Jean-Pierre clamped his shoulder, shook his head back and forth. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Merci, Jean.”
“Oui. Oui.” The Frenchman nodded several times then finally just threw his arms around Medichi.
Jean-Pierre, at six-five, was the same height as Marcus. He had long wavy brown hair, on the light side. His hair tended to escape the cadroen and frame his face in loose curls, which the women loved. His eyes were greenish gray, the color of the ocean. He was probably the leanest of the warriors, but f**king strong. Women were known to swoon over the bastard, especially when he whispered soft French into willing ears.
The cadroens he used were strips of varying pastel brocade, hand-sewn to his specifications with combs, tied in a bow, an affectation he’d adopted at the French court and refused to give up. He had been an acquaintance—though not a lover—of Marie Antoinette. During those years, he had developed a serious and dangerous love for the political discussion of the day. In an act that had terrorized an enormous crowd, he’d dematerialized off the guillotine in 1793.
Non, he had not known of this power. Oui, he had made his way, just as Medichi had all those centuries earlier, to the European Borderland outside Rome, to begin his ascension process.
Of all the warriors, Jean-Pierre had been Medichi’s biggest support during the last three months. When the music turned off, Medichi told him of tracking the death vamp to the Grand Canyon, Mortal Earth.
But when he finished the story, he added, “One more thing, mon ami. I’m telling everyone tonight.”
Jean-Pierre frowned. “About your wings? Why you will not fly with any of us?”
Medichi nodded.
“Mon dieu, but I am glad of it. Will you fly in battle from this night on?”
“Yes. That’s the idea, especially since we could get a call any time now from Central. When we head to Burma, I’ll want to be ready to mount my wings.”
“Bon.” He nodded several times.
Medichi turned around, took a deep breath, lowered his chin, and charted a course for the bar. Despite the six-deep bank of Militia Warriors, his height parted the crowd as if he had a ten-foot iron prow before him.
The brothers were there in full battle gear, Marcus included. Their uniform was meant for the hot desert temps: leather kilts, weapons harnesses with a leather strap down the back that allowed for wing release, heavy sandals, black shin guards, and silver-studded leather wrist guards. Thorne sat in his usual location at the top of the bar, with a hand on Luken’s back. He ran the hand low to the waist, inspecting. “Jesus,” Thorne muttered. “Not a single damn scar from those burns. A-fucking-mazing.”
Luken grinned. Three months ago he’d been caught by an incendiary bomb while out fighting at the Superstitions. His wings had been burned off, but fortunately they’d regenerated and he’d been on flight duty ever since, like the rest of the brothers. Now the last of his scarring had apparently faded.
He headed toward the second duo, Kerrick and Marcus. The latter only fought two nights a week; the rest of the time he served as High Administrator of Southwest Desert Two. He’d taken a huge load off Endelle. Funny how that still hadn’t improved her temper.
The two men had been enemies for the past two hundred years, but all that had been resolved. Now they were inseparable.
Marcus sat with his full attention fixed on Kerrick. Yeah, the two shared something in common—they’d both bonded with their brehs.
Marcus frowned at Kerrick. “What the hell did you do to your forehead?”
Kerrick rubbed above his right eyebrow and grimaced. “What, this?” Color crept up his neck. “Alison threw a shoe at me. She’s not exactly been herself lately.”
Marcus leaned back and laughed. “She’s very pregnant these days. Whadya do? Tell her she looked fat, you dumbfuck? I’da thrown a shoe as well.”
Kerrick sighed. “I know better than that. She was wincing and I asked if she was all right.”
“Huh.” Marcus frowned. “Maybe it was your tone. Sometimes they get mad because of tone.”
Kerrick just sighed again and rubbed the bump.
In other circumstances, Medichi could have appreciated the exchange—he’d been married once. But the sight of both men, happily bonded, their brehs safe, made his stomach loop into a very complicated figure-eight.
His gaze shifted to the right. There was Santiago, holding up a cocktail napkin to Zacharius. On it was a sketch of a dagger.
“Longer,” Zach said. “I still think it should be longer.”
Santiago chortled. “That is what all the women say.”
Zach rolled his eyes. “You are so full of shit.”
Medichi actually smiled at the joke. He couldn’t even remember the last time that had happened, but then again he’d gotten good news today. He moved in and clapped each one on the shoulder. “How we doin’?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer but jerked his chin at Sam. “Limoncello,” he called out.
Sam nodded once, flung a clean white towel over his shoulder, gave a snap of his suspenders, and bent over to open the small fridge behind the counter.
Both warriors, still seated, looked up at Medichi.
“Hey,” Zach cried, “Thorne told us your news. This is f**king great.”
And that’s all it took. The warriors rose off the bar stools, one huge-ass swarm of lethal warrior bodies, palms and fists pummeling him.
For some goddamn reason Medichi’s eyes burned.
Marcus pushed his hair back. It had grown longer in the past three months, down to his shoulders now but still not long enough for the cadroen. “So, we sit tight until the grid at Central finds something we can investigate.”
“Actually, we’re using Seriffe’s grid, the one at Militia headquarters. Jeannie’s watching for blue-bastards, as usual.”
Marcus sighed. Heavily. He shook his head. “We’re getting our asses kicked,” he muttered. As an administrator, he always had his eye on the larger problem: how to gain the upper hand over Greaves.
Medichi glanced past his friend and took the cold glass of limoncello that Sam held up. He drew the glass close, squeezed his eyes shut, and took a long drink.
His heart was thumping hard. The time had come to do what he should have done centuries ago.
When he opened his eyes, he looked straight at Thorne and said, “I need to see all of you at the Cave before we head out to the Borderlands tonight.” His gaze skated to Marcus, willing him to understand what he intended to do. It didn’t take Marcus more than a couple of seconds. He nodded and a faint smile touched his lips.