Carla’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And you’ll let us know about … well, you know.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Now give me a second to reconfigure the grid.” The tapping started.

He sighed as his heart pulled into a hard knot.

Every twenty-four hours he had contact with Parisa, and everyone knew it. What they didn’t know was the personal way in which it happened. And like hell would he ever reveal that truth, because it was like having phone sex without the phone. Once a day, and always in the morning after he’d battled all night, he’d go home, shower up, and sit on the side of his bed. That’s when he’d hear Parisa’s voice in his head, only once, Antony. A sweet telepathic whisper that fired his heart and kept hope alive.

That was the only form of communication he had with her. She wasn’t even ascended, so not all of her powers were developed. And for whatever reason, even though she was a mortal with wings, she couldn’t communicate with her mind, at least not yet.

Despite this critical lack, she had another preternatural power that was considered a Third Earth or third dimension ability—that voyeur’s window she could open. If she was indeed in Burma, she was halfway around the globe when she sent her single telepathic communication. It would be night to his day.

If that were true, then she had enormous telepathic capacity. She just hadn’t learned how to use it yet.

Whatever.

It still meant that in half an hour or so, he would go home, get ready for bed, and discover whether his woman was still alive.

His heart tightened a little more. He both dreaded and longed for the experience because honest to God he didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t hear her say his name today within the depths of his mind. If he thought for even a minute that she might be dead, he’d go mad.

Carla’s voice came back on the line. “The grid’s on Burma, Warrior, and you’re in my prayers.”

His eyes burned. “Thanks,” he said, but his voice sounded hoarse. “Later.”

“Later.”

He thumbed his phone and with a thought, folded to his villa to change out of his kilt and weapons harness. He still hadn’t revealed his scars to his brothers. Only Marcus knew that his back was covered in a basket weave of silver scar tissue, and he’d promised his silence. There was no way he was going to the Cave to meet with the brothers while wearing only a kilt and a weapons harness. The latter, though broad enough in the front to support two daggers, had only a heavy narrow strip of black leather running down his spine.

Shit. He knew the time had come to reveal this hard truth about what had happened to him and to his family thirteen centuries ago, just before his ascension. But he dreaded speaking about the why of his scars. Dreaded letting anyone get that close to him.

Well, he wasn’t ready to talk just yet.

He changed into his usual: a black tee, black cargoes, and steel-toed boots. He thought the thought and headed to the Cave.

Parisa Lovejoy had run out of time.

She didn’t know the how or why of it, but something in Rith Do’onwa’s demeanor toward her had darkened. When she was around him now, shivers chased down her neck and shoulders.

She stood outside on the lawn, barefoot, a few feet away from the enormous tamarind tree in Rith’s large side yard. She stared up at the double dome of mist and as usual, was amazed.

She could see both layers. The exterior dome was the usual fine crochet-like composite, but the interior swirled in beautiful colors of aquamarine, sea green, blue, and gray … magnificent. The mist kept the master’s home invisible to Central’s electronic surveillance grid. She had learned at least that much in the three months she’d been held captive: The Warriors of the Blood couldn’t find her because Rith had concealed her location under not one but two powerful domes of mist.

Two exquisite domes that meant she couldn’t count on a rescue.

Yesterday, Rith had treated her with his usual indifference, but when she had awakened this morning and met him over the breakfast table, displeasure, perhaps even hatred, had rolled from him, a living writhing thing. And just like that she knew she had run out of time. Whatever mantle of grace had kept her safe in his home these past three months had just been obliterated.

She had to escape. She just didn’t know how to get the job done.

She had struggled with the question all day. Now night had fallen and she had a decision to make. Should she take flight and bust through the double dome of mist that protected the property, or should she take her chances and stay put? She knew that the nature of mist would allow her to easily reach the sky beyond, but her flight skills were untested. It was one thing to practice in the gentle environment of the garden protected by the mist, but another to be in the open air where unpredictable wind shears could turn her upside down.

She truly didn’t know what to do—but just in case inspiration struck at the last moment, she had begged for one last flight before bed.

She hadn’t expected Rith to allow it. He kept a very strict schedule for her throughout any given day. To her surprise, however, he’d agreed to her request. Given his attitude toward her, she’d found his acquiescence suspect.

As she stared up into the inner domes, swirling with a pattern of blue-green mist, her heart hammered in her chest. Should she take her chances and fly through both domes, right here, right now?

Even as the thought entered her mind, she felt tendrils reaching toward her, whispering for her to do it, to go, to leave, to break through.

She looked around. Was she hearing Antony at long last? Had he found her? Was he encouraging her to leave? Did he wait for her beyond the mist?

She trembled. She wanted to leave. Oh, how she wanted to leave. More than anything in the world, she longed to see Warrior Medichi.

Again, the whispers drifted over her: Go, leave, run away, now.

Antony, she sent from her mind. Nothing returned to her.

Was it possible he had found a way to reach her telepathically?

She wore a long halter gown of beautiful amethyst silk, the same color as her eyes. From the beginning, Rith had kept her in beautiful clothes. But in this case, the halter meant that her back was bare and she could mount her wings. She knew that if she took to the skies she might get her legs tangled up in the skirting, but she believed Rith had wanted her hampered. Rith always had a reason for every action. He was the most careful man, or rather vampire, she had ever known.

She stepped farther away from the enormous tamarind tree, away from Rith, away from his three Burmese slaves who had come to watch the show. The women loved to watch her fly. As far as she knew, none of them had wings—yet they’d been ascended for centuries. She found the absence of wings very strange for second dimension vampires, unless of course Rith had found a way to prevent them from gaining normal flight capability.

Whatever.

Rith was a monster, a quiet, dedicated, harmless-looking monster. He had ways of hurting her, and probably his slaves, that left no marks: His torture skills involved the piercing of the mind with his superior mental power. If she escaped his home tonight and he caught her, at the very least he would fill her mind with the equivalent of whirling knives. At the most, he would find an excuse to take her life.

So what was she to do? Take her chances and attempt to escape the mist or remain and risk staying one more night in the power of a man who now radiated a desire to kill her?

Her arms trembled as she prepared to mount her wings. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, an exercise that required a full minute of firm concentration.

She took a final deep cleansing breath, leaned forward slightly with her hands on her waist, then released her wings. She couldn’t hold back the moan of pleasure. Her nipples drew into hard beads. For whatever reason, mounting her wings had always been for her an experience akin to sexual release.

The feathers flew in perfect balance through the small weeping apertures in her back and at the exact same moment joined with the mesh superstructure that also emerged and held the incomprehensible mass together. She would never understand how her body produced the glory that was her wings, but then how could she open the windows of her preternatural voyeurism and see what others were doing? How could the ascended vampire dematerialize? How did Rith create the extraordinary mist that appeared in visible domes over his home? Power then more power.

These were the mysteries of her world, her new world, the world of ascension.

She moved in a slow circle, wafting her wings up and down, practicing the combined movements of her back, her arms, and her wings. She was new to flight, having flown for the first time three months ago, though she’d had her wings over a year before that. Her friend Havily Morgan, an ascended vampire, had been teaching her to fly before the abduction. In one early session, Parisa had almost gotten herself killed by launching into the air without enough training, but Havily had pulled on her feet and brought her out of a deadly forward roll.

Because she was alone here in her garden prison, all her practice had been done with great care. She feared falling and breaking her wings more than anything. She didn’t heal at lightning speed like normal vampires did, which was part of the reason she feared attempting an unsupported escape. One huge gust of wind would probably throw her into an uncontrolled spin or roll; she could easily fall to the ground. In her mortal state, she didn’t want to think what that would feel like. She could end up paralyzed or even dead.

Yeah, this really wasn’t a simple decision.

She looked up into the swirling dome and drew her wings back. She launched into the air, brought her wings forward, caught air, and began to fly. A collective gasp came from the three women on the porch. She flapped her wings and smiled. She understood their delight. She had seen Havily fly. It was a sight to behold.

She had seen all the Warriors of the Blood in flight at one time or another, all except Antony, of course. She knew the reason why he didn’t mount his wings. She had voyeured him for over a year, so she had seen the secret he kept hidden from those closest to him. What she didn’t know was the why of it.