“No,” she said, her fingers playing with his chest hairs in the center of his sternum. “No, I really think I want to see her today, right away. There are some things I need to get settled.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
He nodded several times, but he could feel that he was frowning. He wanted to argue with her but how could he?
He released a sigh. “I’ll set it up.”
He called Central and had Carla patch him through to Her Supremeness. She agreed to see Parisa in an hour but barked, “Make sure she has some clothes on this time.” Her laughter rang in his head as he swiped the phone. Endelle shared Parisa’s preternatural voyeuristic talent; either she’d witnessed Parisa’s rescue or Thorne had shared the details with her when he reported in. Either way, Endelle had the worst sense of humor, not to mention timing.
Parisa rose. “All set?”
“Yes. One hour.” She reached a half-sitting position on her knees, which unfortunately put her quite magnificent breasts at eye level. His body responded with one giant leap.
Her eyes widened. “All that sage,” she murmured.
He licked his lips. He reached for her but she rolled off the bed, landing on her feet. She jerked the black top sheet to her, wrapped herself up good and tight, then waggled a finger at him. “I want to. I do. But we don’t have time. I need to get dressed.”
He nodded in rapid-fire motion. “Of course.” But the sheet she’d taken had left him completely uncovered and he now stood at full-mast. So he folded his hands behind his head and smiled “Sorry. Can’t really help this.”
She covered her eyes and started walking mummy-fashion in the direction of the doors. “Are my clothes still in the other bedroom? All my toiletries?” The last week she’d been in his house, Havily had taken her shopping. There was practically a full wardrobe in the guest room waiting for her.
He wished he’d had the foresight to move everything to his room, but all his thoughts had been focused on bringing her home. “Yes, everything’s as you left it.” He sat up and drew the comforter over his lap. “I’m decent now,” he said, but he was smiling. Was decent the right word when all he could think about was what the hell he was supposed to do with a raging hard-on?
She lowered her hand and looked back at him. She gasped.
“What is it?”
“You … you look so beautiful like that, with your hair over your shoulders. Antony, you’re so beautiful.” Her gaze drifted down his chest, and he flexed his pecs for her. This time she moaned softly.
When he growled low in his throat and started to throw the cover back, she gave a little yip then scurried out of his bedroom. He flopped back onto the bed. So this was how it was going to be. All she had to do was compliment him, give him a look or two, and he was ready to grab her and throw her on her back.
Jesus H. Christ.
The greatest reward
Comes to the heart capable of love.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 8
Jean-Pierre returned from Burma to the Cave in Metro Phoenix Two with the rest of the brothers. He said good-bye to one warrior after another. When only Kerrick remained, he yawned and said he was headed to his home in Sedona for the remainder of the day to sleep. That was a lie.
He did fold the distance to the front yard of his home and stood for a moment beneath the fragrant Arizona sycamores, but not for long. He wasn’t sure exactly what had gotten into him, but he felt a pressing need to return to Rith’s home, if only for a few minutes more.
He folded back to the tamarind tree in Burma, drawing his sword into his hand from his Sedona weapons locker. The double dome of mist still covered the property. He turned in a slow circle, making sure that he was alone.
He stretched his preternatural hearing but except for the sound of frogs, nothing came back to him. He made his way into the house, again listening carefully and watching every shadow in case a death vampire, or Rith himself, might choose to return to what they all now knew to be a death and resurrection facility.
As he crossed the living room, the mahogany floor creaked beneath his feet.
He checked every room, one by one, hunting for the smell that had stuck to him when he’d come back with the rest of the Warriors of the Blood. It was the scent like a bakery or a French patisserie, like fresh-baked buttery bread or perhaps croissants.
But all he smelled here was garlic and turmeric.
He sighed as he made his way down the hall. He reached a second shorter hall that led to the basement stairs. He opened the door to the stairwell and once more listened for the sounds of the enemy.
He heard nothing.
Crouching, he descended, one quiet foot after another. He sniffed the air and, oui, as before, he could smell the bakery aroma.
At the bottom of the stairs, he looked right, then left, then right again. No one was there.
He lifted his nose into the air, closed his eyes, and just breathed. He took several long slow inhales through his nose, scenting the air like an animal. He felt un peu dizzy.
The largest room was opposite the stairs and still held several pieces of medical equipment: a cart with wheels, two stands for hanging bags of blood or fluids, even the hated defibrillator.
Mon dieu, the horror of what these women endured. Medichi had told the warriors that one of them, Fiona, had been taken from Boston in the late nineteenth century. He put a fist to his chest. How had she survived such trauma to her heart all these terrible decades? He did not understand the spirit of such a woman, how she had lived only to be killed and brought back to life over and over.
A shimmering in the air appeared not far from him. Shit. He should not have come. He held his sword in a firm grip as he shifted to face his new enemy—but it was only Thorne.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Thorne cried. He scowled at Jean-Pierre. “And I sure as hell don’t remember you asking for permission to come back here. Now you have two questions to answer.”
Jean-Pierre had nothing to tell him. “I am not certain why I came,” he said. “I was distressed and felt compelled to return. Perhaps we missed something.”
Thorne looked around and shook his head. “I had the same damn feeling. Endelle wanted me to come back and have one more look, but goddammit, Jean-Pierre, you should have checked with me first.”
“Would you have let me come?”
“No,” Thorne barked. He barked a lot these days.
Jean-Pierre merely smiled and shrugged.
Thorne did as well. It was so much like their chef, their boss, their leader. He had a quick temper, but his rage disappeared as fast as lightning.
“Well, now that you’re here we can have a look around together.”
Jean-Pierre took his time. He went into every cell, and with each successive room his spirit grew heavier. His anger grew and grew. He raged that such horrible things had been done to innocent women.
When he reached the last cell, the aroma of bread—no, more like croissants—permeated the room, but he did not know why. There was a vent above, but that was true of all the cells. Had someone baked something recently? If so, then why did not every room smell like this one?
All that he knew was he wanted to linger, to stay close to the aroma.
“What is it?” Thorne asked.
Jean-Pierre turned and looked at him. Thorne stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. He scowled as always, his hazel eyes red and so very sad. He carried a terrible load. Jean-Pierre had no intention of adding to his concerns. “Rien,” he responded. “I have found nothing.”
And that was the truth. Nothing except an aroma of croissants that made no sense in this dungeon of terrors.
Parisa had just slid into a clean bra and underwear when a knock sounded on the door, but it sounded faint, not like Medichi. “Who is it?”
“Havily. Can I come in?”
Something inside Parisa’s chest warmed up, as if someone had just turned up the heat beneath a pot. “Just a minute.” She searched for and found a black silk robe in her closet. She shrugged into it as she crossed the room. Opening the door, she smiled.
Cradled in one arm, Havily carried a huge vase full of at least two dozen white roses. “You’re home,” she cried. She opened her free arm.
Parisa burst into tears and fell into that welcoming embrace. Havily held her close and sniffed as well.
“You’ll spoil your beautiful makeup.” Havily always looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue. She wore Ralph Lauren, and her red layered hair floated around her shoulders.
“I missed you, girlfriend. I’ve had no one to fly with.” She sighed as she released Parisa. Moving into the room, she expanded on her theme. “Alison doesn’t have her wings yet and besides that she’s really pregnant now and feeling it. But even if she did have her wings, Kerrick would throw a hissy-fit.”
Parisa laughed and closed the door behind her. It was very difficult to picture a Warrior of the Blood throwing anything that could resemble a hissy-fit. He might throw a tornado of rage, but a hissy-fit?
“How are you and Marcus doing?”
Havily looked around the room and headed to the table by the window. She settled the vase there. Then she looked back at Parisa. “Are you even staying in this room?”
Parisa felt her cheeks warm up. “I’m not sure … no. I guess not.” She shook her head. “As long as I’m here I’ll be at the end of the hall.” She pointed in the direction of Medichi’s bedroom.
Havily’s chest rose and fell with a sigh. “I thought that might be the case. I’m glad. Parisa, he’s really suffered. Did you know he started drinking limoncello?”
She nodded. “I saw him once or twice.” Her gaze fell away from Havily, and her mind grew a little fuzzy. “I found I couldn’t voyeur him as much as I wanted to, not because I was unable but because it just hurt so much to see him and not be able to communicate with him. We kind of fell into this routine that I would voyeur him when I was ready for bed and he was through fighting for the night.”