Of Shadow Born (22 page)

“I suppose so.”

“I think we need to find this Olivia,” she said. “She might be able to tell us more about what happened to you.”

“I know where she lives . . . assuming she hasn’t run. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had. She’s got as many ghosts as any Signet I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re sure she was the Second in Australia?”

“Positive.”

He was quiet for a while, looking out the window, and when he finally flicked his gaze back to her, she shot him a questioning look.

“I was thinking about Faith,” he said.

Miranda bowed her head. “I miss her.”

“So do I.”

“I don’t think I ever realized just how hard she worked, how much she did for us. I wish I had . . . I don’t know.”

He nodded. “I regret so much when it came to her.”

She thought a minute, weighing whether to say anything, then said, “You do know she was in love with you, right?”

He smiled sadly. “I know.”

Surprised, she asked, “When did you figure that out?”

An eyebrow raised. “I don’t remember exactly . . . but I know.”

The car pulled to a stop and Harlan said, “The Black Door, Sire.”

David and Miranda exchanged a look. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “Let’s do it.”

The Shadow District was still recovering from the weeks of insanity that had gripped it—first with Jeremy’s thugs causing mayhem, then with the uncertainty of the Prime’s death—but a respectable crowd was out on the streets. Miranda could feel all the eyes on them as she straightened her coat, tossed her hair back over her shoulder, and took her Prime’s arm.

They walked up past the velvet rope where a dozen or so people were waiting to get in, and the bouncers both grinned broadly and held open the doors.

Miranda looked up at David, who gave her a quick kiss on the lips and, smiling, swept into the club at her side.

* * *

The deep stench of charred wood and flesh was beginning to dissipate from the ruins of the Cloister, but a silence hung over the blackened walls, both sorrowful and expectant.

Here in the Northwest the nights were cold, the damp an ever-present cloak over the redwoods, and while it was never entirely silent, the remains of the holy place caught hold of the quiet and held it close.

A small group of huddled figures moved among the ruins, looking for anything worth salvaging, but the fire had been ferocious, and there was little left besides the walls themselves.

One of the searchers, a dark-skinned woman in a black robe, paused in her grim work and stood apart from the others for a moment, hand to her face in grief.

She didn’t hear the step behind her, but she felt the stake’s point at her back.

“Easy,” he said softly. “Don’t cry out.”

The hatred in her voice was iron-edged, but she kept it low as she said, “You have no right to set foot on these lands.”

“I am aware of that, Xara.”

“What do you want?” she hissed. “What more can you possibly do to us?”

Deven drew up close to her and said into her ear, “Never, ever ask that question.”

He stood behind her, watching the other members of the Order, most of whom he recognized, if not by name, then by face. Xara’s heart was hammering, her breath shallow with terror—despite her anger, she still feared him, and rightly so.

“Have you been through Eladra’s quarters yet?”

Xara shook her head.

“Good. Walk with me. There’s something there I need.”

Her eyes on the others, she did as she was told, carefully picking her way among the fallen timbers, following his lead until they reached what was left of the High Priestess’s rooms.

Here, the fire had not been as destructive; parts of some of the furniture still stood, and the Order would probably find a number of artifacts that were still useful.

“She trusted you,” Xara said, tears in her voice now. “How could you do this?”

“Eladra foresaw her fate long ago. She made peace with it. If you’re going to lead them, so must you. I’m not here to ask your forgiveness, Xara . . . I don’t deserve or want it. Now, pick up that box.”

She bent over a pile of debris and, with hands shaking violently, brushed aside wood and ash to reveal a half-hidden silver coffer.

“Your ring,” he commanded quietly.

Nodding, Xara held her right hand to the lid of the box, her priestess’s ring fitting into the lock; it clicked open, and she lifted the lid.

“A Speaking Stone?” she asked. “What do you want with this?”

He reached around her and took the palm-sized piece of polished labradorite from its cushion of velvet. “I need to make a call.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “Are you going to kill me now?”

Deven reached up and touched the side of her face, kissed her softly on the cheek. “I know it changes nothing, Xara, but . . . I’m sorry.”

He was gone before she could reply.

* * *

Jonathan knew, of course, when his mate returned from Texas, but even so he was a little surprised to walk into their bedroom and find Deven lying on his back in the middle of the floor, still in his coat, an empty bottle of Scotch on one side of him, a bloody knife on the other.

“Good Christ, who did you kill now?” the Consort asked.

Bleary eyes looked up at him. “Nobody.” Deven held up his hand, displaying a cut down the center of his palm that, as Jonathan watched, healed over and vanished. He groped sideways and produced an odd object: an ovoid, flat piece of dark stone that shimmered blue, gray, and green in the can-dlelight. There was a dark smudge on the stone’s surface. “Blood calls to blood.”

“How drunk
are
you?”

Deven smiled faintly and put his forearm over his eyes. “Drunk enough to do magic.”

“Magic?” Jonathan went over and helped him up, steering the Prime, who was more than a little wobbly from the alcohol, over to the bed. “Deven . . . what did you do?”

Deven flopped onto his back and stared up at him for a moment before grabbing Jonathan by the neck and pulling their mouths together.

Jonathan knew perfectly well what he was doing, but turning down a kiss from Deven was simply not something he was capable of, so he sighed and returned it, stretching out next to his Prime on the bed. Deven tasted of whiskey, which he often did, but there was desperation in the kiss that Jonathan wasn’t used to.

The Consort drew back from him and said, smiling, “You’re not changing the subject that easily, baby.”

“I’m not trying to. I just wanted to remind you that you love me before I tell you what I have to tell you.”

Jonathan rapped his head against the mattress theatrically. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

“Two things, really . . . First of all . . .” Deven laid his hand palm up on the bed with the weird stone in it, closed his eyes . . .

. . . and as Jonathan stared, mouth dropping open, the stone rose into the air, spun around a few times, and lowered back down.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“How long have you been able to do that?” Jonathan finally asked.

Deven bit his lip. “Since the three of you banded together to heal me that night in Ovaska’s hideout.”

“
Three years?
You became telekinetic three years ago and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” Jonathan took a deep breath. “I suppose you’ve already told David.”

“No. I haven’t told anyone but you.”

Clamping down on his anger, Jonathan counted to ten silently and then said, “Okay . . . you said there were two things.”

“The second one is far, far weirder, and I’m not sure you’re going to believe me.”

“What? You can fly? Shapeshift? Start fires with your brain?”

“Weirder than that, I’m afraid.” Deven sat up, picking up the stone and showing him that the blood smear had disappeared. “Remember when we were talking about the Order, and the Persephone myth, and you asked me about the other side of it?”

“Other side—oh, right. How one goddess made vampires to kill people and the other goddess made, what was the word you used . . . the Elentheia?”

“Yes. I told you it was true, that they did exist once, and you laughed at me and told me I had clearly done too much acid in the sixties.”

“Right . . . I still think that, by the way.”

“You also said that if it were true, there’d be a lot of pointy-eared people walking around.”

“And you got pissy and changed the subject.”

“Yes.”

“So? Where are you going with this?”

Deven sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Just looking at the ears wouldn’t tell you if someone had Elven blood. Only the pure-blooded Elentheia had the ears. But there’s another trait that did pass down for a few generations before it finally faded.”

Jonathan suddenly realized he was gripping Deven’s hand very, very hard, and his heart had begun to race. “And . . . what’s that?”

“The eyes,” Deven said softly. “We all have violet eyes.”

Eleven

“Where am I?”

She smiled, crossing her arms. “Put it together, Sire.”

He looked around at the dense forest that surrounded them, starlight seeping through the trees; she was standing in what looked like a pool of light, though the moon was not visible . . . and oddly, she seemed to be in a sort of grayscale instead of full color, like . . .

“You’re dead,” he said. “We both are.”

“Looks that way.”

Sorrow and guilt wrapped around his heart. “I’m sorry . . . Faith, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she replied with a shrug. “It wasn’t your fault.” Her gaze sharpened, and she came toward him, laying her hands on his shoulders; the contact felt real. “It wasn’t your fault, David,” she said firmly. “Remember that. I’m okay.”

He reached up, took her hands, and squeezed them. Strange how comforting such a small gesture could be in a place like this . . . wherever it was.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“Don’t ask me. I’ve been dead about three minutes longer than you have. Not a lot of time to explore.”

Again, he looked around, confused. “If this is the afterlife, why is it a forest? It seems familiar, but . . .”

Faith stepped away suddenly, her eyes drawn to something behind him. He turned.

The fabric of the night seemed to turn into water, an area about six feet tall going blurry until light poured out of it. They stood together staring at it for a long moment, both knowing, deep down, what it was, neither willing to go any closer.

A light breeze lifted the leaves all around, and he heard a voice whisper, “Faith . . .”

She took a deep breath. “It’s for me,” she said softly. “It’s time to go.”

Before he could answer, she pulled him into a hug, and he could feel her heart beating fast as she whispered, “I love you.”

There were tears in her eyes as she stepped back and turned to the portal, but her steps were sure, her shoulders squared, no fear in her body as she walked into the light . . . and was gone.

He was alone . . . but only for a moment.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his senses prickled with alarm. There was someone . . . something . . . behind him . . . and for once in his life, he was paralyzed with terror.

“Face me . . .” that same feather-light female voice whispered over the wind, the words cutting through him. “Be not afraid, child.”

Steeling himself, barely breathing, he turned . . . and met silver-black eyes full of stars.

* * *

“Earth to Prime.”

He looked away from the window, where he’d been standing and staring for several minutes. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Miranda paused in tuning her guitar and scrutinized him. “Are you sure you want to go alone? I can come with you if you’re not ready.”

David shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I just . . . I had a weird dream today, is all.”

“What about?”

“I don’t really remember. I was trying to, just now, but I can’t. It felt important, and . . . I could swear Faith was in it.”

She smiled softly. “I would be surprised if you didn’t dream about her. I do. Mostly wishful thinking, rewriting the ending. That’s probably all it was.”

He nodded, even though he didn’t agree. The problem was he didn’t have the words to frame how the dream felt, or why he knew Faith was in it; it was just a feeling, and feelings had never been his specialty.

Sometimes he remembered snatches of his dreams, fluttering remnants that fell apart in his hands when he tried to examine them. It seemed to be the same location over and over again: the woods somewhere, under a moonless night run riot with stars. Sometimes he heard wings—dozens of them.

He turned away from the window and finished getting ready, buckling on his sword, putting on his coat. As he did the former, he smiled.

“What’s so funny?” Miranda asked. She had been watching him this whole time—she watched him a lot these days, as if unsure what she was looking at.

David chuckled and drew the sword, holding it out where she could see the carving on the blade. “Have you ever noticed this?”

“Noticed what?”

He changed the angle, tilting it down away from her. “Look again.”

The Queen’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa! I didn’t think you had anything written on it.”

“I didn’t.
Someone
sneaked it in, and all this time I never noticed it until Olivia pointed it out to me.”

Miranda grinned at him. “So I assume it’s the sword’s name—what is it?”

“The Oncoming Storm.”

She sat back, pondering the words. “I think it fits you.”

“It’s a
Doctor Who
reference,” he told her.

“Then it definitely fits you.” She laughed. “Even when you’re not wearing a geeky T-shirt, you’re carrying your geekdom with you wherever you go.”

He laughed, too, and bent down to kiss her. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Be careful . . . and I hope you find her.”

“I hope so, too.”