Gideon sparred with another powerful Militia Warrior as each worked to improve his battling skills. He could see that Gideon, so close to Warrior of the Blood status, still struggled with combining preternatural speed and folding. The skill was critical in battling several death vampires at once. But it was as though Jean-Pierre could see the empty space in his thinking that needed to be filled.
When the men lowered their swords and separated to catch their breaths, he called out, “Gideon. A word with you.”
Gideon lowered his chin and scowled. “I’m busy.”
Jean-Pierre smiled. He could not help himself. In spirit, Gideon was already a Warrior of the Blood. He was territorial and defensive. He would battle Jean-Pierre to the death over his pride alone.
As Jean-Pierre met his gaze, he swept his emerging empathic ability over the warrior and found what he needed in order to reach the man. “I thought we should have a contest, you and me. A comparison that might end the suspense.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“To see whose dick is bigger, of course. What do you say?”
Gideon shook his head then laughed. “Fuck,” he muttered. Finally, he said, “What do you want, Warrior?”
“If you would permit me, I believe I can teach you a trick to the speed-and-fold, but only if you wish it. You must choose.”
Yes, Gideon must choose, just as Jean-Pierre must choose, as everyone must choose. Jean-Pierre had chosen to love where he had promised never to love again, to open himself, and to grow. But the choice must be offered, must be accepted or declined.
Gideon’s gaze shifted away. His jaw worked as he stared at nothing in particular. After a long, tense moment, Gideon crossed the black mats of the workout space. In a low voice, he said, “I don’t want to leave the Militia Warriors.” He put a fist to his chest. “No matter what happens here, today, my commitment, my loyalty is with the Thunder God Warriors.”
Jean-Pierre saw the warrior as though a grid were laid out before him, of flaws and strengths, of hidden desires and open intentions. He felt each of Gideon’s words balanced against the lift of his brow, the tightness of his jaw, the dark, concerned light in his eye. Then he understood what Gideon feared: that he would be pushed beyond the boundary he had set for himself where the Militia Warriors were concerned.
Jean-Pierre nodded. “I have felt for a very long time that the future of Second Earth would not be in the hands of the Warriors of the Blood, but in the Militia Warriors and in bringing those who are able up to the same level of skill that we possess. Of course, you will have to do battle with Colonel Seriffe and Madame Endelle. I cannot change that.
“However, I can make you this promise, that I will stand with you, support you, in your bid to remain with your men.” He had a sudden swirling of prescience, a small piece of clairvoyance. He saw himself in back of Gideon as the warrior argued with Seriffe about the future of the Militia Warriors. Gideon prevailed. Good. This was good.
Gideon stared at him for a long moment. “I can feel that my powers as a warrior are emerging and I know that I’m obligated to take your instruction by every vow I’ve made as a warrior, but that you’ve understood my greatest concern, my commitment, gives me hope.”
Jean-Pierre nodded. “I will fight for you to stay here. I make this vow to you.”
He watched relief spill over Gideon’s face, as though he’d been living with this dilemma for a very long time.
“Thank you and yes, I’ll work with you. I need to get this goddam fucking thing figured out.”
Oui, he was very much in the mold of the Warriors of the Blood.
Jean-Pierre spent the next two hours showing Gideon the techniques for speed-and-fold; at one point he actually downloaded a memory, something that by its nature would give Gideon the sensory experience of the skill.
After that, progress was swift so that by the time they parted Gideon had a new swagger and a smile.
Jean-Pierre turned the other direction, intent on the landing platform. Fiona had just climbed into the shower at their Sedona home. Would you like company? he sent. He could feel the sensation of the warm water on her skin.
He felt her rub the bar of soap between her hands, the soft lather foaming around her fingers.
Oh, I don’t know, Fiona returned in a suspicious drawl.
Then, in true bonded fashion, he could feel the soap on her breasts and the pressure of her fingers as she washed herself. He could feel the little pinch she gave her nipples.
What a tease you have become, he sent.
I have no idea what you’re talking about. So innocent.
But when he felt her soapy hand glide down her abdomen and slide between her legs he began sprinting in the direction of the landing platform. He was cursing by the time he arrived because her laughter was in his head and he was having a hard time controlling his arousal.
But he made it at last, folding straight to the master bathroom.
She had her hand exactly where he wanted to see it. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, but she was smiling. “Need something?”
He folded his clothes off and with his own speed-and-fold, he was behind her, his cock pressed between her legs, his hands on her breasts.
“Hey,” she cried out. “Give a girl a warning.”
But as he fondled her, she leaned her head back. “I am sorry, chérie, but I have been working on this skill with one of the Militia Warriors.”
Her hips moved up and back, an erotic invitation.
“Not this skill, surely,” she said as she leaned forward and tilted her pelvis to give him a better view.
He groaned as he entered her. She planted her hands on the tile beneath the showerhead. He used his mind to shut the water off. He bent over her and sucked one of her wing-locks.
Her groan was long and loud.
Fiona, the sensations, yours and mine … it is all too much. I feel you are … oh, God, you are coming.
“Yes,” she shouted. “And so are you.”
He thrust in and out, moving swiftly so that he brought her screaming as he spent himself inside her.
“I think that must be a record,” he said, pulling out of her but turning her in his arms and holding her close.
“I know. I know. To experience both at the same time. Do you think we’ll ever be able to slow it down?” She was wide-eyed.
He laughed. “Not for a few years, at least.”
“Maybe a century or two.”
“A millennium.”
Fiona leaned her head against his shoulder. “Casimir called it millennial adjustment.”
“Do not speak that monster’s name when I am holding you.”
“Okay.” She slid her arms around him and held him tight.
“Shall we retire to the bedroom, ma chérie?”
“Oh, yes. You can’t think for a moment that I’m letting you off this easily, not with something that lasted about thirty seconds.”
He chuckled. “It is your fault. You have the most enticing … ass.”
“You say the sweetest things.” Then she laughed.
* * *
A few days later, Fiona knocked on the door to the central sycamore room, the name she’d given to the round indoor–outdoor space where she and Jean-Pierre had completed the breh-hedden. “When are you going to show me what you’re building in there? The suspense is killing me.”
Her breh had been working on a top-secret project, something that involved a lot of large rocks—not boulders exactly, smaller than that, but big enough. She’d watched him haul them into the room, refusing all the while to give her even the smallest hint about what he was making.
All she knew was that the job required mortar and some kind of large metal basin. A birdbath maybe?
“I am almost ready” came back to her muffled through the door.
She leaned her head against the wood and drew in a deep breath. The past two and a half weeks had been amazing with Jean-Pierre and with the breh-hedden. Love, after all these years, had found her again.
In the distance she heard the front doorbell ring, but she wasn’t expecting anyone. “Jean-Pierre, someone’s at the front door.”
“That is probably Carolyn and Seriffe. I asked them to come by.”
“Why?” She didn’t mind, not at all, but this was the first she’d heard of it. What was with all the secrecy?
He came to the door and slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. So she still wasn’t going to get to see what was in there.
“I am sorry, chérie, I should have told you.”
She looked him up and down. “You’re wearing a suit. Okay, what the hell is going on?”
His smile was slow. “You may wish to change into a dress, that very pretty Halston. The one Havily keeps calling a petal dress.”
“But—”
“Trust me. Put it on, chérie. I will see to our guests.”
“Okay, then.”
Stunned, she lifted her arm and folded to the master bedroom. She lived here now, in his house. No, their house. He kept correcting her. This was their house.
Her heart beat too fast in her chest. Jean-Pierre had something serious planned and he seemed very pleased with himself, but she couldn’t imagine what he intended. The whole thing made her nervous.
She dressed in heels and stockings and the cream-colored petal dress. She brushed her long hair, tidied her makeup, and tried to relax, but something about the secrecy of the visit, and the closed door to the sycamore room, told her that what was about to happen was … significant.
When at last she was dressed, she walked the entire distance, through several smaller rooms of the rabbit warren house, to the living room, trying to calm her nerves.
Jean-Pierre served champagne, his expression serious. He was a man of good humor most of the time, a lightness of spirit she adored. But at other times, like now, he could overwhelm her with the depths of his soul and his desire for her to understand what he valued in life.
Carolyn wore a lavender silk dress and heels. Seriffe also wore a suit. Both appeared solemn.