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A quiet masculine voice intruded, right against her ear. “So what do you think?”
She jerked her head to her right, and there, sitting on the edge of the narrow railing as pretty as you please, was Braulio. “What the f**k are you doing here?”
“Wanted to watch the doings.”
Endelle looked around. There seemed to be a glitch in the fabric of time, as though everyone else was moving very slowly. “What did you just do?”
“A very small manipulation of the space–time continuum. Wanted to have a little chat with you, is all. So how happy are you that I encouraged you to send Marguerite to the Superstitions? Now you’ll get access to some serious Seer shit.”
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself.”
“I am, but admit it. Sending her there is having some excellent payoffs. This show for one, and now you can start rebuilding your Seer supply.”
“I don’t like to mention it, Braulio, but those Seers are so screwed up, they can’t see shit right now. And to top it off, Marguerite folded her ass to who-the-fuck-knows-where, and she was supposed to be the second part of a powerful obsidian flame triad.” She then jerked her head in the direction of the current proceedings. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I’m on trial for my life, as are my warriors. So forgive me if I don’t fawn all over you right now.”
But he crossed his arms over his chest, which of course made his biceps flex and look all yummy through his long-sleeved T-shirt. “You can’t spoil my buzz,” he said. “Things are looking up. James sent a message.”
James. The powerful Sixth ascender who had sent Braulio to change things up. Much good either of them were doing. “What? He couldn’t come himself?”
Braulio shrugged. “Who knows? He could be here right now.”
Whatever.
“So what’s his message?”
“He said you’ll need to forgive Thorne.”
“What the f**k for?” Thorne was her right-hand man. He’d even given up his woman for her sake and for the sake of the war.
Braulio just shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”
She offered a disgusted grunt in response, which only made him laugh. Seeing that he was perched so prettily on the narrow railing, she flung her arm sideways, slugging him hard in the shoulder, which naturally caused him to fall right off. Except the bastard just levitated and moved back in.
“You think you’re pretty tough,” she said.
“I don’t think,” he corrected her. “I know.”
She laughed. “Well, we’ve got us one fine farce here.”
“Yep, but when wasn’t it a farce? I don’t see your buddy, Greaves, around.”
“You never will when one of his pals is in trouble. What do you think of Harding’s complexion?”
“Pretty shade of blue right at the hairline.”
“Yep. So, you sticking around this time?”
He shook his head. “Can’t. Serious time constraints. I only have time do this.” He leaned in, grabbed the back of her neck with his hand, pulled her toward him, then put his mouth on hers.
She meant to protest, to shove his sorry ass away from her, maybe spit a small firework into his mouth, but as his lips, so f**king familiar, touched hers, good old-fashioned sensory memory returned and her body lit on fire.
She didn’t want to, but she opened her mouth and let him in, the bastard. His tongue made quick work of her, lighting up what hadn’t seen much activity in way too long.
He drew back and looked her in the eyes. His lips curved. “Aw, I think you still love me.”
But that took all her fire and channeled it into her temper. “Fuck you.”
She was going to add a hand-blast, but time seemed to have resumed, Braulio had already disappeared, and silence fell on the entire assembled court.
Every eye, every camera shifted in her direction.
She realized her parting words to Braulio had just been shouted into the courtroom, in real time, and captured on tape.
Goddam that Braulio. She’d get him back if it was the last thing she did.
She glanced at Marcus and watched his eyes do a serious shit-not-again roll.
There was only one thing she could do. She waved an imperious hand over the entire court and in a voice that shimmered with her best resonance, she said, “Please continue.” Then she lifted her chin and stared at an astonished Harding.
* * *
Jean-Pierre was in Seriffe’s office, talking over the training ideas he had, when his warrior phone buzzed.
“Allô, Bev, how are you?”
“Uh … I guess you could say I, that is we, are mystified.”
“And why is that?” It was not like Bev to speak in riddles.
“There is a man at the landing platform who wishes to speak with you.”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone. Has he been checked out by security?”
“He’s clean. No concerns there.”
More riddles.
“Well, tell me then, what is his name?”
“Peter Robillard, from Oxford Two. He says he only wants a word with you and to give you something.”
Jean-Pierre listed on his feet. He reached out for Seriffe’s desk.
“Hey,” Seriffe called out. “What the f**k? You’re about as white as a sheet.”
Jean-Pierre looked at Seriffe, but he didn’t exactly see him. “Bev, please see the gentleman to the conference room. I will be with him shortly. But … why are you mystified, if I may ask?”
“You’ll know when you see him.” She hung up.
His Epic phone rang. He withdrew it from the pocket of his jeans. Fiona. “Chérie. What is it?”
“You tell me. I can feel you weaving on your feet. What’s wrong? I mean I’m used to the battle training, I know what all that feels like, but this is different, right?”
“Oui. Fiona, I know that you are busy at the rehab center but could you come to me right now? Something has happened. I am not certain exactly what it is, but I want you with me.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have Bev do the fold for you.”
When he hung up, he called Bev back and told her what he needed. She promised it would be the work of a moment.
A few minutes later, with Fiona by his side, he walked with her in the direction of the Militia HQ conference room. He gripped her hand too tightly—he could feel that he caused her pain. He released the stranglehold on her fingers and took a deep breath.
