Endelle’s brows rose. Where was the problem in that? She’d had her own nympho period around the time of Plato and it had been hot as hell. She’d cooled a bit since then but that’s what being High Administrator of Second Earth could do to a gal’s libido. “I think I need you to be more specific, Quenny. Why was Sister Marguerite condemned to this shithole … no offense intended.”

“Madame Endelle, with all due respect, I am completely and utterly offended.”

Endelle rolled her eyes. She had never been able to comprehend the soul or the fervor of the religious fanatic. The thought of being so removed from the ins-and-outs of life, literally, gave her the scratch.

On the other hand, what man would ever want to fuck the woman in front of her with her thin white lips, her pointed chin, her disapproval of everything? Maybe it all worked out in the end and who the hell was she to judge anyway?

“Let me try again. Why was she shipped here?”

“She had a love of men, a lot of men. Her parents believed it to be a profound defect of character.”

“Well, then, exactly how long has she been here?”

“Not long. A century.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Endelle muttered. She glanced at Sister Quena, who stared down at the woman. The head sister of the Creator’s Convent didn’t just frown, she scowled. Endelle would bet every one of her pubes that despite the laws against floggings and canings, the good sister used these methods in the name of spiritual purification.

Endelle didn’t like Quenny. They were opposites, of course, although in the sense that each ruled however the hell she wanted to, they were very much alike. But what she really despised about the good sister was her mean spirit and how she completely ignored the biblical scripture “Love thy neighbor as thyself”—a word of wisdom, by the way, that had been carved into the stonework above each doorway.

Bunch of self-righteous, soul-eating hypocrites.

Whatever.

“You may leave us,” Endelle said.

Sister Quena gasped. “I do not think that is either necessary or wise.” She lifted her stubborn pointed chin and tried for imperious. She damn near succeeded even though Endelle, in her stilettos, towered over her.

Yes, the bitch ruled as she saw fit and no doubt the thought that anyone else would have control, even momentarily, of one of her subjects chapped her ass, to say the least.

But in this respect Endelle still had some power—she could overrule the High Administrator of any of the Creator’s Convents on Second Earth. Not much had been left to her after the creation of COPASS, but she still had some jurisdiction here.

“I don’t give a fuck what you think is necessary or wise. Get out.” She held the woman’s gaze and let her feel the weight of her nine thousand years.

Sister Quena began trembling and her gaze fell away. “Yes, Madame Endelle.”

Much better.

Sister Quena left, closing the door behind her. The door was tall, arched, wooden, and had a small window with wrought-iron insets. Bars, really.

She glanced around.

There was a second bed in the room. Both were narrow and sagged oddly. The room was frigid. Thorne had made his confession about Marguerite explaining that his sister, Grace, shared Marguerite’s cell, which also explained how he had met his ladylove in the first place.

Thorne had been surprised that Endelle didn’t condemn him for holding back. How could she? Thorne carried the load and the load had become the proverbial one-too-many straws. She knew it, but she just didn’t know what to do about it. They were a little short on Warriors of the Blood right now.

She shivered. This room was fucking cold and when she blew a stream of air, sure enough, she produced fog.

She reached down and touched Marguerite’s feet. Dammit, they were like ice. Had sister-bitch no compassion? What the hell was wrong with that woman?

Endelle waved a hand and folded a thick comforter into her arms, one from her own bedroom. She spread it over Marguerite. Even in her drugged state, the beautiful woman sighed and her whole body relaxed.

The bed was so low that when Endelle sat down at its foot, she could easily reach under the covers and rub some warmth into the woman’s feet. Marguerite made soft warbling sounds in her throat.

Endelle didn’t know exactly why she was so moved, but she was. There but for the grace of God, and all that shit, she thought.

Because of her age, Endelle possessed a number of Third Earth abilities. Her preternatural voyeurism was almost unequaled on Second Earth. But another Third Earth power Endelle had involved her ability to penetrate minds, even while drugged. There were some things she had to know about this woman before she proceeded with one of the most disloyal acts she’d ever thought to do in her long fucking life. Desperation was its own terrible motivation.

Still rubbing the woman’s feet very gently, warming them up by degrees, she slid her mind against Marguerite’s.

The split second she penetrated the tough-as-nails head, a voice shouted at her telepathically, Who the fuck are you? And what are you doing inside my head?

Endelle laughed and for a moment stopped working some circulation into the woman’s toes. The one who’s keeping you from frostbite.

Oh. Well, I hope you aren’t into women because I’m not and if you take one fucking millimeter’s advantage of me I’ll have you by the short hairs. Got it?

Endelle laughed then chortled.

What’s so goddam funny?

Nothing, Endelle sent. Not a goddam thing.

Not much anyway, she thought. Except she actually liked Marguerite. So much spirit.

Which meant … shit.

Hey, I’m warm, Marguerite sent. I’m actually warm.

I brought you a comforter.

What are you, like some kind of angel?

That sent Endelle into another bout of laughter to the point that she had to wipe her cheeks with the back of her hands and she almost peed her boar’s skirt. Not hardly, she sent. But I’d better get to the point. Sister-bitch will be back any time. I cowed her for a couple of seconds but you’re her property and she thinks I’m here rustling.

This time, laughter rang through her mind. Sister-bitch. Oh, I like that. I like that a lot. If ever there was a fitting nickname, you just coined it.

Endelle nodded even though Marguerite’s eyes were shut fast.

The devotiate remained on her back, as still as a rock, except for a little light breathing thrown in. For just a moment, as Endelle watched the rise and fall of Marguerite’s chest beneath the mound of the comforter, she wondered what kind of world Second Earth had become that an obviously healthy young woman, with a perfectly understandable love of the male body, could be kept imprisoned for a hundred years under the guise of spiritual reformation?

Jesus. H. Christ.

Some things just hadn’t changed very much in nine thousand years.

Although she rather thought that her own reason for being here was worse in some ways, since she was thinking about moving this gifted woman to another kind of prison. How then did that make her any different from sister-bitch?

The toes were toasty warm now, and she withdrew her hand from under the comforter.

She rose to her imposing height, and because the bed was low to the stone floor, it was like staring down at a doll somehow. Thorne had chosen a real beauty in Marguerite but damn she was short.

She had planned on grilling Marguerite, on finding out the truth, but, man, her heart had started to hurt something fierce. She loved Thorne. He was the brother she’d never had and he was above all her comrade-in-arms.

It was often rumored that they were lovers but that had never been true—much too much an incestuous feel to it. No one, no one, could have tolerated what he put up with in her. So how the hell was she supposed to betray him like this by taking his woman out of the Convent and sending her someplace worse?

I’ll leave you now, she sent.

What’s your name?

Doesn’t matter. She chuckled again. Call me Angel.

Thanks, Angel.

Aw, shit. I’m leaving the comforter and I’m telling sister-bitch that if I ever learn she took it from you, I’ll feed her to the next death vampire who crosses my path.

Thanks … Endelle.

What the fuck?

She heard that telepathic laughter again. Hey, you’re not the only powerful ascender in this room. I just lack the ability to fight these fucking drugs.

Well, well, well.

Just … please don’t take Thorne away from me. He’s … he’s what’s kept me sane all these years.

Oh … shit. This just kept getting worse.

Bye, Marguerite. Don’t let Quenny get to you.

A slight pause. I won’t.

Endelle didn’t wait. Jesus, she was in deep and all she’d done was have half a conversation with a comatose nymphomaniac.

She folded back to her palace. She had thought first to return to her administrative headquarters but damn, she had so much to think about.

She touched down in the rotunda next to the one she used for the major ascension ceremonies.

She paced back and forth with a little levitation thrown in. The domes of her palace were so tall that a death vampire could have been doing a series of rolling loops and not touched any of the walls.

There were only three small white sofas in the white marble room. She had heard her palace referred to as Olympus more than once.

She paced in the direction of the balcony that overlooked the expanse of desert to the west of the McDowell Mountains. The land stretched out before her, mostly made up of oily creosote, the occasional saguaro, prickly pear, cholla. She felt like the desert right now, barren, full of thorns, dry as hell. Her temper had sharpened but lately her chest had been hurting. Since she was an ascended vampire, that ruled out heart attack, so what was going on?

Everything was changing, but nothing seemed to be improving. They were still losing the war to the little peach, that self-styled Commander and leader of the Ascension Liberation Army, Darian Greaves.

Endelle had an elite group of warriors at her command, the Warriors of the Blood, and they were still all that prevented the collapse of two worlds. But right now, her little band of men was fragmented with change.