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Fiona closed her eyes and directed her mind once more toward the Convent.
Beyond the military parade,
War has no luster,
Just gore.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 3
Marguerite paced her cell, the ankle guard banging around her leg. She had calluses now, thick ones. She could feel that Thorne was maybe a hundred yards from her and she couldn’t get to him. She couldn’t reach out to him telepathically, either, since she had a guard dog monitoring her and she didn’t want to give away the fact that she had a very close, personal, hot-as-hell relationship with the leader of the Warriors of the Blood.
But she could send out random cries into the void, cries that her poor guard dog could hear, but no one else.
“Devotiate, I beg of you,” Henrietta said. She was stationed just outside Marguerite’s door. “Please do not send another telepathic plea. I realize no one is there to hear you, but you know the rules. Sister Quena was most specific. No telepathy of any kind. I do not want to get you into trouble.”
Marguerite always tested the waters, even when the waters were boiling hot. She’d test them and test them. She would test them until she was blistered up to her elbows.
Henrietta was too much of a do-gooder doormat to be a real threat so Marguerite powered up her telepathic ability and all but shouted out into the universe, Someone help me get out of this f**king shit-box!
The groans from the hallway pleased her to no end. She smiled.
“Please, Sister Marguerite. You do not understand the level of your powers.”
“Sister Marguerite? You would say that to me, Hetty? That’s a goddam laugh. I’m not a sister. I’m a prisoner.”
A long-suffering sigh followed. Henrietta sat on a hard stool outside the cell. She wouldn’t even appear in the small barred window near the top of the door. Although to be fair, Hetty had cause. Marguerite had enthralled her once, made her unlock the heavy cell door, and Marguerite had invaded the kitchens and gorged on pastries until Sister Quena found her sitting on the floor, a blanket of flaky crumbs covering her chest.
She laughed when she thought about it. Her pleasures were simple these days if very short-lived. She’d spent a month in solitary for that little stunt. Of course, Sister Quena didn’t call it solitary. Private meditation was her euphemism for being forced to fast for a month in a room that had a bucket for a toilet, no bed, and no light whatsoever.
She paced the ten feet that formed the length of the cell. The ankle guard jumped up and down a few times. God, she hated everything about this place including the way the stiff handwoven fabric caught around her legs.
She wanted Thorne.
She wanted him now.
She wanted out. But if she couldn’t be out, she wanted Thorne in her bed. Knowing he was near was causing her serious agony of a purely sexual nature. She flopped down on her back on the stiff mattress that lay cradled on ropes, beds from the dark ages. She had to tighten the ropes to keep the mattress from eventually sagging to the floor.
Thorne had been her saving grace for how many decades? Oh, yeah, ten, since she’d first gotten dumped in this joint by her loving parents.
Who are you? A voice sounded through her head, a woman’s voice, an unknown woman’s voice.
What the hell?
Marguerite sat up. Someone had penetrated her mind, but who? How? Her shields were said to be like flint. Holy shit. She was careful, however, not to answer. “Henrietta, did you say something to me mind-to-mind?”
“No, Sister. Of course not. I would never disobey Sister Quena, you know that.”
The new voice flowed through her head once more. Are you all right? Are you in danger? I heard your call for help.
Her call for help? Someone else had picked up on her telepathy? What the hell?
Now who the f**k was trying to communicate with her? Was it a trick? Could Hetty detect this new voice? Apparently not, because she didn’t interfere.
She lay back down and rolled her thoughts inward. She closed her eyes and began searching for the origin of the telepathic questions. As far as she knew, no one could invade her mind. She had extraordinary shields and she knew it, so how had an unknown woman gotten inside her head without even a hint of her presence?
She took her time following what proved to be a gold stream of light. She traveled slowly, hoping to avoid Henrietta’s scrutiny. After a good long moment, she got very close and realized that here was a woman of tremendous power situated near Thorne, which meant that the woman had attended baby Helena’s baptism.
Marguerite lifted her brows. Well, well, well. A woman, who was somehow connected to the Warriors of the Blood or at the very least to Alison or Warrior Kerrick, was actually communicating with her. Damn. This had possibilities.
She opened her eyes and stared up at the wood-beam ceiling. But she remained buried in her mind and wondered just what she should do. Should she risk punishment by contacting the woman?
I can feel you, the unknown woman sent. I sense that you’re very close, in the Convent, right? Did you call to me? Are you in danger?
Shit, yes, this ascender had power. Ah, what the hell! She couldn’t help it. She had to know, had to communicate even if Hetty would figure it out and alert Sister Quena.
So you heard me yelling for someone to get me out of this place?
A pause, maybe a faint gasp. Yes, I did.
And you can sense that I’m in the Convent?
Another pause. Actually, I’m right next to you. Do you have a sense that I’m there?
I have to say I don’t. So this isn’t just telepathy.
Something a little more involved than telepathy, yes.
No shit? she sent.
“Sister,” Henrietta called out. “You are forbidden! You must desist at once!” Sister Henrietta could sense the telepathy the way a good bloodhound could smell prey—one particle in a million—even if she couldn’t actually register the nature of the communication. Dammit.
Marguerite ignored her as she focused on her new friend. You’re very powerful. What’s your name?
Fiona. And yours?
Marguerite. I’m Thorne’s woman.
Silence. Long silence. Finally, Thorne’s woman? But … we all thought he was celibate.
Henrietta now pounded on the door. “Sister, cease, or I will have to summon the regulators!”
Marguerite blinked. She was also hearing something else, something that should have been lovely to her ears but which gave her a profound sense of unease. Do you hear that, Fiona? Church bells?
Another silence, then, Yes, but apparently only you and I can hear them. I heard them earlier. Did you?
