Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3)(49)
Author: Caris Roane

Merde. What was he supposed to do? Marcus was his friend now. All had been forgiven. The past was as if it had never been, and for that the Warriors of the Blood had Havily to thank.

She had brought Marcus back into the fold three months ago. She had allowed the breh-hedden to take her for a magnificent ride and then she had ridden the beast to its knees. She would always be soeurette to the Warriors of the Blood.

But this? He could not do it, not to his brother, so he lifted a brow to her. She lifted her chin in response.

He chuckled. There was so much to like about Havily. Even her name was a delight for his hopeless French accent. “He would be very angry with me, cherie. I cannot do it.”

She drew a deep breath that swelled her chest. She held that breath for a moment then let it fly out as though carrying her irritation with it. “Marcus has no say in this. We may be bonded but I am not the dirt beneath his shoes.”

Jean-Pierre grinned. “The dirt beneath his shoes? That is very good. I will tell him you said that.”

A shout of triumph drew his attention back to Parisa. While Jean-Pierre had stood arguing with Havily, Antony had folded a target to the front yard. The dagger now rested not far from the bull’s-eye.

“See,” Havily cried, gesturing with a toss of her arm in the direction of the target. “And now, I politely request that you download your battle memories straight into my brain because this sword feels ridiculous in my hands. I might as well be holding a log.”

He shook his head. “I am willing to teach you the skills of the sword but I tell you again, Marcus would put a blade through my heart if he knew I had entered your mind so … intimately.”

Havily rolled her eyes and groaned. She gestured with a slice of her left hand toward Medichi and Parisa. “But that is what I need to be doing right now. Look at her. It’s as though she’s been wielding a sword for centuries.”

His gaze slid to Parisa. It was true. He had seen Kerrick give his memories to Alison all those months ago, and the result had been the same—quite magnificent. It would seem that because both Parisa and Alison were powerful, and could receive the memories from one mind to the next, they could learn the battling skills in the flutter of an eyelash.

He sighed. He wished he could oblige Havily, but he could not.

“Well,” Havily said. “I can see you intend to be as stubborn as my breh, so I guess I’ll just have to find Luken. He’ll do it for me. He’d do anything for me.”

Jean-Pierre gasped. “You would not wound him so,” he cried. Luken had been in love with Havily since he’d served as her Guardian of Ascension over a century ago. “To invite such intimacy when you know that his heart calls to you—”

Havily met his gaze. “I was the one trapped in a forge with a madman draining the blood out of me. I know why Parisa has insisted on being trained to fight. Neither you, nor Marcus, nor Antony, knows what it’s like to feel so powerless.”

“But were you not drugged? How could you have fought such a man anyway?”

Havily glared at him. “I have thought about this a lot, Jean-Pierre. There was a split second when Crace grabbed me during the Ambassadors Festival that I could have fought him. Instead I froze, and he carried me away. I didn’t even think to struggle in his arms. Maybe if I’d had a few skills, even how to handle a dagger, I could have folded a blade into my hand, sliced his arm, and escaped. I don’t know. But I didn’t even have the option. That’s what I want here, enough skill to have a chance if another death vampire attacks me. You warriors are so physically big, so powerful, you can’t imagine anything else.”

He stared into her intense light green eyes. He had not considered how impotent she must have felt. He could not imagine what she had endured in Crace’s terrible forge.

After a long moment, he nodded. Finally, he withdrew his Epic phone from the pocket of his jeans. He held a finger up to Havily. “I have an idea but you must be quiet. Will you be silent for a moment?”

She nodded.

He made the call. “Allo, Marcus? I hope I do not disturb you.”

Havily gasped but she was true to her promise. She pressed her lips together in a punishing line and remained silent.

“I’m in the middle of a staff meeting,” Marcus said. “Can this wait?’

The warriors always took one another’s calls, day or night, meetings or no meetings. Jean-Pierre continued to stare at Havily. He once more took in the set of her chin. His resolution strengthened.

“In five seconds, mon ami, I’ll be linking my mind with Havily’s and sharing my battle experiences. It must be done.” He said nothing more but ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He counted backward. “Cinq, quatre, trois, deux…”

The air shimmered beside him and a second later Marcus went chest-to-chest with him. “The f**k you will,” he shouted. His brows were little more than slashes above his light brown eyes, but right now they seemed to sink into his eyes. His face turned the color of a beet, the rich hue of rage.

Jean-Pierre stepped away from Marcus with a wave of his hand in Havily’s direction. “You must settle this with your breh. She has threatened to ask Luken to help her, which is something I believe we must avoid for Luken’s sake. But after listening to her, I believe you to be in the wrong.”

The moment Marcus turned in Havily’s direction and began chastising her about Luken, Jean-Pierre crossed the lawn to join Medichi and Parisa, who both stood with eyes wide as the shouting began.

Jean-Pierre gestured to the door. “Perhaps we should go into the villa?”

He held the door wide for them. Parisa walked swiftly before the men. Within seconds the door was shut upon the war that now raged on the front lawn of Antony’s home.

***

Parisa didn’t understand why the warriors were so resistant to training the women connected to them. Maybe she could never understand, not being male. Antony hadn’t exactly been eager, to say the least, but Marcus was particularly adamant. Was it because they had completed the ritual, the breh-hedden?

She glanced at Antony. He frowned at the door. The words of the argument were indistinct, but the highs and lows, the sharpness of tone, slid easily through the thick wood.

Antony gestured with an arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Oui,” Jean-Pierre said. He nodded a couple of times.

Jean-Pierre was not as tall as Antony; none of the warriors was. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Marcus and was just a little shorter than Kerrick. He had the most interesting lips of any man Parisa had ever seen: a full lower lip and the upper in two points that would have been pouty on a woman. He looked … sensual. His eyes were gray-green and in turns thoughtful and amused. She’d always had the impression that he was the kind of man who would probably make his lover mad as fire with a joke at just the wrong time for the sole purpose of getting a rise out of her.