Wings of Fire (5 page)

Antony,
she cried out with her mind. More tears slipped down her cheeks. She shifted back onto her side, still looking at him.
I’m here,
she sent.
I’m here.
If only her telepathy would improve. At least he’d heard his name twice. That was something. Not much, but something.

“Parisa, I have a piece of information about you, but getting some usable results from the grid might take a few days. I found a rogue death vampire in northern Arizona, Mortal Earth, this morning. He knew Rith. He was connected with the underbelly of Mortal Earth rogue life and he knew of you. I searched his memories and discovered that you’re in Burma on Second Earth. Carla’s already moved Central’s grid in place. We know your signature doesn’t show up, so we’re hunting for an anomaly, anything that seems out of the ordinary. I swear I’d dematerialize to Burma and start hunting for you myself, but the damn place is as big as Texas.”

She heard his frustration but her mind whirled with the new possibility that Central could locate her in a day or two, maybe three. Oh … God … yes!

“If only you could communicate better telepathically. Can you try? Please try. I heard my name twice tonight. That has to mean something.”

Her own frustration rose until she was kneeling in bed, beating her fists against her pillows. Had she tried? Only a thousand times.
Of course I’ve tried,
she sent.

“You can do this. I know you can. If I can feel your presence like this, I know you can talk to me.” He flopped back on the bed and shifted his hips to bring his legs straight out in front of him. His cock lay half thickened on his groin. He was very big and so damn beautiful. She watched tears fill his eyes, spill over, then run down the sides of his face and into his long warrior hair. She moved in close and pretended to touch his hair, run her fingers through it.

“The minute we find an anomaly, I will come for you. We’ll all come for you. All the brothers.”

I’m near Mandalay,
she sent, but she knew it was useless. She had tried a hundred different ways to communicate, but all he’d ever been able to hear was his name at the moment of her release.

She had tried different locations as well, moving from room to room while she called his name, changing the time of day, the time of night, beneath the tamarind tree, away from the tree, shouting the words in her head, then calling them softly. Nothing had worked. When she opened her voyeur’s window, that strange preternatural gift she possessed, she could find him anywhere. She just couldn’t communicate her thoughts to him.

He slid his hands behind his head, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling. “I love that you’re here with me,” he whispered. “And I can feel you near.”

Good. I’m here.

“Do I disgust you? Please understand, it’s the only time I can hear your voice. I wouldn’t do this otherwise.”

You could never disgust me. I know you, Antony. I’ve listened to your warrior brothers as well. They speak of you with such respect and they turn to you for advice, for approval. I love your kindness and that you’ve never stopped searching for me.

It was almost a conversation.

Almost.

“Last night before my tour at the New River Borderland, Jeannie and I spent hours scoping South African Territory for your sign.” He smiled faintly. “Now we know you’re in Burma. It’s hard to stay here—I want to fold right now to Burma. But what good would that do? I’ll wait here, but I don’t have to like it.

“I don’t think I told you this but yesterday afternoon, Jean-Pierre and I hit a rogue vampire lair in Mortal Earth Sweden. That’s when we learned about this rogue in fucking Sedona, Mortal Earth. Remember how Thorne has a house in Sedona?” He sighed. “I love talking to you and feeling you close.”

Me too,
she sent.

“I chased that bastard north all the way to the Grand Canyon. That motherfucker had one set of wings on him—pardon my French or as Jean-Pierre says,
my Italian.
He’s so funny. He’s been with me every afternoon, hunting beside me. He’s as wrecked as I am. No warrior ever had a better brother. I owe him everything. Do you believe me that I haven’t stopped looking? That I never will?”

I believe you.

He sat up suddenly. “You must do one thing, Parisa. Promise me this, that you’ll stay alive for me. Please … stay alive.”

I will try.

“Don’t just try, either.” Yep, almost a conversation. “Do whatever you have to do to stay alive, no matter how horrible your current situation. Know this: I will come for you.”

She moved in close once more, toward his lips. She tilted slightly and pretended to kiss him. He gasped. “What did you just do?”

She moved in again, and kissed him.

He put his fingers to his lips. “Did you just kiss me?”

“Yes,” she whispered aloud into her room.

“Parisa. Do it again.”

She leaned forward once more. He stayed very still. She drew back. His eyes opened. “I didn’t feel anything. If you tried again, I couldn’t feel it.” He flopped back on the bed once more and threw an arm over his forehead. “Oh, God, how I miss you. I ache for you.”

She panned back and looked at the full length of him again. He had a faint dusting of black hair over his pecs angling to his stomach. She loved the distinct line of hair that traveled his lower abdomen, showing the way. His hair was curled over his groin, a healthy animal. His cock was still half erect—it always was so long as she was near, even after he’d come. The same fine black hair covered his legs. She loved the way he looked, so masculine. She had always liked hair on a man. She wanted to sift her fingers through all of it, from his toes, up his legs, around the base of his cock, up that sexy line, over his chest, his arms … but mostly she wanted her hands in his long warrior hair.

Long hair meant something to the Warriors of the Blood. In a ritual that went back several millennia, the warriors faced battle by binding their hair in the ritual clasp called the
cadroen,
symbolizing strength of will and purpose.

Yes, Antony had told her many things during this time he shared with her. Though he couldn’t hear her, he knew she was listening so he talked.

Antony’s voice continued softly. “Did I tell you that the first time I used my wings after my ascension, I fell flat on my back? I couldn’t breathe for a good minute, and the pain was almost unbearable. I’d crushed some of the feathers. Three healers worked for hours to put me back together. When the wings are broken like that, you can’t retract them. Remember that when you fly. Be careful.”

She got very close and rubbed her fingers over his lips.
I almost did the same thing. Do you remember? I’d ended up in a forward roll the first time I flew and Havily tugged on my feet and saved me. Later, she told me privately that you’d been watching us.
She often shared things even though he couldn’t hear her.

Havily Morgan had been a good friend to her and had saved her life more than once during the short time she’d known her. She missed Havily. She missed all of them.

“Remember how you almost crashed that first day flying with Havily? Did you know I was watching you? When you almost fell, I dropped a plate of pasta. I was afraid for you but Havily kept you safe.”

Oh, why couldn’t he hear her? She pressed a fingers to her lips.

“I will always be grateful that Havily took care of you that day and taught you so much about flying. I wish I could have been the one but…”

You never mount your wings in front of anyone.

“… I never mount my wings except in private. I just can’t. They’d see my back. Marcus knows the truth but I trust him to be discreet.” His chest rose and fell in a heavy sigh. “When I ascended and understood how quickly I could heal in my new vampire state, I thought my back would change, but it didn’t. I’m … scarred, Parisa. Forever.”

Parisa could tell by the way he whispered the words that whatever had scarred his back had wounded him more deeply in his mind, maybe even in his soul.

I’ve seen your scars, Antony. Don’t you realize that? How could I be so close to you all these months and not have seen your scars?

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’ve already seen them, haven’t you? Of course you have. Shit.” He sounded so ashamed.

She wanted to comfort him, to tell him it didn’t matter, but she couldn’t. All she could do was keep wiping away her tears.

She was drawn back, deep into her memories of Antony. He had comforted her once, held her while she wept. Three months ago, at the Ambassadors Reception, a bomb had been used in place of fireworks and set the skies afire. Marcus, one of Antony’s best friends, had been severely burned and a death vampire had abducted Havily. Antony had begged Parisa to make use of her voyeur window. The thought of it had been overwhelming to her; she feared what she might find. But Antony had held her and supported her. He’d gotten her through, and as a team they’d brought Havily home.

He was still getting her through by being with her every night like this, talking to her, making love with her in this odd but beautiful way.

Her mind began to drift in and out now. It was past ten o’clock in Burma and Rith roused his household early, at precisely five in the morning. He kept a strict schedule for his servants. Her fatigue was intensified because she was so sad and because, after three months, she wasn’t very hopeful. Rith was a clever vampire. If he even suspected his home was in danger, he’d remove her before anyone had a chance to get to her.

“You’re getting sleepy, aren’t you? I can always tell. It’s as though your presence starts pulsing in waves, going away from me, coming back. Please don’t go.”

He always said that.

“If you go, I’ll have to wonder for another twenty-four hours if you’re still alive.”

I’ll be here for you, Antony. I’ll be here.
She released a sigh. Sleep claimed her.

Beloved, take the glass to your lips,

I will hold your hand

Drink and be eased.

Beloved, let the wine of your creation,

From the vineyards of your soul,

Give you peace.

—
Collected Poems,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 3

Medichi felt Parisa depart—or probably fall asleep. It was close to ten o’clock at night for her.

He rolled onto his side. At some point, the remnants of the tangerine had fallen from his hand and now lay facedown on the bottom sheet. The hunger he knew for Parisa crawled through his belly. Wasn’t this just like the
breh-hedden,
creating all kinds of irrational behavior. Like sucking tangerines and talking out loud to a woman he couldn’t see.

But he felt her. Oh, yes, he felt her presence in ripples of power.

He left his bed and took a second quick shower to clean up. He put fresh clothes on, jeans and a black tee. Havily would be getting ready for work right about now. She and Marcus still inhabited the same room they’d taken over three months ago. Marcus had returned from self-exile on Mortal Earth at that time—but not just to rejoin the Warriors of the Blood. Madame Endelle had appointed him High Administrator of Southwest Desert Two and given him a boatload of authority. He’d been making some kick-ass changes in how Endelle’s administration dealt with her Territory High Administrators around the globe.

Darian Greaves, self-styled the Commander, had been in the process of turning High Administrators for the past fifteen years at the rate of several a year, each one aligning with his faction against Madame Endelle. If he could turn enough of them, Endelle and her warriors would lose this godawful war once and for all.

Marcus had put a stop to that. Not one High Administrator had quit in the past several months. Yeah, that was called progress.

As for Havily, she’d taken up darkening work part of the night alongside Endelle. Now, there was a shit-job if ever one had been created. In addition, Havily still made a Starbucks run to Mortal Earth for the Warriors of the Blood every morning. She’d meet up with most of them at dawn, bringing hot coffee and pastries and her warm smile. Jean-Pierre called her
soeurette,
which was French for “little sister.” That’s what Havily was to all of the Warriors of the Blood, a beloved younger sister.

Hell, he needed a drink. He left his bedroom suite and headed in the direction of the kitchen. He’d never been much of a drinker, but that had changed in the last several weeks. He’d developed a real taste for limoncello.

He crossed the long central hall of his villa, the front lawn to his right. After passing two sets of guest suites to his left, he traversed the large formal living room from which the back lawn was visible as a wide expanse. He’d built his beautiful home over two centuries ago.

He loved the place. But he’d give it all up, plus his entire fucking fortune, to have Parisa back safe and sound.

He crossed the foyer, then the smaller sitting room next to the dining room. The door to the kitchen was offset to the left so that the kitchen wasn’t visible from either the foyer or any of the main south rooms.

He made a beeline across the kitchen to the fridge, opened the door, and grabbed the gallon jug of homemade limoncello. He took a glass off the folded linen on the soapstone counter. He always kept a glass handy.

Making his own limoncello had become part of his routine as well, one of the things that kept him sane. The recipe was simple: sugar, vodka, lemon zest and a lot of waiting.

He made a new batch every week so he’d never run out. The batches kept getting bigger. Lately, he’d needed more. A lot more. Shit. With this latest news, like hell he’d be able to sleep without being just a little drunk.

He took the jug to the dining table, but instead of sitting in a chair he moved to the far side closest to the adjacent sitting room, pulled two chairs at angles away from the table, hopped up, and planted his ass on the solid mahogany. He put a foot each on the angled chairs.

He started to drink.

He held the now cold glass in his hand. This was the other part of his routine. For a long time he couldn’t understand why Kerrick liked his Maker’s and Thorne guzzled Ketel One. Now he got it. Ordinarily, he preferred a fine Cabernet Sauvignon and his own label suited him just fine, but from the third week of Parisa’s abduction, when it became clear she wouldn’t be headed home anytime soon, he’d needed something a little stronger.