Queen of Shadows (32 page)

He heard the door open again, and ignored it at first, but there was something strange . . .

A presence he hadn’t felt in years moved through him, settling on the bed at his side. A hand touched his arm.

He opened his eyes and looked up.

“Sire,” he said, his voice hoarse and thin from disuse.

The Prime of the Western United States regarded him through his gentle lavender-blue eyes. “I can’t stay long.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Faith called me. I came as soon as I could.”

“Where’s Jonathan?”

“Out in the hall. He was afraid you might blame him.”

David didn’t answer; his strength seemed to have failed.
Failed
. . . the word had a thousand new meanings to him now.

“I can’t do this anymore,” David whispered.

Deven had been about seventeen when he became a vampire, and his face was still young, with a touch of the fey about it. Dark, shining brown hair fell straight around his shoulders, and he had always made David think of a renegade angel content to be cast out of paradise, especially when he had a sword in his hand. He bowed his head beneath shared pain and said to David, “Yes, you can. And you will. Millions of people depend on your rule. You took up the Signet, and there is no putting it down.”

“We’re supposed to die when this happens,” David said.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Dev’s hand moved up to his face. It had been a long, long time since David had felt that touch. “You’re going to mourn her, and then you’re going to go on. You have work to do yet, my friend, and you must do it as much for Miranda as for all the others. Don’t belie her faith in you. Stand and fight.”

“I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore. It isn’t as if it matters anyway—if I die, there will be someone else. There’s always someone else.”

The Prime gave him a wryly affectionate smile. “Believe me, there will never be another you. I don’t think the world could take it.”

David felt his resolve to remain numb breaking beneath waves of despair, and he knew there was no holding back the tide. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and out of instinct he tried to ward them off.

“Don’t,” Deven said. “She was worth your grief.”

He opened his arms, and David fled into them, buried his face in his friend’s shoulder, and wept.

He let the sorrow pour out, knowing he was with one of the few people who wouldn’t judge him for it, the rare strength of a Prime the only thing that could understand, and withstand, such pain. Deven didn’t speak, but he offered solace that meant far more than mere words ever could.

Gradually, one shuddering breath at a time, he felt himself grow calmer. The emptiness was still there, and it still felt like it was dragging him down with it, but at least, for the moment, he could think a little more clearly.

He sat back. “Thank you for coming,” David said, trying not to sniffle like a child. Deven lifted a corner of the comforter and wiped David’s eyes, causing him to smile in spite of himself. “Thanks, Mom,” he added.

The Prime chuckled. “I wish we could stay longer.”

“It’s all right. I understand. And you’re right . . . I have to finish what I’ve started. They’re still out there, and if I don’t stop them, this will never end.”

“That’s my boy.” Deven rose, taking David with him; David was a little unsteady on his feet, and Dev grabbed his arm to hold him up. David felt an inrushing of energy, strength into strength. He took it gratefully and brought himself back to center.

“I’d recommend a shower,” Dev said, “and a shave. You’re starting to look like my pedophile uncle.”

“Your uncle was a bald Irish monk who weighed two hundred fifty pounds.”

“It’s the facial hair,” the Prime replied. “I hate facial hair. Now, go. I want to see this sensor network of yours before we leave.”

David was used to giving orders, but even he knew when to do as he was told.

Clean and dressed and feeling a little more like himself, David accepted the wineglass of blood that Deven pressed into his hand when he emerged from the bathroom but didn’t take the time to savor it; there was no more time to waste.

He left the suite to find Faith standing outside with Jonathan, the two of them in conversation that stopped as soon as the door opened. Neither of them looked entirely comfortable with seeing him.

“It’s all right,” he told the Consort. “I don’t blame you.”

“Damn right you don’t,” Jonathan retorted, though he was grinning. “You didn’t give me credit when you got your Signet. Don’t blame me for this.”

They shook hands, and when Deven came out of the suite Jonathan immediately stepped to his left side. They were an odd couple, to say the least; the Consort was twice his Prime’s size, but it was Deven who traveled armed, a sword beneath his coat and half a dozen knives concealed over his seemingly delicate frame.

David turned to Faith, who wasn’t looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. I know you’re hurting, too.”

Faith nodded. “Permission to speak freely, Sire?”

“Granted.”

“You’re an asshole,” she said, and hugged him.

He returned the hug, saying, “Let’s get back to work.”

Miranda had known pain in her life, but not like this. For days she writhed on Kat’s bathroom floor, her fingers clawing at the tile, her entire body scalded from within. Fever gripped her, washing her with unbearable heat one second and freezing cold the next. She held the pillow to her mouth and screamed when she couldn’t stand it.

Kat pounded on the door more than once, asking if she was okay, but she couldn’t answer. She had locked Kat out—no one should see her like this.

It felt like every bone in her skeleton snapped and knit itself over and over again. Her cells seemed to have turned to acid and were eating their way out of her skin. The worst part was her stomach—her bout with salmonella in college had in no way prepared her for the torturous cramps and nausea. She retched almost constantly for the first day, at first water, then nothing but air; her thirst was so great she stuck her head in the sink and drank from the faucet, then threw it up, and drank again.

It went on past the point when she thought she could endure no more. It went on past when she prayed to die. Every few hours she passed out, only to be driven awake again by a fresh punishment, thousands of knives in her gut or a vise grip around her head.

At one point she was aware that she had bitten her tongue and it was swollen and raw in her mouth, bleeding from two holes. The taste of her own blood made her insides twist so hard she would have wailed, but she had long since lost her voice.

I’m alone . . . I’m dying and I’m alone . . . I can’t do this. It’s too much. It hurts so bad . . .

She lay on her back, sweat pouring from every pore of her body, so worn out she could hardly breathe, and for a moment a strange sort of peace descended over her.

She thought of the night she had been raped, and of the raw power that had taken hold of her. She thought of all the nights before that when she had let her psychic abilities use her. She had been beaten, and violated, and murdered. She’d had everything taken from her by force. Her illusory crown had been stripped away. There was no music to hide in, no Haven to run to, no Prime to show her the way back. There was only Miranda, and one final decision.

She could die here, a sad broken heap on a bathroom floor . . . or . . .

Another stream of thoughts, or rather feelings: the ecstasy that filled her when she performed. The joy of turning music into emotion and sharing it. The pride of getting up one more time when she fell down and picking up her sword. The heat of beloved hands on her skin and a body meeting hers. The possibility . . . the endless possibility. Power, and love, and belonging were all hers, if she could find the will to reach out and take them . . . no . . . to reach
in
.

Miranda pulled her attention back to her breath, then followed it, as Sophie had shown her, down into the shadow coiled inside her. It was waiting for her to let it finish its work. If she fought it, she would die. If she took its hand . . .

She smiled into the darkness . . . and chose.

“I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what to do.”

“Is it drugs?”

She heard the voices so clearly it took a minute to realize they weren’t in her head.

Voice one: female, mixed race, approximately thirty years of age. Southern drawl evident on vowels. Voice two: male, slightly younger, Caucasian undertone but accent from farther north than Texas.

She opened her eyes and blinked at the unexpected light. At first she thought it must be daytime, but a scent of the air told her otherwise; it was about eight o’clock. The overhead fixture was not switched on. The room was bathed in watery blue and gray shades, and she could see every detail down to the spidery cracks in the grout.

She felt out along her body, curious. No pain. She felt light, buoyant. She lifted her hand and looked at it, amazed at how distinct its edges were, how strong it seemed; she curled it into a fist, admiring the feeling of muscle and tendon sliding over each other. She lowered her hand to her body, running her fingers down the length of one arm, then over her breasts and belly. The sensation was so exquisite that she lay there for several minutes touching herself, every inch alive.

A light knock at the door interrupted her exploration. “Miranda?” the female voice called. “Can you hear me?”

She spoke, and her voice was a wonder: it had the same smooth golden timbre as always, but now there were layers of nuance and meaning to even the simplest of words: “Yes.”

“Honey, Drew’s here. We want to take you to the doctor. Will you let us in?”

She focused on the door, and on the two human figures beyond it. She breathed in, and could smell them both. They both worked with children. One of them had varnish under his fingernails. The other used cocoa butter on her hair. They had had sex recently.

The male smelled lovely, like old books and rosin, yes, but underneath were the mingled scents of sex and masculinity. He was healthy and bright. An occasional meat-eater, active, had smoked pot at some point in the last month.

Her teeth pressed into her lower lip.

Slowly, she turned over onto her stomach, then rose, allowing her body to unfold as gracefully as a deer rising from the brush. She extended a hand and unlocked the bathroom door.

“Thank God,” she heard the woman say. “Mira, you’ve got to . . . holy shit.”

They stared at her, the woman’s mouth open as she lost the sentence, the man’s eyes huge. They were both very attractive; the woman had power, and she knew it, and the man was caring, kind. Both of them were very worried about her.

Why?

She lifted her hands again and ran them down her sides, looking down to see what she was wearing. Sweat-pants and a sweatshirt. It was absurd. Her hair was a tangled mess. What were they staring at?

She tilted her head to one side, watching them watch her.

“Um . . . Miranda . . .” the man said hesitantly, “Are you feeling all right?”

Miranda. Yes, that was her name. And his was Drew; the woman’s was Kat. She knew them. They were her friends. He had tried to kiss her, once.

“May I borrow your comb?” Miranda asked.

Kat stuttered something and gestured back behind her; Miranda turned toward the medicine cabinet, opening the door and taking out a large-toothed comb. When she shut the door, she realized what Kat was motioning at.

The door of the cabinet was mirrored. She could see, behind her, the two people framed in the bathroom doorway.

She couldn’t see herself.

She shrugged inwardly and pulled the comb through her hair, wincing at the tangles. It took several minutes of careful work to get it all under control again. Even after she was finished, they were still staring.

“What’s happened to you?” Kat asked softly. Her voice was quaking.

“I told you,” Miranda said. “I was sick. I’m better now.”

“But . . . Mira . . . you’re so pale . . . you don’t even look human!”

She considered that, looking down at herself, then back at them. Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? “I’m not.”

“What do you mean?”

She met Kat’s eyes, and Kat took a step back.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” Then she added, “Unless you run.”

She fixed her gaze on Drew. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I need you.”

Drew turned adorably pink and exchanged a look of alarm with Kat. “But you said . . .”

“Stop talking.”

His mouth snapped shut.

“Come to me.”

He was about to protest, but she took careful hold of his mind and brought him into the room, walking like a dreamer toward her. She let go enough that he could talk, wondering if he wanted to run, but to her surprise, he didn’t. She released his mind completely, and he stayed where he was.

Kat made a faint mewling sound of horror, but Drew said, “It’s okay, Kat. She’s not going to hurt me. Are you, Mira?”

“Of course not,” Miranda replied, cupping his face in her hand, then tilting his head to the side. “You have something I need, Drew. I know you want to help me.”

“I do. I’m your friend. So is Kat. We’d do anything for you.”

“I know . . . and I promise I’ll never ask again.”

She leaned into him, inhaling deeply of the warmth and pulsating life before her. She nuzzled his neck, earning a groan, and studied the veins for a moment, trying to choose a place that wouldn’t injure him. The veins branched like a tree, and she knew not to open the trunk.

The smell of him drove her hunger to a fever pitch, and she sighed against his skin, feeling the delicious itch of her teeth sliding down over her lip.

He didn’t flinch when she bit down, or when she sucked. Even without the influence of her power he was willing.

She whimpered and held on to him, drinking deeply, the taste assailing her senses as the need began to fade one swallow at a time. She felt his heartbeat wild against her breast, and as her own began to come into sync with it, she knew by instinct when it was time to stop.