Wings of Fire (Guardians of Ascension #3)(80)
Author: Caris Roane

“You are preening like a peacock, mon ami.” Jean-Pierre smiled and nudged him with his elbow.

“Where’s your cadroen?”

Jean-Pierre sighed. “What do I care for the cadroen? For anything, when my woman is held captive by that beast.” His gaze fell to the nearby lawn. Back and forth his gaze flew as though hunting for her. “I do not know what to do, mon ami. I am desperate.”

“Why do you sound so damn hoarse?”

“Because I have been shouting into the wind, calling for her. The breh-hedden is a terrible madness.”

The air shimmered next to Jean-Pierre. Medichi leaped back and brought his sword into his hand once more. Jean-Pierre did the same, but it was Parisa now wearing a loose blouse over her flight suit.

Medichi groaned and got rid of his sword.

Jean-Pierre folded his away as well. This time he moved in a circle, his eyes closed, his hands once more pressed against his head.

“Did I do something wrong? I was practicing.”

“You did fine. We’re just on edge.” To her mind he sent, Fiona, then gave a swift jerk of his head in Jean-Pierre’s direction.

Jean-Pierre came to a stop next to Parisa. “Thorne said Rith tried to abduct you again. Is this true, cherie?”

“Yes, that’s when I discovered I could dematerialize.”

He nodded. “Have you tried to see the woman again, Fiona, with your voyeur window?”

She sighed. She explained what had happened, that somehow Fiona had opened the window while they were in the Sedona canyon. She didn’t tell him that Rith had hit her and for that, Medichi was grateful. “Did Antony also tell you that I probably have a voyeur link with Greaves?”

“Oui. That you have headaches now when you try to see something.”

“Yes, exactly. So we’re being careful how we use the window. We’re only opening it once every half hour, very quickly so that I can see the windows and judge the light. Once the sun sets we can really narrow the location.” She turned to Medichi.

“How long has it been?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“Maybe five minutes. Sorry. Wherever they are, it’s still light out.”

He nodded. He looked up at the sky. “Well, there is one thing for certain. She is not in France. It has been night there for hours now.”

“That’s true.”

Medichi met her gaze. “We could give it another shot, don’t you think, Parisa?”

She looked at Jean-Pierre and nodded. “Why not?”

A sound erupted out of Jean-Pierre’s throat, something between a huff and a cry. Before Medichi could stop him, he had grabbed Parisa and hauled her into his arms. He repeated, “Merci” over and over.

Medichi felt his nostrils fold inward and his hands bunch into fists. His brain shut down and all he could think was that another man had his hands on his woman. The sequence was irrational, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Take your hands off her,” rushed out of his throat, a throat that felt too small for the words. At the same, time he grabbed Jean-Pierre by the shoulders and started dragging him away from Parisa.

“Stop that!” came from Parisa. He froze. He stared down at her, his entire body immobile.

“What are you doing, Antony?” she cried. “He was thanking me. That’s all. What’s the matter with you?”

But Jean-Pierre pulled away from her and started to laugh. He dropped to his knees and put his head in his hands and kept on laughing. This time, he repeated “Mon Dieu” over and over, finally ending with, “We are in hell.”

Medichi just stared at him. Strange sensations flowed through his blood. He felt as though he’d just faced a dozen death vampires. His arms and legs shook. “This is a nightmare,” he cried. “I was ready to kill you.”

He walked in circles just as Jean-Pierre had. He couldn’t look at Parisa for the longest time. When he’d calmed down enough, he turned to her to apologize, but she held her fingers up to her lips and he knew she was smiling, even laughing.

“What?” Medichi shouted. No man liked to be laughed at.

“Where’s your cadroen?” she asked.

He reached back but it was gone. What the hell had he done with his cadroen?

Parisa approached him, smoothed his hair with her hands, then kissed him on the lips. He released a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I hate to admit it but it’s kind of sexy. You went wild there for a minute. I think you threw your cadroen so hard it landed in the pool, then you started tearing at your hair and growling. I don’t mean to laugh. Really.” She softened the blow of these words with another kiss on his lips.

Dammit, he’d forgive her anything if she just kept kissing him. He slid his arms around her, yet he couldn’t help but glare at Jean-Pierre over her shoulder. “Just don’t do that again, okay? Think what you would do if I hugged Fiona.”

When a hard light entered Jean-Pierre’s eye and he rose to his feet and lowered his chin, Medichi added, “Exactement, mon ami.”

Parisa pulled back. She glanced at Jean-Pierre then rolled her eyes. “All right you two Neanderthals. Let me have a look.”

She closed her eyes and opened them a moment later. She shook her head. “Sorry, Jean-Pierre, it’s still really light outside.”

***

The afternoon wore on Parisa, partly because Jean-Pierre stayed on at the villa. She always knew when half an hour had passed between voyeur-peeks because whatever she was doing, whether working out with sword or dagger, or preparing dinner, or even napping, he came to her with such a stricken look that she didn’t bother even asking what he wanted—she simply opened her window, looked at the color of the sky, then shut it down.

At seven, Jean-Pierre finally left, folding to the Blood and Bite where all the Warriors of the Blood gathered before battling death vampires at the Borderlands. He had hated to leave, knowing that the hour was drawing close, but Thorne had made it clear that once Central had a fix on the women they would—for this one critical mission—leave the Borderlands as a unit, fold to the women, and take care of business. Colonel Seriffe was making arrangements to have large contingents of Militia Warriors ready to take their place until they returned.

Everything was set to go.

But by nine o’clock, the sheer waiting had stripped her nerves raw. She wore her weapons harness, black cargo pants, and Nikes and paced the foyer. She opened her window every ten minutes now. Central’s grid had the area of search down to one strip of longitude, because eleven hours had now passed since Parisa had first viewed the sunlit window. The earth moved, the sun shifted, and every place that night had begun to cover became one less possibility.