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And between Endelle and Greaves, Stannett feared Greaves a thousand times more. Endelle might have been ineffective, but she was essentially law abiding. She wouldn’t act against Stannett, which meant he’d shut her out from the information his Seers could provide her about the future streams for the past hundred years.
Her administration therefore had been flying blind.
And failing.
While Greaves, who did whatever the hell he liked, was succeeding.
So as Thorne glanced around, he saw tremendous potential in a house like this.
Diallo called from the hallway, “If you’ll come with me, we’ll be dining in the garden.” He smiled as his gaze landed on Marguerite. “The temperature is controlled.”
Thorne’s mind began running in all sorts of new directions. He didn’t know if it was because of Diallo’s home, or the nature of the colony, or what, but his heart had begun to beat in a hopeful way for the future of his world, maybe for the first time in a very long time.
* * *
Marguerite felt Thorne’s hand at her back, and it was a perfect pressure, but her skin crawled. She felt something emanating from him, some new power or something, and it was bugging the shit out of her because it spoke of the future and of purpose.
She had to get out of here. This colony kept spinning sticky spidery filaments all over her, tying her up, trapping her.
She sat down to a lovely bowl of melon pieces, cantaloupe and honeydew, a few strawberries thrown in. Each piece she swallowed stuck in her throat. Chicken as a second course would be arriving soon. The thought of it didn’t help. She just wasn’t very hungry.
Diallo responded to Thorne’s questions, which he’d been firing off in rapid succession from the moment they’d entered the garden.
She glanced around. The garden was beautiful. Horticulture defined Second Earth and Diallo had brought some mad skills to the art form, spreading them around in a super-sized courtyard that had to be at least thirty yards long. The arrangement of beds was lush, something possible since, yep, the air temp was controlled as well as the humidity. As she glanced up, she could see that the entire area was covered with a special shimmering shield.
The table had been set up in a very large open space in the center of the garden, an area covered in pavers. Beyond the dining area, she could hear the quiet sound of a gentle waterfall. A gazillion plants of every size, shape, and origin created a setting as verdant as any tropical environment, just without the bugs and excessive heat.
Using her linen napkin, she dabbed at her lips and eased back in her chair. Both men stopped talking and looked at her.
She glanced at them.
“We’ve been ignoring you,” Diallo said.
She knew both he and Thorne were being polite, and she could tell Thorne wanted to talk to this extraordinary man. “Would you mind if I retired to our room? I’d like to rest for a while.”
She rose as she spoke, as did both the men. Her gaze fell on Thorne.
You okay? he sent.
She nodded. “I’m fine, really. I need some alone time and I promise I’m not taking off.”
At that he narrowed his gaze at her. I’ve heard that before.
But you knew the truth then. You knew I was leaving. What do you think right now?
At that his shoulders relaxed. He could read her like nobody’s business. He nodded. Aloud, he said, “Yes, get some rest.”
She thanked Diallo for the lunch, even though all she’d had was a few bites of melon that still sat uneasily in her craw. She just wasn’t herself.
As she crossed the courtyard to the south-facing rooms, she realized that for the past few days, she’d been feeling a little off. But then she’d been doing so many outrageous things. She wasn’t used to so much freedom and of course then there were the crashing visions and more Thorne than she’d ever had. Sort of like going to the fairgrounds, gorging on junk food, then throwing up after a trip on the roller coaster. Yeah, that about described the last few days for her, except Thorne wasn’t exactly junk food. More like filet mignon. Lots and lots of filet mignon.
It occurred to her that if she continued on with him like this, they ought to start thinking seriously about birth control. Although the fact that she’d been with him for decades in the Convent and had never gotten pregnant had pretty much convinced her that she was barren or Thorne was shooting blanks.
She had an uneasy feeling that she needed to be more responsible just in case her ascended vampire body decided to heal up the parts that didn’t work and she ended up with child. Which would really suck. She was so not the maternal type.
A chill went through her. And dammit, she’d shagged that ass**le, José, completely without protection.
Okay, must be more responsible.
The room assigned to them on the southern-facing side of the house was strangely white and romantic looking, almost bridal except that the fabrics were cotton and not all lace and satin.
The bed was king-sized with tall mahogany posts and a layering of mosquito netting. She moved to the oversized plate-glass window. She could see the valley below. She could see the Militia Warriors practicing their sword fighting.
There were vegetable gardens and fruit orchards everywhere, each with that shimmering shield overhead, just like Diallo’s courtyard garden. Food would never be a problem in the colony.
Suddenly she was just tired.
Tired of everything: of longing to leave but feeling compelled to stay, of craving Thorne yet hating the thought of him with other women, of knowing that this colony was officially up shit creek because of Stannett, but above all tired of the feeling that she couldn’t bear it if she never saw Thorne again.
She turned away from the window and crossed to the bed. She pushed back the top, fresh-smelling comforter. She sniffed it and realized that it had the smell of the outdoors. The Convent gowns and bedding had the same wonderful smell because everything was hung outside to be sweetened by the air and the wind.
She released a deep sigh, crawled beneath the covers, and when her head hit the pillow she drifted into sleep faster than she had thought possible.
* * *
Greaves sat behind his desk in his Geneva penthouse. He had his elbows on the arms of his chairs and his hands joined just at the fingertips, tapping slightly. He hadn’t brought his claw forward, not for these two men. His left hand could transform into a claw at his command, a little DNA experiment that had proven both successful and quite useful through the decades. He often used it for intimidation, but he had a strong feeling a show of power wasn’t what was needed at all in this situation.
