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He entered the stream of light and to his surprise found an image that swelled his heart. He was donning a uniform that belonged to Second Earth Merry Ascenders, a household cleaning service. How quaint. In this vision, he rode in a van belonging to the cleaning service. The van stopped a few yards away from a gas station near the I-10 and Litchfield Road, Second Earth, a Mobil Oil station. The driver of the van made a call to Central. A moment later an archway appeared and beyond Rith could see an olive grove and a long drive set with terra-cotta cement-formed pavers.
Rith knew the property well. It belonged to Warrior Medichi.
He drew out of the future streams. His heart beat rapidly. The time was nearing in which he would play a critical role for the Coming Order, and apparently he needed to apply for employment at Second Earth Merry Ascenders.
* * *
More than a week had passed since the Ambassadors Festival. Parisa struggled to find the right words to tell Medichi of her decision. She would make him unhappy, but it must be done.
Life had settled down at the villa so much so that a cleaning crew had arrived and ejected both Parisa and Medichi from the main house.
So she walked the olive grove now, but with a heavy heart. Warrior Medichi stood thirty yards away, watching her, always watching her, guarding her, even though a dome of mist shielded the property from powerful intruders.
He was so tall and so handsome and even at that distance a faint trace of sage touched the air. He wore jeans and his black T-shirt pulled across his muscular shoulders, shoulders she had leaned on at the spectacle disaster. His long black hair was still damp from a recent shower and drawn back in the ritual cadroen.
Her heart hurt as she watched him, his head lowered as he spoke into his phone. It was strange to think of him as a vampire, a creature with fangs who could take her blood. Yet how many times had she fantasized that very thing?
None of those fantasies would happen now. She’d made her decision.
Second Earth was not for her and she would not be ascending. She’d seen too much, been through too much, and despite the fact that she was more normal in this world than in her birth-world, she’d had enough.
She might have wings, the ability to throw a hand-blast, and she might even be a preternatural voyeur, but she was not built for war. She knew that. She wanted the world of her library back. She’d called in sick for over a week now so she was due back at work. Besides, she longed for the quiet and order of books and computers and a building that smelled of ink and print.
When Medichi turned away from her slightly, still talking into his phone, she caught sight of one of the estate workers waving to her, a pleasant-looking man with somewhat Asian features. He had a wide forehead and a broad nose. He wore white cotton trousers and a loose white cotton shirt. He must work in the olive press. He smiled and waved her forward.
A sense of ease came over her, even happiness as she moved toward him. “Do you work in the press?” she called out.
He shrugged and shook his head. It was possible he didn’t speak English. With the ability to dematerialize, she supposed he could have come from anywhere on Second Earth to work on the estate.
Only when she drew within two yards of him did the hairs on the nape of her neck rise and give warning, but she didn’t know what it meant. She thought perhaps this poor man was in danger. She looked around, hunting for a death vampire that somehow had made its way onto the property. But that was when a lean arm surrounded her, choking her, and she felt the needle prick her neck.
She had just enough consciousness to turn her head and see that the only adversary present was the man with the wide forehead and broad nose.
How strange …
Antony, she called out softly within her mind, something she did when she needed comfort.
Antony. Then … nothing.
* * *
Medichi heard his name within his head, Antony. Parisa? She must have telepathic abilities and still not know it. He turned toward her, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his black cargoes.
The hour was one in the afternoon and Parisa was some twenty or so yards away, not far from the building that housed the olive press. Had she spoken his name within his mind? Or had he imagined it?
She was turned away from him as though she was watching something very intently. She was even smiling.
She looked so pretty today in a pink-flowered sundress. She wore her dark brown hair in loose curls on top of her head against the climbing June heat. He ached to go to her and take her in his arms.
Then the hairs on the nape of his neck rose.
Oh, shit.
He didn’t wait, but folded his sword into his hand.
He turned in a circle and looked for the enemy but found nothing. The cleaning service was in his home doing the usual. This particular service had careful employment screening procedures.
He scanned his property carefully, turning, turning.
Still nothing.
Huh.
He’d just gotten off the phone with Thorne, who informed him that Marcus intended to serve in the field with the warriors two nights a week, in addition to taking on the duties of High Administrator of Desert Southwest Two. Medichi liked the arrangement. The moment Havily had stood up during Zach’s birthday celebration and made her plea for the shift in Marcus’s duties, he’d been on board. Marcus had what it took to administer a Territory and yeah, Endelle sucked at it.
He started moving in Parisa’s direction. He was about to fold his sword away when the hairs on his nape fluttered once more. Something was wrong. He could feel it. Parisa remained in the same position, standing very still, which suddenly struck him as odd.
“Parisa?” he called out, his feet moving faster.
When she didn’t respond, he called out her name again. She didn’t turn toward him or in any way indicate that she’d even heard him. What the hell was going on?
He started running. A dust devil kicked up and moved through the grove, passing near her. Leaves blew in circles, but the summery pink-flowered sundress didn’t move, not even a little around the hem.
Then he understood.
“No,” he cried out.
What he had thought was Parisa rippled then disappeared … a time-delayed hologram.
She was gone. His woman was gone.
He fell to his knees and roared to the heavens.
Two hours later, with a hundred Militia Warriors combing his estate, with all the Warriors of the Blood surrounding him, with his villa and the guesthouse turned upside down, he had to accept the fact that Parisa was gone. Taken. But how and by whom?
He sat on the ground where Parisa had disappeared.
Marcus and Havily materialized in front of him. Marcus had his arm around Havily’s waist. She extended a sheet of paper to him.
