The experience had become far easier than she’d imagined because no one paid her the least attention. Why would they when she sat next to Endelle?
The Supreme High Administrator of Second Earth wore a turquoise sequined gown cut to her navel and split up each thigh mid-hip. A necklace of chunks of white crystals weighed down her chest.
But it was her headpiece that caught everyone’s eye: a massive crown of peacock feathers backed by white ostrich feathers.
Vela loved it, the constant irreverence of Endelle’s absurd fashions, the way she basically said, ‘fuck off’ with every turn of her head, every hard laughing cast of her eye in the direction of a disapproving royal.
“You love this, don’t you?” Vela asked.
Endelle turned her head slowly, her strange wood-lined eyes meeting and holding Vela’s gaze. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve learned to make do in a way that keeps your head straight.” She nodded, the feathers sweeping back-and-forth with the slow movement.
“You have some understanding then, because you called it exactly right. We’ll need their alliance in the future, these royals I mean. But I want you to see the truth, so watch what happens.” She waved her hand in the direction of the audience, a more formal turn of her wrist than Vela would have expected from her.
Since all eyes were on Endelle anyway, a smattering of applause began, then more and more, until one after the other the audience rose to its feet, each person turned toward her, clapping vigorously.
Vela admitted she was surprised, and making use of her newly gained powers, she extended her senses and felt the truth that Madame Endelle wanted her to know: these people loved her and valued her, despite her absurdity.
Vela rose to her feet as well and added to the flow of admiration.
After a good long minute, Endelle waved her hands, indicating the ruckus should stop, and just as the last sound of applause died away, the lights dimmed.
“Endelle.” Vela turned and gasped.
Braulio.
“Well, where the f**k have you been?” Endelle asked, keeping her voice low as the orchestra conductor took his place in the pit.
“I’m on my three-minute clock again, my sweet, on a new assignment and the council only allowed this one visit because I refused to take another step without at least talking to you.”
“What’s going on?” Her voice much softer this time.
He reached toward her and put his hand on her shoulder. Leaning down from behind her chair, he kissed her once, then met her gaze. “You probably already know since you’ve just felt the initial rumblings of trouble.” He glanced at Vela, then back.
Endelle’s shoulders sank low. “Third is revving up.”
“About ready to explode. We’re in it again, but be patient.” Endelle snorted. “Do I have a choice about this?”
“No more than I do.”
“You can’t stand up to the council?” His gaze shifted away.
“That’s what I thought.” She sounded resigned.
He kissed her again and Vela leaned away, trying to give them some privacy but the chairs were smack dab together.
She focused on the film crews in three stations around the theater. When Endelle made mewling sounds, Vela concentrated on the beautiful mural of the Superstition Mountain monolith, with a starry night sky, that extended across the back of the stage. Apparently, Endelle had insisted that if she had to defer to those stick-up-their-butts that still called themselves European royalty in this modern age, then she wanted a mural of what she loved best about living in the desert.
When at last he pulled back, he apologized to Vela for being so rude.
To Endelle, he said, “I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” He started to lift his arm, and as though just remembering, he narrowed his gaze at Endelle. “And you tell that ass**le, Merl Tuttle, to stay away from you or by all Six dimensions, I’ll cut off his jewels and feed them down his throat.” Then he lifted his arm and vanished.
Vela put a hand over her mouth. The imagery alone had left her shaken.
She glanced at Endelle who blinked a couple of times then met Vela’s gaze.
“Well, that was a surprise.” But a soft smile curved her lips.
The conductor lifted his arms, baton in hand, and a full orchestra started playing Holtz’s ‘Mars’, a dynamic piece that reflected the extraordinary Warriors of the Blood.
All the What-Bees were present under one roof. Vela might have been worried about security, but Colonel Seriffe and his staff had the event well-in- hand and with Sharav dead and the Illinois Seers palace destroyed, Vela had confidence in the safety around her.
In addition, the women of obsidian flame, Fiona, Grace, and a very pregnant Marguerite, were on hand, ready to form their unusual triad of power. If any of the generals chose this night to attack, they’d be in for it.
At all five Phoenix Metro Borderlands, Gideon had everything under control, having assigned twelve squads at each site. Though he battled at Warrior of the Blood level, both Luken and Seriffe wanted him to serve as Second-in- Command of the Militia Warriors, especially since, for the past year the Thunder God Warriors had served at the Borderlands in increasing numbers. And Gideon had always indicated his preference to remain at Apache Junction HQ.
As the music swelled and one by one, the warriors took the stage, the audience began to applaud until once more everyone had gained their feet. Vela didn’t know which was louder: the applause or the music. Either way, chills ran up and down her arms and her heart filled with all the appreciation she felt for the sacrifices these men had made for centuries.
Kerrick led the way, with Alison on his arm.
Marcus followed with Havily.
Antony Medichi with Parisa.
Fiona, her pregnancy just announced, held tightly to Jean-Pierre’s arm.
Thorne formed the apex at the top of the stage of the original nine, his arm around Marguerite’s waist.
Leto came forward from the opposite side of the stage, Grace on his arm.
Luken after him, with Warrior Zacharius and finally, Santiago.
Wearing ceremonial black tunics, brass breastplates and capes with the right side flipped over the shoulder, the men looked like soldiers from ancient Rome.
They wore a sleeker version of battle sandals, with silver moldings and tight shin-guards.
Vela put a hand to her stomach and forced herself to breathe. The level of sheer preternatural power on the stage rolled over her, sending electric shocks through her system. She worked hard to keep tears tumbling down her cheeks, but they fell anyway.