Wings of Fire

Marcus leaned back and laughed. “She’s very pregnant these days. Whadya do? Tell her she looked fat, you dumbfuck? I’da thrown a shoe as well.”

Kerrick sighed. “I know better than that. She was wincing and I asked if she was all right.”

“Huh.” Marcus frowned. “Maybe it was your tone. Sometimes they get mad because of tone.”

Kerrick just sighed again and rubbed the bump.

In other circumstances, Medichi could have appreciated the exchange—he’d been married once. But the sight of both men, happily bonded, their brehs safe, made his stomach loop into a very complicated figure-eight.

His gaze shifted to the right. There was Santiago, holding up a cocktail napkin to Zacharius. On it was a sketch of a dagger.

“Longer,” Zach said. “I still think it should be longer.”

Santiago chortled. “That is what all the women say.”

Zach rolled his eyes. “You are so full of shit.”

Medichi actually smiled at the joke. He couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened, but then again he’d gotten good news today. He moved in and clapped each one on the shoulder. “How we doin’?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but jerked his chin at Sam. “Limoncello,” he called out.

Sam nodded once, flung a clean white towel over his shoulder, gave a snap of his suspenders, and bent over to open the small fridge behind the counter.

Both warriors, still seated, looked up at Medichi.

“Hey,” Zach cried, “Thorne told us your news. This is fucking great.”

And that’s all it took. The warriors rose off the bar stools, one huge-ass swarm of lethal warrior bodies, palms and fists pummeling him.

For some goddamn reason Medichi’s eyes burned.

Marcus pushed his hair back. It had grown longer in the past three months, down to his shoulders now but still not long enough for the cadroen. “So, we sit tight until the grid at Central finds something we can investigate.”

“Actually, we’re using Seriffe’s grid, the one at Militia headquarters. Jeannie’s watching for blue-bastards, as usual.”

Marcus sighed. Heavily. He shook his head. “We’re getting our asses kicked,” he muttered. As an administrator, he always had his eye on the larger problem: how to gain the upper hand over Greaves.

Medichi glanced past his friend and took the cold glass of limoncello that Sam held up. He drew the glass close, squeezed his eyes shut, and took a long drink.

His heart was thumping hard. The time had come to do what he should have done centuries ago.

When he opened his eyes, he looked straight at Thorne and said, “I need to see all of you at the Cave before we head out to the Borderlands tonight.” His gaze skated to Marcus, willing him to understand what he intended to do. It didn’t take Marcus more than a couple of seconds. He nodded and a faint smile touched his lips.

Thorne scowled at him. “What’s going on?”

Medichi shifted his gaze back to him.

Thorne was one ruined warrior. In addition to the reddish, bloodshot look, he had dark circles beneath his eyes. It was like looking in a mirror, except Thorne had looked this way for decades now. And what the hell was his excuse except that his sister was stuck in the Creator’s convent in Prescott Two and had been for over a century?

Of course, Thorne’s avowed celibacy didn’t help matters.

To be fair, Thorne was Endelle’s second-in-command. That had to be one huge assfucking day and night. For all her power and her dedication to Second Society, Endelle was one volcano of a bitch, ready to spew on command. But she was the only thing holding their world together when Commander Darian Greaves was so close to tearing it apart.

As Thorne scowled up at him, Medichi knew he’d have to tell him something right now if he wanted him to agree to a meeting before the night’s battling began. Thorne didn’t like a disruption in his schedule.

Medichi drew a deep breath. “I need to show you my wings.”

To reveal what has been hidden,

To offer to the light what has been long held in the dark,

These are the true acts of heroism.

—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 4

“You need to show us your wings?” Thorne repeated. His hazel eyes looked blank. “What do you mean? Now? Tonight?”

The warriors, almost as a unit, froze and stared at Medichi.

“Yeah. Right now. At the Cave.” He willed Thorne to say yes, to direct the warriors to the rec room.

“Shit” came out like a soft whistle from between Thorne’s teeth. He glanced around. “Well, fuck. To the Cave, laddies.”

Medichi didn’t wait. He lifted his arm and folded. He touched down on the chipped black tile of the floor, then moved to stand near the pool table, his hands on his hips. He took deep breaths. Was he really going to do this?

Yeah. The time had come. The moment Central found anything in Burma, he’d fold to the location and do whatever it took to get to Parisa, including mounting his wings in front of God and all creation. So yeah, he needed to get this over with.

He felt the air move several times as seven big warrior bodies filled up the Cave. It was dark inside, a real hole in the wall in downtown Metro Phoenix Two.

Ratty brown leather couches, more like barges, lined two walls. A TV came on via motion detector whenever a warrior entered the space. It was turned to CNN—Marcus’s request. He liked to keep on top of happenings on Mortal Earth.

The pool table had been recently replaced but already had a huge gouge out of one corner. The pocket was missing and had been replaced by a duct-taped black trash bag.

Medichi took the plunge. “I’m going to show you first, then you’ll understand a few things.” He stripped off his black tee. Damn, was he really going to do this? Parisa’s arrival had changed everything. Every damn thing.

He met Marcus’s gaze. Marcus dipped his chin once, his expression solemn, even hard. Marcus had seen the scars on his back the same day Medichi had met Parisa.

Medichi turned slowly until his back was to the men. He heard the soft, strained gasps. With his right hand he swept his long hair forward over his shoulder so that what he’d kept secret was a secret no longer.

He felt sick in his gut. He was showing them just how he’d failed his wife the night she’d died. His scars didn’t represent what he’d suffered. His suffering had been nothing. No, the horrific silver stripes represented Maria’s death.

For the first few seconds, a variety of profanities flowed, even Jean-Pierre’s Merde. He gave them a good long minute to look.

It was Kerrick who spoke first. “We always wondered. What the fuck happened? Who did this to you?”

He turned back to face them, but his gaze found the floor and couldn’t seem to move anywhere else. Guilt held him fast. He told the story in as few words as possible. A northern tribe descending on the countryside. Rapists. Murderers. He spoke of the whip, the laughter, the drunkenness, and finally his wife and unborn child. He talked of the sudden emergence of power that saved his life, but arrived too late to save his wife’s.

When he was done, his brothers shifted through the room like rivulets of water seeking a place to drain. All except Thorne. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands.

For several minutes, no one said a word. They didn’t look at him, either. Each expression was lost, haunted. Who among them hadn’t suffered some tragedy or terrible loss or physical pain because of the nature of life or because of the war?

Finally, Santiago approached. He was too beautiful for words, this brother, with his thick, wavy black hair, dark eyes, and skin the color of a deep tan. He put his hand on Medichi’s shoulder. He met his gaze straight-on. “I have felt your pain, mi hermano, but I have a scar that’s worse than anything you have shown us tonight.”

Shit.

Well, if that didn’t make him feel worse.

The brother lifted his chin. “Do you remember a year ago that woman with the hair the color of a brilliant sunset and her eyes the precise shade of a violent sea?”

Medichi frowned. Sort of. He had a sudden fear that the woman had harmed Santiago permanently in the jewels. “Yes.”

Santiago pounded his chest with his fist. His eyes looked wild, maddened. “She cut up my heart and bled me until I should have died. I tell you, the scar is deep, hermano, deep. I should have died that night.”

Zacharius moved in close. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t remember a woman ever sticking you with a blade?”

“Who said anything about a weapon?” Santiago cried. “I begged her and begged her to go into the booths with me at the Blood and Bite. But she refused. I still bear the scar. What are Medichi’s wounds when a woman has rejected such an invitation?” He swept a dramatic hand over his groin. “I ask you.”

Everyone groaned, but Medichi laughed. Tears started to his eyes, but he laughed. “You are so full of shit.”

“What?” he cried, his hands flung out in front of him. Then he slung his arm around Medichi’s shoulders and hugged him. He even kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry about your wife and son,” he whispered.

“Gracias, amigo.”

Medichi laughed again. There were times when the brotherhood functioned just as it should and Santiago’s absurdity had done what nothing else could have. The tension in the room thinned as the laughter flowed. Luken put Santiago in a headlock and slapped the top of his head a few times.

Thorne drew close and with his lips pressed tight together asked, “Did the scars affect your wings? I know you can fly. Are they damaged somehow? You don’t owe us anything, Medichi. What you’ve shared tonight honors us.”

Medichi met his gaze. The concern in Thorne’s eyes almost undid him again. He shook his head. “It’s nothing like that. My wings are fine. But it’s time I started flying in battle. I’ve put it off way too long. When Jeannie calls with word about Parisa, I’ll be in the air if I have to. I’m not holding back any longer. However, there is something I want you to know, and you’ll understand better if I just show you.”