“And you think this is serious?”
“I know it is.” She let her gaze fall to his chest. His tank was cut low so that she had a view of the swell of his pecs and the fine hairs on his chest.
She didn’t want to say the rest—that she also suspected she would be able to see the hidden part of the vision if she had help. She would have to involve another Seer in the situation, to engage with another Seer in the future streams, to create a connection that she did not want to create.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want this to be happening, for aggressive visions to be the reality of her life; she hated that she had been thrust onto the stage of world events because she was a Seer of great power and because she was obsidian flame.
But there was another truth here, a very dark one. She didn’t have to respond to this vision and she didn’t have to take her place in ascended society. She had a choice. She really did. She could go her own path, especially now that she would be free of the crashing visions. She had control.
She still had a chance at the life she’d dreamed of for so long, she really did. She could taste it. All she had to do was back away from this, not take it to the next level, a level she saw so clearly it made her dizzy.
But what would happen to Grace if she failed to act?
Truth? She didn’t know for sure, but it wouldn’t be good.
Her gaze fell to the carpet. She was only faintly aware that she was breathing hard.
She put a hand to her forehead.
“Marguerite, what’s wrong?”
The next level.
Connection. That thing she despised.
She wanted her freedom.
One obscenity after another rolled through her head. Though she remained physically close to Thorne, in her mind she was mounting her wings and flying up and up and up, into the stratosphere. Never mind that she couldn’t breathe or that her wings were icing over.
Oh, God, this could not be happening. She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t want this, not even a little. She was at a crossroads and the choice was simple: either go forward with what she knew to do and save Grace and how many other devotiates, or leave this colony right now, live her life the way she wanted to live it, embrace her freedom.
She didn’t want this. It wasn’t fair.
“Marguerite, talk to me.”
She pulled back. Her gaze fell to his arms and to the blood now dried in swaths where her long nails had pierced him and her fingers had slid around. It looked like a child had finger-painted on him.
But Grace was her friend and she would die if Marguerite didn’t act. She could feel it now in her bones. This much she knew, this much Stannett couldn’t hide from her, that Grace would die this very night without her help.
The next breath she drew had a singing quality, part hiss, part gasp.
In the end, however, there was no choice, no choice at all. Grace was her friend, had helped keep her sane, had shown her respect when everyone else was afraid to. Only Grace had stood up to Sister Quena on Marguerite’s behalf.
Though her heart was breaking because the freedom she had fought for was now disappearing, she lifted her gaze to Thorne. “I need to reach pure vision and I need to do it now. If we want to save your sister, and the other devotiates in the Convent, I have to reach pure vision.”
“Oh, God. What do we do? Do you need Fiona?”
She shook her head. “I’ve thought of her, of course, but I know that for what I need to accomplish, only another Seer will do. I need Brynna. I need you to go to the club and bring her back here. Will you do that for me?”
Thorne met her gaze squarely and dipped his chin a little. He nodded. “I’ll be right-fucking-back.”
As he lifted his arm and vanished, she drew in a deep breath. What did it say about him that he simply stared into her eyes, made an assessment, and took charge? That familiar swelling in her chest happened again, the sure knowledge that she loved him and trusted him.
But did he understand even a little what she was giving up tonight, forever?
Would anyone?
You are beloved.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 11
Thorne had needed every ounce of patience he’d learned over the past two millennia in order not to push Marguerite. He had felt her restraint and he knew something was terribly wrong, but he hadn’t been a leader of men and women, of powerful warriors and powerful vampires, without having come to recognize a pivotal moment, a moment of dynamic change.
He had feared the worst when she had hesitated: that she wouldn’t be able to make the leap, wouldn’t be able to accept and embrace the challenge in front of her. No, he didn’t comprehend the scope of what she was going through, but he felt the weight of it, the size of it. After all, he had pierced the sheath protecting her obsidian flame power and he had hurt her. The entire experience had spoken the truth to him about who she was when it came to her most essential courage and what she was going through.
But the nature of the broken vision had stalled her out, had meant something terrible to her—a personal loss so great that she couldn’t even speak her thoughts out loud. He’d been tempted to steal inside her mind and read exactly what was going on, but that was a violation he would never commit.
So he had waited. And she had chosen.
She had chosen for Grace and for the Convent devotiates.
She had chosen against her life of freedom.
He folded directly to the club and found Brynna half sloshed with four empty tumblers in front of her. He leaned down to her and looked her in the eyes. “Marguerite needs you. She asked for you specifically. Will you come with me?”
Brynna squinted. “Goddamn, you are so handsome. Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. Okay, yeah, sure.” She turned to the other Seer with the red hair. “I have to go. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Marguerite and this hunk need me. Maybe a threesome!” She laughed at her joke then turned serious eyes on Thorne. “I don’t do threesomes.”
He had another quelling moment of fear. Would Brynna be of the least use in this state?
Well, he hoped like hell a few fingers of vodka wouldn’t matter.
“I’m going to fold you out of here. You ready?”
“Sure. Fold away, gorgeous.”
He thought the thought, and the next moment they were back in the bedroom. Marguerite was outside on the patio, standing in the cold in her bare feet, her jeans, and her red sweatshirt. He felt her sadness, a deep pain that he would probably never understand. But she was so young by ascended standards, just a little over a century, and her life thus far had been brutal on many levels.