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A few more minutes in the shower, as her tears lessened and finally ceased, she felt calmer, more at ease, more like her old self. Her heart felt safer, more secure.
She dressed in jeans, two tank tops, one white, the other black and off the shoulder. She folded her makeup from the other bathroom and made use of under-eye concealer. She tended to her makeup as she always did, blending the foundation carefully, applying the proper layers of eye shadow and liner. She got very close to the mirror and tweezed her brows. The routine of it further eased her heart.
When her hair was brushed, teased, combed, and shaped, when she had donned several rings, two sets of pierced earrings, and a simple silver chain necklace, when she was satisfied with her appearance, only then did she leave the unfamiliar room and head in the direction of the kitchen.
By the time she entered the foyer, two aromas reached her. One belonged to onions and garlic simmering in olive oil, and the other was a rich fennel scent. Her stomach rumbled at the first, but her heart seized at the second.
Whatever.
Somehow, she was going to have to get used to the call of the breh-hedden and not take it so damn seriously.
She straightened her shoulders. As she neared the kitchen, she called out, “What smells like heaven?”
Marcus sat on a bar stool on the nearer side of the dark soapstone island. He wore a fresh, white silk, short-sleeved shirt; slacks; shoes; and socks. This was casual Phoenix, but she had the impression that what he wore right now was about as casual as he would ever allow himself to get. But jeans would be a great look for him, jeans and maybe nothing else. Commando would add the finishing touch. Okay, she needed to stop these thoughts right now because they weren’t helping her to stay focused.
He turned toward her, a forkful of pasta near his mouth. The fork paused midair as he looked her up and down, his light brown eyes flaring. He licked his lips. “Parisa cooked.”
When another rush of fennel struck her, she ignored the way her heart rate climbed. She looked past him to Parisa, who stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island. “So I see. It smells wonderful.”
Parisa dished up a plate for Havily and dressed it with fresh basil and a squeeze of lemon. “I found the ingredients in the fridge. I made a lot because I know I was starved and I figured you both would be as well. I wasn’t sure about Warrior Medichi.”
Havily took up a stool next to Marcus and before she could warn him away, his hand was on her thigh. She looked down at it, uncertain what to do.
“Hey,” he murmured. And before she could stop him, he leaned close and kissed her, full on the lips. Ohhhhh … damn.
Havily drew back and looked at him, fear striking her heart like a well-swung mallet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. But just as quickly as the concern entered his eyes, understanding followed, and the hand on her thigh slipped away.
She wanted it back.
No, she didn’t
Yes, she did.
She took a deep breath and concentrated on her pasta.
Parisa sat down beside her. “I’ve been meaning to ask, what is that mesh-like structure in the air above the villa?”
“You can see that?” Marcus asked, then whistled low.
“It’s called mist,” Havily said. “A powerful ascender can create it. Marcus can. Medichi. All the warriors, I think. I haven’t developed the ability yet but then essentially I’m very young in ascended terms. That you can see it is rather amazing; it indicates your level of power. It is the rare ascender who can actually see mist. Although I must say I’m not surprised by this ability since you’re not only a mortal with wings but you can also throw a hand-blast. Amazing.”
Parisa shook her head back and forth. “I can’t believe I actually slammed the ruler of Second Earth against a plate-glass window because of power I released from my arm and hand.”
Havily laughed. “It was the highlight of my day, let me tell you.”
Parisa smiled, but her gaze shifted in the direction of the exotic dome over Warrior Medichi’s property. “Well, I think her mist is beautiful. It reminds me of a very fine white lace.” She was silent for a long moment, chewing on the tender pasta, then asked how old everyone was.
Her eyes widened when Havily gave both Endelle’s and Marcus’s ages. “Medichi of course is younger. He ascended around AD 700.”
Parisa laughed and shook her head. “You know what’s funny? Of all the things you’ve told me, for some reason speaking of having lived in terms of centuries has made me dizzy.” She lifted her hand, palm facing both of them, and added quickly, “I’m fine. I swear it.”
Havily laughed, Marcus as well. “Parisa, the pasta kills,” he said. “Thanks for cooking. I would have offered but when it comes to culinary ability, I’m basically cooking-challenged.”
Havily glanced at him. Now, why did he have to be such a nice guy? Why couldn’t he have said something offensive, or not been grateful that Parisa cooked, or worse, bragged about what a great cook he was? Why couldn’t he just man up and give her a reason to dislike him?
“You’re welcome,” Parisa said. She then drew in a deep breath. The fork that twirled her pasta slowed and stopped.
Havily noted the serious frown between her brows. “What is it?”
Parisa met her gaze. “I know that there are bad guys out there looking for me, but do you think there’s someplace we could go so that I could try out my wings? I mean, I don’t want to make anything difficult for either of you, but if you only knew how much I long to fly—”
“Absolutely,” Havily cried. “I haven’t flown for a week and I know exactly what you mean. I get a little antsy, even irritable, if I don’t take to the skies on a regular basis. But you haven’t really flown at all yet, have you?”
She shook her head. “Just that little jump off the railing, which was really more of a floating experiencing than anything else.”
Havily felt relieved. Supporting Parisa through her first few flying experiences was just what she needed to get some distance from the warrior beside her. “I’ll bring over a couple of my flight suits. They’re made with halters. I’m sure one of them will fit, although it might be a little snug through the chest.”
Parisa grinned. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
After the dishes were cleaned up, and Medichi’s dinner put in the warming oven, Havily returned with Parisa to their rooms. She folded the suits from her town house, gave Parisa one, then changed into her own.
