Free Obsidian Flame by Caris Roane

hand, then moved in front of the black man, a protective maneuver that Thorne approved of.
    Both the young warrior and the black man spoke at once, but kept their voices low. “Warrior Thorne.”
    “My God,” the black man said. “A Warrior of the Blood, here in our colony.”
    So they knew who he was. That was a damn good thing.
    “And you are?” he asked, his voice perhaps too loud in the sleepy night of the village.
    The black man spoke. “Diallo. I preside over this colony.” He gestured to the young warrior. “This is Arthur Robillard.”
    Thorne stared at him. “Robillard. Then you’re related to Warrior Jean-Pierre.”
    The youth nodded, a slow dip of his chin, his lips a grim line. He didn’t seem happy about it.
    Diallo’s gaze shifted to Marguerite, and he sucked in a sudden breath. “You are the one. ”
    “What the hell does that mean?” Marguerite responded.
    Thorne’s hand tightened around her waist. “ The one what?” Again, his gravelly voice was a little too loud.
    “She’s a Seer of vast power.”
    “So?” Marguerite snapped.
    “You are the one destined to change everything.”
    “Oh, whatever.”
    “I don’t like to break this up,” Arthur said, “but there’s something out there.”
    “You feel it then?” Thorne asked. He met the young man’s gaze, just a glitter in the dark.
    “Like something crawling over my neck.”
    Thorne nodded. “And how are you related to Jean-Pierre?”
    “I’m his great-grandson but I just found out a week or so ago.”
    “You have the look of him. When I saw you crouch, I saw him. Have you had any battle experience?”
    “Some.”
    Thorne narrowed his eyes. “How much?” He thought War games maybe, the kind done through youth military training exercises.
    “Over the last year, I’ve killed death vampires. That kind of how much.”
    The boy clearly had an attitude but … shit. “How many, for Christ’s sake?”
    “Enough.”
    “Ballpark?”
    “Maybe twenty.”
    Thorne’s neck whipped up and back. How the hell was that even possible? “And why are you out killing pretty-boys?”
    “Well,” he drawled. “Someone has to get the job done.”
    Thorne wanted to grab this young man by the nape of his neck and shake him hard. What right did he have to bust Thorne’s chops about the need for more dead death vampires—and what the fuck was he doing risking his life by attacking them in the first place? Even Militia Warriors, trained for years, had to work in squads of four just to bring down one pretty-boy. And this kid was killing them single-handedly? Unless …
    “You work alone?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Sweet God almighty. “You mean there are others taking such stupid risks?”
    Arthur’s jaw turned to flint. He even took an aggressive step toward Thorne. “I only speak for myself.” So the answer was yes. “When there ain’t anybody else around to do a job, then yeah, I do it. Have you got a problem with that, Warrior?”
    Essentially, no, but this kid was young. “How old are you?”
    “Nineteen.”
    He wanted to knock some sense into the kid, but now the hairs on his nape rose. From long experience, he knew exactly what that meant.
    He released Marguerite and stepped away from her so that he could fold his identified sword into his hand. Swords could be identified to the Warriors of the Blood and to Militia Warriors as well. Just touching a sword identified to someone else would cause death. “Diallo, I’d appreciate it if you’d take Marguerite somewhere safe while Arthur and I tend to business.”
    “Hey, don’t I get a say in this?”
    Thorne just looked at her, his fingers working the grip. “You do if you can fight death vampires, because by my tally, my sense of what’s moving in the forest, we have at least eight pretty-boys coming straight at us.”
    She lifted both hands. “Point taken.” She turned to Diallo. “So what kind of digs do you have in this place?”
    Diallo smiled. “I have a cabin ready