“Stop that!” came from Parisa. He froze. He stared down at her, his entire body immobile.

“What are you doing, Antony?” she cried. “He was thanking me. That’s all. What’s the matter with you?”

But Jean-Pierre pulled away from her and started to laugh. He dropped to his knees and put his head in his hands and kept on laughing. This time, he repeated “Mon Dieu” over and over, finally ending with, “We are in hell.”

Medichi just stared at him. Strange sensations flowed through his blood. He felt as though he’d just faced a dozen death vampires. His arms and legs shook. “This is a nightmare,” he cried. “I was ready to kill you.”

He walked in circles just as Jean-Pierre had. He couldn’t look at Parisa for the longest time. When he’d calmed down enough, he turned to her to apologize, but she held her fingers up to her lips and he knew she was smiling, even laughing.

“What?” Medichi shouted. No man liked to be laughed at.

“Where’s your cadroen?” she asked.

He reached back but it was gone. What the hell had he done with his cadroen?

Parisa approached him, smoothed his hair with her hands, then kissed him on the lips. He released a heavy sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I hate to admit it but it’s kind of sexy. You went wild there for a minute. I think you threw your cadroen so hard it landed in the pool, then you started tearing at your hair and growling. I don’t mean to laugh. Really.” She softened the blow of these words with another kiss on his lips.

Dammit, he’d forgive her anything if she just kept kissing him. He slid his arms around her, yet he couldn’t help but glare at Jean-Pierre over her shoulder. “Just don’t do that again, okay? Think what you would do if I hugged Fiona.”

When a hard light entered Jean-Pierre’s eye and he rose to his feet and lowered his chin, Medichi added, “Exactement, mon ami.”

Parisa pulled back. She glanced at Jean-Pierre then rolled her eyes. “All right you two Neanderthals. Let me have a look.”

She closed her eyes and opened them a moment later. She shook her head. “Sorry, Jean-Pierre, it’s still really light outside.”

The afternoon wore on Parisa, partly because Jean-Pierre stayed on at the villa. She always knew when half an hour had passed between voyeur-peeks because whatever she was doing, whether working out with sword or dagger, or preparing dinner, or even napping, he came to her with such a stricken look that she didn’t bother even asking what he wanted—she simply opened her window, looked at the color of the sky, then shut it down.

At seven, Jean-Pierre finally left, folding to the Blood and Bite where all the Warriors of the Blood gathered before battling death vampires at the Borderlands. He had hated to leave, knowing that the hour was drawing close, but Thorne had made it clear that once Central had a fix on the women they would—for this one critical mission—leave the Borderlands as a unit, fold to the women, and take care of business. Colonel Seriffe was making arrangements to have large contingents of Militia Warriors ready to take their place until they returned.

Everything was set to go.

But by nine o’clock, the sheer waiting had stripped her nerves raw. She wore her weapons harness, black cargo pants, and Nikes and paced the foyer. She opened her window every ten minutes now. Central’s grid had the area of search down to one strip of longitude, because eleven hours had now passed since Parisa had first viewed the sunlit window. The earth moved, the sun shifted, and every place that night had begun to cover became one less possibility.

It was just a matter of time, maybe even minutes.

At nine forty-five, Parisa stood beside Antony in the foyer. He, too, wore battle gear. Thorne had let the warriors know it would be anytime now.

She opened the window.

Antony had his phone to his ear, Carla at the ready.

And there it was, a beautiful violet and gray haze across the sky.

She smiled. “Sunset,” she cried.

Antony spoke into the phone. “Sunset, Carla.” He smiled, but then even Parisa had heard her squealing.

Antony phoned Thorne, exchanged a few words, then tucked his phone into the narrow pocket of his battle kilt.

“They’re all waiting at the Cave.”

“Already?”

He nodded. “About an hour ago, Thorne called Seriffe. Apparently there are now a hundred Militia Warriors stationed at every Borderland on Mortal Earth.”

Parisa blinked. She was stunned. “That’s five hundred warriors. Who’s making the mist?” If there were that many hunky warriors, in leather battle kilts and black leather wrist guards, hanging around various Metro Phoenix access points on Mortal Earth, then someone had to create a protective layer of mist. One of the big rules between Second Earth and Mortal Earth was keeping Second Society a secret.

Antony laughed. “Leave it to you to be thinking about logistics. The truth is, I don’t know. I’m guessing Endelle. Mist is one of her best things.”

Parisa felt herself grow very still inside. “This is it, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Our best shot. You ready to bring Fiona home?”

“I hope so. I really do.”

“Ready to fold to the Cave?”

This time it was her turn to smile. “Thanks for the warning.”

The vibration began.

When her feet touched down, she glanced at all the men. One things was clear right away. The men had cleaned up. There was no blood spatter, no sweat among them.

Everyone was there … except Jean-Pierre.

Jean-Pierre was still at his house. Thorne had made it possible for each warrior to shower, a kindness extended to the several frightened women who would hopefully soon be in their charge. Such victims did not need to see the results of their battling at the Borderlands. War was a dirty, sweaty, messy business after all was said and done.

He remained at his home in Sedona, which he had built next to Oak Creek. He stood beside the small wood bridge he’d built. Stripped tree branches served as the railing, and hand-hewn planks for the curved arc of the base. His home was a rabbit warren, all wood and stone, with narrow connecting halls not much wider than the breadth of his shoulders. The entire house was built in sections from white oak. The floors were Brazilian rosewood because he liked the sweet smell when he worked the wood.

Alison would tell him the home was a form of therapy. Most certainly it was not a form of architecture. Probably just a look into his mind.

He shrugged. But he loved this home and now he had the darkest thoughts of all, that he would bring the woman here, the woman Fiona, the one he would meet in a few minutes, maybe hold in his arms.

He put a hand to his weapons harness just over his heart. He felt the hilt of one of the two daggers he carried. Within his chest, he felt a vibration, something holy and terrifying. What had been so empty for so long now filled with lightning. His heart jerked in response, and he couldn’t breathe. Merde.

His knees felt weak, as if he’d lost the tendons somewhere in the past few days.

Fiona.

Fiona.

Now his chest hurt when he thought of her and his head throbbed. Already, he despised the breh-hedden and he had only been its victim for such a short time. He patted the Velcro pocket of his kilt and felt the treasure hidden deep within, bound in soft layers of velvet. The locket. The one he had found at the base of the armoire in Toulouse, the one that held the scent of his woman, of Fiona. He would return it to her, even though part of him wanted to keep it forever.

He was so fucked.

He needed time to think before he got the call from Thorne saying that Central had found them, a call he expected any moment now. How was he supposed to keep a clear head when his body betrayed him like this?

He planted a hand on the end post of the bridge and sucked air through his nostrils. The smell of damp sycamore leaves rushed through his brain, that heavy scent, aromatic, clean. His mind felt clearer, sharper. Oui, he could think again. Un peu.

He straightened his shoulders.

He felt like a fool because he had laughed at the other men, at Kerrick, at Marcus, and once upon a time at Medichi, but that was before Parisa’s abduction, long before, when the breh-hedden had smashed the tall warrior into the ground. Medichi had been a walking open wound even before the abduction of his woman.

Jean-Pierre would laugh no more. He could not even laugh at himself, and usually that was not a difficulty.

He just had not expected so much pain and such a fierce drive to be with a woman. He ached deep into his soul. His mind was possessed and his body weak in the knees. Again … merde.

His phone buzzed against his waist. He slipped it from the narrow pocket of his battle kilt. His heart thundered, because he knew what was about to happen.

“Oui,” he said, not thinking. He cursed again. He rarely answered his phone using any form of French.

“We have them.” Thorne’s voice, splintered like dry wood, grated his ear. “Come to the Cave. Now.”

Jean-Pierre thumbed his phone and tucked it back into the pocket. He stared at his house, at the windows in various shapes and sizes, the backdrop of large sycamores. He had built the house in a grove of them. He had the horrible sensation, yet strangely exhilarating, that his life was about to change forever.

He closed his eyes and thought the thought. He moved through nether-space, through a fine rush of wind that wasn’t wind. For a split second his body felt free, weightless, his mind at ease.

He landed in the Cave. Everyone was present. Parisa was armed for battle in a snug leather vest, buckled in places for fit, a single dagger hilt showing at her waist. Her breasts were too large to allow for more than one. Medichi stood close to her, his body touching hers, shoulder and hip, an arm across her back.

He looked intense and haunted, his eyes too bright.

Jean-Pierre had to look away. He understood.

Thorne was speaking but what was he saying? Yes. A battle plan.

New Zealand. The slaves were held in New Zealand. A place called Lower Hutt City Two, a rural location, very private, a few miles from Wellington Two, the capital, near the ocean. Same situation—a double dome of mist.