He nodded. “Yes,
binding tendrils of euphoria.
”
She nodded but her smile dimmed. “The bastard enthralls the High Administrators.”
“We have work to do.”
She dipped her chin then slipped her arms around his neck. “But right now, we have love to make. Yes?”
He growled low and also dipped his chin. “Your blood strengthens me. I may just keep you up all night.”
“You forget. I’ve had your blood as well, so if that’s a promise you’re making, I can take it.”
He chuckled, kissed her on the lips, and once more moved inside her.
* * *
A week after the Ambassadors Festival, Rith Do’onwa moved down the main hallway of his home in Burma outside of Mandalay, Second Earth. This was one of the homes he owned, but perhaps his favorite. It was a British Colonial replica constructed of the finest mahogany and modeled on the British homes from the 1800s, Mortal Earth.
Three women kept his home in perfect condition, three Burmese slaves he’d had for a very long time, centuries in fact. They were well trained, as they should be after so many decades of obedient service.
When he reached the first bedroom, the largest of all the bedrooms, he paused in the doorway. He felt a familiar rush of pleasure, a kind of dizzy euphoria that he’d first experienced a year ago when he’d come across the mortal-with-wings in the future streams.
In recent weeks, he had seen her here, in this very room, in this massive four-poster bed, tucked beneath lavender silk sheets and a coverlet of silk in a patchwork of elegant jewel tones. Of course, he’d purchased everything in this chamber because of what he’d seen in the future streams, including the antique Burmese Buddha, a lovely bronze piece settled on a small table to the right of the bed.
She
would find peace in seeing the Buddha.
Rith smiled.
He could hardly wait to bring her here, to keep her here. His master would have need of her, though in exactly what way had been unclear to him in the future streams. But the why of the situation did not matter to Rith, only that he fulfilled his role in the Commander’s magnificent destiny.
He believed in the Oriental state of mind, in patience and in getting all the pawns lined up before making a move.
The death of High Administrator Crace had simplified his future—but then he’d already foreseen Crace’s death.
Rith knew things that he was pretty sure even Greaves didn’t know. He knew things because he was able to ride the future streams
,
to pluck phenomenal amounts of critical information from those glorious ribbons of light, usually far in advance of most Seers around the world. He had therefore already
seen
that Crace would die in his forge, even though the details of his death had been unclear at the time. He’d also foreseen that Havily Morgan would complete the
breh-hedden
with Warrior Marcus and upon that completion would weld a bond of power that put her beyond his reach or even Greaves’s. From that point in time, no matter where the woman was, her warrior guardian could get to her. No tricks, just a massive amount of newly created preternatural power.
Rith left the prepared bedroom and went to his little sanctuary off his formal study. In his meditation chamber, a room only nine feet square, sat a single piece of furniture, a chaise-longue covered in soft dark blue velvet. He closed and locked the door. He stretched out on the well-cushioned chaise, folded his hands over his abdomen, and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and employed a form of deep relaxation that permitted him to enter the streams of rainbow-hued light. From those streams he could map the future.
Havily Morgan’s stream of light had always been powerful, but it shone now with a soft green aura. Beautiful. If she hadn’t been the enemy, he would have reveled in the sight. The ribbon expanded and the vision came. Rith saw her in a future stream, flying above White Lake, her hand linked with Guardian Alison Wells. Above them, as they flew, the portal to Third Earth began to open, just a little. He knew of this prophecy, that Alison Wells would open the dimensional gateway to Third Earth even though none of the Seers’ reports spoke of it. But then he was no ordinary Seer. He made a mental note of the vision, filing it away for later use.
For now, he sought another ribbon of light, one that was gold and amethyst in color. The ribbon belonging to the mortal-with-wings, the one the Seers all over the world had assigned great value to, the one belonging to Parisa Lovejoy.
Yes, ascendiate Lovejoy was now the key, and Rith would do what he must to define the exact point in time at which he would take possession of the woman and lay her at Greaves’s feet. She was the real prize since she had a gift, an unparalleled power that would tip the war in the Commander’s direction. She was a preternatural voyeur, but that wasn’t the power that interested him. Her real value lay in the composition and meaning of her
royle
wings, even though he still didn’t understand how the possession of such wings constituted a power that could be used for Greaves’s war effort. However, he was a man of faith and he believed that all would be made known to him in due course. For now he began putting his plans in place to secure her.
Rith was a simple man. He had but one overriding need, to be of use to his master. From the moment he had partaken of dying blood, he had belonged heart and soul to Darian Greaves. He could not explain the phenomenon; nor did he care the cause or the reason. He was a man who accepted his lot.
He had always had one thing in common with Crace. Rith, like Crace, wanted to be seated at the right hand of God when Greaves finally brought his plans into the fullness of time and won two worlds. He wanted to be there not because of a need to rule, nor for a need for power, but because he lived for Greaves, to serve him, to please him, to be near him. His was a love that transcended gender, transcended levels of power, transcended all rational thought. He had been born to serve, he had chosen his master, and he would do everything in his power to see a light of approval in the Commander’s beautiful ascended eye.
When he released Parisa’s ribbon of light, he searched for the dark blue ribbon he had been familiar with from the day of his ascension so many centuries ago. The ribbon was his.
He entered the stream of light and to his surprise found an image that swelled his heart. He was donning a uniform that belonged to Second Earth Merry Ascenders, a household cleaning service. How quaint. In this vision, he rode in a van belonging to the cleaning service. The van stopped a few yards away from a gas station near the I-10 and Litchfield Road, Second Earth, a Mobil Oil station. The driver of the van made a call to Central. A moment later an archway appeared and beyond Rith could see an olive grove and a long drive set with terra-cotta cement-formed pavers.
Rith knew the property well. It belonged to Warrior Medichi.
He drew out of the future streams. His heart beat rapidly. The time was nearing in which he would play a critical role for the Coming Order, and apparently he needed to apply for employment at Second Earth Merry Ascenders.
* * *
More than a week had passed since the Ambassadors Festival. Parisa struggled to find the right words to tell Medichi of her decision. She would make him unhappy, but it must be done.
Life had settled down at the villa so much so that a cleaning crew had arrived and ejected both Parisa and Medichi from the main house.
So she walked the olive grove now, but with a heavy heart. Warrior Medichi stood thirty yards away, watching her, always watching her,
guarding
her, even though a dome of mist shielded the property from powerful intruders.
He was so tall and so handsome and even at that distance a faint trace of sage touched the air. He wore jeans and his black T-shirt pulled across his muscular shoulders, shoulders she had leaned on at the spectacle disaster. His long black hair was still damp from a recent shower and drawn back in the ritual
cadroen.
Her heart hurt as she watched him, his head lowered as he spoke into his phone. It was strange to think of him as a vampire, a creature with fangs who could take her blood. Yet how many times had she fantasized that very thing?
None of those fantasies would happen now. She’d made her decision.
Second Earth was not for her and she would not be ascending. She’d seen too much, been through too much, and despite the fact that she was more normal in this world than in her birth-world, she’d had enough.
She might have wings, the ability to throw a hand-blast, and she might even be a preternatural voyeur, but she was not built for war. She knew that. She wanted the world of her library back. She’d called in sick for over a week now so she was due back at work. Besides, she longed for the quiet and order of books and computers and a building that smelled of ink and print.
When Medichi turned away from her slightly, still talking into his phone, she caught sight of one of the estate workers waving to her, a pleasant-looking man with somewhat Asian features. He had a wide forehead and a broad nose. He wore white cotton trousers and a loose white cotton shirt. He must work in the olive press. He smiled and waved her forward.
A sense of ease came over her, even happiness as she moved toward him. “Do you work in the press?” she called out.
He shrugged and shook his head. It was possible he didn’t speak English. With the ability to dematerialize, she supposed he could have come from anywhere on Second Earth to work on the estate.
Only when she drew within two yards of him did the hairs on the nape of her neck rise and give warning, but she didn’t know what it meant. She thought perhaps this poor man was in danger. She looked around, hunting for a death vampire that somehow had made its way onto the property. But that was when a lean arm surrounded her, choking her, and she felt the needle prick her neck.
She had just enough consciousness to turn her head and see that the only adversary present was the man with the wide forehead and broad nose.
How strange …
Antony,
she called out softly within her mind, something she did when she needed comfort.
Antony.
Then … nothing.
* * *
Medichi heard his name within his head,
Antony.
Parisa? She must have telepathic abilities and still not know it. He turned toward her, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his black cargoes.
The hour was one in the afternoon and Parisa was some twenty or so yards away, not far from the building that housed the olive press. Had she spoken his name within his mind? Or had he imagined it?
She was turned away from him as though she was watching something very intently. She was even smiling.
She looked so pretty today in a pink-flowered sundress. She wore her dark brown hair in loose curls on top of her head against the climbing June heat. He ached to go to her and take her in his arms.
Then the hairs on the nape of his neck rose.
Oh, shit.
He didn’t wait, but folded his sword into his hand.
He turned in a circle and looked for the enemy but found nothing. The cleaning service was in his home doing the usual. This particular service had careful employment screening procedures.
He scanned his property carefully, turning, turning.
Still nothing.
Huh.
He’d just gotten off the phone with Thorne, who informed him that Marcus intended to serve in the field with the warriors two nights a week, in addition to taking on the duties of High Administrator of Desert Southwest Two. Medichi liked the arrangement. The moment Havily had stood up during Zach’s birthday celebration and made her plea for the shift in Marcus’s duties, he’d been on board. Marcus had what it took to administer a Territory and yeah, Endelle
sucked
at it.
He started moving in Parisa’s direction. He was about to fold his sword away when the hairs on his nape fluttered once more. Something
was
wrong. He could
feel
it. Parisa remained in the same position, standing very still, which suddenly struck him as odd.
“Parisa?” he called out, his feet moving faster.
When she didn’t respond, he called out her name again. She didn’t turn toward him or in any way indicate that she’d even heard him. What the hell was going on?
He started running. A dust devil kicked up and moved through the grove, passing near her. Leaves blew in circles, but the summery pink-flowered sundress didn’t move, not even a little around the hem.
Then he understood.
“No,” he cried out.
What he had thought was Parisa rippled then disappeared … a time-delayed hologram.
She was gone. His woman was gone.
He fell to his knees and roared to the heavens.
Two hours later, with a hundred Militia Warriors combing his estate, with all the Warriors of the Blood surrounding him, with his villa and the guesthouse turned upside down, he had to accept the fact that Parisa was gone. Taken. But how and by whom?