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“Yes, Madame Endelle. Sister Marguerite is not as tall as you but she is considered average in height. Not short.”
Disapproval reeked from every word, every expression, even the whitening of her compressed lips.
This of course had the worst effect on Endelle. “Well damn my pu**y, I never thought Thorne would fall for a shorty. Goddam.” She all but slapped her leg as she said it.
Sister Quena’s complexion turned the color of a beet and not because she was embarrassed. Endelle smiled. She snorted. “Would you please just relax a little? Can’t you see I’m jerking your chain, Quenny? Now, what can you tell me about this ascender?”
She waved a hand over Marguerite, who lay on her back, the skirt of her coarse woven nightgown caught between her knees, her lips parted. The woman was out. Her complexion was as white as Quenny’s was red but Endelle suspected the lack of color reflected the drugs that sister-bitch had used on her devotiate.
Sister Quena’s hands never left their glued-together state. Her nostrils widened once more as she looked down at the prostrate woman. “Sister Marguerite is a very difficult and a very sad case. Though her Seer gifts exceed any that I have encountered in quite some time, I have not found the key to her rehabilitation. I fear she is perhaps my greatest failure in my three thousand years as a servant of the Creator. Her stubbornness is beyond comprehension. She was consigned here by her parents because of a particular inclination she exhibited in the area of mores. More specifically, nymphomania.”
Endelle’s brows rose. Where was the problem in that? She’d had her own nympho period around the time of Plato and it had been hot as hell. She’d cooled a bit since then but that’s what being High Administrator of Second Earth could do to a gal’s libido. “I think I need you to be more specific, Quenny. Why was Sister Marguerite condemned to this shithole … no offense intended.”
“Madame Endelle, with all due respect, I am completely and utterly offended.”
Endelle rolled her eyes. She had never been able to comprehend the soul or the fervor of the religious fanatic. The thought of being so removed from the ins-and-outs of life, literally, gave her the scratch.
On the other hand, what man would ever want to f**k the woman in front of her with her thin white lips, her pointed chin, her disapproval of everything? Maybe it all worked out in the end and who the hell was she to judge anyway?
“Let me try again. Why was she shipped here?”
“She had a love of men, a lot of men. Her parents believed it to be a profound defect of character.”
“Well, then, exactly how long has she been here?”
“Not long. A century.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Endelle muttered. She glanced at Sister Quena, who stared down at the woman. The head sister of the Creator’s Convent didn’t just frown, she scowled. Endelle would bet every one of her pubes that despite the laws against floggings and canings, the good sister used these methods in the name of spiritual purification.
Endelle didn’t like Quenny. They were opposites, of course, although in the sense that each ruled however the hell she wanted to, they were very much alike. But what she really despised about the good sister was her mean spirit and how she completely ignored the biblical scripture “Love thy neighbor as thyself”—a word of wisdom, by the way, that had been carved into the stonework above each doorway.
Bunch of self-righteous, soul-eating hypocrites.
Whatever.
“You may leave us,” Endelle said.
Sister Quena gasped. “I do not think that is either necessary or wise.” She lifted her stubborn pointed chin and tried for imperious. She damn near succeeded even though Endelle, in her stilettos, towered over her.
Yes, the bitch ruled as she saw fit and no doubt the thought that anyone else would have control, even momentarily, of one of her subjects chapped her ass, to say the least.
But in this respect Endelle still had some power—she could overrule the High Administrator of any of the Creator’s Convents on Second Earth. Not much had been left to her after the creation of COPASS, but she still had some jurisdiction here.
“I don’t give a f**k what you think is necessary or wise. Get out.” She held the woman’s gaze and let her feel the weight of her nine thousand years.
Sister Quena began trembling and her gaze fell away. “Yes, Madame Endelle.”
Much better.
Sister Quena left, closing the door behind her. The door was tall, arched, wooden, and had a small window with wrought-iron insets. Bars, really.
She glanced around.
There was a second bed in the room. Both were narrow and sagged oddly. The room was frigid. Thorne had made his confession about Marguerite explaining that his sister, Grace, shared Marguerite’s cell, which also explained how he had met his ladylove in the first place.
Thorne had been surprised that Endelle didn’t condemn him for holding back. How could she? Thorne carried the load and the load had become the proverbial one-too-many straws. She knew it, but she just didn’t know what to do about it. They were a little short on Warriors of the Blood right now.
She shivered. This room was f**king cold and when she blew a stream of air, sure enough, she produced fog.
She reached down and touched Marguerite’s feet. Dammit, they were like ice. Had sister-bitch no compassion? What the hell was wrong with that woman?
Endelle waved a hand and folded a thick comforter into her arms, one from her own bedroom. She spread it over Marguerite. Even in her drugged state, the beautiful woman sighed and her whole body relaxed.
The bed was so low that when Endelle sat down at its foot, she could easily reach under the covers and rub some warmth into the woman’s feet. Marguerite made soft warbling sounds in her throat.
Endelle didn’t know exactly why she was so moved, but she was. There but for the grace of God, and all that shit, she thought.
Because of her age, Endelle possessed a number of Third Earth abilities. Her preternatural voyeurism was almost unequaled on Second Earth. But another Third Earth power Endelle had involved her ability to penetrate minds, even while drugged. There were some things she had to know about this woman before she proceeded with one of the most disloyal acts she’d ever thought to do in her long f**king life. Desperation was its own terrible motivation.
Still rubbing the woman’s feet very gently, warming them up by degrees, she slid her mind against Marguerite’s.
The split second she penetrated the tough-as-nails head, a voice shouted at her telepathically, Who the f**k are you? And what are you doing inside my head?
