“You okay?” Luken whispered.

Both of Thorne’s hands were shaking. “Sure,” he said, glancing briefly at Luken. “Too much Ketel One, but I’m cutting back.” It was both a lie and the truth. He was trying to cut back, yes, but that was only an excuse. In fact he knew something Endelle didn’t: The Seer whom Stannett had referred to—the source of the ominous prophecy—wasn’t at the Superstition Seers Fortress. She was at the Creator’s Convent. Thorne knew her well, really well. So, yeah, Stannett had spoken the truth about her abilities.

Where the hell was the waiter with his sangria?

He’d had more than one conversation with Endelle since Stannett’s revelation, but she hadn’t been all that helpful. Her latest suggestion was, Would you please take a fucking chill-pill? It’s probably just some Seer shit.

But it wasn’t.

Christ. A major battle coming and he couldn’t talk about it to Endelle, because he’d vowed never to reveal the Seer’s identity to Her Supremeness. Endelle was obliged by COPASS law to send any talented Seer to the Superstition Fortress, and that place had to be a hellhole right now. It certainly wasn’t a bastion of freedom.

That Stannett played a double game by making frequent visits to the Creator’s Convent, and not telling Endelle, had made Thorne’s life close to unbearable. The Seer was his woman and had been his woman for the past hundred years.

Christ, what a fucking mess.

More sangria would really help about now and he almost barked at the waiter when he finally refilled his glass.

Endelle was still arguing with Santiago about his dagger. The Latin warrior stood behind his chair with his latest design in his right hand, its hilt encrusted with three rubies—always rubies for Santiago. He showed her some moves. Most of the brothers were watching. Santiago loved to put on a show, and thank God for it because the tremors had moved up Thorne’s arms.

They were all here, every damn one of them, all eight now because Marcus had returned, battling two nights a week. He loved them all. He needed them all. If he lost even one of his men, how would they survive as a unit, not to mention win this goddamn war?

***

Time, even this hour-long dinner, had given Parisa a little perspective. Her gaze kept flipping to the bruise on Antony’s wrist. He’d had thirteen centuries to get used to taking blood and she hadn’t. Not that she’d hesitated. She’d fantasized about it dozens of times, from the first moment she’d voyeured Antony, watching him enthrall mortal women at the Blood and Bite, gaping as he took their blood at wrist and neck—and once, shockingly, at a woman’s ankle.

Desire streaked through her at the memories. At the same time another part of her brain recoiled: You can’t really be a vampire. This has to be a dream. Maybe a nightmare.

Had she really sucked on his wrist and swallowed his blood?

Vampire. She kept rubbing her tongue over her incisors. More than once she thought the thought just so she could feel her fangs emerge, then disappear. The whole thing was so unreal.

She glanced at Antony. “Will you be battling tonight?” What a strange question to ask, and yet it was the right one. Antony was a warrior and fought death vampires every night of his life.

He leaned close and put an arm around her shoulders. “No,” he said quietly. “Thorne wants me to stick close to you, at least until we can figure out a safer arrangement.”

She shivered, and he laid a hand over hers. She knew he meant to offer comfort, but a terrible feeling of being contained came over her—boxed in, controlled. She pushed his hand away.

“What is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“Okay.” His arm slid away.

She let her gaze skip from warrior to warrior, then to Havily who was still ignoring Marcus, and finally to Endelle, now standing beside her throne-like dining chair and holding Santiago’s dagger in her hand. She tossed it back and forth, feeling the weight. Where was Alison? Oh, yeah … baby troubles.

Parisa felt confused. She had left her prison but right now she felt as though she’d locked herself into another one. A different kind of prison, with different rules of service and war. But still a prison.

She stood up as the caterers were arriving with bowls full of flan. The sight of the egg-custard dessert, so different from Burma and rice and turmeric, made her gag.

“I need to leave,” she stated. She felt light-headed. “The food was lovely, Madame Endelle, but I have to go.”

No one was listening to her. Santiago had just said something suggestive about the dagger and Endelle was chortling, her head thrown back.

Her chair scraped on the marble as she pushed it back. Her linen slid to the floor. She was turning away from Jean-Pierre, who had risen to his feet as well. She knew Antony was at her back.

“What is wrong, cherie?” Jean-Pierre’s hand was on her arm.

Parisa stared at it. Rith always had his hands on her arms, controlling her, enthralling her. She shook his hand off. She backed away.

Antony slid in front of her. “Leave her alone,” he said to Jean-Pierre, too loudly.

“She is not well. Look at her.”

“Don’t fucking touch her, Jean-Pierre.”

Parisa backed away from the sudden anger. The table had become a tableau of frozen movement. Everyone stared at Jean-Pierre and Antony, then slowly each gaze turned to her.

Only then did Antony leave his bull-like stance with Jean-Pierre and meet her gaze. He frowned. “What is it?”

“I want to go home. Now.”

“That’s fine. Are you all right?”

She shook her head. “Just please take me home.”

He nodded. He walked toward her, a hand outstretched. Rith used to do that. He would stretch his hands out, first one then the other. Look at me, he would command. She would meet his gaze and be lost.

“Don’t touch me.”

Antony lifted both hands in surrender but kept coming. She kept moving backward. She stepped past the boundary of the wall. In some part of her mind she knew she was now on the terrace, and it was bounded by a low balustrade, nothing more.

But Antony kept advancing on her.

“I can’t take you home if you don’t stop moving. I have to touch you to fold you back to the villa. Do you understand?”

She nodded. Some part of her understood. Sort of.

He stopped suddenly but she kept moving backward. A breeze, hot and full of rich desert scents, blew over her. The stone railing stopped her progress, hitting her low at the top of her thighs. She blinked, glanced over the edge, then jumped back in Antony’s direction. “Oh, God.”

Suddenly Endelle was there. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” She scowled. “This is ascension, chickie. Get used to it quick.”

Warrior Kerrick drew up beside her. “She needs Alison. I’ll get her on the phone.”

“No, don’t,” Parisa cried. She reached a hand toward Kerrick, who paused with his BlackBerry halfway to his ear. “I don’t want Alison. I don’t need her. I just—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She took a deep breath, and her gaze fell to the bruise she’d put on Antony’s wrist. Her mind was an ocean that flowed first to one continent then back to the other.

She felt dizzy again and weak. So weak. She put a hand on Antony’s arm. “Please take me to your home. Now. Please.”

To sweep someone through nether-space was always one of the great pleasures of my ascended vampire life, second only to the giving and taking of blood.

—From Memoirs, Beatrice of Fourth

Chapter 10

Medichi didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t even glance anywhere but at her face. He slid his arms around Parisa and thought the thought. The next moment he stood holding her in the foyer of his villa.

But he didn’t know what to do with her except release her.

She took several steps away, leaving him with a cold weight in the center of his heart. He’d been foolish. He knew that now. He had somehow thought that just being together would make for a quick transition into ascended life. He’d become convinced of it when he’d seen her amazing recuperative powers. When she’d taken his blood, he’d believed himself home free.

Foolish, indeed.

He gave her space. He even turned away from her to take a couple of steps to the central table of the foyer, the one that held an intricate and tall arrangement of white magnolias. The table was made of thick wood and, despite his size, he didn’t hesitate to turn and lean his hips against it. Almost everything in his villa was warrior-sized. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“You’re angry with me,” she said, her eyes haunted.

“I’m angry with myself. I’ve been very stupid about this, about you. I’ve been thinking with my dick and that’s about it.”

At that, a smile tugged at the edges of her lips.

“Glad I amuse you,” he said.

“Your turn of phrase amuses me.”

She was a librarian. She would notice things like that. He felt his lips curve, then he sighed. “I want to do right by you here, Parisa. Tell me what you need from me. I’m not without a lot of experience.”

“Thirteen centuries’ worth,” she murmured.

“Yeah. And a few decades.”

She nodded. “Precisely. I’ve had a total of three decades of living and none of them here, none of them in this dimension.”

An hour or so ago he’d felt like a thin sheet of glass. That’s what he saw in Parisa now, only for her it wasn’t sexual as it had been for him. He thought he understood her better in this moment than he had all along.

He lifted off the edge of the table and moved a few feet away. The foyer was a large space, meant for mingling during large parties, the serving of cocktails, even dancing if anyone wanted to. There hadn’t been a dance here in over a hundred years. That’s how bad the war had gotten, the seemingly inexhaustible war.

He sat down on the floor as if he were sitting at a campfire, crossing his ankles then settling his forearms on his widespread knees. The ceremonial black tunic hung low and kept necessary things private. The cape and brass breastplate were back at the palace. Whatever.