When she shivered, he extended his arm straight out to his side and folded a fleece blanket into his hand. He wrapped her up then drew her close. His battle gear wouldn’t exactly give her comfort, but she leaned into him anyway.
He searched her eyes. “I owe you my life, Grace. I was near death when you brought me into your convent cell and fed me your beautiful blood. You stayed with me over the next few days, and fed me a second time. I would have died but for you—and it wasn’t just your blood. Your kindness fed me just as much, and your acceptance of me even though my service as a spy, as Greaves’s right-hand man all those decades, helped to strengthen his hold on Second Earth. Your compassion saved my life.”
“Leto, I know your soul and that you suffer with a profound sense of guilt over building Greaves’s army. But I also know that you wouldn’t have done it unless you felt it was necessary to complete your mission. So you have no reason to feel guilty. You were under orders, and like any good soldier, you did your duty.”
He held her close. She was well named. A woman could not have had more grace than the woman in his arms. Her words were a balm to his tortured soul. “I wish that I had known you better all those centuries.”
He felt her sigh. “I wasn’t exactly present in my life then. All I was really doing was avoiding the war.”
“Now you’re here.”
She drew back. “Now I’m here. And all I’m asking is that you forgive Casimir.”
He sighed heavily because the mere mention of that hedonist’s name brought shards of rage piercing his skull. “You’ll have to give me time, Grace. I won’t easily be able to forgive the man who took you away from me.”
“I know. But you must try. Please. And trust in what I’ve told you; that our fates are secured together with Casimir’s, that without him none of us will survive.”
“You’re asking me to forgive the past because of something that is going to happen in the future, something that required you to leave with Casimir all those months ago.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m asking.”
Leto knew she was right. That was the worst of it. He had been an ascended vampire for thirty-two hundred years and he knew how these emerging powers worked. Things were known, or not known. The future became very fluid. Faith had to be applied … and trust. Did he trust Grace, in this new obsidian power of hers, the absolute knowing that she experienced, even about Casimir?
The answer came to him in a strong yes. He trusted her and he believed in her, but that didn’t mean that she would be loyal to him or even succeed in remaining alive. Both realities drove a stake through his heart.
Yes, he knew the score. Very little was permanent in ascension, so just how was he to commit himself to the woman in his arms?
The hell if he knew. “I have to give a speech at the opening ceremonies about an hour from now. Let me fold you back to the cabin and you can shower and dress. After I’m gone, I’ll send two squads of Militia Warriors to guard you.” When he felt her stiffen, he added, “And in this, my dear Grace, you will accept my orders. If I must overcome my bitterness toward Casimir”—the name came out laced with a little sulfur—“then you must accept what protection I can offer you. Greaves will soon know that you’ve come back, if he doesn’t know already. I want you safe.”
He felt her take a breath then sigh like she was swallowing a brick. “Fine.”
“Yes. Fine. I’ll fold us now.”
“As you wish.”
Actually, what he wished was to take her back to bed.
But that would have to wait. Hopefully, not for long. This first of three nights of the warrior games would only last a couple of hours. Then, if they weren’t quarreling, he would make love to her again. And again.
Change is a mirror with many facets,
Always reflecting the soul’s long journey.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
CHAPTER 4
Greaves sat at the head of his Geneva Round Table, in the throne-like chair he had designed to place him above any who would come to serve the Coming Order. The table represented his dreams of one day ruling Second Earth. He put his finger to his lips and plucked. He could feel the frown between his brows.
Earlier, he had felt the cosmic ripple indicating that Grace Albion, the blue variety of obsidian flame, had returned to the lower dimensions.
On the heels of this unwelcome sensation came the reports from his Seers Fortresses that had shrunk his testicles. Essentially, a decisive battle was coming. Thorne’s army, supported by the obsidian flame triad, would be mobilizing soon. But that was all the reports had said—not when there would be a battle, or who the victor would be.