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I’ve seen your scars, Antony. Don’t you realize that? How could I be so close to you all these months and not have seen your scars?
“Shit,” he muttered. “You’ve already seen them, haven’t you? Of course you have. Shit. ” He sounded so ashamed.
She wanted to comfort him, to tell him it didn’t matter, but she couldn’t. All she could do was keep wiping away her tears.
She was drawn back, deep into her memories of Antony. He had comforted her once, held her while she wept. Three months ago, at the Ambassadors Reception, a bomb had been used in place of fireworks and set the skies afire. Marcus, one of Antony’s best friends, had been severely burned and a death vampire had abducted Havily. Antony had begged Parisa to make use of her voyeur window. The thought of it had been overwhelming to her; she feared what she might find. But Antony had held her and supported her. He’d gotten her through, and as a team they’d brought Havily home.
He was still getting her through by being with her every night like this, talking to her, making love with her in this odd but beautiful way.
Her mind began to drift in and out now. It was past ten o’clock in Burma and Rith roused his household early, at precisely five in the morning. He kept a strict schedule for his servants. Her fatigue was intensified because she was so sad and because, after three months, she wasn’t very hopeful. Rith was a clever vampire. If he even suspected his home was in danger, he’d remove her before anyone had a chance to get to her.
“You’re getting sleepy, aren’t you? I can always tell. It’s as though your presence starts pulsing in waves, going away from me, coming back. Please don’t go. ”
He always said that.
“If you go, I’ll have to wonder for another twenty-four hours if you’re still alive. ”
I’ll be here for you, Antony. I’ll be here. She released a sigh. Sleep claimed her.
Beloved, take the glass to your lips,
I will hold your hand
Drink and be eased.
Beloved, let the wine of your creation,
From the vineyards of your soul,
Give you peace.
—Collected Poems, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 3
Medichi felt Parisa depart—or probably fall asleep. It was close to ten o’clock at night for her.
He rolled onto his side. At some point, the remnants of the tangerine had fallen from his hand and now lay facedown on the bottom sheet. The hunger he knew for Parisa crawled through his belly. Wasn’t this just like the breh-hedden, creating all kinds of irrational behavior. Like sucking tangerines and talking out loud to a woman he couldn’t see.
But he felt her. Oh, yes, he felt her presence in ripples of power.
He left his bed and took a second quick shower to clean up. He put fresh clothes on, jeans and a black tee. Havily would be getting ready for work right about now. She and Marcus still inhabited the same room they’d taken over three months ago. Marcus had returned from self-exile on Mortal Earth at that time—but not just to rejoin the Warriors of the Blood. Madame Endelle had appointed him High Administrator of Southwest Desert Two and given him a boatload of authority. He’d been making some kick-ass changes in how Endelle’s administration dealt with her Territory High Administrators around the globe.
Darian Greaves, self-styled the Commander, had been in the process of turning High Administrators for the past fifteen years at the rate of several a year, each one aligning with his faction against Madame Endelle. If he could turn enough of them, Endelle and her warriors would lose this godawful war once and for all.
Marcus had put a stop to that. Not one High Administrator had quit in the past several months. Yeah, that was called progress.
As for Havily, she’d taken up darkening work part of the night alongside Endelle. Now, there was a shit-job if ever one had been created. In addition, Havily still made a Starbucks run to Mortal Earth for the Warriors of the Blood every morning. She’d meet up with most of them at dawn, bringing hot coffee and pastries and her warm smile. Jean-Pierre called her soeurette, which was French for “little sister. ” That’s what Havily was to all of the Warriors of the Blood, a beloved younger sister.
Hell, he needed a drink. He left his bedroom suite and headed in the direction of the kitchen. He’d never been much of a drinker, but that had changed in the last several weeks. He’d developed a real taste for limoncello.
He crossed the long central hall of his villa, the front lawn to his right. After passing two sets of guest suites to his left, he traversed the large formal living room from which the back lawn was visible as a wide expanse. He’d built his beautiful home over two centuries ago.
He loved the place. But he’d give it all up, plus his entire fucking fortune, to have Parisa back safe and sound.
He crossed the foyer, then the smaller sitting room next to the dining room. The door to the kitchen was offset to the left so that the kitchen wasn’t visible from either the foyer or any of the main south rooms.
He made a beeline across the kitchen to the fridge, opened the door, and grabbed the gallon jug of homemade limoncello. He took a glass off the folded linen on the soapstone counter. He always kept a glass handy.
Making his own limoncello had become part of his routine as well, one of the things that kept him sane. The recipe was simple: sugar, vodka, lemon zest and a lot of waiting.
He made a new batch every week so he’d never run out. The batches kept getting bigger. Lately, he’d needed more. A lot more. Shit. With this latest news, like hell he’d be able to sleep without being just a little drunk.
He took the jug to the dining table, but instead of sitting in a chair he moved to the far side closest to the adjacent sitting room, pulled two chairs at angles away from the table, hopped up, and planted his ass on the solid mahogany. He put a foot each on the angled chairs.
He started to drink.
He held the now cold glass in his hand. This was the other part of his routine. For a long time he couldn’t understand why Kerrick liked his Maker’s and Thorne guzzled Ketel One. Now he got it. Ordinarily, he preferred a fine Cabernet Sauvignon and his own label suited him just fine, but from the third week of Parisa’s abduction, when it became clear she wouldn’t be headed home anytime soon, he’d needed something a little stronger.
He brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. His tongue jerked with pleasure. While the tart lemon put sparks in his mouth, the drink began that long oh-so-necessary slide into sleep that only one-hundred-proof could bring.
It was the waiting that was killing him.
Waiting.
Fuck.
Though he’d finally gotten a serious lead, he still had to wait.
After his third glass, the numbing began … but so did the memories. He saw a woman, pregnant with his child, running through their olive grove in ancient Italy. She was laughing, holding her belly. She was five months’ pregnant, showing nicely. He would walk through the Tuscan village, head high, his arm behind her back pulling her gown tight at the waist so that everyone could see what he had put in her, what he cherished. She would rail at him, shoving her fingers in his face and complaining about what a brute he was, how vulgar, how uncivilized. Then she would strut, thrusting her stomach forward as well. Ah, they were both proud. Married five months and five months with child.
Maria.
He smiled. Then another memory surfaced, the one that brought a searing pain to his heart, as though it were new and not thirteen centuries old.
He had died the night that tribesmen from the north had entered his farmhouse, bound him, and whipped his back into a thousand stripes while they raped his beloved wife, killed her, and stole the life of his son. His son. His only son.
That he knew his child was a boy was one of the first inklings he’d had that he possessed preternatural power. The strong sense of knowing had been on him from the moment of conception. Mar
ia telling him a few weeks later that she was pregnant had been both a confirmation and a warning that his life was about to change.
The enemy had left Medichi to die, having thrust a sword deep into his stomach. He’d been bleeding out on the floor. But the sight of his wife calling softly to him, reaching out to him with the scarlet of her blood spreading over the white linen of her nightgown, had given birth to his ascended powers.
The human part of him died that night and the vampire was born. At first he didn’t know what was happening to him. He ascended to Second Earth, appearing first at the Borderland outside of Rome and answering his call to ascension with a hand-blast. Thorne had come to him, majestically floating out of the air in a leather kilt and heavy battle sandals.
Thorne had been Medichi’s Guardian of Ascension. He’d shared his suffering, eased his pain, shown him what he could do, made him a warrior that very night as together they battled death vampires. Greaves, even back then, had tried hard to make him dead. The bastard had failed.
After his ascension ceremony, Medichi asked permission of no one, but hunted down every one of his wife and son’s murderers. He knew every face and watched with pleasure as each suffered, bled, and died. Vengeance had been born in him that night, war-like justice he’d meted out every night since, battling a new kind of enemy … death vampires.
The clatter of heels on the hardwood of his villa floors brought him back to the present.
Havily. Shit. He should have already disappeared into his bedroom and taken his limoncello with him. He tensed. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He had a sudden impulse to hide the glass and the gallon jar. Then he relaxed. Who was he kidding? Both Havily and Marcus knew what he was doing. You can’t hide that many lemons, that many bottles of vodka. He shifted on the table and dragged one of the chairs with his foot to bring it closer.
Marcus’s breh appeared in the doorway and his heart thudded. At one time he’d had a little crush on Havily. Maybe all the warriors had—certainly Luken.
She looked lovely in her usual Ralph Lauren skirt and silk blouse. Her layered red hair floated around her shoulders. She wore leopard-print heels. His heart swelled with affection. “Morning, Hav. You’re running a little late. ”