He picked up the fork and the broken bits of his plate, fully aware that his hands shook. He scooped the leftover pasta onto the largest pieces. He headed back to the kitchen. He didn’t think he wanted to keep watching the flight training, for several reasons, least of which was that he never mounted his wings in front of other people and the only way he’d be able to be of use to Parisa was if he did. So … shit.
The sun was setting and he’d be assigned to one of the Borderlands in just a little while to do the usual. Right now, no doubt the rest of his brothers were at the Blood and Bite, enjoying a final drink and taking a romp in the red velvet booths, all except Kerrick of course. He’d be at his mansion, with his breh, doing exactly what Medichi wanted to be doing with Parisa.
Whatever.
When he’d disposed of the pieces of stoneware, he put the fork in the dishwasher and washed and rinsed the goblet. Afterward, he moved in the direction of his rooms at the south end of the villa.
As he walked down the central corridor and glanced through the windows that faced the front lawn, he caught glimpses of the fliers. Parisa, despite the recent near-miss, was back in the skies. He liked that a lot. The woman was tenacious. She’d already moved past at least two minor traumas and gotten back on the horse. Good for her.
But when he heard her laughter, dammit his heart hurt.
He turned away from the sound and moved with preternatural speed the rest of the distance to his bedroom. He shut the door a little too hard. The frame rattled in protest.
Shit.
He folded off his jeans and T-shirt. He walked into the expansive master bath, all glossy black marble. He stared at himself in the mirror, not looking into his eyes. He knew what he’d see there, the great loss of his life, too enormous to permit another love to pierce his past failures.
Now she was here, the woman meant for him in the second dimension, the one he had never believed existed, not even after Kerrick had been hit with the breh-hedden, not even after he’d dragged a crazed Marcus off Havily four months ago. But she was here and his soul cried out for her.
But the reality of his life, of his history, was much more powerful than any bizarre warrior myth. The last thing he could ever do was allow Parisa into his life.
He turned slightly so that he could see the scars that crisscrossed his back, the hundred slices of leather whipped over his skin, cutting him while he heard not his screams but those of his wife, raped at his feet, her belly full of a child that died within her womb as she died. No, the breh-hedden was nothing to these truths.
But despite this reality, he felt the cramping of his wing-locks. He hadn’t released his wings in almost two weeks, so the need had grown profound. For whatever reason, wings needed to be mounted on a regular basis.
He had hoped the scar tissue would in time disappear in his ascended life, but it hadn’t. His wing-locks, however, had made all the necessary adjustments, and a year after his ascension he’d mounted his wings for the first time. He allowed his wings to release now. They were enormous, a match for his considerable height, almost as expansive as Endelle’s, the apex reaching to the fifteen-foot ceiling above.
They were cream in color, the same as Parisa’s wings.
They had three bands at the tips, just like Parisa’s.
And just like the ascendiate’s, the bands were gold, violet, and black.
So, yeah, he had royle wings, just like Parisa.
So, shit.
The bands meant that both he and Parisa, however much they were separated by centuries, had some connection with ancient ascenders, in particular with the first ascender, Luchianne. He knew of the myths surrounding royle wings, but in his opinion that’s all they were, myths, children’s stories of how royle wings could bring peace to a land, to all of Second Earth. Was it significant that he and Parisa shared identical wings? He didn’t know except that it was extremely rare in the vampire world. Right now he chose to think of it as a coincidence, nothing more.
He remained still for a few minutes to give his wings a chance to breathe and to relax. He flew regularly, usually on his estate beneath a cloak of mist. He kept in practice in the same way he worked out with weights and on treadmills. He may never have mounted his wings in front of his warrior brothers, or anyone else, but he had always thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should be capable of flight no matter what.
After a few minutes, he drew his wings back into his wing-locks then dressed in his form of traditional battle gear: black cargo pants, a heavy-duty black T-shirt, steel-toed boots, and black silver-studded wrist guards. He also wore the same weapons harness as the other warriors so he could have a dagger on his chest ready for battle.
He had just made it to the front patio, where Marcus reclined watching the show and the landscaping lights had just come on, when Havily cried out. “Parisa, stop! Not past the mist!”
But her warning was too late and Parisa, clearly exhilarated by the experience, shot through the boundary.
Medichi’s heart fired up. He knew what no doubt waited somewhere beyond the edges of his property. Thorne had already texted him with the warning of death vampires near all the warriors’ properties and hangouts.
He knew what would follow.
He folded his sword into his hand as Marcus leaped out of his chair, folded off his shirt, and mounted his wings. Marcus was in the air, sword in hand before Medichi had taken three steps forward.
Damn, the vampire was fast, even after two hundred years on Mortal Earth.
Forgetting
Brings destruction
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 16
Marcus hadn’t waited. The moment Parisa left the protection of the dome of mist, he knew exactly what would happen. He plowed through the air and was beside Parisa within the space of three seconds. Not f**king bad.
Despite his efforts, however, once he was guiding a startled Parisa back toward the mist, with Havily on the other side of her, the worst had already happened. She’d been spotted by the enemy.
Dammit. The breach in the mist would no longer offer the necessary protection, not until Endelle could do the repair, which meant someone had to contact her. Right now there was no time even for that.
Three squads of death vampires, and that bastard, Crace, headed straight for them. So, yeah, the warriors’ estates had been under surveillance for signs of the ascendiate, which of course meant that Greaves wanted Parisa bad.
As he flew back through the mist, he shouted at Medichi, “Thirteen incoming.”
“Bring the women to me,” Medichi returned, his voice booming across the airspace. Marcus still had hold of Parisa’s hand and, as soon as he drew near the patio, he took both of her hands, popped his wings into parachute mode, and brought her squarely to earth. “Draw your wings in as fast as you can,” he cried. He didn’t want to think how hard that was going to be since her eyes were the size of saucers.