Wings of Fire

***



How fucking strange.



Medichi stared at the closed door, the carved wood panels that comprised a thick private partition between his room and the rest of the villa.



His arms hung loose at his sides now, like they had nowhere of importance to be. Less than an hour ago, one of his arms had held his woman tight, now he had no woman, just this pit in his chest that had taken the place of his lungs.



Parisa wasn’t completely off base. She had posed at least one rational question. How could either of them know what was real or what was just some bullshit preternatural creation of the breh-hedden?



There was just one problem.



He pulled her pillow up to his nose and smelled. Tangerine. The whole time she’d been talking and arguing and looking edible with just a black towel around her luscious body, the whole time she’d been yelling, he’d been hard as a rock and ready for her. Goddamn breh-hedden.



On the other hand, he took a deep breath and admitted the other truth, the one that lurked in the back of his head: He was just a little bit relieved that she wasn’t here, wasn’t beside him, wasn’t reminding him of his new duty as a Guardian of Ascension, as her breh.



Fuck. Him. Because he almost smiled.



Relief flowed through him like a dam had just given way.



He was free.



Shit. He was free and he loved it, bastard that he was. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He cared about Parisa. He really did. Or maybe it was just that he felt he should care about her.



But time peeled away in a great rush and as had happened a thousand times since his ascension so many centuries ago, the image of his wife in his arms, bleeding her life away, beat the shit out of him.



He understood then what haunted him about Parisa, about how protective he felt toward her, about how the breh-hedden had fucked him over. He’d lived a relatively secure life in his Italian world. His family had owned a small country house for over a century and had worked their vineyards and olive groves for multiple centuries before that.



So when the enemy came, he’d been unprepared. He wasn’t responsible in the sense that he had failed to do a soldier’s duty. He’d failed because he was a man, not a soldier, and overtaken by superior numbers and weaponry.



But now he was a warrior, seasoned and powerful, and he’d already lost Parisa once while under his protection.



She had been returned to him and in the overwhelming aftermath, the pure heady relief of having her under his roof once more, he’d been unable to stay away from her. He’d needed her in his bed, needed to bury himself inside her, to feel that she was truly alive and safe in his care.



In his care.



She didn’t want to be in his care.



She wanted to be as free of the breh-hedden as he did. She wanted her freedom. He wanted to be free of the guilt of keeping her safe when he knew damn well that was an impossible task. He’d already failed once. He would again.



So … shit.



He could train her, though. He could continue to layer skill upon self-defense skill. He could help her with flying, with the dagger and sword. He could teach her more about her shields and how to withstand Rith’s attempts to enthrall her.



Yes, he could do that.



But would it be enough?



This was a world at war.



Nothing would ever be enough until Greaves was dead and buried and his emerging empire crushed.



But how the hell would that ever happen?



The first path seduces by promise,



The second appeals to pride,



But the worthy path demands surrender.



—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth



Chapter 16



When Parisa left Antony’s bedroom, she made her way to her original guest room because it was familiar, most of her clothes were still there, and she was really upset.



She got dressed in jeans and a cherry-red silk tank top as her mind spun in circle after circle trying to make sense of the stupid breh-hedden, and the hunky man naked in bed at the end of the villa, and how her body kept crying out for him.



She was reeling and she knew it. She also knew something else. If she didn’t let this out, she’d go crazy. But who could she talk to? Right now, it couldn’t be Antony. The truth was, the whole time he’d been sitting up in bed, he’d shed his sage like a spice grinder; leaving his room had been a supreme act of will.



Her thoughts turned to Havily. Yes, Havily.



She left the guest room and headed to the leather-and-book haven to make her phone call.



Havily, bless her, said she’d be at the villa in five minutes and she’d bring coffee.



While Parisa waited, she opened her voyeur window, thought of Fiona, and made a swift check of the room. The windows were still really light. She closed the window and as before with just a sneak-peek, no pain. Well, at least that was something.



She made her way to the foyer, barefoot, and waited. A few minutes later, there she was, the red-headed beauty, and Parisa’s first ascended girlfriend.



The relief she felt was surprising but if anyone might know what she was going through, it was Havily. Three months ago, Havily had walked through her own private breh-hedden heaven-and-hell combo.



With a mug of coffee in hand, Havily suggested a walk through the formal garden. It was still hot for September, but Parisa didn’t care. It was just great to be with a friend, to be outdoors, to be chatting about the weather, about the flowers, about nothing important.



Parisa walked on as many of the grassy portions of the garden as she could find. Sometimes she had to step onto gravel, but mostly she found lawn to cross.



Havily asked to hear her version of what happened at the Toulouse farmhouse. Parisa told her from beginning to end.



“To have come so close to rescuing Fiona, to have seen her, and to have watched Rith drag her away, you must be really upset.”



“I am. Jean-Pierre almost had him but Rith blocked the trace.”



Havily whistled. “That is a lot of power. As far as I know, none of the Warriors of the Blood can block a trace.” She was quiet for a moment then asked, “How did Jean-Pierre take it? I mean none of the warriors likes to fail … at anything.”



Parisa glanced at her, uncertain what she should say. “I’m not sure if I should tell you, but I have a feeling Marcus will know by the end of the day anyway.”



Havily stopped her with a gentle hand pressed to the inside of her elbow. “What happened?”



Parisa shook her head. “It was the breh-hedden.”



“What?” Havily cried. “You mean, Jean-Pierre?”



Parisa nodded. She let her friend figure the rest out.



Havily gasped. “Fiona? The blood slave?”



“Exactly. Do you remember when I was first voyeuring Fiona in the library? You were there and you were standing next to Jean-Pierre.”



“Yes. Oh, now I remember. He asked if someone was baking something.”



Parisa nodded. “He said he smelled croissants.”



Havily bit her lip. “Croissants?” She chuckled. “Oh, I know it isn’t funny. The breh-hedden has its truly horrible moments, but these scents are ridiculous and so…” She waved her hand in the air.



Erotic. That’s what Parisa thought but she didn’t want to say it aloud. She knew by the faint flush on Havily’s usually creamy cheeks that her thoughts had taken a similar turn. Parisa knew that Marcus, for Havily, smelled of fennel, which Parisa couldn’t imagine being in the least seductive. But then until she’d caught Medichi’s sage scent, never would she have thought to experience such terrible need from a spice reminiscent of poultry and Thanksgiving, for God’s sake.



“Wow,” Havily murmured. “So, the breh-hedden strikes again. Do you realize that makes four warriors? Four!”



Parisa shook her head. She let Havily move into the next garden room beneath an arch bearing a vine covered with lavender flowers that were a unique shape, sort of curled in on themselves.



The next room bore white flowers on varying shrubs and smaller plants: roses, white lantana, even star jasmine that climbed a half dozen trellises at evenly spaced intervals.



“Jean-Pierre must be going mad by now,” Havily whispered, as though speaking aloud would somehow wound the absent warrior.



“I hadn’t thought of that. I’ve had my own troubles this afternoon.”



“Uh-oh. I recognize that tone of voice. So, what happened, girlfriend?”



“What do you mean, what happened?” Parisa knew her voice sounded strange, even shrill. She had never been good at lying.



“Come on. Talk to me. It doesn’t take advanced preternatural power to get a phone call from you and not know something was going on. Besides, you kind of have break-up written all over you, and I so get that.”



“You do?”



Havily laughed. “What did you think? That the breh-hedden hit me and I opened my arms wide and that was it? I fought it tooth-and-nail for a good long while.”



“I think I hurt Antony.”



Havily smiled.



“What? Why are you smiling?”



“Oh, it’s not what you think. I just love that you call him Antony. No one does, you know, except me. Alison has started doing it as well, but that’s it. Endelle calls him ‘asshole’ like she does all the warriors. Otherwise, he’s been Medichi, I think since the day he ascended. Of course, I don’t know for sure. I’ve only been here a century.”



“Wow. A century. You’ve seen a lot, then.” She took another sip. Coffee always cooled down too quickly. She preferred it so searing hot that she had to sip to keep from burning her tongue.



“I don’t intend to guilt you by saying this, but I have loved seeing Antony with you. Marcus said he’s never even had a girlfriend in all this time, all these centuries.”



At that, Parisa stopped. “What do you mean? As in never?”



“As in never. As in, he’s been shut down since he ascended. Oh, he gets laid plenty. All the Warriors of the Blood do. That’s what that wretched club is for, the one in south Phoenix.”



“The Blood and Bite.”



Havily shuddered.