Obsidian Flame (17 page)

Good question. “Yes … no … not exactly. We were at one time.”

“So you’re not now?”

Marguerite needed things to change. Maybe this was the moment to start. “No. We’re not together.” But she felt dizzy speaking the words aloud. Did she really mean it? Want it? “So I know you can’t leave the colony, but where can a girl grab a drink?”

The women exchanged a glance.

“Uh, just so ya know, I’m sort of crawling out of my skin here and I could really use a girls’ night out.” But as the words left her mouth, she realized that this was new territory for her. Other than Grace, she’d never had girlfriends before. At the same time, her freedom quest reared its head, so she added, “And I’m serious. I’m crawling out of my skin. I’m not exactly used to all this. I’ve sort of been locked up for a while.” To say the least.

Brynna narrowed her eyes. Jane looked at Brynna. “Well,” she drawled. “There is a club, at the edge of town. We go there sometimes.”

Jane snorted. “You’re there every other night.”

“Girl’s gotta have a hobby.”

At that, Marguerite smiled. She really liked where this was headed. “Are you maybe talking about a club that features men who
move.
”

“Oh, yeah.” Brynna’s voice had dropped about an octave. “To music.”

Jane swayed on her feet. “And sometimes their clothes fall off.”

Marguerite closed her eyes and her body responded with a head-to-toe shiver. “Now you’re talkin’.” If Thorne had an objection, and he would, she would just have to make him understand that this was her choice, what she needed in her life, right now, tonight.

These women definitely understood.

“How about eight o’clock?” Jane glanced at Marguerite over her shoulder. “Devon’s performing. He’s fantastic.”

Brynna chuckled. “Yeah, he’s good. Eight works for me.”

Marguerite met her gaze, and some of her tension fell away. “That would be great.”

Brynna gave some really simple directions, which settled the matter.

Jane, whose gaze was still fixed hard out the window, suddenly gasped. “That warrior’s kilt just flew up again. Oh, my God. Brynna, you’ve got to see him.”

Brynna slid off her chair-arm perch and joined the petite redhead staring out the window.

Jane waved Marguerite over. “Come here and tell us if this is Thorne, although I’m still really hoping it’s one of the Florida boys.”

Marguerite rose to her feet. She doubted it was Thorne, since he’d intended to meet up with Diallo for the morning. Still, if it was some hot ascender, she might just have a look; she was essentially on the hunt. Sort of. Oh, shit, her conscience hit her all over again. She ought to have at least a small sense of loyalty to Thorne. But how could she explain to anyone how she really felt? She wasn’t rejecting Thorne. She didn’t want to be committed to anyone. She wanted to be free.

Marguerite moved to look out the window, standing behind Brynna. She had to lean a little because Brynna was built on big lines, but, yep, there he was,
her man,
going through some strange kind of maneuver with the sword, almost in slow motion. There were at least two dozen Militia Warriors grouped around him, watching intently. There were a number of good-looking ones, too.

But it was Thorne her new friends were staring at. “Yep, that’s Thorne.”

“I’d heard of him,” Brynna said. “But I’ve never seen him before. Damn, he’s gorgeous.”

Jane issued a soft groan. “I’ve never seen a Warrior of the Blood before.” She palmed the window then dragged her fingertips down the glass. “Arthur’s not too hard on the eyes, either. Too bad he’s so damn young.” The two warriors seemed to be putting on some kind of training exhibition for the Militia Warriors.

“No shit,” Brynna murmured. “But Thorne. He’s all grown up. Oh, God, I think I might be ovulating.”

The women chuckled.

Marguerite blinked and looked at Thorne through the eyes of two women who were seeing him for the first time. He had his long hair pulled back in the
cadroen
so that the sharp lines of his cheekbones stood out. He had a strong face, a warrior’s face, a way of holding his head and putting his gaze on another person that commanded attention.

Whenever he put his attention on her like that her knees buckled.

He held a sword in his hand to show young Arthur some moves. Arthur wore a weapons harness and kilt. Thorne was stripped down to just his kilt and battle sandals. Sweat glistened on his golden skin, his ridiculously broad shoulders, the breadth of his back. As he turned to face the cabin, his nipples were hard pebbles. Her breath quickened.

His pecs were thick pads that she’d sucked on about a million times. Was there a part of his body she hadn’t taken in her mouth? His abs were a roll of muscles she’d tongued. The kilt dipped just below his navel. He had the right amount of hair on his chest and stomach. She knew the line that led all the way down, one of her favorite places for the tip of her tongue.

His every move flexed a new set of muscles.

Time slowed.

She had to admit she’d never seen him like this, doing what he did best. She heard his laughter and watched as he caught Arthur playfully with his palm on the back of Arthur’s neck.

Arthur rolled his eyes, spun, and resumed the warrior position, knees bent, feet apart, sword in both hands, upright, ready.

Thorne called out a command.

Sweet Lord in heaven, even through the window that voice of his could work her like nothing else. It was all rough-hewn, like he gargled with sawdust. How many times had he used just his voice, a little resonance thrown in, his body suspended over hers, to bring her.

But had she ever really
seen
him before?

It struck her that he was
magnificent,
like something biblical that would ride in with enormous wings, his flaming sword held aloft, his hair flowing back in long waves, gilded by the sun. She had the strangest sensation that she had just seen exactly who he was and this vision of him thrilled her, striking a chord deep within. She blinked a couple of times, removing the strange image from her mind.

“I’ll bet he really knows how to work his other sword.”

The women laughed.

Aw, hell. Thorne was putting on one fine show for the women even though he probably had no idea they were watching him.

“Man, I’d like to get some of that, right between my legs. I’d heard about Thorne, but I didn’t know any man could be so … perfect.”

“Yes” was Jane’s response, and the word carried a whole lot of estrogen. For the first time since she’d taken Thorne into her bed, Marguerite realized she might have been a little shortsighted in understanding his appeal to women generally.

She backed away from the window and looked down at her hands. Both were curled, and her inch-long red nails held the shape of a fine set of daggers. She felt another weird vibration go through her and before she could prevent it, a growl emerged from the base of her throat and rumbled through the room.

Jane and Brynna turned to look at her, eyes wide as they planted their backs square to the window.

“What gives?” Brynna asked. “You said you weren’t together.”

“He’s mine.”
She’d added resonance, which caused Jane to wince.

Brynna stepped forward, both hands out and up in the universal sign of surrender. “Hey. I’m sorry. Jesus, what the hell is going on? Marguerite, I would never step on the territory of another woman. That’s one of my rules. But you said—”

“I know. I know.” She couldn’t exactly breathe. Her wing-locks had started to thrum. She bent over and worked at her breathing. “I’m in trouble here. Oh, man. And now I’m pissed as hell! I didn’t ask for this. He’s been my lay for a hundred years but we’re not exactly, uh, monogamous.” Well,
she
wasn’t. She’d screwed José. That Thorne had been in his mind and enjoyed the ride as well was completely incidental. She had no right to Thorne, to insist he was hers, and she didn’t even want him like that! What the hell was this?

As if she didn’t know.

Goddamn the
breh-hedden
!

Jane and Brynna drew close, moving to stand directly in front of her.

“We can help with this,” Brynna said.

Marguerite stayed bent over, her hands on her knees. She was shaking and damn close to mounting her wings.

“You’re gonna mount, aren’t you?” Brynna asked.

Marguerite nodded, swallowing hard.

She folded off her shirt because her back was a mess with weeping. She had enormous wings. The small living room wouldn’t be tall enough to manage them. Letting them loose now would cause some damage and a whole lot of pain. She had to control this mount.

“Let us help,” Jane said. “We can help you.”

She strained to look up at the women. “What the hell are you talking about? How can you help?”

Brynna nodded. “We’re Seers. We have group power.” She frowned. “Or … don’t you know about that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She was pissed, her favorite, go-to emotion. She felt in control when she was mad so she was probably mad more often than she was willing to admit. But realizing that these women were lusting after
her man,
well, it had hit her in the gut, made her ready to fight, and her wing-locks, in response to all that aggression, were about a breath away from a full-on mount.

Goddammit.

But before she could say anything, the women were on her, both pairs of hands touching her shoulders and her head.

Her first response was to jerk away from them, but they just followed. She felt their warm comforting stream of energy and knew they were doing her some good, but she hated being touched like that. Her wing-locks responded instantly and began to settle down. The streaming fluids just stopped.

But she hated all this nearness, this closeness. She couldn’t bear it.

She tried to pull away but found she couldn’t, not even a little. A war began to rage within her mind, a battle between
This feels so good I could stay here forever
and
I’ll kill them both for touching me
.

But the women didn’t let up. The feels-so-good sensation kept flowing and her body grew quiet. Unfortunately, the more calm she felt the angrier she got, two sensations that couldn’t live within the same body at the same time. She ground her teeth together and small grunts came out of her mouth. They needed to back off.

Her wing-locks had completely settled down and even the muscles of her back that had swelled, readying for the release, were thinned out and normal. But something in her mind began to spin in ever-widening circles. Wider and wider. Suddenly the wood floor of the cabin rushed up fast.

Warrior’s Lament, fragment

I bloodied the dirt, blood on my heel

My sword cared not the cost

And though I won, thus was I lost

—
Collected Poems,
Beatrice of Fourth

CHAPTER 8

Thorne was breathing hard. “Good workout.” He clapped Arthur again on the back of his neck and shook him for good measure. Arthur smiled. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist then shook off the sweat.

They were both dripping.

Glancing at the Militia Warriors, Thorne addressed the leader. “You’ve got good men, here, Ettgers. Why don’t you take your troops and work what you’ve seen here. In my experience, this is the best time to get in some good drilling.”

“Yes, Warrior Thorne.” He turned to his troops, which included at least three women, and gave a short brisk order to head down into one of the local pastures. Almost as one, the unit turned and moved at a quick jog down the shallow grade toward the lower farms.

Thorne put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Your instincts are good, your speed better. Speed is your biggest advantage. Only Warrior Kerrick might be faster. He could teach you what I’m not sure I can.

“What I can tell you, though, is that you need training, persistent, day-to-day training, by one of us. I don’t care which one. Jean-Pierre might be the best choice because you’re lean in the way he’s lean and you move like him.”

Arthur glared at him and set his jaw. “I’m not leaving the colony. With all due respect, Warrior Thorne, you need to get used to that right now. And the hell if I’m joining the Warriors of the Blood.”

Thorne smiled. He couldn’t help himself. He knew that look well. He’d seen it on eight warrior faces for the past several hundred years. Basic belligerence seemed to be a defining trait for this level of skill and power.

Thoughts of the warriors, however, and the post he’d abandoned, dropped a stone in his heart. Shit, he had to get back. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

He’d been able to talk for an hour to Diallo, who’d invited both Thorne and Marguerite up to his house for lunch.