Another shiver traveled through her. She’d rather be bitten by rattlesnakes than spend ten minutes in the woman’s presence.

“She is not all bad,” Jean-Pierre said.

Fiona looked up at him, but the quirky smile that played over his lips didn’t give her confidence. “You’re so not helping.”

He chuckled. “She possesses a good heart. Unfortunately, it’s buried beneath layers and layers of concrete.” He glanced down at his stained battle gear and skin. He looked at her as well, his gaze sliding down to encompass her shawl and blouse, her skirt, her legs. There was nothing of desire in his expression; instead he frowned. “You will want to wear something else as well.”

He didn’t think her somewhat conservative ensemble would please Madame Endelle. Then she glanced down and her brows rose. Several dark streaks and smudges also marred her clothes.

A gasp caught in her throat and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She nodded several times. “I should change.” Evidence of the battle combined with thoughts of having to meet Madame Endelle battered the support beams beneath her composure.

She took a moment and calmed herself, taking deep breaths. To Jean-Pierre’s credit, he didn’t try to touch her or in any way attempt to settle her down.

When she looked back up at him, his gaze held more speculation than compassion, and again she was grateful. “Thank you for that.”

“For what, chérie?”

“For not jumping in and trying to make me feel better.”

At that he smiled. “I have extended my hand to a biting dog on enough occasions to know better.”

She put her hand to her chest. “Am I that bad?”

“Oui,” he answered. “Vile, actually. Nearly as bad as She Who Would Live herself.”

Fiona laughed. She thought he must be one of the kindest, most perceptive men she had ever met.

She Who Would Live. Madame Endelle. Her Supremeness. She had another name, one that apparently only Thorne could pronounce, one with three clicks from ancient times, one that gave rise to her abbreviated name and to her nickname, She Who Would Live.

Nine thousand years.

Unfathomable.

Perhaps if Fiona lived to be that old, and carried even half the responsibility that Endelle did, she would also turn into a fire-breathing dragon.

Whatever.

“Why don’t you fold me to Militia Warrior HQ and I’ll stay there until you’re ready, then you can take me back to Seriffe’s house to change. Will that do?”

He nodded. “You have a very organized mind.”

She snorted. “You mean controlling and obsessive.”

But at that, his gaze grew intense. “I like your mind, Fiona, very much.” A wave of rich, aromatic coffee rolled in her direction.

She stared into his eyes, and all her well-ordered plans faded into the background. She was struck again by the varied shades in his eyes, the dark blue, the gray, the grayish green and just a few flecks of amber, sun glinting off the ocean.

What she felt couldn’t be just about the breh-hedden. He had taken pains to understand her, to know her, and that meant something. Perhaps the absurd call of vampire mate-bonding had sunk its claws into both of them, yet it would be so easy to simply turn away from the man right now if he had been mean or surly or disrespectful. Surely, the profound desire she felt for him would wane in the face of such unhappy qualities.

Right now, however, because he hadn’t crowded her, because he kept the reins light in his hands, she liked him all the more. Her body responded, a swell of sensation rising from deep within, like a wave rippling up her body, tingling, warm, thrilling.

His eyes closed and he listed, jerking a little to right himself.

When he opened his eyes they came only to half-mast. “Fiona,” he whispered, low and deep, his accent dipping then rising over her name, a caress.

She became acutely aware that she was alone with her vampire boyfriend in a room that had several large empty couches.

She swallowed hard. When he took a step toward her, she planted her hand on the center of his weapons harness, which meant she connected with the hilts of two daggers.

That forced her to draw back and to blink several times.

“Take me to HQ, please.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Jean-Pierre stood just inside the door of Endelle’s office. He trembled in rage at the ruler of Second Earth, but he could not interfere. He would give his life for Her Supremeness, but there were times, like now, when he wished to put his hands around her neck and squeeze.

Thorne remained next to him, keeping him from acting when he should not act, as Endelle continued her interrogation of Fiona.

“What are you not telling me, ascender?” Endelle shouted.

Fiona once more drew her shoulders back, her head up. She wore black slacks, black heels, and a lavender silk blouse, snug at the waist with a small bow in the front. “I’ve told you everything that happened and in the sequence in which it happened.” Her voice was sharp and strong. “How many more times can I say this: I heard a woman’s voice in my head calling out for help, I extended my telepathy to her, located her, and started to communicate.

“Her name is Marguerite, and yes, she sounded desperate to escape from the Convent. Then, while still connected telepathically, she seemed to disappear for a moment, but not really disappear. And when she came back she relayed the warning that death vampires, a lot of them, were making their way through the forest toward the outdoor chapel.

“But there was one more thing, something I forgot to tell you. We both heard church bells, very deep, lovely.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Goddam, that’s a Fourth Earth signature and your ability to hear it, that’s Third shit.” She nodded several times. “What else?”

“The rest, the attack, Thorne has told you about. After the battle was over, I tried to reach her again, but couldn’t. I’ve been given to understand that telepathic communication is forbidden inside the Convent and that she was probably punished.”

Endelle got in her face, not for the first time. Jean-Pierre took a step forward, and as many times before, Thorne threw an arm in front of him, hitting him square in the chest. He had changed from battle gear and his hair was still damp from the shower. He wore a Gaultier jacket and loose comfortable slacks. But there was nothing comfortable about watching Endelle grill his woman.

“Relax, Jean-Pierre,” Thorne whispered, spitting the usual gravel as he spoke. “Fiona is doing just fine. She’s got a lot of spirit.”

Endelle finally turned away from Fiona and Jean-Pierre released a heavy sigh.

“That Quena is such a bitch,” Endelle said. “She uses a rod to discipline her devotiates. I’d like to take a rod to her. Goddammit! I just wish I knew what the hell this means.”

She started to pace, although a new word should be created for this movement, since every third step lifted her into the air, probably a form of levitation.

She wore a very bristly skirt that could not be comfortable, but it was short so her legs could move. Her halter was composed of small white feathers and oui, the room smelled of poultry. Mon Dieu.

“Do I smell chickens?” Thorne asked in a low voice, leaning close.

Some of her long black hair was piled high, while the lower parts swung in perhaps a dozen braids. Would she perform acts of voodoo next?

Endelle paced and levitated her way to the enormous plate-glass window that overlooked the eastern desert. She returned to stand once more in front of Fiona, her brown eyes so strangely lined, as though the years of service as the ruler of Second Earth had disfigured them.

“Well, Fiona, you’re not going to like this but I’m going to have to read your powers. I’ve got to figure out what we’re dealing with here. Thorne tells me you have emerging powers and I believe him, but this latest thing really has my thong in a few dozen knots, if you get my drift.”

Fiona backed up.

Endelle’s thick black brows rose a notch. “What the fuck?”

“I’ve heard tales about you, Endelle, and I’m refusing to have you read my powers. Let Thorne do it.”

Jean-Pierre’s temper, already simmering, shot like a rocket into outer space. Before Thorne could stop him, he now stood in front of Fiona, his arms spread wide. He glanced from Thorne to Endelle. “I will not permit Thorne to read her powers.” He felt a thumping at his back, which he ignored. He knew what reading someone’s powers could entail, a full-blown mind-dive, and the fuck he would let Thorne in his woman’s head.

“Goddammit, Jean-Pierre,” Thorne cried.

More thumps at his back. “Move it, Jean-Pierre,” Fiona cried. Another thump. She was using her fists and trying to get his attention. “Get out of my way, now.”

He looked back at her, surprised at the flush on her cheeks. Her silver-blue eyes looked almost dark. “What is it, chérie?” He lowered his arms and turned to face her. “Why are you angry?”

She planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head. Her eyes flashed a little more. “I don’t need you to fight this battle for me and if I want Thorne to read my powers, then he’ll read my goddam powers. Are we clear?”

“You go girl,” Endelle said.

Jean-Pierre ignored her. “No, we are not clear. I will not have another man inside your head. Pas du tout. Jamais.” He waxed long on this theme only vaguely aware that he had lapsed into French.

She planted a hand on the T-shirt beneath the jacket. “English, s’il vous plaît, monsieur.”

That brought him up short. “Oui, of course. I am sorry, but I cannot allow this.”

“Hey, Jean-Pierre,” Endelle called to him.

He turned around, a heavy scowl pulling at his face. “Quoi.”

He didn’t even see her fist coming. The next thing he knew he was spinning around and falling, his head just missing Thorne’s booted foot.

“Better, asshole?” Endelle asked.

Jean-Pierre sat up, felt his jaw and worked it back and forth. The woman could throw a punch.