She continued to shake her head. “No. No. No. I won’t go. No. You can’t make me. No one can make me. I’d rather eat dirt. I’d rather drink Darian’s blood.”
Sister Quena recoiled in horror. “Sister Marguerite! Desist from such vulgarities.”
But Marguerite continued wildly, “No. No. I won’t work with a bunch of old farts in permanent cloister. You can’t make me. You’ll have to kill me first.”
Sister Quena began to flutter around her desk. She levitated. She called out loud incomprehensible things. The room filled with red robes that rushed toward Marguerite and restrained her. She felt hands on her head forcing her back, back, back.
Sister Quena laid a hand over Marguerite’s forehead.
The paralysis came swiftly.
Even her tongue proved immobile. Thorne, she screamed mentally. Nothing returned to her. How could it? She’d never shared her blood with him or the depths of her mind, only her body. He would never be able to find her or hear her or know what she was going through. She was on her own again, alone. She couldn’t bear it.
But there was another who might be able to help. Fiona! she screamed. Help! Fiona, I’m in serious shit! Fiona, you have to help me!
She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t even feel her lungs rise and fall.
“She’s convulsing.”
* * *
Fiona awoke flat on her back, staring up at an emerging dawn, a heavy weight on her chest. The air was cool, even chilly on her face and her shoulders.
She blinked and looked down. Jean-Pierre’s arm was across her. She pushed his arm away, trying to think what had awakened her.
She sat up.
“What is the matter, chérie?”
She glanced at him. He leaned up on one elbow and rubbed his eyes. He rattled off something in French.
“I’m sorry?” she queried.
“Oh. Sometimes when I awaken, French is in my mind. I said, it is dawn already. The warriors would be almost done fighting. Why are you troubled? Did you not sleep well?”
She smoothed the comforter over her lap. “I slept really well, thank you, but I woke up feeling that something was very wrong. I just don’t know what.”
“Try to relax for a moment. Let your thoughts go very loose.”
Fiona released a sigh and closed her eyes. She breathed in the fresh air that smelled of sycamores and Oak Creek. Then, as if from a great distance, she heard a kind of weeping-shrieking sound, very faint, Fiona, help me.
Her eyes popped open. “It’s Marguerite. She’s in trouble.”
“The woman in the Convent? Thorne’s woman?”
“Yes, but her telepathy is so faint. I’m going to try to get closer to her.” Once more she closed her eyes and let her telepathy travel as far as it wanted to go, in the direction it wanted to go.
A moment later she felt herself next to Marguerite. I’m here, she sent.
I’m paralyzed, returned to her.
What do you mean?
I can’t move. I can’t speak aloud. I’m bound in some kind of cloth. I’m in a vehicle of some kind, like an ambulance. Please tell Thorne. I’m being transferred to the Superstition Mountain Seers Fortress.
Oh, no. How is that possible? We’ll let Thorne know. He can talk to Endelle and change this.
A pause followed. Endelle approved this f**king transfer. It was her idea.
Marguerite, I don’t know what to do. How can I help you? Tell me what to do.
Another pause, but this one seemed less frantic, as though there was less telepathic noise in the background. She could feel Marguerite thinking.
Finally, Marguerite sent, Form a telepathic link with me. That way, I can reach you anytime and you can reach me. Will you do that?
Fiona clasped her hands together in her lap and held on tight. Marguerite wanted access to her telepathy day or night. The link would bind them. She didn’t want to be bound. I don’t want to be bound … to anyone. I was a blood slave for a hundred and twenty-five years. I … I don’t know if I can do that.
Another pause. Marguerite’s voice in Fiona’s head was softer this time. I’ve been trapped for a hundred years. I get where you’re coming from. Fuck. Was that a mental sigh that followed? Marguerite continued, I won’t force this on you. I’m so sick of being forced to do all this shit. Owen Stannett was at the Convent earlier. He made me pick up my own future stream ribbon. I hated it, hated being forced to do it. And worse, that ride was so full of f**king symbols that I didn’t get what it meant, red and black flames and a swirling blue high in the sky. I got sucked into that weird vortex. So no, forget the link. Laughter followed. Besides, it sounds like all I have to do is start shrieking your name and you’ll come to me.
Fiona laughed. I think you’re right. But—
But what?
Fiona’s heart started to thump in her chest. She felt dizzy. Did you say black flames?
Red and black. Why? Wait. I remember hearing the words “obsidian flame” in a recent vision. Do you know what this means?
Fiona felt goose bumps travel all over and she shivered. Jean-Pierre moved up behind her and surrounded her with his warm arms. She relaxed against him. He was so damn thoughtful. He really wasn’t helping their present predicament.
But to Marguerite, she took several minutes to explain all about obsidian flame. With Jean-Pierre cuddling her and keeping her warm beneath an ever-lightening sky, she talked about her gold variety and about practicing with Alison; about the recent battle in Honduras and that she had traveled telepathically to Jean-Pierre, even helping him to fight off an attack by an Upper ascender.
Are you with Jean-Pierre? Marguerite asked. I mean, like you’re together? Are you his woman?
Fiona felt a blush bloom on her cheeks. Yes, I guess I am. I don’t want to be. We’re stuck in this breh-hedden thing. Do you know about that?
Yes, and thank God that’s not what’s going on between me and Thorne. Just another way of being trapped if you ask me.
Exactly. Fiona breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, someone got where she was coming from.
Wait a minute, Marguerite sent. Can you describe this Upper ascender? Maybe it’s the same one, I mean the one at the Creator’s Convent.
Fiona looked back at Jean-Pierre, who at that moment leaned down to kiss her bare shoulder. Another set of shivers, different in nature this time, sped down her back. “Jean-Pierre. Stop that.” But even she could tell there was little force behind her command. When he continued, she spoke a little more firmly. “I’m talking to Marguerite. I think she might be the red variety of obsidian flame.”