The baby gave a squeal and suddenly the miniature wings were just there.

Marguerite gasped. Iridescent was right. “They’re so beautiful. And the feathers.” She resisted the urge to touch them. Feathers were very sensitive to touch, and she didn’t want to hurt her.

“Damn,” Thorne said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing that.”

Kerrick beamed. “That’s my daughter.”

Helena kicked her legs and flapped her small wings. She used her voice a few times. After a couple of minutes she settled down and once more flopped against her mother’s shoulder.

“It wears her out,” Alison said. “Ah, she’s getting ready to retract.”

The baby’s back relaxed and a moment later the wings thinned to fine points and flew back through the apertures. Another moment and the back thinned out.

Marguerite was fascinated all over again by life and by ascension and by the miracle of wings and flight. But the baby still eyeballed her then suddenly reached for her, extending both arms.

Marguerite took a step away.

Alison said, “I’ll take her in the other room. Fiona’s been begging for an armful.”

“No. Wait.” Marguerite may not have had much affinity with kids, but if for whatever reason Helena wanted a cuddle, she could give her that much. She could damn well make an effort, even if it killed her.

She slipped her hands under the baby’s arms and hauled Helena against her left shoulder. The baby settled in as though she’d been waiting for this shoulder forever.

Alison moved to stand in front of the two of them. “Well, isn’t that something. Wow.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. She just doesn’t do this. Ever.”

Fiona’s voice came from behind her. “Marguerite, you’re here. I’m so glad.” She moved to Marguerite’s right side and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Of all the women, Marguerite knew Fiona the best. They’d shared a couple of telepathic adventures together when she’d been in the Convent and later the Seers fortress. “Love your hair. I’m so jealous. I’ll bet it’s a cinch to maintain.”

“It is.”

She rounded Marguerite to stand beside Alison, but she scowled. “Well, how do you like that? How many times have I taken Helena in my arms and all she does is wiggle to get away from me … unless she’s asleep, of course.” She met Marguerite’s gaze. “Again … jealous.”

“You can take her now.”

“I wouldn’t dare. She’s actually quiet and yet she’s still awake. What are you, the baby whisperer?”

Marguerite felt a sudden need to sway from side to side, some sort of primal instinct. She felt Thorne’s gaze on her and she shifted to look at him. Kerrick was looking at her as well, and grinning. These men were devilishly handsome. Kerrick had gorgeous green eyes but what the hell was that smile about?

Then she glanced at Thorne and understood. Thorne had that look, like he suddenly wanted her full of his child, her belly swollen with the results of what he’d put in her. Very caveman.

But she cocked a brow and sent, Not in a thousand years, so wipe that look off your face. Got it?

Thorne shrugged and released a sigh. Fine. He then directed Kerrick to lead the way to the living room. “I want to talk to Jean-Pierre then Santiago before I hunt down Zach.”

Movement from the kitchen and a familiar voice made her cringe. Helena shifted her head and punched her fist in the direction of Marguerite’s chin. Yeah, she was afraid Parisa was going to do that as well. She’d certainly tried the last time they were together.

But as Parisa moved to stand on Alison’s left, the woman was more restrained than ready to do battle. “Hello, Marguerite,” she said.

The last time the women had met, Marguerite’s overture toward her warrior had sent Parisa into cavewoman mode. She’d actually launched at Marguerite; only Endelle’s intervention had stopped a real catfight. She suspected that someone like Parisa, a librarian by trade and sedate by nature, would now be embarrassed by her actions. Maybe.

Parisa glanced from Marguerite to the baby then back. “I was prepared to dislike you,” she whispered. “But since Helena thinks you’re okay, I guess we’re good.”

Marguerite met Parisa’s gaze and because of the baby, she spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry for what happened. I didn’t understand, not on any level. I was intent on one thing, and I caused you a heap of distress. For that, I apologize. This thing—” She paused and shook her head; maybe she even rolled her eyes. “Anyway, this thing is a nightmare.”

Parisa glanced at her and a smile eased over her lips. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it and I apologize as well.” Yep, color now touched her cheeks. “I’ve never acted like that before, so I guess it’s a kind of warning. Even when you’re bonded, the nightmare doesn’t exactly end.”

“Not much of an endorsement.”

But the women laughed.

Helena sighed, like maybe she understood Marguerite’s dilemma, which was absurd. The truth was, she kind of liked the weight of the baby on her shoulder.

Okay, so she and Thorne really needed to look into getting some condoms. She also thought she might liven things up and said, “So what’s everyone here using to keep from getting knocked up?”

* * *

Thorne heard the laughter from the foyer and some of the tension he felt slid away. Marguerite was one prickly cactus, and he knew she wasn’t comfortable. But for him, this was coming home, his family, and he needed to do what he could to get everything headed down the right path.

Medichi had hugged him. Marcus sat on the couch with Havily snuggled against his side. He held her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Santiago stood facing the backyard by the bank of windows along the west wall. The sun had already set behind the White Tanks but the sky was a lavender and rich orange color. Thorne made his way across the room, moving to stand next to him.

The Latin brother had his arms crossed over his chest. He’d barely acknowledged Thorne.

“Welcome home, jefe.” Santiago generally had a light, teasing air about him, so these stiff words alerted Thorne all by themselves.

A lawn stretched at an upward slope toward the tops of the mountains. But the skyline was now a dark gray. A couple of deer fed at the perimeter. The usual.

“What gives, Santiago?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

And there it was. He was about to address the heart of the matter, when Zach’s voice shot across the room “Are you going to fucking bust his chops, you asshole?”

Thorne turned. Zach had a fair complexion, but right now it was ruddy.

“He had to leave. Everybody else gets that but you. He didn’t have a choice. His woman was in danger. He had to go after her.”

Beyond Luken and Zach, the ladies flowed into the room, every expression somber.

Thorne felt his responsibility acutely. He’d caused this. He’d caused best friends to be at each other’s throats. It was just one more cause-and-effect of his desertion.

“The trouble is,” Thorne said, meeting Zach’s gaze squarely, “Santiago has every right to be pissed. All of you do, because I did have a choice. Yes, I experienced a tremendous drive to follow Marguerite because she is my breh, but that’s not the only reason why I left Second Earth.”

Every eye was fixed on him, every expression dark; some worried, some hostile. Santiago moved up next to him, but his glare was accusing, a demand that Thorne man up and explain himself.

But how could he offer a reasonable defense? His thoughts hadn’t exactly run deep on the subject. Just strong and unrelenting.

He crossed slowly in front of Santiago and sat in one of the many large antique chairs that flanked the room. Others sat as well. Fiona dropped down next to Jean-Pierre on the same couch as Havily and Marcus. Medichi sat down in a chair, held one arm out to Parisa, and she settled down on his lap like she’d always been there. Kerrick, Alison, and Marguerite remained standing.

Marguerite swayed from side to side, with the baby nestled on her shoulder. Her brow was furrowed as she watched him.

Luken looked a little grim as he leaned against the doorjamb.

Zach, however, didn’t move as he stared down at Thorne. “What the fuck are you saying?”

“That Endelle or any of you has the right to try my ass in a COPASS court for desertion.” He took a deep breath. “I left because I was sick of the war, or at least the direction the war was heading.” There, he’d said it out loud.

A low rumbling flowed from couch to chair to doorjamb and ended up settling on Santiago. A stream of Spanish flowed from his mouth, words and meanings that he punctuated with a repeated toss of his arms.

Thorne leaned back in the chair and turned to watch him in these theatrics.

The man had style, even when he was enraged, a kind of loose Hispanic rhythm and movement that made the women swoon. His thick wavy black hair was combed straight back and caught tight in the cadroen, emphasizing all that dark masculine beauty. His brown eyes flashed. “And you, the leader of us all, to have betrayed us. We look to you for everything, jefe, for character, for purpose, for sacrifice, for what is noble and good in our ranks.”

Thorne shifted once more and met Marguerite’s gaze. She still looked serious, her brow furrowed. She rubbed Helena’s back in a slow rhythm up and down the baby’s spine. He was struck again how short she was compared with everyone else present.

But not in spirit, he thought. The woman had presence, something she probably didn’t even know she had. She filled the space around her with her energy, her essential goodness.

He thought about what he’d said to her when he’d returned to his body earlier.

As he turned to Santiago, looking up at him, at the self-righteous fury on his face, he now asked the question he’d been asking himself: “Why are you here, my brother? That is the only real question you must ask and answer. You must be your own guide and model for what you value—because what if I die? What if this had been my death as opposed to my departure? What then? What would you have done differently?”