Queen of Shadows (17 page)

Even in the situation they were in, she marveled at how casually strong he was. She wasn’t a big or heavy woman, but he lifted her one-handed and climbed out of the creek without appearing to exert any effort at all. Once on land again, he set her down to test her ankle, but there was no way she was going to be able to pick through the woods without falling and making it worse.

Sighing, he picked her up again, this time with both arms, and carried her straight out of the trees to the garden, where the full brunt of the storm hit them once they were out of the shelter of the wood. Neither of them made any attempt to speak until they’d made it to the Haven.

Once inside, several guards appeared, along with a cadre of servants, to offer their assistance.

“Retrieve Terrence’s body from the forest,” David ordered. “Bring in the traitor’s corpse as well, then gather whatever evidence you can from the scene before this weather erases everything. Be careful. Have Terrence prepared for the standard Elite funeral tomorrow night, with honors. Esther, is Miss Grey’s dinner in her room? Good. Draw her a hot bath and stoke the fire, as well as my own. As soon as Faith gets here, send her directly to my suite.”

Miranda was rocking back and forth on her unsteady feet, unsure whether she was going to pass out or just throw up. The noise and fuss happened around her, not to her; dimly she noticed herself being picked up again like a sack of old potatoes, borne down the long hallway and into the comfort and safety of her bedroom.

But how safe was it, now? They had come for her at the Haven, when she was supposed to be under guard. Was anywhere safe?

She knew the answer to that, and it was breaking her heart.

He sat her on her bed, removing his coat and tossing it carelessly on the ground, where it clanked as the concealed sword inside struck the marble floor. She let him examine her, his hands rough and clinical, deeming her wounds superficial and her lucky to be alive.

Esther, the lead servant for the East Wing, came in and made a beeline for the bathroom, where Miranda heard her turning on taps and laying out towels.

The normally cheerful little woman emerged with Miranda’s comb. “I thought Miss Grey might want to get those tangles out first,” she said diffidently. “And maybe I bring bandages for your knees?”

“Thank you, Esther,” Miranda said before David could speak for her. He was never unkind to the servants, but the mood he was in would probably result in hurt feelings. “I think bandages are a good idea. It’s nothing serious, but it never hurts to be sure.”

Esther nodded and gave Miranda a motherly smile and pat on the cheek. “We don’t want our
reinita
getting hurt,” she said, and departed on her errand.

Miranda looked up at David.
“Reinita?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Little Queen.”

“Is that . . . is that what everyone thinks?”

“I don’t give a damn what everyone thinks.”

“Then what do you think?”

He stood facing the fire, which had been obligingly stoked so that it cast its merry warmth around the room. He didn’t seem to feel the cold that had to be down to his bones by now; they were both soaked, and his fine linen shirt was pasted to his torso, stuck to the muscle she knew was there, outlining his body. She hadn’t realized just how well built he was.

Through the wet shirt, she could barely make out the edges of what looked like . . .

“Is that a tattoo?”

He sighed again, and without answering, unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on top of his abandoned coat. He turned back toward the fire, allowing her a full view of his back and shoulders.

His entire back was inked in the stylized shape of a bird of prey: a black-and-red hawk. Its wings spanned his shoulders, its tail reaching all the way down past his waist.

“That’s beautiful,” she breathed. One of her hands couldn’t help but reach out, wanting a chance just to touch the lines of ink, to see if they were smooth, or raised like Braille. If it was in Braille, could she read him then, with her fingers, and learn all the mysteries? Or would the story end too soon?

“Do you need help getting in the bath?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I can manage.”

“Good. I’m going to go change.”

He grabbed his shirt and coat off the floor and stalked off to his room, the curves of the tattoo shifting as he moved.

Miranda got to her feet carefully and hobbled into the bathroom, yanking off her sodden clothes on the way, grumbling to herself the whole time. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her like she’d done something wrong, when she’d nearly been killed?

She lowered herself painfully into the steaming tub, thanking whatever deity might be listening for Esther, who knew exactly what temperature she liked. Right away the hot water began to soothe both her injured ankle and her wounded pride. She washed the scrapes on her knees and elbows and then lay back for a while, closing her eyes and trying to stay grounded.

But the reality of her situation made grounding hard. Terrence was dead because someone wanted to get to her, which meant that the insurgents not only knew she existed but considered her a threat, or at least worth killing. She was in danger and unless she spent every moment with the Prime they were probably going to try again, and again. Worst of all, her attacker had been one of the Elite. Any of them could be Blackthorn, and that meant that the Blackthorn could find the Haven.

It was supposed to be hidden, all signals monitored coming and going. There were no unauthorized radios, computers, or other forms of communication—the security system could detect them. New Elite recruits were brought in from Austin unconscious so they couldn’t trace the route back, and learned the location only once they were initiated and, supposedly, trustworthy. So little was left to chance . . . but that little was going to cost her her life.

She looked up at the bathroom walls in the midst of scrubbing stubborn bits of dirt from her arms and legs. She’d taken a lot of long baths in here, and she loved the muted tile with its mosaic accents. She’d gotten used to not having a mirror—there were mirrors in the real world. She’d have to look at herself again . . . and she’d see the sun. The prospect should have pleased her.

She levered herself up out of the tub, yanking the stopper with her good foot, and dried off, toweling her hair and letting it dry down over her shoulders. She dug out her old yoga pants and a T-shirt from Book People that read KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD, and took a moment to smear some of the antibiotic ointment Esther had brought onto her knees and elbows and a nasty scrape on her forearm. Only one knee really needed a bandage and felt badly bruised beneath the laceration. She was probably going to be black and purple all over tomorrow.

She stared at the array of possessions on the chest of drawers, then with numb hands took her backpack from a drawer and began to pack.

She didn’t have that much. A couple of journals where she’d jotted ideas for songs; her phone, her iPod, and her computer, which all went into the laptop bag; miscellaneous toiletries; clothes. Her guitar was already snug in its case. There were a few books that needed to go back to the library and a folder of sheet music she’d taken from the music room to study. She stacked them up carefully.

Her hands closed around the spine of Shakespeare’s comedies, and she lifted the book and pressed it to her chest.

After a moment she set it down and dug a pen out of her purse, opening up one of her journals; she took a deep breath to steady herself and wrote a few lines, then ripped the page out of the journal and folded it.

As she was sticking the note inside the book, she heard the door to the suite open.

“Faith has volunteered to drive you back to town,” David said. “I’ve arranged a hotel room for you while your new apartment is being prepared.”

“What’s wrong with my old apartment?” she asked without looking up.

“It’s not safe for you to go back there. Don’t worry—all your things will be packed and moved for you in the next few days.”

She wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the energy. What difference did it make where she lived, anyway?

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

He came to her and put his arms around her, and she buried her face in his neck, trying to breathe in the solace that wrapped her in its protecting wings. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “I know it.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

He didn’t answer at first, and when he did his voice was full of pain. “It would be best if you didn’t.”

“Screw what’s best,” she said. “Promise me I’ll see you again.”

She stared into his eyes, willing him to understand, and he said softly, “I promise.”

Miranda nodded, satisfied, and reached down, unhooking the clasp of her com and placing it in his hand. “I guess I don’t need this now.”

“You have my phone and e-mail, if you need anything. And this is for you . . .” He fished something from his pocket: a Visa card.

“I don’t need money,” she tried to say, but he interrupted.

“Take it. I’m the reason your life is being uprooted again. I couldn’t keep you safe here. Let me do what I can for you, Miranda. Please.”

She lowered her eyes, accepting. “You’ve already done so much for me,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

She laughed a little. “Liar.”

He smiled faintly in return. One of his hands came up, fingertips brushing the line of her jaw, and for once she let herself really feel the ache that arose at the touch.

There was a knock, and Faith said, “Sire, we’re ready to go.”

“Have Samuel take Miss Grey’s things down to the car,” David told the Second. “She’ll be there in a moment.”

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Faith replied.

Miranda picked up her purse and her guitar; Samuel spirited away everything else, leaving her to gather the strength to walk out of the little bedroom and not come back.

David was still standing beside the chest, his hand resting on the book, when she said, “Good-bye, Lord Prime.”

She barely heard his answer. “Good-bye.”

Miranda shut the door behind her and followed Faith down the hall, giving the servants and Elite she passed a small wave and what she hoped was a brave smile. Any of them might be in collusion with the enemy, but only the Prime and Second knew where she was going; all the others would know was that she was gone.

The rain had slackened enough that she didn’t make a mad dash for Faith’s car. She had to grin—the Second drove a sporty red Honda hybrid with California plates. Samuel was stowing the last of her handful of bags in the trunk. Miranda thrust her guitar and purse into the backseat, then opened the passenger door; Faith was already in the driver’s seat with the engine running.

Miranda turned back to look up at the Haven one last time, half-expecting to see David’s silhouette in the bedroom window, but the room was dark.

She started to get into the car, but then the Haven doors opened. The Prime emerged, pushing past the door guard’s surprised expression, and hurried down the stone steps to the driveway.

Miranda gasped as David came to her, drawing her to him, his heartbeat thundering against her chest; his hands wrapped around her waist and the back of her neck, and before either of them could summon a denial, he covered her mouth with his.

She barely had time to return the kiss before he broke away, releasing her and stepping back, his hand lingering on the side of her face for just a second before he turned around and walked away.

Miranda didn’t call after him. She sank into the seat of the car, tears running down her face. Samuel shut the door for her.

Faith offered her an encouraging smile and pulled away from the Haven, taking the long road back to Austin in the rain.

PART TWO

The River Styx

Ten

October was hell.

For a week Miranda remained cloistered in her room at the Driskill, sitting in the darkness with cable TV and room service. She didn’t even go down to the world-renowned Driskill Café for dinner, despite the fact that everything was paid for. She stammered her order into the phone and waited with her eyes averted for room service to come and go.

The minute the waiter or the maid or anyone came into the room, she curled up in a chair in the corner and focused so hard on her shielding that inevitably she got a splitting headache as soon as they were gone. She split her last bottle of Vicodin into half pills and doled them out only when the pain was unbearable. She was terrified of losing her protections; there was no one to help her now.

There was no one to help her. No one asked after her welfare. No one came to visit her. She was alone.

She tried to keep herself company with her guitar, but once again, the music had left her. So she watched movies, she nursed her bruises, she slept, and she waited for news.

Finally, six days into her stay at the hotel, a messenger came to her room to let her know that her apartment was ready and a car would be there in the morning to take her to her new home. She sat up all that night, her bags already packed and by the door, and come dawn she bolted down to the lobby without stopping, avoiding the elevator just in case she got stuck on it and had to speak to someone.

As she rushed outside to the car, the sunlight blinded her and she dropped her purse. A middle-aged man passing by on the street stopped to help her. She muttered her thanks.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asked, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

The touch made her cry out and leap back.
Hands in the dark . . . laughter . . .

She dove into the car and trembled like a leaf the entire way to the apartment complex.

It was a high-class place in South Austin, right off the bus route up Lamar that would take her to all her old haunts; she stopped at the office long enough to pick up the keys and sign the lease, then let herself in, barely acknowledging the friendly driver who carried her bags for her.

Once inside she shut and locked the door, and there she stayed for most of the month.

At first she told herself she was busy unpacking. All her possessions from the old place had been boxed and transported for her, labeled in neat black letters as to what room its contents had originated from; they’d put her furniture in a logical arrangement, but she didn’t like it and spent several hours moving things around until it felt right.

The apartment was gorgeous and way out of her normal price range. It had two bedrooms, a huge bath, and an open floor plan that flowed from kitchen to living room. The living room boasted half a dozen windows and a patio. Molding crowned the walls, and the doorways were arched. The carpet was plush, the walls a creamy color that went with everything, the appliances top-of-the-line stainless steel.

She hated it.

There was too much light. She could no longer sleep with light coming into the bedroom, so she had to hang what curtains she had over the two small windows in there, leaving the living room exposed except for the wood blinds, which she kept shut all the time. She could never get the temperature right—she was used to cool air and warm fires balancing each other. Her new apartment didn’t have a fireplace.

She even missed her dark, cheap little one-bedroom from Before. She missed the crack in the wall.

She worked her way from one box to another, trying to remember where she had acquired many of the things she owned and what they were for. The kitchen especially confounded her. Had she ever really used a toaster? Why did she have so many wineglasses and so few plates?

Whoever had moved her stuff had thoughtfully stocked both fridge and pantry with the same kinds of food she’d eaten at the Haven. Everything was bright and shiny and new. It should have pleased her, but it only made her sad.

There was too much noise in the city. All day and night there were cars, sirens, people walking by outside talking and laughing. People slammed doors, and apparently her upstairs neighbors were into indoor bowling.

Every time there was a sudden sound she nearly jumped out of her skin. For three weeks she was constantly afraid . . . her nightmares returned with a vengeance, so while it rained torrents outside, she cried torrents in her bed.

One evening at the end of the third week of October, she decided to try walking down to the corner store for a Coke. She’d been living off Chinese delivery and pizza for more than a week, having stretched her groceries as far as she could to the point of eating crackers with butter for dinner, but she couldn’t bear the thought of a supermarket yet. Best to start small. She could walk two blocks to the Shell station and get a soda and maybe some chips.

She poked her nose out her front door for the first time since she’d moved in. It had been pointless trying to change her sleeping habits, so it was just after sunset and the air was rapidly cooling down. Somewhere in the time she’d lost hiding under her bed, fall had begun.

Miranda bolstered her shields, then did it again after she closed the door behind her. Every time someone walked past her she strengthened them even more, but not so much as an iota of external energy reached her.

You know what you’re doing, remember? You can do this. Just keep walking. Don’t panic. Breathe in, breathe out. You know how to do it.

If anyone noticed her unkempt appearance, they paid it no mind. She hadn’t brushed her hair since waking, and though she wasn’t as pitifully thin as she’d been Before, there were huge dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t slept through the day since she’d come back to Austin.

She needn’t have worried. Out here, in a metropolitan area of 1.6 million people living out their lives and wrapped up in their own mortal concerns, she was nobody again, invisible.

It was so strange being able to see her reflection. She’d stared at herself for long minutes in the hotel, and again in her new bathroom, trying to make sense out of her features. Was this really who she was? Were those her green eyes? She had a scar on her forehead just below her hairline from that night. She’d had no idea until she saw it in the mirror.

She made it to the store and bought a twelve-pack of Coke and an armload of junk food. She handed her Visa to the clerk and signed the receipt without speaking, though she was pretty sure he was trying to flirt with her. She didn’t know how to react to that.

On the walk back she took a moment to notice the weather; there had been a break in the rain, and the air was clear and crisp, a few stars peeking out of the darkening blue of the sky. What day was it? Friday? No, Thursday.

Once home, she expected to have to fight off a panic attack, but she felt remarkably calm taking the chips and candy out of her bag and stowing the soda in the fridge.

“Well now,” she said to herself. “That wasn’t so bad.” She popped the top on a Coke and took a bag of Doritos to the couch to watch reruns of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
.

The next night she took out the trash. When she got back, she turned on her computer and checked her e-mail. Once again, Kat had written trying to find her; after thinking about it for a minute, Miranda wrote back.

TO:
Kat ([email protected])

FROM:
Miranda Grey ([email protected])

SUBJECT:
Re: Re: Re: MIA?

Hey Kat,

I’m back in town. I moved to a new place. Want to come over for pizza tomorrow? Let me know.

~M

Five minutes later she had a reply. It was only two words long:
HELL YES!

“Rehab,” Kat said around a mouthful of cheese. “I had a feeling it had to be something like that.”

Miranda picked a black olive off her slice and dropped it in the box lid; Kat immediately scooped it up and stuck it on her own. “Yeah.”

“You were looking like a junkie when I last saw you. Thank God you’ve gained some weight back—you’ll be hot shit again if you keep it up, although the Doritos and Pizza Hut Diet might not be the way to go.”

Miranda took another bite and said, “I know. I’ve just been kind of a shut-in since I got back. I’m going to the grocery store for some real food in a day or two. It’s hard to adjust to the real world after . . . all of that.”

“But you’re feeling better, right?”

“Yes,” she said hastily, trying to believe it herself. “Much better. I’m going to be okay, Kat, I really am. It just . . . things got bad. Really bad. So it’s going to take some time.”

Kat nodded, tucking a stray dread behind her ear with her non-pizza-laden hand. “I’ve seen it a lot with my kids in the program. Sometimes they have to totally hit bottom before they realize there’s a way back up.” She reached over and squeezed Miranda’s arm, looking worried when Miranda flinched. “Just promise that if I can help, you’ll ask. Okay?”

“Okay.”

She wanted to tell Kat the truth. She wanted to tell someone.

Most of all she wanted to talk to Faith, and she wanted to see David. She wanted to go back to her cozy little bedroom and watch the seasons change from a second-story window overlooking the hills. Her windows here overlooked the parking lot.

“So you said in your last e-mail you were staying with friends,” Kat mentioned. “Does that mean you met somebody at the clinic?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Someone special?”

Miranda threw a pillow at her, and Kat laughed. “Oh, come on,” the blonde said. “Plenty of people hook up in rehab. What else is there to do if you don’t smoke? Besides,” Kat added, “you’re blushing. That must mean I’m right.”

Miranda shook her head. “No, it’s not . . . I mean . . . there was somebody . . . well, maybe. But it wasn’t like that. We were just friends, or . . . well, more than that, but . . . I don’t know.” She took a swig of her beer, trying to find words, but how on earth could she explain any of it without saying too much? “Let’s just say I met someone, and he helped me get better. But nothing was ever going to happen.”

“Why not?”

She smiled ruefully, ripping the corner of the label off her Corona bottle. “We’re from two very different worlds.”

Kat’s smile turned mischievous, and for a moment she looked a lot like Faith. “If you’re not going for it, then, I know somebody you should meet. He’s a music teacher—dark hair, blue eyes, smoking-hot ass.”

“No, thanks. I don’t think I’m up for that kind of thing right now. It’s too soon.”

“Why? You went in to get off drugs, not porn.”

Miranda shuddered inwardly at the thought of some man, smoking-hot ass or not, touching her, trying to get his hands in her pants. She thought about being naked with someone, spreading her legs, having someone invade her body, fingers pushing into her, the sound of a zipper . . . suddenly cold, she groped for a throw blanket that wasn’t there.

“What’s wrong?” Kat was asking. “Mira . . . that look on your face just now . . . is there something you’re not telling me about all of this?”

God, is there ever . . .

She hated lying, even when there was no other way. “Before I went in, something . . . the night you came to see me play, I was walking home, and . . .”

Kat’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes filled with tears as the pieces came together. “Oh, fuck, honey . . . fuck, I’m so sorry . . .”

She pushed herself off the floor and put her arms around Miranda, who didn’t shrink away from the hug, but couldn’t quite return it.

“It’s okay,” Miranda reassured her. She could feel the guilt radiating from Kat’s whole body. “It wasn’t your fault. Don’t blame anybody but the people who did it, okay? I’m all right.”

“But why didn’t you call me? Why did you just disappear like that? I could have done something—we could have gone to the police. You should still go to the police. It’s not too late.”

“Yes, it is. Please, Kat . . . let’s just not talk about it anymore.”

“But—”

“Please.” Miranda silently willed her not to press; she even risked leaning on Kat a tiny bit with her energy, just to change the subject. The less Kat knew, the better; there was always a chance that even here Miranda wasn’t safe, and she wasn’t going to risk Kat, too.

She squeezed Kat around the middle, finally returning her hug, saying, “It’s okay. It’s . . . it’s all over with now.”

There were not enough redheads in Austin to make him forget her.

There were not enough redheads in Houston, either, or New Orleans, or Oklahoma City. There weren’t enough in all of Georgia.

In early October he essentially went on tour, visiting the major cities of his territory, greeting new Elite, upgrading various systems, and making his presence known. Most other Primes didn’t bother with that kind of hands-on involvement, but he had learned from the best as well as the worst. Pretending there was only one city in the South allowed gangs to build up strength in other places, and Auren had barely kept up with the onslaught even at his peak.

It was the same everywhere. Arrive, meet, confer; hunt, fuck, leave.

There was no relish in any of it.

On the other hand, being home was no better.

He had closed and locked the door of the mistress suite and not set foot inside it since; he’d done the same to the music room. He’d entered the latter long enough to turn out a light Miranda had left on, and her presence was still palpable, her scent lingering in the air strongly enough to drive him to the bottom of a bottle of Jack. The next night he’d gone into the city and torn into the first auburn-haired woman he could find, drinking her so deeply he nearly killed her.

He wanted to call. He didn’t call.