“You look like hell,” Seriffe called out.
His mouth was swollen and bleeding. He had a terrible black eye. His hair hung in a mass around his shoulders, no cadroen. He was holding his left arm and his knee was, well, not right. He shouldn’t have been able to walk, but he was, after all, a warrior who had been battling for decades, who was used to a certain level of trauma.
But he didn’t seem concerned about much as he rounded the grid table. His attention was fixed on the intercom since the battle was still going on.
“Bev called for a healer,” she said softly as he drew close.
Jean-Pierre nodded, but he directed his attention to Seriffe. He jerked his head in the direction of the loudspeaker. “How is it going?”
“Good. I think we’re good.”
After a few minutes, all that could be heard was Gideon breathing hard, a good sound since the swords had grown quiet. Fiona listened to every whisper of noise coming from the loudspeakers. A wailing sound. A woman.
Oh, God.
Fiona’s heart began to thump in her chest. Jean-Pierre took another step closer to her. She met his gaze. Tears touched her eyes. Her prayer, however, she sent skyward: Please don’t let anyone be hurt. Please. Please.
But Gideon’s voice whispered over the loudspeaker. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Then nothing. Then, “How many dead?”
Fiona’s chest seized. No. Oh, God, no.
A heavy exhale of air. “All right.” Louder. “Seriffe, we have seven to bring home. One is alive, two barely. The rest are … gone. Fang marks, throat torn. Goddammit.”
Seriffe touched his com. “How many death vamps?”
“Duncan, how we doin’ out there?” A pause.
A very long pause.
Tears started tracking down Fiona’s cheeks. She knew the truth before she heard the words. “Nine death vamps dispatched.” Another long pause. When Gideon spoke next, his voice was hoarse. “We have two Thunder God Warriors wounded. And … shit. Greg is gone, no chance of recovery. Fuck.”
Sometimes the severely wounded could be brought back to life. No chance of recovery meant a mortal wound of grotesque proportion. Fiona knew what that meant. She’d seen death vampires killed in the same manner at the Creator’s Convent.
Her gaze skated to the colonel, Carolyn’s beloved husband, her son-in-law, her family. He was pale, his hands planted on the thick black edge of the grid. He took long, steady breaths, then finally touched his com. “Get everyone home, Gideon. Good job.”
Gideon’s voice, strong and sure, began issuing commands about bringing the wounded back first, of sending the death vamp corpses straight to the MW morgue, of getting the surviving blood slaves over to the rehab center since the facility had an MD on staff, of deciding to send the slain women to the morgue at Central Command. Fiona approved. For whatever reason, she couldn’t bear the thought of the deceased slaves in the same morgue as their killers.
A healer arrived and began working on Jean-Pierre’s arm. The tense lines across his forehead and beside Jean-Pierre’s eyes softened as each second passed. He would be out of pain soon, and he was alive.
Fiona swiped at her cheeks. One truth kept cycling through her mind: that according to Seriffe, he lost Phoenix Two Militia Warriors at the rate of one a week.
Too many.
Too goddam many.
* * *
Casimir lay on Greaves’s black leather couch, in his penthouse in Geneva. He shook from head to toe even though three healers were bent over him, working their magic with powerful hands that emitted warmth and ease. Greaves had enthralled the healers, which meant that once they left the building, they would have no recollection of the experience.
Greaves did possess some quite beautiful telepathic and enthrallment skills. He bordered on a true artist.
“Hold,” Caz called out in a voice that quavered. His body twisted sideways as he leaned over the bowl that Rith, kneeling on the floor, held for him. He vomited yet again, though barely anything came out, just some vile yellow liquid.
Christ, his legs hurt. Of course that’s what happened when a Warrior of the Blood, bearing a number of Third Earth powers, aimed a hand-blast at your shins.
He was still surprised.
Greaves stood behind Rith, his arms over his chest. His lip curled as he stared down at Caz. “Are you ready to tell me what you learned this proud fine evening?”
Caz still couldn’t feel his feet. The muscle and tissue had been burned down to the bone and the healers were rebuilding, so no, he wasn’t exactly up to talking. But he made the effort anyway.
“She was there. I felt her presence. I just never thought … dammit, how the hell did she know where to direct Warrior Jean-Pierre?”
Greaves made a disgusted sound in his throat and turned away, his arms still crossed over his chest. With a thought, he moved one of his chairs closer and sat down. “The woman has power. Obsidian flame, remember? Rith, do get out of the way.”
Rith rose from the floor, but left the bowl behind. He moved to stand behind Greaves.
The million-dollar reward on Rith’s life was all part of an elaborate public relations ruse that Greaves had well under way. Because Rith was just so damn creepy, besides about as trustworthy as a fly promising never to eat shit, Caz wanted him out of the picture, the sooner the better.
Greaves had already reassigned the dying blood acquisition process to several of his subordinates. Greaves had to keep the facilities going since he supplied any number of good citizens of Second Earth not just with the blood that the slaves provided, but with the antidote as well.
Caz thought the overall scheme wonderfully diabolical.
He just didn’t like Rith.
But Greaves had his own timetable for everything, so in the meantime, Caz intended to use Rith to entrap Fiona as soon as he could figure out how to do it without getting his own sweet self killed. Jesus, his legs hurt.
To own the truth, he was just a touch discouraged.
His stomach boiled all over again. “Rith,” he called out.
Rith moved at preternatural speed, fell to his knees, then held the bowl for him once more.
“Hold,” Caz called out. The healers as one leaned back, like three blind mice holding up their little paws.
He vomited into the bowl. He wouldn’t be quite so sick if the smell of his burned flesh hadn’t tainted the air.
“I don’t suppose we could open a window,” he said, arching his neck to look at Greaves.
“If we can tolerate the smell then so can you,” Greaves said.