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“Because you’re being ridiculous. He loves you and you love him and you should be together. You should at least let him date you once a week. At least throw him that bone.”
Yes … that bone. She had restricted their dating to once every two weeks. So for the past five months, every two weeks, Jean-Pierre took her someplace special, and the whole time Fiona worked to keep her hands off him.
Fiona’s gaze fell away, drifting lower and lower and falling swiftly into the past, into being strapped to gurneys once a month, drained of her blood, then brought back to life with defibrillators. She didn’t know how to explain to Carolyn that she didn’t want a relationship, she didn’t even want to date Jean-Pierre, and she certainly didn’t want the terrible breh-hedden. She didn’t want to be tied down again. Ever.
She’d reached an impasse and she knew it. She couldn’t go back but she didn’t know how to go forward. She pushed Jean-Pierre away but she kept dating him, kept longing for him, for his presence, his touch, his kisses. Oh, God … his kisses.
Her gaze traveled back to Carolyn, and there were tears in her daughter’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have teased you, Mother. I’m sorry.” Her arms traveled around Fiona.
Fiona caught them hard over her chest and gave her daughter an awkward hug, a back-to-front squeeze. “I’m lost,” she whispered.
“I know. And it’s only been five months. I don’t know why I keep pushing you.”
Fiona nodded. She took another breath. “Are Seriffe and the children ready?”
“Yes.”
“We should go.”
Carolyn pulled back and Fiona turned toward her. Carolyn smiled suddenly. “I made Seriffe a bet.”
“About what?”
“Well, I am convinced that Warrior Kerrick will weep at his daughter’s christening. My husband said, Not a chance.”
“He’s a man,” Fiona said. “He has to say that on principle. So what did you wager?”
“That if Kerrick sheds even a single tear, Seriffe will have to take me to Dark Spectacle Phantasmagoria.”
“No,” Fiona cried. Seriffe was adamant in refusing to buy tickets to an event that he insisted was all smoke and mirrors though it was billed as a preternatural experience.
Seriffe appeared in the doorway. He was as tall as Jean-Pierre—just a few inches shy of the top of the doorjamb. Certainly his shoulders filled the space. “Are we ready?” His deep warm voice boomed into the room.
“Yes,” Fiona said.
“I just received a call from Central. Endelle has given permission for Carla to give us a fold as a group to Prescott.”
Fiona’s brows rose. “Endelle is letting Central help out? Has she gone soft or something?” Madame Endelle had a python’s temperament: Circle, squeeze, devour, ask questions later. That she was permitting Central Command to fold groups to baby Helena’s baptism was, well, unusual to say the least, which only made Fiona worry more. Was Endelle expecting trouble or just being cautious?
Seriffe chuckled. “The day Endelle goes soft is the day we all buy ice skates and take a dozen turns around a frozen rink you-know-where. Apparently Endelle has some security concerns and frankly, I’m with her on this one. Did you know the sisters are holding the service in that really shitty—I mean in that really awful—outdoor chapel?” He glanced behind himself. Young ears were listening and he tried really hard, though often unsuccessfully, to curb warrior-speak.
“No,” Carolyn cried. “The one with the graffiti on half the benches?”
“Bingo.”
“Don’t they have a chapel inside that could pay for a small country?”
“Yep.”
“Well … shi … I mean, that’s really too bad.” This time Carolyn looked down the hall. Her boys could be heard calling to each other. Carolyn, too, had picked up some of her husband’s bad habits. Fiona hadn’t exactly been exempt herself.
His gaze shifted to Carolyn, and he straightened his shoulders. “The baby needed a change but I took care of it. Just wanted you to know.”
“I suppose now you want a medal.”
“Hell, yes! You’ve changed his diapers. Whew!”
Carolyn went to him, drew close, pressed herself against his chest, and kissed him on the lips. “Sorry, Ethan gave him some of his chili last night.” Ethan was the oldest of the three boys and enjoyed tormenting his family in as many creative ways as he could conjure. Fiona adored that about him.
“That explains it.” But he laughed.
He turned his wife into the hall, smiled at Fiona over his shoulder, then herded Carolyn in the direction of the main rooms. In the distance, one of the boys started to scream, a very normal sound in the Seriffe household.
Fiona smiled. Maybe there was a lot about her life that she couldn’t figure out right now, but being part of this family had brought her great joy.
So, yes, as she followed Carolyn and Seriffe down the hall, as she watched her daughter bend over and pick up her now wailing toddler, as Seriffe took the hands of both his older boys, as the family turned almost as one to look at her, yes, she knew joy.
Whatever else ascension held for her, this moment, this pleasure, made every struggle, every difficulty worthwhile.
The thought that once she folded to the outdoor chapel she would begin a new day with Jean-Pierre, however, left her caught once more in that in-between place: longing to move into the future, but clinging to the past.
We are born of ashes
In the spiritual death and rebirth
Of ascension.
—The Creator’s Handbook, Sister Quena
Chapter 2
Jean-Pierre stood on the periphery of the small outdoor chapel, shook his head, and muttered, “Mon Dieu.”
His disgust was profound. To call what amounted to an ugly collection of rough-hewn wooden benches a chapel was ridiculous. The entire space defined security nightmare. How could he, or the other Warriors of the Blood, protect the women and children who would attend the christening today?
There were no walls, only a slight inclination of the hill and dense forest beyond. He glanced in a slow half circle from right to left, at the slope of the hill near Thumb Butte, rising not steeply but littered with large boulders and flanked by tall ponderosa pines. He stretched his preternatural senses hunting for the enemy but he found nothing, merci à Dieu.
But would it remain the same throughout the ceremony?
If he were the enemy, oui, he would strike.
