorne had once told her it was an older ritual and he hadn’t quite been able to break Horace of the habit.

Horace greeted her in a way that was very warm, something that surprised her, although she could see the respect he had for Thorne. That respect bordered on awe as Horace spoke to him and asked his questions about which parts of the mesh-like supporting filaments were causing him pain.

She was once more struck with her warrior. She stepped away from him and looked him up and down. He was gorgeous, muscled, powerful, and those wings. Magical.

Her gaze, however, landed on his pecs. Her mouth watered.

I’m smelling rose.

I’m admiring the view.

He smiled and slowly made a fist, then lifted his forearm and brought his bicep into one huge lump of man-meat. She felt her fangs emerge and—since Horace was completely screened by the wings—she flashed them at Thorne.

His eyes rolled in his head. The resulting wall of cherry tobacco that slammed into her put her flat on her ass. She laughed. The level of sexual cravings between them was ridiculous.

She shouldn’t have, but since she was on the floor, she spread her legs about a foot and a half apart.

More cherry tobacco, but he looked away, staring up at the ceiling and taking deep breaths.

“Does this hurt?” Horace called out. “You’ve grown very tense.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” He still didn’t look at her.

Marguerite laughed but she rose to her feet and wandered outside to the balcony. If they didn’t stop, pretty soon they’d be embarrassing Horace, healing or no healing.

* * *

Thorne could only look at her as she left the rotunda. He was grateful she’d left the room. He needed to settle down as Horace completed his work and he was at last able to retract his wings.

He worked his back muscles until they were completely thinned out and there was no pain whatsoever. He clapped Horace on the shoulder. “Hey, my man, thanks for getting out of bed for this.”

Horace looked around, his gaze drifting up to the now blackened ceiling. “May I ask what happened here? How many death vampires attacked?”

Thorne shook his head. “No death vampires. Endelle and I had a small disagreement on certain issues. I trust this will go no farther?”

He met Horace’s gaze, and the man actually grinned. “I always wondered when the day would arrive that the last straw finally landed on your back. I used to make weekly wagers, but that ended in about AD 109. You have tremendous patience, Warrior Thorne.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “The truth is, I’ve always understood her and I’ve respected her.”

“As do I. Only Endelle could have kept Greaves at bay this long.”

Thorne frowned. “We’re in trouble, Horace. Greaves has an army two million strong.”

“Oh, no.”

“Exactly.”

“And do you know this to be true for certain?”

“I had it from Leto this morning. And he would know because he built the army.”

Once more Horace’s gaze took in the ceiling. “Well, that wasn’t just the last straw, that was the last bale.” He met Thorne’s eyes again. “What do I need to do?”

“A final battle is coming, the battle that could change the future of two worlds. And we’re not prepared. Do what you can to recruit healers and train them fast.”

“I will do that,” he said. “And as always, I will keep everything we’ve just talked about, everything I’ve seen here completely confidential.” He bowed then he was gone.

Thorne turned in the direction of the west-facing terrace. Marguerite leaned against the parapet. She held her face to the sun like she was drinking it in. Morning in late March was idyllic, with temps in the high seventies. As he drew up behind her, pressing himself against her and folding his arms around her, a breeze carried all the sharp desert scents up to the palace.

“This is heaven,” she said. “I never saw enough of the sun this last century. I think I could stand here for hours.”

“You’d be blistered.”

“I’d heal.”

“Thanks for breaking my fall.”

“Hey, I told you. I have your back … literally, I guess.” She laughed.

Marguerite seemed to enjoy laughing at her jokes, and he loved that about her. He’d never seen much of this side of her in the Convent. How could he have? They’d always rushed through their lovemaking for fear Grace would return, or one of the regulators, or God forbid Sister Quena.

He squeezed her and kissed her neck. “I want you to come home with me, to my house in Sedona. I have a big bathtub, room enough for two.”

She moaned softly, and her rose-woman scent flooded the air.

I want to suck your wing-locks, he added for good measure.

She shuddered and groaned. How about you suck mine then I’ll suck yours.

His turn to shudder. “Okay, we’d better go now.”

“Can you fold us? I know the security here is tight.”

“I think so. If not, I’ll give Carla a shout.” He squeezed her arms. “Ready?”

“Absolutely.”

He thought the thought and there was no answering restraint, but rather a free glide so that the next moment he was standing with her in the foyer of his home in Sedona Two. He held her like that for a long moment, her back to his front, and let her just look.

“The arrangement is similar to Diallo’s home.” She pulled away from him. “You’re on a promontory that has a two-hundred-seventy-degree view.” She let her gaze rest on it for a moment then asked, “Which way to your bedroom?”

“The left wing.”

She moved off to the left toward the room he used primarily as his library, stepping up three steps, then across a hall to another bank of windows. He followed her, wanting her to explore his home. Maybe if she liked it well enough, she’d stay and she’d choose him over her freedom, over her deep fear of connecting with others.