Wings of Fire

Thorne divided all eight warriors, eight because Marcus would not be left out of the mission. There would be two groups of four, one group to come from the south, the other the north because who knew what they would find. Parisa had voyeured seven slaves, including Fiona, in the Toulouse farmhouse. But Santiago had found one of the slaves dead, a woman whose bracelet had said DOHNA, a Tibetan woman.

“Unless Rith has added more females to his stable,” Thorne said, his raspy voice cutting through the tension in the room, “we should find only six women.” He met Jean-Pierre’s gaze. “I want you on point.” His gaze shifted to Medichi. “I don’t like it that ascender Lovejoy is going. You know that. She may be good with a dagger, preternaturally good, but a sword can reach her as quick as lightning.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Medichi’s voice had an edge.

Jean-Pierre shifted his gaze to Kerrick, who stood with a very stiff jaw beside Marcus. Both seemed uneasy, rigid. Neither looked at Medichi. Jean-Pierre understood. They were an emerging brotherhood now, men who had brehs, treasures it would be too painful to lose. Had Marcus argued with Havily about coming on this rescue? Havily was not here. Did Marcus win an argument? Maybe Thorne would not allow it.

“Let’s go.” Thorne’s voice rumbled through the room once more.

Carla folded each group to opposite ends of the dome of mist. Jean-Pierre was with Medichi, Parisa, Santiago, and Zacharius. Thorne had Luken, Kerrick, and Marcus.

Jean-Pierre folded his sword into his hand the moment his feet touched solid earth. The sky was still partially light, which was good for battling. He spun in a circle, as did the other warriors. Even Parisa followed suit, her dagger in her hand, her shoulders hunched, knees bent. Merde, she behaved like a warrior, but then she had Medichi’s battle memories now.

A strong breeze blew from offshore, carrying the smells of salt and fish. Medichi had his phone to his ear. He spoke softly then turned back to the group. “Thorne’s in, near the barn. No sign of death vamps.”

He gestured to Santiago, who inclined his head, disappeared through the mist, then came back. He drew close. “One death vamp asleep by the door. His sword is on the ground.”

Jean-Pierre smiled.

Parisa spoke. “Let me do it.”

All the men turned to stare at her. Medichi started to protest, but she glared at him then lifted her dagger. “In the throat,” she whispered softly, “for all the women drained of their blood. Give me this.”

There was not a warrior present who did not know exactly how she felt.

Medichi glared at Parisa, but his entire body froze perhaps long enough for his rational mind to move to the front of his brain.

Parisa added, “I’ll use my window first. I’ll be careful but I need to do this.”

Merde. Medichi was trembling, his sword flexing up and down, his knuckles white around the grip. But he nodded. “You go in, let the dagger fly, then come back out.”

Parisa inclined her head.

***

Parisa turned in the direction of the mist. Dusk was settling deep now, the shadows everywhere a dark gray. She closed her eyes and opened her voyeur’s window. She saw the death vamp in profile, sitting in a chair. He was snoring. No one else was around.

She shut the window down. She moved through the first dome of mist, the one made up of white crochet-like filaments. The second was the elegant blue-green. She passed through and there he was, a beautiful glorious creature, pale of complexion, black hair hanging loose and wavy to his shoulders, his chin buried in his chest. He wore leather flight gear, but no weapons harness. His chest was bare. She forgot her mission for a moment at the sight of him. His beauty was meant to enthrall, and she felt the tendrils of interest and attraction reach out to her even while the bastard slept.

Eff that. She hoped he was having pleasant dreams because these would be his last.

She understood one thing about having downloaded Antony’s battle images—to hesitate was to lose.

She felt Antony’s muscles as she walked forward, the heaviness of them, in his tall warrior physique. The sense of him gave her strength and courage. Her fingers trembled, though. Too much adrenaline. She worked to breathe, to calm her heart.

She stopped as the bastard jerked awake. Something must have disturbed him. Then she heard fighting beyond the house, on the other side. The death vampire rose to his feet, and suddenly his sword flew from the ground into his hand.

“Hey,” she called out. As he turned toward her, his sword still lax, she settled her gaze on his throat and let her dagger fly. She had speed and she had strength in her throw. Medichi was right—she had a gift for dagger work. The blade was long and sank to the hilt, which meant it pierced the spine and went all the way through. The vamp crumpled where he stood, his sword falling from his hand.

She turned and fled back through the mist.

She caught Medichi’s eye. She nodded. “He’s down.”

Medichi put his hands on her arms. “You’re sure.”

“Yes, but there’s fighting on the other side of the property.” How calm she sounded even to her own ears.

He released her arms and spoke to the group. “Forward.”

In a swift, preternatural flow, the warriors moved into the mist. Medichi waited for them to pass, keeping his arm against Parisa’s back. “Get your dagger from the pretty-boy. Keep moving. Do you know where the slaves are being held?”

“Yes.”

Once they were on the other side of the blue-green mist, she glanced up at the second story. She recognized the row of windows from the outside. She pointed. “Up there.”

By now the warriors were running toward the back door of the house. She moved beside Antony until she reached the fallen death vampire. Antony bent down, but she touched his shoulder. “Let me. I’m the one who should do this. I killed him.” She felt the imperative of it. She had done this thing. She had taken a life, however heinous it was. She needed to remove her blade.

She knelt down and had to push the death vampire’s milky shoulder until he rolled onto his back. She moved to stand over him. His eyes were open but glassy. He was gone. So fast. She took the dagger by the hilt and withdrew the blade.

Her stomach turned. She shifted away from the body and almost threw up. She took deep breaths.

She felt Medichi’s hand on her back. “It’s okay,” he said. “It happens to all of us, but we have to go. We have less than a minute to get this done. Do you understand?”

She took one last deep breath and felt her stomach settle back into place. She wiped the blade on her black cargo pants, a movement she’d seen in more than one of Antony’s battle memories.

She rose up. Antony’s gaze seemed to work in a complete circle, the upper half of his body whirling to keep track of the entire 360 panorama. She mimicked him as he moved to the back door, always checking her back trail.

She heard heavy battle sandals on the stairs. She followed the sound.

When she reached the steps, the front door was thrown wide and she had a view of the yard beyond—and of Thorne’s blade slicing through a death vampire. Blood flew. She turned away as another wave of nausea rolled through her.

She ran up the stairs. At the landing, off to her right, Santiago emerged from a room and thrust his chin in the opposite direction. To the left she saw Zacharius in the doorway. He spoke into the room, “Jean-Pierre, you all right? Shit.”

Parisa hurried to the door. Jean-Pierre held Fiona in his arms and he was weeping. “Is she dead?” she asked.

He shook his head rapidly.

“Hurt?”

“I do not know.”

Parisa nodded. He was holding his breh, and overcome. Antony called from behind her. “Jean-Pierre, take her to the palace. Carla has Horace waiting for the women as well as a medical team. We’ll follow. Thorne and his men are finishing up out front.” Jean-Pierre vanished with Fiona. Parisa blinked—just like that, the woman she had met such a short time ago was saved.

Santiago went to the end of the row of cots. The last cot was empty, perhaps originally intended for Dohna.

Paris turned to Medichi. “Where’s Rith and the serving women?”

He looked past her. “Zach, you see Rith?”

He shook his head. He had a woman in his arms. The insides of her elbows were taped up and her face was white, chalk white, ghost white. Oh, God. She struggled against him and cried out, “No … no,” but her voice was slurred. Yep, the women had been drugged.

“Take her to the palace.”

Zach nodded, then he was gone.

“How we doin’?” Thorne’s voice boomed through the room.

Parisa turned back to look at him but Thorne’s gaze shifted just past her shoulder then he cried out, “Fuck!”

Parisa had her dagger in her hand and didn’t hesitate. Whatever was behind her was bad, the enemy. She whirled and thrust and there was Rith, a surprised look on his face as her blade slid into his stomach.

She withdrew, but not because she was squeamish. She withdrew to plunge again, moving into him this time, putting more force behind the blow. She withdrew the blade again. He stumbled backward, turned, and fell onto an empty cot. She followed after him and cried out, a harsh warrior cry. She started plunging the knife over and over and over until she felt gentle hands on her arms and Antony’s voice in her ear. “Ease down, Parisa, he’s gone. Ease down. That’s it … ease down.”

She blinked and realized her blade wasn’t buried in flesh but in the thin padding of a fairly nice camping cot. There was blood, however; Rith’s blood. He may have dematerialized but she’d hurt him.

She held her dagger up, her hand shaking.

Thorne’s voice once more boomed the length of the room. “Luken, take the next one. Santiago, there’s one more past Medichi. Kerrick, okay, you’ve got one. You’re good. Back to the palace. Marcus. Good, you’ve got the last one. At least I think it’s the last one. Do we have all six?”

Antony called back to him. “Yes. Jean-Pierre has Fiona. She went first.”