His instinct was to kill her. Still, if he disposed of her outright, even through one of his minions whom he could later blame, her relationship to Warrior Medichi would invite Armageddon. The death of any of the women connected so closely to the Warriors of the Blood would ignite a frenzy of hunting and slaughtering. Greaves did not want to be caught in that sort of maelstrom if he could help it. The warriors would draw and quarter him at the very least for taking her life. As a man intent on ruling the world, he had learned to tread the waters of subvert-and-conquer very lightly.
His strategy with the Warriors of the Blood had been very simple over the centuries. He wanted to keep them exhausted but not overrun, not until he was ready to take over Second Earth. He didn’t yet own COPASS and until he’d turned a majority of the members of that lawmaking committee, he wouldn’t have enough pieces in place for the coup he was planning. But he was getting closer every day.
He shifted slightly against the pillows and felt the pull of dried blood against one of the wounds on his back. He rubbed back and forth; the ensuing rip of his skin sent a small slice of lightning into his groin. Delightful.
An email arrived all in caps.
Rith never wrote in caps.
THE CAPTIVE WILL ESCAPE. It was a message out of the Mumbai Seers Fortress, which had one of the highest accuracy rates of all the fortresses.
Lowercase followed. Your orders, master?
Greaves smiled. He adored Rith’s manners. So many today had forgotten the proper use of titles of respect. Master was simply his favorite.
“What is it, darling?” Julianna murmured. “You’re very tense.” Her nails scraped along his hip, then his thigh, then the space between. She put terrible pressure on the lump. He hissed his approval. She giggled.
“Parisa is prophesied to escape. Rith wants to know what he should do. I believe he wants to kill her but I can’t allow it. He could tighten security, of course. Maybe we should move her. Yes, I’m thinking we should move her.” He hit REPLY and a new email opened up, the cursor pulsing at him. He started typing his orders with a bit of difficulty; the fingers of his left hand were permanently misshapen, albeit very slightly, from decades of shifting from claw to hand.
Julianna caught his wrist lightly. “My love,” she said, leaning up on her elbows. His breath caught. The woman was exquisite. She had dark brown hair now hanging in masses around her shoulders, rumpled from lovemaking. Her eyes were an exquisite blue, like icy water, but it was the shape that pleased him so much, angled upward as they were from the corners, cat’s eyes. “Why not let the winged mortal escape—after you forge a mind-link with her?” She smiled, that little devious Scarlett O’Hara smile of hers, the one that always warmed his heart.
“An intriguing notion. Go on.”
“You know how worried you’ve been that the Warriors of the Blood might take the abduction personally, and act against you before you’re ready. Why not make use of her?”
“So I could use her as a sort of spy.”
“Well, you can’t keep her, and you certainly can’t slit her throat.” She dug a nail deep between hip and thigh and drew blood. He hissed at the pain, but the resulting flow of endorphins made him wonderfully dizzy. He really did love this woman.
“I’ll think on it,” he murmured. He then sent an email to Rith to do nothing until he’d pondered the matter.
He set his HP aside and opened his left palm. He focused on the fingers and savored the burn as skin broke and disappeared, as bones expanded, as the claw took shape.
Julianna rolled on her back, the sheet catching just at hip level until she looked like a mermaid. Her cuts really did heal too fast.
She spread her arms wide, getting ready for him once more. Her breasts were large and perfect and unenhanced. They drifted to each side of her rib cage, the nipples already peaked. She smiled and sighed. “Hurt me,” she whispered.
So he did.
At seven that evening, just after sunset, Medichi entered the Blood and Bite and froze. It was the smell that got to him first, full of lust, sex, and blood, everything he couldn’t have, everything he’d been denied for the past three months because Parisa was gone.
The red velvet booths off to the right were covered in varying degrees of mist, and would confuse the minds of all the mortal women present as well as most of the Militia Warriors. But his powers were advanced enough that he could see, hear, and smell everything. He used to enjoy the voyeurism. Now it was torture.
He knew what went on in the booths. He’d made use of them nearly every night from the time the owner, Sam Finch, had opened the joint too many decades ago to remember. The Warriors of the Blood always started out their night here, sharing drinks and bullshit, taking a beauty or two into one of the booths, getting a bit of respite before the death vamps started busting through the Borderlands.
He took a deep breath and ignored the onslaught of sensation as he turned in the direction of the bar. Now that he was here, he had another mission to accomplish, something he should have done a long time ago. Shit, was he really going to do this? After thirteen centuries, was he really going to tell the truth about why he never mounted his wings?
Jean-Pierre thumped his shoulder from behind. “Allô, Medichi. This is such good news about Burma. Have you heard from Central yet?”
Medichi turned to face the Frenchman. He still had a faint accent; he’d only been ascended a couple of centuries. Give him a few more decades, and his English would be perfect. “No. I spoke to Carla a couple of times this afternoon, but nothing yet. Jeannie’s on deck right now. She’s working with Colonel Seriffe. The grid over at Militia Warrior Headquarters isn’t quite as powerful as Central’s but it’ll do in a pinch.” Once night fell and the pretty-boys came out, Jeannie had to use Central’s grid to track death vampire movements and keep Thorne apprised. Seriffe’s less powerful grid would be searching Burma the rest of the night.
He had spent the day in and out of sleep, waiting without much expectation for Carla to call with news of Parisa. He had known from the first that the hunt would take days, not hours, but he had still been hoping for a miracle. When nothing came of the day’s grid search and it was time to dress for battle, his nerves were shredded. Frankly, he needed the release of wielding his sword and battling an enemy he could actually get at. All this waiting was for shit.
Jean-Pierre clamped his shoulder, shook his head back and forth. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Merci, Jean.”
“Oui. Oui.” The Frenchman nodded several times then finally just threw his arms around Medichi.
Jean-Pierre, at six-five, was the same height as Marcus. He had long wavy brown hair, on the light side. His hair tended to escape the cadroen and frame his face in loose curls, which the women loved. His eyes were greenish gray, the color of the ocean. He was probably the leanest of the warriors, but fucking strong. Women were known to swoon over the bastard, especially when he whispered soft French into willing ears.
The cadroens he used were strips of varying pastel brocade, hand-sewn to his specifications with combs, tied in a bow, an affectation he’d adopted at the French court and refused to give up. He had been an acquaintance—though not a lover—of Marie Antoinette. During those years, he had developed a serious and dangerous love for the political discussion of the day. In an act that had terrorized an enormous crowd, he’d dematerialized off the guillotine in 1793.
Non, he had not known of this power. Oui, he had made his way, just as Medichi had all those centuries earlier, to the European Borderland outside Rome, to begin his ascension process.
Of all the warriors, Jean-Pierre had been Medichi’s biggest support during the last three months. When the music turned off, Medichi told him of tracking the death vamp to the Grand Canyon, Mortal Earth.
But when he finished the story, he added, “One more thing, mon ami. I’m telling everyone tonight.”
Jean-Pierre frowned. “About your wings? Why you will not fly with any of us?”
Medichi nodded.
“Mon dieu, but I am glad of it. Will you fly in battle from this night on?”
“Yes. That’s the idea, especially since we could get a call any time now from Central. When we head to Burma, I’ll want to be ready to mount my wings.”
“Bon.” He nodded several times.
Medichi turned around, took a deep breath, lowered his chin, and charted a course for the bar. Despite the six-deep bank of Militia Warriors, his height parted the crowd as if he had a ten-foot iron prow before him.
The brothers were there in full battle gear, Marcus included. Their uniform was meant for the hot desert temps: leather kilts, weapons harnesses with a leather strap down the back that allowed for wing release, heavy sandals, black shin guards, and silver-studded leather wrist guards. Thorne sat in his usual location at the top of the bar, with a hand on Luken’s back. He ran the hand low to the waist, inspecting. “Jesus,” Thorne muttered. “Not a single damn scar from those burns. A-fucking-mazing.”
Luken grinned. Three months ago he’d been caught by an incendiary bomb while out fighting at the Superstitions. His wings had been burned off, but fortunately they’d regenerated and he’d been on flight duty ever since, like the rest of the brothers. Now the last of his scarring had apparently faded.
He headed toward the second duo, Kerrick and Marcus. The latter only fought two nights a week; the rest of the time he served as High Administrator of Southwest Desert Two. He’d taken a huge load off Endelle. Funny how that still hadn’t improved her temper.
The two men had been enemies for the past two hundred years, but all that had been resolved. Now they were inseparable.
Marcus sat with his full attention fixed on Kerrick. Yeah, the two shared something in common—they’d both bonded with their brehs.
Marcus frowned at Kerrick. “What the hell did you do to your forehead?”
Kerrick rubbed above his right eyebrow and grimaced. “What, this?” Color crept up his neck. “Alison threw a shoe at me. She’s not exactly been herself lately.”