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Thorne had looked on him as a mentor given his age, his power, his general sense of fair-mindedness. His defection, so close to the time that Patience had died and Grace had gone into the Convent, had deepened Thorne’s grief. He’d gotten drunk with Leto, laughed at his jokes, ignored his bad moods, scoffed at his professions of bedroom prowess, all the usual.
But as he paused at the bottom of the bed, stunned by Grace’s tenderness toward Leto, he knew only one thing: He didn’t want Leto to die. He wanted him to live, to have a real life in a world without war, to settle down with a woman, maybe even Grace, to father a dozen children, to see them grow up into decent vampire ascenders, for Christ’s sake.
Which begged the question—even if Leto survived, what would Second Earth give him? More battling as a Warrior of the Blood? More death and destruction?
Thorne’s chest swelled first with anger, then with purpose. He wanted more for all his men, a chance at life, a good life, but how the hell would that ever be possible given the current state of things, given the current administrator’s inadequacies?
A faint hiss and arching of Leto’s neck, a tightening of his features, forced Thorne to settle the hell down. Getting pissed about things right now wasn’t going to help this situation. Leto was in deep shit on several levels.
From Thorne’s conversations with Endelle, he knew that James, from the Council of Sixth Earth, had convinced Leto over a century ago about the necessity of serving as a spy on their behalf. They had needed him to provide the Council with an ongoing record of Greaves’s war efforts. To what purpose, though, who the hell knew, because to his knowledge the Council hadn’t acted once to relieve Second Earth of the burden that had become Darian Greaves.
Did this Council understand what they’d put Leto through?
Leto had been the finest of warriors. A fine, elevated grain ran through his temperament. He was smart and he’d studied throughout the centuries: philosophy, science, all the religions. And like any good warrior, he despised death vampires.
Did the Council understand what it had cost Leto to partake of dying blood?
Thorne understood. They’d ruined him. Even he could see that Leto’s will to live had shrunk to the size of a tick’s ass, and guilt was sinking him into the grave.
Now he was here, having been rescued by Grace straight off a massive spectacle platform in Moscow Two.
Thorne glanced at Grace. She sat beside the bed in an aura of calm, dabbing at Leto’s forehead with a damp cloth. Her unoccupied hand rested on top of Leto’s and he already knew the truth. The goddamn breh-hedden had found its next pair of victims, this time with a kicker. According to Marguerite, Grace was also scenting that bastard, Casimir.
Sweet Jesus, how had this become Grace’s lot? Or Leto’s? What kind of misery did this portend for his devoted sister, the spiritual one in his family?
Marguerite’s voice rippled through his mind. You have to help him. Marguerite stood away from the foot of the bed. He turned toward her but shook his head. He didn’t know what he should do.
Marguerite, however, widened her eyes pointedly then jerked her head in Grace’s direction. Thorne thought he understood but he didn’t want this for Grace, not the breh-hedden with Leto, or any other Warrior of the Blood.
He ignored his woman and turned to stare at Leto some more.
“Thorne,” Leto called to him, but his voice had a pinched quality.
Thorne moved to the right side of the bed, opposite Grace. “I’m here.”
“There are things I must tell you. About the … army…” But his body seized up on him. He grimaced, and it looked as though every muscle, in every limb, had decided to contract at exactly the same moment.
Shit.
The man couldn’t even open his eyes. He glanced at Grace but she shook her head. She then pressed her eyes closed for a long moment, maybe tossing up a quick prayer, then opened them. He always forgot how pale her lashes were above her green-gold eyes. She met his gaze. “He’s dying, Thorne. My blood will revive him, at least for a time, but he refuses to drink from me. Will you order him? Please?”
Thorne’s chest tightened. His gaze shifted to Leto. That familiar brotherly affection rushed over him, for the man who had battled beside him century after century. Leto couldn’t die, no matter what terrible things he’d done during his time with the enemy.
That big thing stirred inside him again, and a powerful intuition rose up strong and sure. Leto was critical to the terrible events soon to unfold—and his destiny was linked with Grace’s. Together they had work to accomplish.
He gave himself a shake. All fine and dandy, but how on earth was Leto to survive a permanent withdrawal from dying blood?
And to have him drink from Grace? It seemed like an abomination. Grace deserved better. Grace deserved someone pure, someone not associated with the war, someone who wasn’t a goddamn death vampire.
“I am not his commanding officer,” Thorne said.
Marguerite moved up beside him and nudged him. He turned and looked down at her, meeting her scoffing gaze. “What?”
“Don’t be an ass. Leto’s guilt is holding him hostage right now and we need him here. Even I can tell that he will obey you if you say the word and that’s not because I just had a special vision.” She did air quotes and rolled her eyes. “Issue the goddamn order.”
Shit. Fuck. Well, this was one thing Marguerite had always been able to do: clarify the situation.
“Fine.” He leaned over Leto’s face and said, “Take my sister’s f**king blood, you sonofabitch. We need you alive, not dead. Try to look at it this way: The creator has a good goddamn reason for pairing you with my Grace. As in maybe, just maybe, you need to stick around to save her life. I won’t be able to do it, not with the load on my shoulders.”
Leto’s eyes opened, just a slit. He lifted his left hand and Thorne grabbed it, holding tight. Leto’s lips almost curved as he said, “You were always … such a prick.”
Thorne chuckled. “Well, at least that’s something we agree on. Now drink. Just wait till we can clear you some privacy.” He took a deep breath. “Will you do that, Leto? Please?”
Leto searched his eyes and his fingers tightened on Thorne’s. After a long moment, he nodded.
“Good. Good.” Thorne’s eyes burned, dammit.
Movement near the door caught his attention. He shifted his gaze and saw that Diallo was waiting for him. Thorne had asked to see him for a few minutes so Diallo had folded in from the sister-colony in Florida One. He looked back at Leto. “We need you, brother. Marguerite’s right. I can feel it as well. We need you here. And we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
