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He folded back to the tamarind tree in Burma, drawing his sword into his hand from his Sedona weapons locker. The double dome of mist still covered the property. He turned in a slow circle, making sure that he was alone.
He stretched his preternatural hearing but except for the sound of frogs, nothing came back to him. He made his way into the house, again listening carefully and watching every shadow in case a death vampire, or Rith himself, might choose to return to what they all now knew to be a death and resurrection facility.
As he crossed the living room, the mahogany floor creaked beneath his feet.
He checked every room, one by one, hunting for the smell that had stuck to him when he’d come back with the rest of the Warriors of the Blood. It was the scent like a bakery or a French patisserie, like fresh-baked buttery bread or perhaps croissants.
But all he smelled here was garlic and turmeric.
He sighed as he made his way down the hall. He reached a second shorter hall that led to the basement stairs. He opened the door to the stairwell and once more listened for the sounds of the enemy.
He heard nothing.
Crouching, he descended, one quiet foot after another. He sniffed the air and, oui, as before, he could smell the bakery aroma.
At the bottom of the stairs, he looked right, then left, then right again. No one was there.
He lifted his nose into the air, closed his eyes, and just breathed. He took several long slow inhales through his nose, scenting the air like an animal. He felt un peu dizzy.
The largest room was opposite the stairs and still held several pieces of medical equipment: a cart with wheels, two stands for hanging bags of blood or fluids, even the hated defibrillator.
Mon dieu, the horror of what these women endured. Medichi had told the warriors that one of them, Fiona, had been taken from Boston in the late nineteenth century. He put a fist to his chest. How had she survived such trauma to her heart all these terrible decades? He did not understand the spirit of such a woman, how she had lived only to be killed and brought back to life over and over.
A shimmering in the air appeared not far from him. Shit. He should not have come. He held his sword in a firm grip as he shifted to face his new enemy—but it was only Thorne.
“What the f**k are you doing here?” Thorne cried. He scowled at Jean-Pierre. “And I sure as hell don’t remember you asking for permission to come back here. Now you have two questions to answer.”
Jean-Pierre had nothing to tell him. “I am not certain why I came,” he said. “I was distressed and felt compelled to return. Perhaps we missed something.”
Thorne looked around and shook his head. “I had the same damn feeling. Endelle wanted me to come back and have one more look, but goddammit, Jean-Pierre, you should have checked with me first.”
“Would you have let me come?”
“No,” Thorne barked. He barked a lot these days.
Jean-Pierre merely smiled and shrugged.
Thorne did as well. It was so much like their chef, their boss, their leader. He had a quick temper, but his rage disappeared as fast as lightning.
“Well, now that you’re here we can have a look around together.”
Jean-Pierre took his time. He went into every cell, and with each successive room his spirit grew heavier. His anger grew and grew. He raged that such horrible things had been done to innocent women.
When he reached the last cell, the aroma of bread—no, more like croissants—permeated the room, but he did not know why. There was a vent above, but that was true of all the cells. Had someone baked something recently? If so, then why did not every room smell like this one?
All that he knew was he wanted to linger, to stay close to the aroma.
“What is it?” Thorne asked.
Jean-Pierre turned and looked at him. Thorne stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips. He scowled as always, his hazel eyes red and so very sad. He carried a terrible load. Jean-Pierre had no intention of adding to his concerns. “Rien,” he responded. “I have found nothing.”
And that was the truth. Nothing except an aroma of croissants that made no sense in this dungeon of terrors.
***
Parisa had just slid into a clean bra and underwear when a knock sounded on the door, but it sounded faint, not like Medichi. “Who is it?”
“Havily. Can I come in?”
Something inside Parisa’s chest warmed up, as if someone had just turned up the heat beneath a pot. “Just a minute.” She searched for and found a black silk robe in her closet. She shrugged into it as she crossed the room. Opening the door, she smiled.
Cradled in one arm, Havily carried a huge vase full of at least two dozen white roses. “You’re home,” she cried. She opened her free arm.
Parisa burst into tears and fell into that welcoming embrace. Havily held her close and sniffed as well.
“You’ll spoil your beautiful makeup.” Havily always looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of Vogue. She wore Ralph Lauren, and her red layered hair floated around her shoulders.
“I missed you, girlfriend. I’ve had no one to fly with.” She sighed as she released Parisa. Moving into the room, she expanded on her theme. “Alison doesn’t have her wings yet and besides that she’s really pregnant now and feeling it. But even if she did have her wings, Kerrick would throw a hissy-fit.”
Parisa laughed and closed the door behind her. It was very difficult to picture a Warrior of the Blood throwing anything that could resemble a hissy-fit. He might throw a tornado of rage, but a hissy-fit?
“How are you and Marcus doing?”
Havily looked around the room and headed to the table by the window. She settled the vase there. Then she looked back at Parisa. “Are you even staying in this room?”
Parisa felt her cheeks warm up. “I’m not sure … no. I guess not.” She shook her head. “As long as I’m here I’ll be at the end of the hall.” She pointed in the direction of Medichi’s bedroom.
Havily’s chest rose and fell with a sigh. “I thought that might be the case. I’m glad. Parisa, he’s really suffered. Did you know he started drinking limoncello?”
She nodded. “I saw him once or twice.” Her gaze fell away from Havily, and her mind grew a little fuzzy. “I found I couldn’t voyeur him as much as I wanted to, not because I was unable but because it just hurt so much to see him and not be able to communicate with him. We kind of fell into this routine that I would voyeur him when I was ready for bed and he was through fighting for the night.”
