Obsidian Flame

He slid his phone into the narrow slit at the waistband of his kilt and turned in a circle, surprised that Marguerite had left the room. “We need to go,” he called out.



She folded in front of him. She now wore a flight suit in a deep red, almost burgundy color. “Where did you get that?”



“I contacted Brynna”—she tapped her head—“and she just sent it over. It bags a little around the ankles because the woman’s an Amazon, but otherwise, I’m good.”



He could see that she was.



“Let’s go.” He put a hand on Marguerite’s shoulder and thought the thought. The trip through nether-space, an entire dimension, took a little longer, an extended blinking-out then sudden awareness as his feet touched down and he released her.



“What is the meaning of this?” Sister Quena glared at Thorne then Marguerite. But when she caught sight of the latter in a flight suit, her expression turned to a sneer.



How had Marguerite tolerated this woman’s domination for all those decades?



Before Sister Quena could begin her tirade, however, he said, “Your Convent will be under death vampire attack in approximately four minutes. If you have a lockdown drill, implement it now, or many of your devotiates will die tonight. Your choice, Madame High Administrator.”



Whatever else the woman might be, she was a ruler first.



She reached beneath her desk and clearly pressed a button because a split second later, bells rang shrilly and at sharp intervals, echoing from one end of the long building to the other. Beyond the door to her office, he could hear soft-padded running—but not a single spoken word or cry of alarm.



He glanced at Marguerite. She sent, We had regular drills. No one will be the wiser as to what’s really happening. Everyone will obey.



He nodded. He despised the methods used to exact this kind of discipline, but in a moment like this one, he valued the result because lives would be spared.



The air shimmered and by long habit, even though he knew who was coming, he stepped away from Marguerite and folded his sword into his hand. He crouched.



Luken arrived first, sweating, blood-spattered. Bits of black feathers stuck to his arms. “Thorne,” he murmured. His light blue eyes had a haunted look. We need you, came rushing into Thorne’s head, followed by, Sorry, boss. We’re good. He nodded several times, but he flashed his sword into his hand as well. “We under attack?”



“Yes. I’ve summoned Santiago and Zach.”



“They’re feuding.”



“I know.”



Nothing more was said.



Sister Quena stood tall and straight-backed behind her desk, very serious. She had a clicker in her hand and pointed it in the direction of a bank of monitors on the west wall. She clicked one after the other. Security cameras popped online. There were at least a dozen of them.



Thorne shifted his attention and his gaze moved briskly from one to the next. All the areas of the Convent were clear.



The air shimmered once more, on opposite sides of the room. Thorne dropped into yet another protective crouch, stepping between the closest shimmer and Marguerite. Luken matched his movements.



Zach and Santiago.



Thorne felt a sudden rush of emotion. He’d missed his men. He’d hated being away from the action, away from his responsibilities. Christ, he’d only been gone a week or two. Why did it feel like a century?



He shook off the sensation.



The newcomers didn’t look at each other, but they were so fixed on Thorne that even if he hadn’t known there was a problem, he’d have smelled it a mile away. Santiago and Zach were good friends, close friends. So what the hell?



But he didn’t have time to ask the usual questions or even to knock their heads together.



He folded his sword away, drew the men in close, and explained that he’d have to do a quick, very painful mental download for any of this to work, that their friendly Fourth ascender had set up a shitfest on Leto’s behalf, that yes, Leto was in the Convent, and that no doubt Greaves had orchestrated this little party.



“Madre de Dios,” Santiago murmured. “Leto is here?”



“Yes, but in the vision he didn’t look so good. I don’t think he can fight.”



“So he’s finally giving up his spy gig?”



“Looks like it.” Thorne glanced from one familiar face to the other. “You boys ready for this?”



Luken smiled. “Hell, yeah. Do it.”



Thorne started with Luken, putting his hands on his face and letting the images fly. Luken jerked and emitted a faint groan indicating the damn thing hurt, but he hung on. The download lasted fifteen seconds.



He did the same thing to Zach then to Santiago. When all three men were up to speed, he gave his commands in shorthand.



Sister Quena called out, “The monitors. What is happening?”



Thorne turned to glance from screen to screen. It was as though watery waves cloaked half of them. Through the waves, dark figures floated through. “It’s started. Let’s go.”



He turned to Marguerite. “Do what you feel is best from minute to minute. I trust you.”



She was white-faced but she nodded.



* * *



Grace turned in a circle. She didn’t understand what had just happened. She was now alone. “Leto?”



But nothing returned to her except the low beautiful sounds of church bells.



“Hello, Grace. Don’t be afraid. This won’t last very long.”



She turned around as a feeling like dread and excitement all jumbled together passed straight through her chest. She could sense the darkness in the stranger, but his voice did something to her, sent a vibration swirling in her lungs. She was so drawn to him she couldn’t breathe.



He was recklessly handsome, with long curly black hair, well past his shoulders, and he had dark glittering eyes. He wasn’t nearly as tall as Leto, closer to her height. He had a narrow attractive nose and full lips. His skin was very pale in contrast with his hair and eyes.



Death vampire? She didn’t think so.



The vibration she had come to know, that was peculiar to her, rumbled beneath her. The stranger looked down at the stone floor and his brows rose.



She drew the power into her and stretched out a hand to him. He looked at her fingers and frowned. When the power reached him, he arched and his lips parted, but then he seemed to settle down even though he appeared to be in pain.



She could see inside him. He was dark and he was light, so very human, so very good and so very bad. He was a being torn apart by the choices of his life, and he had lived a long time, five millennia. She could sense these things but she couldn’t read his memories, only the aftertaste of his decisions, the happiness, the decadence, the bounty of passion, and more often than not the guilt. In this, the stranger seemed very much like Leto.



She had a sense, however, of the man he could be, one full of great acts of kindness and of self-sacrifice. But right now he was a terrible cynic, the worst she had ever known.



“What is your name,” she asked. “And where is Warrior Leto? What have you done with him?”



He approached her and she lowered her hand. She didn’t fear him and yet part of her knew she should because the darkness in him was very dark. He wore very tight black leather pants and a silk shirt that caught the light in muted purples and green. The cuffs and collar were broad and the sleeves almost billowing. “My name is Casimir.”



“I saw you in Moscow Two.” He smelled of something spicy and something more, like mulled wine—like he would taste extraordinary on her tongue and for reasons she couldn’t explain she wanted a taste.



He put his hands on her face and slid them deep into her hair. He didn’t blink. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he said. The heavy bouquet of his wine scent buckled her knees.



She groaned and then his tongue was in her mouth, deep, so deep. He drove into her and then his body was pressed up against hers, moving in a fluid, snake-like motion, utterly sexual, reminiscent of her poetry.



Grace, he whispered through her mind. I need you so badly, desperately. I need you to come with me, to come home with me and live with me, to be my wife and a mother to my two small boys. Say you will come.



She wanted to. She felt that everything he had just asked of her was her destiny, her calling.



She drew back ready to tell him yes, but from deep within her mind she heard another voice, a woman’s voice, one that had been as familiar as her own for the past hundred years.



Can you feel my presence, Grace? I’m here in the Convent. Thorne is here, too. You’re in danger. I’m going to fold into your cell right now, so don’t be frightened.



She pulled out of Casimir’s arms.



Danger?



She glanced around her at a strange moving partition in the small cell. The mist that had created a division in the room, separating her from Leto, began to move. Casimir grabbed her and pulled her in the direction of the door.



Still no Leto. And no Marguerite.



Goddammit. Marguerite’s voice was within her mind, as well as one of her favorite words. Where are you? Are you still in the room?



Once more, Grace felt the vibration at her feet and the power surged up through her body. I’m near the door.



But Casimir drew her against him and inhaled at her temple. “You smell of the earth and this power of yours is so erotic. Come with me.”



She felt a movement of air next to her and Marguerite was suddenly there in a blood-red flight suit. She at first didn’t know what to say, but it was Marguerite who turned to Casimir and said, “Why is it I hear church bells when you’re around?”



“You can hear them?” Grace asked.



Marguerite nodded.



Grace glanced at Casimir. “So do I. And you’re the source?”



Casimir shrugged, a slight lifting of his shoulders. “One of ascension’s little jokes.” She felt very confused by what was happening and even though Marguerite spoke of danger, that wasn’t what she felt or intuited. Instead she continued to experience a pressing need to be with the dark vampire in front of her.