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“No,” Parisa barked, but then her lips curved.
Even Endelle smiled. “Keep doing that. You’re going to need a sense of humor on Second Earth, especially with this level of power. Ready?”
Parisa nodded.
Endelle placed herself within a foot of the mortal and put her hands on either side of her head. “Now you’re going to release your shields so that I can see your life. I want you to relax and just let everything go.”
Endelle closed her eyes and as if by magic the woman’s shields melted away. She eased her mind within Parisa’s; when she felt no resistance or panic, she dove and began a long run through the woman’s head. This would tell her everything she needed to know.
By the end, she pulled out of Parisa’s mind and stared at her. “Well, you are definitely mortal and un-ascended but are you kidding me? Sage? Warrior Medichi smells like sage?”
Steps on the path grow clumsy,
When the shoes outgrow the feet.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 14
Crace walked in a slow circle all around the patio in the center of the Commander’s peach orchard. He had been in this place many times before. Greaves liked to entertain here.
The hour wasn’t yet noon. He knew Greaves tended to work around the clock so he figured meeting his master here, at this hour, would be as acceptable to the Commander as any other. He still wore his leather kilt and battle sandals but nothing else. He’d thought about changing to something more suitable but he just didn’t give a f**k. He had work to do after this meeting that wouldn’t involve a shirt and tie.
The setting was also symbolic since below the orchard, running for miles under the earth, was Greaves’s compound and Command Center, many stories deep, and the place where he barracked the death vampires he imported nightly from all over the world. Crace was fairly certain Endelle had no real idea of the vast nature of his growing empire or that the compound itself was in a continual state of expansion deep within the earth.
The peach orchard was a calculated work of horticultural advancement and preternatural power. An environmental shield, constructed by Greaves, allowed for a dozen microclimates. Each microclimate created a month of the year and therefore peaches were being grown at every possible stage of the trees’ annual cycles, which meant that fruits were being ripened on the stem every goddamn month of the year. Not only had Greaves won awards, but the sheer power of sustaining these microclimates kept High Administrators around the world in a state of awe. There were so many ways to win a war.
Crace approved of the strategy. Let the sheep be seduced however they may.
On the other hand, with Crace’s evolution of physical and preternatural power, he’d begun to view the Commander in a different and perhaps less exalted light. Some of the glimmer on Greaves’s shining armor had dulled in his opinion.
From the first he’d had a lot to offer and now he had even more, which meant it was high time Greaves allowed Crace some real autonomy and some say in the progress of the war. At the very least, he ought to be able to direct things in Metro Phoenix Two without hindrance from that bastard Rith.
As far as he knew, Rith’s primary function involved surveillance. He was a goddamn spy. Not even a lowly administrator, never mind a High Administrator. So what the hell did the man bring to the table? Squat.
Beyond that, Rith had his own ideas about how the pursuit of the two women should be conducted. He had commandeered critical personnel to perform surveillance at Endelle’s headquarters. Crace knew, he knew, Endelle would protect them. No way in hell would Her Supremeness let Rith or his cronies get within a hundred yards of either the mortal-with-wings or ascender Morgan.
Trying to apprehend them at headquarters was about as useful a strategy as tickling a flea’s balls. He’d argued with Rith, but the vampire had been adamant and refused to be moved from his position. He also had Greaves’s sanction. Rith, in his opinion, was a f**king idiot.
Crace knew exactly where the women were. By an instinct he couldn’t explain, he could sense they were holed up at Warrior Medichi’s villa. Not only did the location make sense because it belonged to a Guardian of Ascension, but the property couldn’t be goddamn located, which meant mist. But not just any mist. Endelle’s f**king mist.
They were there. All he needed was every resource placed in the surrounding vicinity and as soon as either of the women made an appearance, dammit, he’d have them.
But Rith didn’t put stock in Crace’s intuition and he had his forces scattered from Sedona, by Thorne’s house, down to Tucson, where Warrior Santiago had his main residence. So … fuck.
What he needed, therefore, only Greaves could give—permission to redirect personnel.
The air shimmered next to him. A moment later, the Commander appeared, his expression inscrutable, his bald head gleaming, the claw on his left hand snapping once. He looked like a picture out of GQ. He wore, as always, fine-pressed wool, the best of Hugo Boss. His shirt was lavender silk. He smelled, also as always, of lemons and maybe turpentine, a really odd juxtaposition to his suave, immaculate appearance.
Whatever.
Crace was about to speak, but the second snapping of the claw gave him pause. Greaves didn’t always sport the unnatural appendage, just when he wanted to remind his subjects of his inherent preternatural power.
“To what do I owe the honor of this summons,” the Commander said, his voice low and way too soft.
Crace felt the first inkling of his error by the way sweat popped out all over his forehead. The second inkling came from a wave of nausea. Jesus.
He wasn’t daunted, though. He had a mission—to acquire his blood donor no matter the cost. “Warrior Medichi’s villa should be our only priority. The women are there. I know it in my gut, but your servant, Rith, has staff as well as several squadrons of death vamps stationed at every property throughout the Sonoran Desert, even Tucson. I demand—” His voice broke off as Greaves’s large round eyes narrowed.
Crace hissed since within the space of a millisecond he found himself facedown on the rough patio pavers. He also felt a blade at his neck. His head was turned onto his right cheek so he could see his master’s fine Italian footwear moving from one end of the patio to the next, which meant that Greaves held him down and kept the knife at his neck by the sheer breadth of his personal power.
After what seemed like a century, the Commander seated himself opposite on a cement bench. He crossed his legs at the knee, the gentleman that he was.
