aside and opened his left palm. He focused on the fingers and savored the burn as skin broke and disappeared, as bones expanded, as the claw took shape.
Julianna rolled on her back, the sheet catching just at hip level until she looked like a mermaid. Her cuts really did heal too fast.
She spread her arms wide, getting ready for him once more. Her breasts were large and perfect and unenhanced. They drifted to each side of her rib cage, the nipples already peaked. She smiled and sighed. “Hurt me,” she whispered.
So he did.
***
At seven that evening, just after sunset, Medichi entered the Blood and Bite and froze. It was the smell that got to him first, full of lust, sex, and blood, everything he couldn’t have, everything he’d been denied for the past three months because Parisa was gone.
The red velvet booths off to the right were covered in varying degrees of mist, and would confuse the minds of all the mortal women present as well as most of the Militia Warriors. But his powers were advanced enough that he could see, hear, and smell everything. He used to enjoy the voyeurism. Now it was torture.
He knew what went on in the booths. He’d made use of them nearly every night from the time the owner, Sam Finch, had opened the joint too many decades ago to remember. The Warriors of the Blood always started out their night here, sharing drinks and bullshit, taking a beauty or two into one of the booths, getting a bit of respite before the death vamps started busting through the Borderlands.
He took a deep breath and ignored the onslaught of sensation as he turned in the direction of the bar. Now that he was here, he had another mission to accomplish, something he should have done a long time ago. Shit, was he really going to do this? After thirteen centuries, was he really going to tell the truth about why he never mounted his wings?
Jean-Pierre thumped his shoulder from behind. “ Allô, Medichi. This is such good news about Burma. Have you heard from Central yet?”
Medichi turned to face the Frenchman. He still had a faint accent; he’d only been ascended a couple of centuries. Give him a few more decades, and his English would be perfect. “No. I spoke to Carla a couple of times this afternoon, but nothing yet. Jeannie’s on deck right now. She’s working with Colonel Seriffe. The grid over at Militia Warrior Headquarters isn’t quite as powerful as Central’s but it’ll do in a pinch.” Once night fell and the pretty-boys came out, Jeannie had to use Central’s grid to track death vampire movements and keep Thorne apprised. Seriffe’s less powerful grid would be searching Burma the rest of the night.
He had spent the day in and out of sleep, waiting without much expectation for Carla to call with news of Parisa. He had known from the first that the hunt would take days, not hours, but he had still been hoping for a miracle. When nothing came of the day’s grid search and it was time to dress for battle, his nerves were shredded. Frankly, he needed the release of wielding his sword and battling an enemy he could actually get at. All this waiting was for shit.
Jean-Pierre clamped his shoulder, shook his head back and forth. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Merci, Jean.”
“Oui. Oui.” The Frenchman nodded several times then finally just threw his arms around Medichi.
Jean-Pierre, at six-five, was the same height as Marcus. He had long wavy brown hair, on the light side. His hair tended to escape the cadroen and frame his face in loose curls, which the women loved. His eyes were greenish gray, the color of the ocean. He was probably the leanest of the warriors, but fucking strong. Women were known to swoon over the bastard, especially when he whispered soft French into willing ears.
The cadroens he used were strips of varying pastel brocade, hand-sewn to his specifications with combs, tied in a bow, an affectation he’d adopted at the French court and refused to give up. He had been an
Julianna rolled on her back, the sheet catching just at hip level until she looked like a mermaid. Her cuts really did heal too fast.
She spread her arms wide, getting ready for him once more. Her breasts were large and perfect and unenhanced. They drifted to each side of her rib cage, the nipples already peaked. She smiled and sighed. “Hurt me,” she whispered.
So he did.
***
At seven that evening, just after sunset, Medichi entered the Blood and Bite and froze. It was the smell that got to him first, full of lust, sex, and blood, everything he couldn’t have, everything he’d been denied for the past three months because Parisa was gone.
The red velvet booths off to the right were covered in varying degrees of mist, and would confuse the minds of all the mortal women present as well as most of the Militia Warriors. But his powers were advanced enough that he could see, hear, and smell everything. He used to enjoy the voyeurism. Now it was torture.
He knew what went on in the booths. He’d made use of them nearly every night from the time the owner, Sam Finch, had opened the joint too many decades ago to remember. The Warriors of the Blood always started out their night here, sharing drinks and bullshit, taking a beauty or two into one of the booths, getting a bit of respite before the death vamps started busting through the Borderlands.
He took a deep breath and ignored the onslaught of sensation as he turned in the direction of the bar. Now that he was here, he had another mission to accomplish, something he should have done a long time ago. Shit, was he really going to do this? After thirteen centuries, was he really going to tell the truth about why he never mounted his wings?
Jean-Pierre thumped his shoulder from behind. “ Allô, Medichi. This is such good news about Burma. Have you heard from Central yet?”
Medichi turned to face the Frenchman. He still had a faint accent; he’d only been ascended a couple of centuries. Give him a few more decades, and his English would be perfect. “No. I spoke to Carla a couple of times this afternoon, but nothing yet. Jeannie’s on deck right now. She’s working with Colonel Seriffe. The grid over at Militia Warrior Headquarters isn’t quite as powerful as Central’s but it’ll do in a pinch.” Once night fell and the pretty-boys came out, Jeannie had to use Central’s grid to track death vampire movements and keep Thorne apprised. Seriffe’s less powerful grid would be searching Burma the rest of the night.
He had spent the day in and out of sleep, waiting without much expectation for Carla to call with news of Parisa. He had known from the first that the hunt would take days, not hours, but he had still been hoping for a miracle. When nothing came of the day’s grid search and it was time to dress for battle, his nerves were shredded. Frankly, he needed the release of wielding his sword and battling an enemy he could actually get at. All this waiting was for shit.
Jean-Pierre clamped his shoulder, shook his head back and forth. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Merci, Jean.”
“Oui. Oui.” The Frenchman nodded several times then finally just threw his arms around Medichi.
Jean-Pierre, at six-five, was the same height as Marcus. He had long wavy brown hair, on the light side. His hair tended to escape the cadroen and frame his face in loose curls, which the women loved. His eyes were greenish gray, the color of the ocean. He was probably the leanest of the warriors, but fucking strong. Women were known to swoon over the bastard, especially when he whispered soft French into willing ears.
The cadroens he used were strips of varying pastel brocade, hand-sewn to his specifications with combs, tied in a bow, an affectation he’d adopted at the French court and refused to give up. He had been an
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