Therein lay the difference between a dictatorship and a democracy. Greaves could do whatever the hell he wanted, but Endelle was bound not just by the laws of the land, but also by the ingrained rights of the local High Administrators to manage their Territories as each saw fit. Autonomy was a critical factor in creating a thriving world, both economically and politically. Every Seers Fortress had an allegiance first to its High Administrator and to the local needs of the people. Endelle could request information, but the High Administrators could respond in whatever way they felt was best for their people. So global Seer information for Endelle was much less reliable. Without her Superstition Fortress prophecies, she was up shit creek without a f**king paddle.
To say Medichi loathed Stannett was to say the sun was warm. Loathed was too small a word because in the beautiful way power plays trickled down and down and down, mortals and ascenders died every day as a result of the war, of the heinous depredations of Greaves’s ever-increasing death vampire army, and of the lack of information Endelle needed to counter the enemy’s Seer-based moves.
The question of the hour remained: What the hell was Owen Stannett doing in Endelle’s office?
He was dressed in heavily embroidered white leather, complete with fringe, like a Las Vegas lounge entertainer. He had styled his dark brown hair with a lot of mousse into a lovely wave that rode the entire right side of his head. He met Medichi’s gaze, unsmiling.
The next moment a shimmering in the air brought Medichi whirling in the direction of the latest arrival. He crouched, brought his sword to the ready, and waited.
Thorne.
Thank God.
Medichi could breathe again, but he said, “Look who’s showed up, after how many decades of playing hide-the-Seer in the Superstitions.”
Thorne dipped his chin to Medichi but shifted all his attention to the man by the fireplace. “Stannett.” He offered a nod that was polite and challenging at the same time.
Stannett had the balls to make a slight bow, as though he were at the court of Queen f**king Victoria. “Warrior Thorne” eased from between the snake’s smooth lips.
Medichi addressed Stannett and expressed his deepest convictions: “What the hell do you want, you motherfucking sonofabitch?”
Stannett spread his hands wide. “I come in peace this evening, Warrior Medichi. I need you to believe that.”
He looked and sounded so sincere. Medichi hated that smug bastard’s face. The night was young and had already been full of death vampires and battle and this ass**le had the nerve to say he came in peace? Did he not comprehend his role in the f**king war? Or what his actions had cost the world?
Medichi’s heavy arms jerked and twitched. He was just short enough on sleep and patience that he didn’t exactly have the ability to suppress the impulse. He launched at Stannett ready to tear apart all that fine leather and anything else he could get at, preferably the vampire’s slimy heart.
He didn’t get far. Though Owen backed up against the fireplace, and actually looked frightened, Thorne had moved with preternatural speed and now stood between Medichi and his quarry, blocking him, protecting Stannett.
Medichi was powerful, one of the most physically powerful men on Second Earth. Even Thorne couldn’t match him muscle for muscle. But then Thorne didn’t need to. He had one hand on Medichi’s chest and was pushing him backward, not by might, but by wave after wave of modified hand-blast energy. Jesus H. Christ, Medichi couldn’t imagine the level of power required to control a hand-blast like this. It didn’t exactly hurt, but the pulses shoved him backward one step at a time.
“You’re not helping,” Thorne said. “You’re. Not. Helping.” He repeated it until Medichi calmed the hell down.
Medichi was breathing hard, one breath after another. He saw red as he glared at Owen.
Thorne got into Medichi’s face. “You calm now, buddy? If I take my hand away, you gonna stand right there and be good for me? Look at me.”
Medichi finally shifted his gaze away from Owen and blinked at Thorne. “Sure,” he said.
Thorne wasn’t buying. “You want to try that again?”
“If you let me at him, I can make him talk,” Medichi said quietly. Every muscle in his body was jumping.
“Stannett will fold out of here before you can touch him, you know that.” He sounded so reasonable. “And you won’t be able to follow him to the fortress. He can block a trace just like Rith. Would you use your head? Just for one little minute?”
Medichi wasn’t insulted—not when Thorne was right. From the second he’d realized he’d been staring at a time-delayed hologram of Parisa, that Rith had abducted his woman essentially right from under his nose, Medichi had lost a good portion of his rational mind. He was more beast than man, the darkest parts of his ascended vampire nature in the fore.
Why wouldn’t he be? Parisa had been gone from him for three months and guilt was like a gut-eating worm in his soul. Sure, Jeannie might get a fix on her at any time now, but it didn’t change what had happened.
Thorne cupped the back of his neck and held his gaze in a hard stare. “Stannett has critical information about the war straight from his most powerful Seer. All right? If you pull another stunt like this one, I’ll have to take you out of here, but the bottom line is that Stannett requested your presence.”
Medichi frowned. “He did?”
“Yeah. So, how about you pull it together.”
“Yes, Warrior Medichi,” Stannett said. “I have news that concerns you as well as the woman, the mortal-with-wings.”
Medichi grew very still as these words settled into his brain. All the previous jumping and twitching melted away along with his urge to pound his fist into Stannett’s pretty face.
“We good now?” Thorne asked. He commanded the Warriors of the Blood for a reason. He was damn powerful. Then Thorne smiled, a little off to the side of his mouth. “Yeah, I want to kill him, too, but we can’t do it just yet. Not if he knows anything that will help us keep Greaves from taking over Second Earth.”
Something inside Medichi finally let go. His next breath came from way down deep, and his shoulders settled down. Shit, they’d been tightened into a pair of bowling balls.
He glanced at the High Administrator of the Superstition Seers Fortress. “Sorry, Stannett. Lost my head.”
Endelle decided to enter the conversation. “Why don’t you just tell Medichi what you told me.”