Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3)(40)
Author: Caris Roane

“I know. We’ll do that later.”

She shifted against him to look up at him. “But not much later.”

“No. Not much later because right now I’m in pain.”

Her smile cast the world in a beautiful glow. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, the taste of his blood lingering on her lips. He pulled back.

“Welcome home, Parisa.”

***

Thorne sat on Endelle’s right, always on her right, her right-hand man, her second-in-command, Thorne the Reliable, Thorne who sipped gazpacho from his spoon but couldn’t look at any of his warrior brothers.

Stannett’s recent f**king revelation ate at him.

The large soup spoon trembled in his hand and he set it down. Thank God there was so much noise at the table. Right now Endelle was yelling at Santiago, clear across the enormous round expanse of white linen, telling him that his latest blade design was more a short sword than a dagger. He was arguing back. To Santiago’s right, Havily listened with feigned interest. He doubted she cared about the subject at all. She probably just wanted an excuse to turn a cold shoulder to Marcus.

So the breh-hedden didn’t result in automatic relationship-bliss. But then what the hell did?

He was done with his soup. Hell, he hated these kinds of functions, wearing his dress uniform, his cape flipped back over his shoulder. At least they’d removed the ceremonial brass breastplates, which now sat in a row against the rotunda wall looking like disembodied chests. Next to the breastplates, the wall opened up to one of the several palace terraces.

Luken leaned close. “You think Parisa’s okay?”

Thorne glanced at the dark-haired beauty. She had such an interesting face, a slightly pointed chin, full lips, and those amethyst eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, the kind of flush that came from taking blood. Medichi had flashed his wrist when he returned from the rotunda with Parisa hugging his arm. The breh-hedden really was riding this pair.

He had to look away. Sex, or at least the promise of it, shimmered in the air between them. He could almost see the glow of expectation. If Parisa seemed a little remote, what of it? She’d been through hell for three months. She had a right to look remote.

But Medichi had that look, like he knew he’d be taking his woman to bed soon. It made Thorne want things he wouldn’t be able to have for another twelve-hours-plus. Once a day, he went to be with his woman in the Creator’s Convent. Once a goddamn day and no one knew. His sister was the excuse but yeah, he went to see his woman.

He picked up his wineglass and downed the remainder of the sangria. He then lifted it in the air and waggled it at the waiter. He wanted maybe two more to help him calm the hell down.

Stannett and his damn prophesy about an upcoming battle.

After waging war against death vampires all night, and bringing Parisa safely home from Burma, he’d spent the rest of the morning with Colonel Seriffe. With Endelle’s permission, he’d shared the prophecy with the head of the Militia Warriors. If Greaves intended an attack, the Militia Warriors would have to be involved. But the whole thing was fast becoming a nightmare. The Militia served both to keep the peace in regular ascended society and as backup against death vampire squads. But it was not a large force—maybe four thousand strong in the Metro Phoenix area.

Stannett’s Superstition Mountain Seers Fortress had once been the world’s most effective predictor of future events—it was the primary reason that until the twentieth century, Endelle had been able to control Greaves’s intrusions into Second Society. But under Stannett’s command, information from the fortress had dwindled to, as Endelle liked to put it, a frog’s stream of piss.

Stannett had a lot of talented Seers, so either he didn’t know how to make use of them, or he had plans of his own. Thorne knew the bastard well. He suspected the latter.

Endelle was frustrated to the point of madness but her hands were tied, as they often were, by the Committee to Oversee the Process of Ascension to Second Earth. COPASS. Yeah, the acronym suited this body of ass**les. They’d backed Stannett when he denied Endelle admittance to his facility. If she even asked for information from the future streams, he’d shrug, smile, and apologize that his Seers, for inexplicable reasons, simply lacked the expertise and power. All lies, but who could prove it? He was no longer required to let anyone audit or even see his organization.

“You okay?” Luken whispered.

Both of Thorne’s hands were shaking. “Sure,” he said, glancing briefly at Luken. “Too much Ketel One, but I’m cutting back.” It was both a lie and the truth. He was trying to cut back, yes, but that was only an excuse. In fact he knew something Endelle didn’t: The Seer whom Stannett had referred to—the source of the ominous prophecy—wasn’t at the Superstition Seers Fortress. She was at the Creator’s Convent. Thorne knew her well, really well. So, yeah, Stannett had spoken the truth about her abilities.

Where the hell was the waiter with his sangria?

He’d had more than one conversation with Endelle since Stannett’s revelation, but she hadn’t been all that helpful. Her latest suggestion was, Would you please take a f**king chill-pill? It’s probably just some Seer shit.

But it wasn’t.

Christ. A major battle coming and he couldn’t talk about it to Endelle, because he’d vowed never to reveal the Seer’s identity to Her Supremeness. Endelle was obliged by COPASS law to send any talented Seer to the Superstition Fortress, and that place had to be a hellhole right now. It certainly wasn’t a bastion of freedom.

That Stannett played a double game by making frequent visits to the Creator’s Convent, and not telling Endelle, had made Thorne’s life close to unbearable. The Seer was his woman and had been his woman for the past hundred years.

Christ, what a f**king mess.

More sangria would really help about now and he almost barked at the waiter when he finally refilled his glass.

Endelle was still arguing with Santiago about his dagger. The Latin warrior stood behind his chair with his latest design in his right hand, its hilt encrusted with three rubies—always rubies for Santiago. He showed her some moves. Most of the brothers were watching. Santiago loved to put on a show, and thank God for it because the tremors had moved up Thorne’s arms.

They were all here, every damn one of them, all eight now because Marcus had returned, battling two nights a week. He loved them all. He needed them all. If he lost even one of his men, how would they survive as a unit, not to mention win this goddamn war?