Gates of Rapture

CHAPTER 14

Greaves arrived at the Illinois Two Seers Fortress, and, yes, the situation with Stannett seemed to be well in hand, at least for the present. The redheaded Militia Warrior clearly hadn’t spared her whip. Stannett had only his leathers on, and his upper torso was still cut up if not bleeding. But at least Stannett looked sobered.
Still, Greaves really needed to impress on his servant the critical nature of the hour that fast approached. He backhanded him and sent him flying across the room so that he landed hard against one of the black marble walls. Stannett crumpled to the floor.
Greaves strode to his position and looked down at him. “Do I need to explain to you what has happened while you were squirting all over yourself today?”
Stannett tried to blink, but he listed sideways. His eyes showed a lot of white.
“Do you wish for my assistance, master?” The female Militia Warrior’s voice soothed him.
“No, I thank you. And again, I value how much you were able to contribute in so short a span of time.”
He reached down to Stannett and placed a hand on the man’s thick hair. He shuddered slightly at the strange stiff texture. Despite his fury, he allowed the healing waves to flow. He needed Stannett’s brain functioning so that he could get back in the future streams and do his job.
In quick stages, Stannett pulled himself upright and began to focus his eyes. When he looked up at Greaves and flinched, Greaves removed his hand and stepped back.
He folded a document into his hand and waved it at Stannett. “Do you see this paper?”
Stannett nodded.
“Good. I’m going to show it to you, and I want you to absorb what you see.” He lowered the sheet to Stannett’s eyes. It was a printout of the obsidian triad photo, all three women in full-mount, displaying the unique flame pattern of their wings.
The Seer scanned it thoroughly. A frown between his brows grew deeper and heavier with each passing second.
“Over the past few hours, have you seen anything about this in the future streams?”
Stannett blinked several times, but the frown never left his face. He shook his head slowly, his chin sinking. “Marguerite and the teams she created are very powerful. No doubt they’ve been blocking the images.”
“Undoubtedly, which means I need you to try harder. This event is scheduled for tomorrow night, yet I’ve heard nothing of it from you and your bound Seers. How is this possible?”
“I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“I’m not here to dispense absolution. I’m only here to try to get you to understand that we’re on the verge of a major battle. And let me remind you that if your failure causes my failure, it means that Marguerite, as the Supreme High Seer of Second Earth, will have your ass in a sling. Do you understand?”
Stannett finally met his gaze and some of the false humility he’d been showing disappeared. He even looked frightened.
“Good. You’re beginning to get the bigger picture.” There was only one real way of dealing with Stannett. If he didn’t understand exactly how he could be hurt, he would continue indulging his Seer joyride.
The Militia Warrior seemed to have succeeded in reining him in for the most part, but she didn’t have the power to know what he was doing in the future streams. Only Greaves could do that.
“And now, please select your next set of Seers extremely well. I want you to spend the night hunting for information about this event. My senses tell me that it’s not what it appears to be.”
“Yes, master,” Stannett said.
Satisfied, at least for the present, Greaves folded back to Geneva and paced his office from the desk to his black leather couch and back. One thing was clear: If Greaves survived this whole damn turn of events, he was going to have to get rid of Stannett and figure out some other way of getting the information he needed.
If he survived.
For the first time in centuries, he’d begun to doubt the outcome of the war. He stared down at the printout once more. Above the three women were the words OBSIDIAN FLAME SPECTACLE EVENT AT THE CAMELBACK PARADE GROUNDS, BY PRIVATE INVITATION ONLY. AIRING ON ALL MAJOR NETWORKS WORLDWIDE. CHECK YOUR LOCAL LISTINGS.
By the time his public relations department had alerted him to the news, the photo had gone viral. Obsidian flame was now being discussed in every corner of the globe.
So with one press release, his plans had been turned upside down.
He rubbed his chin, then his slick bald head. He rubbed his chin some more.
He couldn’t quite bring his emotions under control, but he understood them. He was close to panic because it was the smaller print at the bottom of the page that disturbed him the most: AN HONOR GUARD WILL ACCOMPANY THE REMARKABLE OBSIDIAN TRIAD. Honor guard was code for a military review. But of what magnitude, and what had prompted Endelle to put obsidian flame on display? Unless of course it was to try to woo back some of the High Administrators he’d already hooked on dying blood.
He wadded the paper into a ball, tossed it into the air, then aimed a controlled hand-blast at it. The paper ignited, exploding into a ball of flames. He watched it land on the black marble of the floor and burn to ashes.
He had come so close to getting Grace to come with him back to Geneva, at which time he would have had her killed and none of this nonsense would even be happening. There would simply have been no triad. But she had been more powerful than he had thought possible and had resisted him.
He mentally shut off all the lights in his office, turned off the various electronic devices, and stretched out on the floor.
He needed to relax. He needed to think about how he would bring pressure to bear on Endelle’s coming spectacle.
His first thought was a number of well-placed bombs that would take out her administrative headquarters as well as the Camelback Parade Grounds, but that was illegal.
On the other hand, with his plans on the tipping point of annihilation, what did he care for legalities? He would think about that. If he struck first, if he bombed the spectacle, he would gain an enormous advantage because obsidian flame would be destroyed.
His thoughts grew more and more focused on this concept so that within a few minutes, he’d made the decision to move forward with his plans.
*   *   *

Leto had taken great pains to get Medichi’s house ready for Grace. He’d been in a state of partial arousal for the past several hours. She knew it, too, since she could feel all his external sensations. And just a moment ago, she’d sent, We had a long walk, but I’m almost at the landing platform. Wings coming up.
He shivered in anticipation.
Parisa was definitely out of the house, just as she had said she would be. And Medichi was on duty at the Borderlands.
He and Grace would have the house to themselves.
Because Militia Warriors patrolled the villa grounds constantly, Leto had shuttered all the windows. And for what he had in mind, he definitely required some privacy.
Needing to make sure that he had enough room for wing-mount, he’d cleared the hall nearest the bedroom he shared with Grace. All that remained was the heavy rectangular oak table he planned to make use of, now cleared of decorative debris. Ever since he’d felt Grace mount her wings, and he’d cracked those tiles in the bathroom at the palace, he’d been thinking of this moment.
He felt Grace fold into the entryway.
He felt how much she ached.
“You need me,” she said, hurrying toward him.
She was in his arms, and he planted his mouth on hers as though he intended to remain there forever. She groaned against him. He felt her clothes disappear, and his hands touched her wet wing-locks.
He groaned and lost his clothes. He was hard as a rock.
She pushed away from him suddenly, held out her arm, and brought the comforter from their bed into her hands. She threw it on the table and leaned over on her stomach, spreading her legs wide.
Oh, God.
He held out his hands, reaching for her, wanting to touch, yet knowing he was too damn close. He felt dizzy with desire. He could hardly move. He also felt all of her need, and the strange thought flitted through his mind: How the hell do the bonded warriors stay away from their brehs?
He moved forward stiffly, both knees and cock, until he could reach her. By now her entire body trembled, so he trembled.
I can feel you, she sent. My, God. The breh-hedden is amazing.
He planted his large hands on her hips, and she tilted for him so that her ass rose in the air. Sweet mother of the Creator, he nearly lost it.
“Take me now,” she whispered. “My wings are ready to explode from my back.”
“I can feel that,” he said, but his voice was hoarse and deep. He didn’t even sound like himself.
He positioned himself against all that beautiful wetness and began to push. She cried out, her fingers grabbing the comforter and shaping into fists.
“Leto, I want to come as I release my wings.”
“I know. Me, too. I’m too damn close.”
“Me, too.”
But he worked at holding back as he pushed inside her. He loved being in this place with her, connected, on the edge of orgasm, of giving her pleasure as her body pleasured his.
With great effort, he was able to calm his body down just enough so that he could establish a rhythm. She panted now, holding on to the sides of the table.
His wing-locks were a mess, the moisture trailing down his sides in rivulets. He felt what it was like for her to have his cock stroking all the sensitive internal nerves just as his cock grew harder with each thrust.
He grunted now, holding back, holding back.
“Leto,” she cried. “Now.”
He moved faster and began to feel both her wings come and his, her body clench around his cock, and his balls release firing up and out. It was all so much, her sensation and his. Her wings fanned out below him while his floated in the air around them both. The ecstasy—oh, God, the ecstasy—like a wave shining around him as he continued to plunge and drive.
It didn’t end, and he could feel a second release coming. “More,” he whispered, kissing her back between her wings.
Yes, she sent, filling his mind.
He plunged into her again, his hands low on her hips as he pulled her toward him. Her wings flapped, and the air moved over him, adding yet another layer of sensation.
This time, however, he focused on what she was feeling as he drove his cock into her. “You like pulling on my cock.”
“Yes. And I love what it feels like. So beautiful. We’re connected, Leto. You and me.”
“Yes.” He could feel her breasts rubbing against the stiff cloth of the comforter, another sensation. She had full breasts and every push of his scraped the sensitive nipples and gave her pleasure.
He drove harder now, arching over her. He was tall enough that he could plant his arms above her shoulders so that he made a wave of his back, his hips, his buttocks. With each thrust she gave a cry.
He felt her shift, and her arm appeared next to her head, beside her wing. She turned and presented her wrist to him.
The angle was awkward, but like hell he was going to turn that down. He supported himself with one arm and took her wrist, carefully as he positioned his fangs then bit her. Again, she cried out.
As he began to drink, her blood powered him further so that now he was slamming into her, a hard missile. Her cries turned to heavy grunts and grew louder until her wings moved with every quick thrust. When he could feel her coming again, his body reacted as though she’d taken her fingers and pulled on him at just the right pressure.
He released her wrist, arched his back, and shouted at the ceiling. He came and came and came.
By the time his body settled down, Grace was completely lax on the table. Her wings even drooped toward the floor. She giggled. “Oh, that was perfect” came in a rush of air out of her mouth.
He didn’t want to leave her body, but he also wanted to make sure that he didn’t accidentally hurt her wings. They were strong yet fragile. Plucking a feather hurt like a bitch.
He slipped out of her, and her knees buckled for a moment. She caught herself and carefully began drawing her wings in. When her back muscles had thinned out, she finally stood upright.
She folded a towel into her hand, and without apologizing or showing any sign of embarrassment, she cleaned up.
He stood smiling at her, like an idiot, his wings still at full-mount and flapping lazily.
He was happy, so goddam happy.
She grinned in response.
He spent the next hour with her in the bathtub, soaping her up, rinsing her off, kissing her, and making love to her all over again, but this time very slowly. Even then, he ended up sloshing most of the water onto the floor.
When he helped her out of the tub and passed her a towel, he realized she’d grown quiet, almost still. She was thinking hard again.
“What is it?” he asked.
She met his gaze as she dried off. “Just thinking about our last conversation in the kitchen and about becoming more real in your life. I keep thinking how we completed the breh-hedden so early in the process. I worry that in not connecting fully we’ve made ourselves vulnerable, if that makes sense.”
He tossed his towel onto the sink, crossed to her, and took her in his arms. “I think about it as well, and I agree with you that we’re vulnerable. I feel it, too.”
“We’ve both had it rough,” she whispered.
Death vampires had disrupted their lives early on, perhaps forcing each to draw inward, to fail to connect on a deep level with others.
He squeezed her again, and she grabbed his arms and returned the hug. “We’ll stick close right now,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “And just keep talking to me. I’m here.”
*   *   *

The next morning, Greaves paced the long conference room in his Command Center at Estrella Mountain. He’d come to consult with his generals once more, but the level of vampire testosterone bouncing around the room had given him a headache.
For the first time in months, he missed Leto. He hadn’t really understood the warrior’s value until precisely this moment when his generals were shouting one another down and crying for blood, insisting on launching every weapon within the Estrella Complex right now, at this very moment, to blow the Camelback Parade Grounds all to hell so that the spectacle event would have to be canceled.
He wanted to torch the room, burn them all alive, and start over, maybe create a new life for himself.
He rarely felt like this, as though he needed to question every aspect of his life and, yes, to start over. His mother, Beatrice of Fourth, had invited him to partake of her baptism program and be redeemed through her graded pools in the way Casimir had. If he’d understood the process, he would experience within these baptisms every wrong he had ever committed against another human or ascender, followed by searing remorse.
He smiled at the idea. That would be a lot of remorse, indeed.
He glanced briefly at the men shouting at one another across the table. One of his generals threw a sheaf of papers into the air, another who was much given to profanity let loose with a string of beauties, while a third had been yelling so long and so loud that his face was beet red and his eyes were bulging.
Greaves continued his pacing. The bombast and railing fell into a muffled background noise as he pondered what he should do about the forthcoming obsidian flame spectacle.
His generals wanted him to attack, but would that be wise?
What would Leto have recommended? Patience, then more patience, to be wary of a trap, to be careful with public relations, and to never underestimate Endelle.
But Leto wasn’t here and Endelle had chosen this moment in history to make a very public demonstration of her latest preternatural good fortune.
The trouble was, he still didn’t know what the triad could do. If he attacked, could obsidian flame respond with equal force?
When the shouting of his generals once more pierced his mind, he simply raised both hands and, using several carefully combined resonances, said, “Enough.”
Two of his generals passed out. The rest gripped their heads and grunted in pain. Resonance combined with mind-speak had wonderful applications.
At least the bombast had ceased.
“I know you would all prefer to torch the planet, but we need to be a trifle more restrained than that. I think limiting our destruction to the Camelback Parade Grounds, at the height of the spectacle event, will accomplish all that needs to be accomplished. With luck, we’ll destroy the triad, and then we can proceed with greater confidence. After that, we’ll begin a systematic destruction of all the hidden colonies on Mortal Earth.”
Now that a decision had been made, his staff calmed down.
“The spectacle event is scheduled to begin at eight o’clock this evening, as you know. Please have rocket launchers in place and be ready to fire on my orders. Are we clear?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He lifted his right arm and folded back to Geneva.
*   *   *

Julianna dipped down and smelled the roses Owen Stannett had sent her. The fragrance was lovely. Too bad it didn’t help her present mood.
She reached for the note again. How many times had she read then reread his tidy little message? How many times had she screamed at the ceiling of Greaves’s bedroom?
So Grace was back, beautiful, perfect, little-miss-spiritual Grace of Albion was back. Whoop-dee-f*cking-doo.
She stretched her arms overhead, then reached for a long-handled, bamboo back scratcher. The thing about having so much destructive sex with Greaves wasn’t the pain, it was the frequent itching as her skin healed.
She closed her eyes and lightly rubbed the narrow tines over the her middle wing-locks. She cooed and sighed.
Greaves had gone crazy with his claw again. And again.
She really did belong with the Commander. And though she had no serious interest in Casimir anymore, her delicate female vanity was wounded. She needed relief from that wound, just as the bamboo tines were giving her relief from her itchy wing-locks.
She wanted justice because Casimir had walked out on her.
No man had ever walked out on her before. Ever.
Well, one had, a century ago, but she’d made him good and dead with her special hand-blast ability, so he no longer counted.
The truth was she didn’t really blame Casimir, at least not nearly so much as Grace. She wanted to hurt Caz, of course, but her true desire was to see Grace dead. But how and when to attack?
She had Seer contacts in the highly corrupt Mumbai Seers Fortress. Her first conversation with the High Administrator of the Fortress provided her with the simple information that little could be retrieved about Grace in the future streams because she was being blocked by more powerful Seers that were now attached to Madame Endelle.
Of course perfect Grace would have Endelle’s protection.
Realizing that she’d used the back scratcher too vigorously and was now bleeding, she set it down on her nightstand. She fingered the soft petals of the roses and pondered her present conundrum.
“Oh,” she murmured, as a new thought struck.
No one would be looking for Casimir in the future streams, and if Greaves was to be believed, he was out and about protecting Leto as his Guardian of Ascension. Grace might be beyond her reach, but maybe, just maybe her Mumbai connection could discover something about Casimir. She kicked herself for not having thought of it sooner.
She made her call to Mumbai. “Forget what I said about keeping after Grace in the future streams. I want you to look for Casimir of Fourth. Apparently, he’s on Second right now. And the moment you have word, you’re to call me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Julianna,” the deep masculine voice returned. “And you will of course tell your master how obliging I have been.”
“Yours will be the first praises I sing when he returns. And I will be sending the usual packet of rubies.”
She heard the deeply satisfied sigh before the obligatory farewells. She hung up before he’d finished his assurances of dying fealty to so important an ascender as she.
She decided to dress, then fold to the Sahara, where she could be alone for an hour or so to practice her hand-blast abilities.
As she sweltered in the hot desert, each time she drew her energy into her hands and released the blast, she pictured Grace’s brains exploding all over the sand.
The image made her seriously content.

Destiny, I have found, is one of the strangest phenomena in any dimension, for it consistently works against common sense and every practical goal man can conceive.

Memoirs, Beatrice of Fourth