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But she wasn’t tall.
And she didn’t have a special scent, either, which of course meant that even though Marguerite had become his goddam raison d’être, she could never be his breh.
He should have felt relieved. Instead, the whole thing bugged the shit out of him.
And what the hell did it mean that Marguerite had been able to contact Fiona and deliver a warning about an attack at the outdoor chapel? He knew his woman was an extraordinarily gifted Seer, but had she really been in the future streams just before the attack? And how had she been able to contact Jean-Pierre’s breh?
He was as confused as hell.
One thing he did need to know, however, was how much Fiona knew about Marguerite. No one knew about her, certainly not her name. But here was Fiona, not five months in the Metro Phoenix Two area, and she knew his woman’s name.
Jesus H. Christ.
For the past five minutes, he’d been trying to figure out how to approach her and have a private conversation without Jean-Pierre listening in. Damn preternatural hearing.
For the past century, since he’d first hooked up with Marguerite, he’d been keeping her a secret from the brotherhood. He didn’t exactly care if they knew, but he feared Endelle knowing more than anything. Yeah, she’d have shipped Marguerite off to the Superstition Fortress in the blink of an eye—after, of course, a significant negotiation with the High Administrator of that hellhole, Owen f**king Stannett.
He suspected Fiona knew something he didn’t want her to know, and he had to swear her to silence. God help him if Endelle found out about Marguerite because he honestly didn’t know what he would do, where his loyalties would fall. Truth? He couldn’t lose Marguerite. Even thinking about it made him feel like he was flying apart inside.
Sweet Jesus!
When Fiona glanced at him, he held her gaze for a long moment. He knew he was frowning, but he was trying to get a message to her without opening a telepathic channel. Holy hell, if Jean-Pierre knew he’d tried to converse with his breh mind-to-mind, without permission … well, let’s just say the shit would hit one big motherfucker of a fan.
You didn’t mess with a warrior’s breh on any level, and that included telepathy.
She returned his frown with one of her own then turned to Jean-Pierre. He could have listened in, but he kept his hearing tight.
He wasn’t surprised when, after an exchange of words, and a scowl directed at him by the Frenchman, she crossed the rec room to him.
She didn’t exactly smile; more like an uneasy curve of lips. “I thought you might want to talk,” she said quietly as she drew near.
He could feel the frown between his brows. He crossed his arms over his pecs, holding his tumbler off to the side. “So,” he said in true brilliant fashion since nothing else came to mind.
Fiona’s gaze shifted away from him, maybe trying to figure out what to tell him. She blinked several times. Finally, she looked back at him. “Shall I tell you everything?”
He released a heavy sigh. “Yes. Please. But keep it low.”
She nodded then laid it out. She had a measured way of speaking, restrained. She was very careful. Again, no doubt the result of having lived in captivity.
When she told him that Marguerite had said she was his woman, he mumbled a few curses then spoke through pinched lips. “No one knows.”
“I figured that much since it was the first I’d heard of it. I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to but, is she your breh?”
He shook his head back and forth, and his Ketel sloshed around. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Have you been together long?”
He met her gaze. Now that the cat was out of the bag, and because she’d somehow gotten stuck in the middle, he said, “About a century.”
Her brows rose. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope, not kidding.” His thoughts darkened as he thought about the last hundred years. Shit.
“I got the feeling she’s desperate to get out of there.”
“Yeah, more so lately. Her abilities to ride the future streams have become more … pressing for lack of a better word, even taking her over at times. She isn’t so much riding them as they’re riding her. It’s getting to her.” He was surprised, suddenly, at how good it felt to just talk about his horrible situation.
“Is that how she knew to warn me about the attack?”
“I think so. She’s … gifted.”
“What do you think it meant that we both heard church bells? At first I thought they were the Convent bells, but Jean-Pierre couldn’t hear them.”
“I’m not sure.” He shook his head back and forth. “We don’t have anything like that on Second Earth. It might be some kind of Third Earth ability.”
Thorne got a really sick feeling that the woman in front of him and his woman were connected somehow. This couldn’t be a good thing. The last year had been a nightmare, what with Alison’s frightening ascension and all the trouble that had ensued since: the increase of death vamps at the Borderlands, the attempt on his own life, Parisa’s abduction and recovery, a horrendous battle over the Grand Canyon that took the lives of a thousand Militia Warriors.
But this, Fiona having conversed telepathically with Marguerite without ever having met her, then having received a warning from her, smacked of convergence. And convergence always meant escalation … like today’s battle at a goddam baptism.
He needed to tell Endelle that they were in for it but if he did then he’d have to explain about Marguerite. Revealing his woman’s Seer power would blow his life all to hell. And yeah, he was being selfish, but he just wasn’t ready to do that.
He uncrossed his arms and with a string of harsh gulps he downed the rest of the Ketel.
“What do I do, Warrior Thorne? Jean-Pierre will want to know more and we … well, we tend to share things with each other. He’s my guardian, after all.”
“Shit,” Thorne muttered. Mentally, he let loose with a really long string of obscenities, but for Fiona’s sake he kept his trap shut. “Well,” he said at last. “I think you’d better tell him everything, but I’m asking that both of you keep all that we’ve discussed, especially anything concerning Marguerite, close to the vest. Okay?”
“Of course. Of course.”
He supposed that if anyone would understand discretion and restraint it would be this woman. She was really lovely, her complexion like milk, her eyes a silver-blue, her brows arched and so pretty.
