was caught in something neither of them understood, she was more determined than ever to live life on her terms.
He didn’t blame her. God knew he didn’t blame her. But she was in danger.
He felt the future crowding him as he had never felt it before, holding his woman in his arms, smelling her rich red-rose scent, until he ached, body and soul.
* * *
Marguerite made a slow pass over the valley. There were dozens of farms and what looked like small homes and cabins, each with an attached vegetable garden, clustered along one portion of a long winding lane near the forest.
As she drew close to the upper portion of the valley, she thought she recognized one of the Warriors of the Blood—Fiona’s breh, Jean-Pierre. He’d helped Thorne bust her out of the Superstition Seers Fortress, and later he’d been in Endelle’s office. He was tall like Thorne, well muscled, but leaner.
Was Jean-Pierre in this village?
As she flew lower to the ground, however, she realized that it wasn’t him, but rather someone who was built like him and had similar features. He was also younger than the warriors, not quite a man yet, but neither was he just a teen—somewhere in between.
She hovered in place watching him. He spoke quietly with another man, taller than him, with green eyes, dark skin, and long cornrows dotted with beads. This man’s arms were muscled and bare. He wore a vest made up of some kind of sculpted animal skin. He looked solemn as the young man said, “Death vampires. They’re here. In the forest.”
The young man already had a sword in his hand.
The death vampires came: three, four, five …
The vision drew away from her, like a receding tide, and finally disappeared.
She felt something on her face, a callused thumb perhaps, then something softer and very moist. Lips, soothing lips.
“Come back to me.”
Thorne.
Her eyelids fluttered. She was back in her hotel room. She was tired, so very tired, but then she’d traveled around the entire world how many times?
Thorne held her close and for the longest moment she felt safe, really safe.
And yet she couldn’t stay like this.
As she drew out of the future streams completely, as she returned to consciousness, she sat up and slid off Thorne’s lap. She felt like puking. She could hear Thorne talking to her. He stroked her arm and her thigh, gently, but she didn’t want the distraction. The vision was still real in her mind.
She batted her arm in his direction and he stopped touching her.
The young man, so familiar.
“I … saw a warrior … who looked similar in build, in features, in stance to Jean-Pierre, but it wasn’t him. More like a younger version of him.”
“You had a vision then.”
She drew in a deep breath. She realized she was on her hands and knees, the robe hanging open. She felt dizzy and sick, like she’d had the flu for about a week.
She pushed back to lean on her heels. She squeezed her eyes shut and took several deep breaths. “Thorne, we must do something. There will be an attack, very soon. I’m trying to determine the timing. I saw a young warrior standing with a black man, a leader, very tall, in a sort of village of round and square cabin-like houses somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. The Cascades?”
“Okay.”
“We must go there, but I don’t want to. Thorne, I don’t want to.”
“You’re afraid.”
She shook her head. Fear was not what she felt. The threat was not to her life, but to her freedom. She felt it like a rock in the pit of her stomach.
She turned toward Thorne. He had a dark look in his eye and something more, almost like panic. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“If I hadn’t been here … Marguerite, do you know how vulnerable you were just now? This thing … this vision you just endured lasted at least ten minutes.”
“Sweet Christ,” she cried. “That long?” A fine stream of profanity flowed through her head. None of this was what she wanted: the visions,
He didn’t blame her. God knew he didn’t blame her. But she was in danger.
He felt the future crowding him as he had never felt it before, holding his woman in his arms, smelling her rich red-rose scent, until he ached, body and soul.
* * *
Marguerite made a slow pass over the valley. There were dozens of farms and what looked like small homes and cabins, each with an attached vegetable garden, clustered along one portion of a long winding lane near the forest.
As she drew close to the upper portion of the valley, she thought she recognized one of the Warriors of the Blood—Fiona’s breh, Jean-Pierre. He’d helped Thorne bust her out of the Superstition Seers Fortress, and later he’d been in Endelle’s office. He was tall like Thorne, well muscled, but leaner.
Was Jean-Pierre in this village?
As she flew lower to the ground, however, she realized that it wasn’t him, but rather someone who was built like him and had similar features. He was also younger than the warriors, not quite a man yet, but neither was he just a teen—somewhere in between.
She hovered in place watching him. He spoke quietly with another man, taller than him, with green eyes, dark skin, and long cornrows dotted with beads. This man’s arms were muscled and bare. He wore a vest made up of some kind of sculpted animal skin. He looked solemn as the young man said, “Death vampires. They’re here. In the forest.”
The young man already had a sword in his hand.
The death vampires came: three, four, five …
The vision drew away from her, like a receding tide, and finally disappeared.
She felt something on her face, a callused thumb perhaps, then something softer and very moist. Lips, soothing lips.
“Come back to me.”
Thorne.
Her eyelids fluttered. She was back in her hotel room. She was tired, so very tired, but then she’d traveled around the entire world how many times?
Thorne held her close and for the longest moment she felt safe, really safe.
And yet she couldn’t stay like this.
As she drew out of the future streams completely, as she returned to consciousness, she sat up and slid off Thorne’s lap. She felt like puking. She could hear Thorne talking to her. He stroked her arm and her thigh, gently, but she didn’t want the distraction. The vision was still real in her mind.
She batted her arm in his direction and he stopped touching her.
The young man, so familiar.
“I … saw a warrior … who looked similar in build, in features, in stance to Jean-Pierre, but it wasn’t him. More like a younger version of him.”
“You had a vision then.”
She drew in a deep breath. She realized she was on her hands and knees, the robe hanging open. She felt dizzy and sick, like she’d had the flu for about a week.
She pushed back to lean on her heels. She squeezed her eyes shut and took several deep breaths. “Thorne, we must do something. There will be an attack, very soon. I’m trying to determine the timing. I saw a young warrior standing with a black man, a leader, very tall, in a sort of village of round and square cabin-like houses somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. The Cascades?”
“Okay.”
“We must go there, but I don’t want to. Thorne, I don’t want to.”
“You’re afraid.”
She shook her head. Fear was not what she felt. The threat was not to her life, but to her freedom. She felt it like a rock in the pit of her stomach.
She turned toward Thorne. He had a dark look in his eye and something more, almost like panic. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“If I hadn’t been here … Marguerite, do you know how vulnerable you were just now? This thing … this vision you just endured lasted at least ten minutes.”
“Sweet Christ,” she cried. “That long?” A fine stream of profanity flowed through her head. None of this was what she wanted: the visions,
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