“Why couldn’t those who escorted the convoy bring back the supplies?” he asked.
“Several reasons. One, none of those who escorted the last convoy out are coming back. They are done. And second, the supplies we need come from a different area, and heaven forbid those fools back east make our lives easier by having the stuff we need shipped to a drop-off point.” She closed her eyes and muttered, “Bastards. They’ve just gone and forgotten about us.”
“People often take those they need for granted.”
There was another knock at the door. Syn didn’t know why, but when he went to pull away, she reached up and caught his wrist, holding him in place as she called out, “Come in.”
The door opened to reveal none other than Vena.
Xan resumed his massage of her shoulders without speaking as Syn arched a brow and met the other woman’s eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was no small amount of irritation in the other woman’s gaze.
“Did you need something?”
Vena smirked. “Damn, no wonder you like being the supreme bitch in charge if you get on-the-job sex bonuses.” A malicious glint lit her eyes. “Does the commander have any idea how you spend your days?”
I knew this bitch was going to be trouble, Syn thought. But she didn’t let any of her irritation show. She gave Vena a nonchalant smile. “The commander hasn’t felt a need to check up on me for quite a while, Saurell. However, if you feel the need to enlighten him over the fact that you saw Xan in my office, feel free.”
“You think he won’t care?”
Now it was Syn’s turn to smirk. “No. I know he won’t care.”
“You are telling me he won’t care that you’re spending your days screwing around when we’re supposed to be dealing with the demon threat—that’s why you sent so many back east, because we don’t have the manpower to protect everybody and still deal with the demons. Yet you can spend your time getting fucked?”
“Oh, come off it, Vena.” Syn gently nudged Xan’s hands from her shoulders and shoved back from her desk, facing the other woman. “I’ve known the commander for most of my life—we’ve fought together; we’ve bled together. He’s left me in charge of the camp more than once when he’s had to leave or when he’s out of commission due to an injury. He trusts me, and he knows I let nothing interfere with getting my job done. And, more to the point, he’s also aware that getting fucked involves some level of nudity and a lot more contact than what you see in front of you.”
Vena shot a venomous look at Xan and then leveled it on Syn. “You honestly expect me to believe you two aren’t screwing each other?”
“Oh, we are.” A smug grin curled her lips. She couldn’t help it. “We just aren’t doing it right now—we’ll save it for when we’re officially off duty, which is still a good three hours away.”
Vena went white, then red. “You walk around like you’re so damned important, expect everybody to follow your rules, but you don’t have to. Some leader you are.”
Syn shook her head. “I do follow my own rules—has anybody ever once told you that you’re not allowed a personal life once you join this army?”
“Military leaders don’t fuck those serving under them.”
“If that military leader has spent her entire adult life fighting a war, she does—especially if she wants to maintain some semblance of sanity.” Syn shook her head and said, “But that’s not even the issue. You’re not mad because I’m involved with somebody serving under me—you’re mad because I’m involved with the one you set your sights on—and he’s not interested.”
Vena’s pretty face twisted into an ugly scowl, and her blue eyes glinted with rage. Jealousy didn’t set well on the woman. Not at all. “Of course he’s not going to be interested in me. I can’t help his position here, now can I?”
Through it all, Xan had remained silent, his arms folded over his chest, his expression unreadable. Now, though, he moved, pacing forward to stand in front of Vena. “My interest in the captain has nothing to do with my position in this army. Just like my lack of interest in you has no bearing on your lack of influence. My apologies if you cannot see that.”
Vena flinched. Muscles in her cheeks worked as she clenched her jaw. “Some fucking military unit this is—no wonder the outside world doesn’t view this place with any modicum of respect, if this is how you run things.”
She stormed out of the dormer, her shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at her side. “And I was so certain she and I could be friends,” Syn said, a sardonic smile twitching at her lips.
“I’m sorry.”
Syn glanced at him and shrugged. “I’m not. Something tells me that Vena comes from a background where the world seemed to revolve around her. She might be a talented fighter, but she’s not soldier material—this isn’t the place for her.”
A strange look crossed over his face.
Syn scowled at him. “What?”
“It is nothing,” he said, shaking his head.
“The look on your face tells me it’s something. What is it?”
A muscle pulsed in his cheek and he stared at her, that one-eyed gaze heavy with intensity. “As skilled a warrior as you are, as fine a leader as you are, part of me still feels this isn’t the place for you or any woman.”
Her belly knotted. His mind-set wasn’t an unusual one—it really wasn’t. It was one she’d faced time and again throughout her life, and one she’d have to face in the future. Repeatedly.
Pulling her gaze away from him, she seated herself back at her desk and made herself stare at the reports. Even though her mind wasn’t on them, even though her attention wasn’t on them. Quietly, she said, “Without some of the women who have served in the various rebellions throughout the world, we would have lost long ago, Xan. Anqar would have won—we would have become little more than a breeding house. Before the Gates fell, our best weapon was to disrupt the energy flow when we felt them flicker—something only a witch can do. By disrupting the energy flow, we could shut the Gate down. Sometimes. We didn’t always get there in time. But every time we forced a Gate to close, we averted a raid. We averted the loss of life. We averted losing our sisters, our mothers, our daughters, aunts and friends to a life of slavery.”
She lifted her eyes and looked at him. “You don’t like seeing a woman in battle. Some part of me does understand that—in full, straight-out battle, we aren’t as strong, and unless we’re the better fighter, it’s easy to lose. But without us, the rebellion as you know it wouldn’t exist.”
She looked back at the spread of paperwork and made herself focus on the words, the names, the numbers. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to put my female mind to work and see if I can’t find a way to get the supplies we need without losing too many lives.”
She didn’t look up until she knew he was gone.
His point of view wasn’t necessarily wrong—she knew that. More often than not, the first to fall in direct conflict with the enemies were the women. Physically, they were weaker. More than one attack on various units throughout the years had been focused on the units that had a higher number of females—the gifted ones, always the gifted ones. Eventually, they operated by only sending out witches like Syn, Lee, or Elina who had a knack for the combative magics. Magics like calling fire, the ability for a witch to focus her gift and use it to disrupt the very ground the enemy stood upon without endangering her unit, or the other offensive magics.
Those who had gifts closer to healing or sensing disruptions were kept protected within the base camp.
He wasn’t exactly wrong. Women were more vulnerable, and those with gifts were more highly prized by the enemy, and that only increased their vulnerability.
But they were also necessary.
Syn’s gift had saved the lives of her men countless times.
Elina’s gift had saved the lives of the entire camp.
And Lee’s dual gifts—her father’s Warlord blood and her mother’s witch gift—had been the ke
y in shutting the last remaining Gate.
They were needed here. And they had a right to be here.
Of course, she’d feel more useful in the long run if she could use her damned gift again. She felt naked without it. Naked, cold . . . and in that moment, rather lonely.
With his back to a tree, Morne Ramire sat in the night-dark forest and stared at absolutely nothing.
The camp . . . so close. What in the hell had he been thinking, letting himself come this close? If he had realized how it would affect him, he would have stayed far, far away. At least he wanted to think so.
He shouldn’t be here. No, he should be out there, continuing his search for that bastard, Dais Bogler. Find him, choke the life out of him.
But he found himself here instead. So close to the camp, he could smell the smoke from the fires. So close, he could all but feel the life there. Feel the presence of those he’d called friend.
And her . . . But no, he wasn’t going to let himself think of her.
They still searched for him. It had been close a couple of times. Once, Bron had walked by, close enough that if Morne had breathed too loudly, the other man likely would have heard him.
As careful as he was, as cautious, if he lingered too long this close to the base camp, then he was going to be found.
He didn’t want to be found.
Not yet. Probably never.
They’d want him to come back. He already knew. Though he hadn’t stepped foot back into the camp since the day he’d walked away, he knew he was missed. Kalen, damn the bastard, hadn’t allowed Morne’s absence to sway him.
Rarely a week went by when the commander didn’t send out a psychic probe and force Morne into talking.
It was odd, realizing that he was missed. Almost as odd as discovering he missed his friends.
Lousy thing, sometimes, having friends.
Yet it was also a lovely thing. If he would just get up off his ass, he could sleep within the camp tonight. It was a tempting thought. A bed. A few familiar faces . . . one in particular.
Her.
He closed his eyes and brought her face to mind.
Elina. She dominated his thoughts, crept up on him in the darkness, haunted his dreams. That is, she haunted what few dreams he had that weren’t centered around what he had done, the dreams that weren’t designed to kill him with the guilt.
He welcomed the guilt. Needed it. Deserved it. Deserved to see every last horrifying moment of his brother’s death. Needed it to remind him how abysmally he’d failed the one person who had always stood by him.
He deserved to suffer.
But the dreams of Elina weren’t suffering. Unless suffering could be a sweet, hot torture. Unless it could include dreams where he put that body of hers beneath him—long and lean, but still so damned female.
Of course, after the dreams, he woke with an empty ache in his heart, one he couldn’t hope to ease.
Perhaps he did deserve them. They served as a taunting reminder that he would never have her.
Living in hiding in the forest, barely scraping by, and dreaming of a winsome witch he could never have. Fitting.
“How the mighty have fallen,” he murmured to himself. The ache in his chest threatened to destroy him.
Once, he’d been only days from the preparations that would have taken him from Sirvani to Warlord. As a high-ranking Sirvani, a respected healer, his control had been absolute, control over his powers, control over those under his command, control over his emotions.
Now his powers had splintered, the thought of being around others was intolerable and he couldn’t control his emotions any easier than he could control the weather. He could do nothing to ease the ache in his heart, or the guilt, or the need, or the pain.
The pain . . . it welled up inside him. Finally, something eclipsed his rather pathetic desire to see the witch once more. From the pain came memories, memories swarming up out of the night and pulling him down.
His brother’s face, so like his own. Arnon. Grief and acceptance in his eyes as he told Morne to kill him.
Do it, Morne.
If I do, she’ll likely die. So will you.
I have been dead inside for years, my brother. You know this. It will come as a blessing.
Brother . . . I can’t.
You have to. Do it now before her power wanes.
You made an oath to me, brother. You will keep it.
He pulled away from the memories, but not in time. Deep inside his soul, he relived the very moment he felt his brother, his twin, die. Like something inside Morne had been wrenched out with brute force, and the emptiness inside him filled with ice.
For days, he had hovered on the brink of madness. It wasn’t until he accidentally came across Dais’s back trail that he realized he wasn’t ready to give in to madness or grief yet. Not while he still had revenge.
It gave him a goal. A focus. As long as he remained focused, he no longer teetered on the very edge, but now, he was once more just a breath away from oblivion. It took everything he had to simply exist and not . . . shatter. Explode. Fade away. Maybe even all three. Although the fading away bit seemed to be happening anyway. He wished it would hurry the hell up. Tonight would be ideal.
An end to the pain, the guilt, to needs he would never be able to ease.
You didn’t use to be so quick to give up, my brother. The voice, a ghostly whisper, echoed in the back of his mind. He hung his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. If he believed in ghosts, he might have believed Arnon was haunting him.
He didn’t believe in ghosts, though. This was naught but a trick of his mind, possibly one more sign of how close he was to madness. Yet another sign was the fact that he responded.
Lips quirking up in a smile, Morne said, “If I was quick to give up, I would have done so years before now.”
No, you wouldn’t. Not while you had a purpose. A goal. It’s easy for you to fight when you have a reason, and you always had that. But your fight isn’t done. This isn’t over.
But it was.
Lelia lived. Arnon was gone.
Morne had kept his promise.
What was left to him? He could give in to madness now and do it with a clear conscience.
No. He made himself climb to his feet, made himself walk away from the camp. His job wasn’t done—not yet. Not until he’d satisfied a blood debt. Dais’s blood would run red and then, maybe then, Morne would give in to the lure of madness.
He walked away from the warmth of the camp. Tonight, tomorrow night, and the next, the next . . . he’d warm himself with thoughts of vengeance and dreams of a woman he’d never have.
She dreamed of him.
Sleeping alone on a narrow cot in the peace and quiet of Granna’s old dormer, Elina Corsairs dreamed of a man with pale blond hair, the face of an angel and eyes deeper than midnight.
Sighing in her sleep, she rolled over and snuggled deeper into her blankets. In her dream, she wasn’t on the cot, she wasn’t alone and it wasn’t a pile of blankets keeping her warm.
It was the strong arms of a man who had never touched her, had never really shown any interest in touching her.
She was on the beach, in one of the grand lodges that no longer existed—except in ruins—in a bed that was as wide as a lake and soft as angel wings. Next to her lay Morne. He was leaner, and although it was difficult to imagine, he was harder. Harsher.
Sadder, too. But then, sadness had always been a part of him, although he was unlikely to ever admit it. Although it was unlikely anybody else had noticed.
His dark blue eyes were shadowed and he stared up at her as she lay over him. He toyed with her hair, twining it around his long fingers. “You’ve stayed away a long time,” she murmured.
“A few weeks. A few weeks is not very long. You’ve been gone much longer. Years.”
“I had to.” Elina shrugged and grabbed the sheet, tucking it under her arms. “I couldn’t raise my kids in the middle of a war zone. They’d alre
ady lost their father . . . I couldn’t risk anything happening to me. Besides, this was the last place I wanted my daughter.”
“Of course.” He reached up and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “She is safer in the East. You would be safer in the East.”
Heat shimmered through her body as he cupped her cheek in his hand and stroked his thumb along her lower lip. “Do you plan to remain in New Angeles? Or will you go back east?”
“I don’t know. Part of me wants to leave here.” Elina sighed and lay back down. Resting her head against his chest, she snuggled close. “I had something that resembled normal back there, although it was getting bad when I left. Now that the Gate is pretty much out of commission, I guess things will settle back down there. I could start teaching again. Have a life.”
“But?”
She grimaced. “I’m needed here. The magic . . . we have to do something about it.”
“Like what?” He stroked a finger down her cheek and said, “It is in chaos—we’ve both seen it. A maelstrom. You cannot fight that kind of chaos.”
“No. I can’t.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered, “There has to be something.”
He laid a hand on her belly. “Perhaps you are trying too hard. Perhaps you need to simply adjust to the changes before you try to fix them.”
She opened her eyes and peered up at him.
“Adjust to the changes.” Pursing her lips, she frowned thoughtfully.
Morne nuzzled her neck. “Whatever it is you are thinking about, think some other time. You’re needed here right now,” he whispered, raking his teeth along her smooth, golden skin. “Right here.”
“Yes.” She pressed a kiss to his lips and whimpered as he reached between them, pulling away the sheets. Now nothing separated them as he aligned his body with hers.
Elina groaned as he nipped her lip. His hands, those beautiful hands, stroked over her body. He left fiery trails of heat in the wake of each touch, filled a need even as he stoked another. “Make love to me,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his shoulder.
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