Free Wings of Fire by Caris Roane

needed to get this over with.
    He felt the air move several times as seven big warrior bodies filled up the Cave. It was dark inside, a real hole in the wall in downtown Metro Phoenix Two.
    Ratty brown leather couches, more like barges, lined two walls. A TV came on via motion detector whenever a warrior entered the space. It was turned to CNN—Marcus’s request. He liked to keep on top of happenings on Mortal Earth.
    The pool table had been recently replaced but already had a huge gouge out of one corner. The pocket was missing and had been replaced by a duct-taped black trash bag.
    Medichi took the plunge. “I’m going to show you first, then you’ll understand a few things.” He stripped off his black tee. Damn, was he really going to do this? Parisa’s arrival had changed everything. Every damn thing.
    He met Marcus’s gaze. Marcus dipped his chin once, his expression solemn, even hard. Marcus had seen the scars on his back the same day Medichi had met Parisa.
    Medichi turned slowly until his back was to the men. He heard the soft, strained gasps. With his right hand he swept his long hair forward over his shoulder so that what he’d kept secret was a secret no longer.
    He felt sick in his gut. He was showing them just how he’d failed his wife the night she’d died. His scars didn’t represent what he’d suffered. His suffering had been nothing. No, the horrific silver stripes represented Maria’s death.
    For the first few seconds, a variety of profanities flowed, even Jean-Pierre’s Merde . He gave them a good long minute to look.
    It was Kerrick who spoke first. “We always wondered. What the fuck happened? Who did this to you?”
    He turned back to face them, but his gaze found the floor and couldn’t seem to move anywhere else. Guilt held him fast. He told the story in as few words as possible. A northern tribe descending on the countryside. Rapists. Murderers. He spoke of the whip, the laughter, the drunkenness, and finally his wife and unborn child. He talked of the sudden emergence of power that saved his life, but arrived too late to save his wife’s.
    When he was done, his brothers shifted through the room like rivulets of water seeking a place to drain. All except Thorne. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands.
    For several minutes, no one said a word. They didn’t look at him, either. Each expression was lost, haunted. Who among them hadn’t suffered some tragedy or terrible loss or physical pain because of the nature of life or because of the war?
    Finally, Santiago approached. He was too beautiful for words, this brother, with his thick, wavy black hair, dark eyes, and skin the color of a deep tan. He put his hand on Medichi’s shoulder. He met his gaze straight-on. “I have felt your pain, mi hermano, but I have a scar that’s worse than anything you have shown us tonight.”
    Shit.
    Well, if that didn’t make him feel worse.
    The brother lifted his chin. “Do you remember a year ago that woman with the hair the color of a brilliant sunset and her eyes the precise shade of a violent sea?”
    Medichi frowned. Sort of. He had a sudden fear that the woman had harmed Santiago permanently in the jewels. “Yes.”
    Santiago pounded his chest with his fist. His eyes looked wild, maddened. “She cut up my heart and bled me until I should have died. I tell you, the scar is deep, hermano, deep. I should have died that night.”
    Zacharius moved in close. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t remember a woman ever sticking you with a blade?”
    “Who said anything about a weapon?” Santiago cried. “I begged her and begged her to go into the booths with me at the Blood and Bite. But she refused. I still bear the scar. What are Medichi’s wounds when a woman has rejected such an invitation?” He swept a dramatic hand over his groin. “I ask you.”
    Everyone groaned, but Medichi laughed. Tears started to his eyes, but he laughed. “You are so full of