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Thorne remained next to him, keeping him from acting when he should not act, as Endelle continued her interrogation of Fiona.
“What are you not telling me, ascender?” Endelle shouted.
Fiona once more drew her shoulders back, her head up. She wore black slacks, black heels, and a lavender silk blouse, snug at the waist with a small bow in the front. “I’ve told you everything that happened and in the sequence in which it happened.” Her voice was sharp and strong. “How many more times can I say this: I heard a woman’s voice in my head calling out for help, I extended my telepathy to her, located her, and started to communicate.
“Her name is Marguerite, and yes, she sounded desperate to escape from the Convent. Then, while still connected telepathically, she seemed to disappear for a moment, but not really disappear. And when she came back she relayed the warning that death vampires, a lot of them, were making their way through the forest toward the outdoor chapel.
“But there was one more thing, something I forgot to tell you. We both heard church bells, very deep, lovely.”
“Why the f**k didn’t you tell me? Goddam, that’s a Fourth Earth signature and your ability to hear it, that’s Third shit.” She nodded several times. “What else?”
“The rest, the attack, Thorne has told you about. After the battle was over, I tried to reach her again, but couldn’t. I’ve been given to understand that telepathic communication is forbidden inside the Convent and that she was probably punished.”
Endelle got in her face, not for the first time. Jean-Pierre took a step forward, and as many times before, Thorne threw an arm in front of him, hitting him square in the chest. He had changed from battle gear and his hair was still damp from the shower. He wore a Gaultier jacket and loose comfortable slacks. But there was nothing comfortable about watching Endelle grill his woman.
“Relax, Jean-Pierre,” Thorne whispered, spitting the usual gravel as he spoke. “Fiona is doing just fine. She’s got a lot of spirit.”
Endelle finally turned away from Fiona and Jean-Pierre released a heavy sigh.
“That Quena is such a bitch,” Endelle said. “She uses a rod to discipline her devotiates. I’d like to take a rod to her. Goddammit! I just wish I knew what the hell this means.”
She started to pace, although a new word should be created for this movement, since every third step lifted her into the air, probably a form of levitation.
She wore a very bristly skirt that could not be comfortable, but it was short so her legs could move. Her halter was composed of small white feathers and oui, the room smelled of poultry. Mon Dieu.
“Do I smell chickens?” Thorne asked in a low voice, leaning close.
Some of her long black hair was piled high, while the lower parts swung in perhaps a dozen braids. Would she perform acts of voodoo next?
Endelle paced and levitated her way to the enormous plate-glass window that overlooked the eastern desert. She returned to stand once more in front of Fiona, her brown eyes so strangely lined, as though the years of service as the ruler of Second Earth had disfigured them.
“Well, Fiona, you’re not going to like this but I’m going to have to read your powers. I’ve got to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Thorne tells me you have emerging powers and I believe him, but this latest thing really has my thong in a few dozen knots, if you get my drift.”
Fiona backed up.
Endelle’s thick black brows rose a notch. “What the f**k?”
“I’ve heard tales about you, Endelle, and I’m refusing to have you read my powers. Let Thorne do it.”
Jean-Pierre’s temper, already simmering, shot like a rocket into outer space. Before Thorne could stop him, he now stood in front of Fiona, his arms spread wide. He glanced from Thorne to Endelle. “I will not permit Thorne to read her powers.” He felt a thumping at his back, which he ignored. He knew what reading someone’s powers could entail, a full-blown mind-dive, and the f**k he would let Thorne in his woman’s head.
“Goddammit, Jean-Pierre,” Thorne cried.
More thumps at his back. “Move it, Jean-Pierre,” Fiona cried. Another thump. She was using her fists and trying to get his attention. “Get out of my way, now.”
He looked back at her, surprised at the flush on her cheeks. Her silver-blue eyes looked almost dark. “What is it, chérie?” He lowered his arms and turned to face her. “Why are you angry?”
She planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head. Her eyes flashed a little more. “I don’t need you to fight this battle for me and if I want Thorne to read my powers, then he’ll read my goddam powers. Are we clear?”
“You go girl,” Endelle said.
Jean-Pierre ignored her. “No, we are not clear. I will not have another man inside your head. Pas du tout. Jamais.” He waxed long on this theme only vaguely aware that he had lapsed into French.
She planted a hand on the T-shirt beneath the jacket. “English, s’il vous plaît, monsieur.”
That brought him up short. “Oui, of course. I am sorry, but I cannot allow this.”
“Hey, Jean-Pierre,” Endelle called to him.
He turned around, a heavy scowl pulling at his face. “Quoi.”
He didn’t even see her fist coming. The next thing he knew he was spinning around and falling, his head just missing Thorne’s booted foot.
“Better, ass**le?” Endelle asked.
Jean-Pierre sat up, felt his jaw and worked it back and forth. The woman could throw a punch.
He sighed. His shoulders sagged. He wrapped his arms loosely around bent knees. “Fuck,” he muttered.
“Nice coat, by the way. Gaultier?”
He looked up at her. He saw the amusement on her face, the quirk of her lips, and the odd compassion in her eyes. He had needed her fist to his face. He lacked control and to be challenging her? Mon Dieu, what the f**k had he been thinking?
Fiona just looked at him and shook her head, bewildered. He stared at the floor then pulled his cadroen from his hair. He turned the pastel green braided brocade in his hands, his own take on the cadroen, a memento of his years at court, a snub to the revolution that betrayed him.
“My apologies. I will not interfere.” For good measure, he remained sitting on the floor. He was afraid if he stood up, he would succumb yet again to the cursed breh-hedden’s claim on his soul. God help him.
Freedom has only one master,
Emerging power.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
