Shadowbound (19 page)

As Miranda swept into the room, she noticed the innocuous white box on the bedside table—sterile-packed syringes and, next to them, four vials lined up neatly.

Marianne followed her stare. “Don’t you dare judge me,” she said. “You don’t know me.”

Miranda just looked at her.

Uncomfortable under the Queen’s steady gaze, Marianne sat down on the foot of the bed, crossing and uncrossing her arms, fidgeting. “I went back by the house and got some stuff,” she said. “I don’t want to go back again, but I don’t know what to do about the old man.”

“It’ll be taken care of.”

“Are those . . . people . . . going to come after me again?” Marianne looked over at Jenny. The little girl looked so vulnerable, and an expression Miranda imagined seeing on a mother bear passed over Marianne’s features—the most emotion Marianne had shown yet. “They killed George. They cut off his head . . . they made me look at pictures so I’d behave. Told me all the things they were going to do to Jenny. And then they killed the old man and all I could think was, ‘What a stupid waste of morphine.’”

“I can’t guarantee they won’t try to kill you again,” Miranda admitted, crossing her arms. “But my husband has a contact in the U.S. Marshals who can get you into WITSEC, backed up by some of my own people as additional security. New identity, new home, new life for both of you.”

“Why do you care?” Marianne asked, her voice hardening. “Why should you? Nobody in this family has ever done dick for you except Mom, and we locked her up and threw away the key. You can’t possibly have any warm and fuzzy feelings for me after all this time.”

Miranda regarded her sister in silence for a moment. “I don’t, really,” she said bluntly. “And the truth is, you’re way better off far away from me. But another truth is . . . what happened to you and Jenny, and what happened to George and even Dad, at the end, is because of who and what I am. I know your life was already broken before I got here, but I made it a thousand times worse, and I want to balance the scale.”

Marianne nodded, and Miranda could tell she appreciated the honesty. “That guy, with the other red necklace and the blue eyes . . . that’s your husband?”

“Yes. When did you see him?”

Marianne tucked her hair back behind her ears nervously. “He knocked on the door earlier and said that you wanted to talk to me and if I tried to rabbit he’d wring my neck.”

“He’s very thoughtful like that. I’m leaving for Austin shortly, but you’ll still have guards as long as you’re here, and then they’ll coordinate with the Marshals to get you someplace more long-term. There’s an icon on your phone that will connect you directly to Marshal Ken Gregory. And you have my e-mail address as well.”

Another nod. “Okay.”

She looked at Jenny, and added, “You understand that there will be people watching you, and that if they deem you unfit or catch you with drugs, they’ll take her into foster care in accordance with human law.”

“Yeah . . . I get it.”

Miranda opened the door, but before she walked out, Marianne called her back.

She turned to see what Marianne wanted; her sister had risen and was digging in her bag. “I want you to have this,” she was saying. “I don’t know why I took it, but I don’t really want it. You might.”

She handed her prize to Miranda: a small leather-bound photo album. “There’s some stuff of Mom in there,” she said. “Keep it, throw it away, whatever.”

Miranda opened the front cover, and her mother’s face smiled up at her.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Miranda closed the door behind her, and as she heard the locks being turned and flipped, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders she hadn’t known was there. All this time she’d been carrying unfinished business around with her, waiting to feel some sort of closure, good or bad, with her family . . . and though there was no telling if she would ever see Marianne again, or that Marianne would even last six months without dying with a needle in her arm, she still felt like that last door had finally closed, the last connection to her human life gone.

She had expected that moment to feel sorrowful, regretful . . . but in the end what she felt was relief bordering on joy.

She crossed the motel parking lot to where the Escalade was waiting; most of the Elite had returned to the Houston branch in the vehicle that Miranda had arrived in. It would just be the Pair and Harlan on the way home.

David was waiting in the car, finishing up a phone call. “How are you?” he asked as she climbed in.

Miranda considered that. “Finished,” she said. “I’m finished.” He nodded, understanding, and she leaned against his shoulder and added, “Now get me the hell out of here.”

 • • • 

Dawn was circling slowly around the last hour of night when, after a three-hour drive and an equally long flight on a slow and clunky 737, Prime Deven arrived back at the Haven in desperate need of about a week’s sleep and clothes—any clothes—that actually fit.

As he walked down the hall he heard the outside shutters engaging. In a few seconds the beautiful views and courtyards of the Haven would be blocked from sight, the building closing in on itself, cool and dark and safe.

He found Jonathan in bed already, asleep reclining atop the covers in faded red flannel pants, with a huge hardcover book lying open on his bare belly. Deven knew he would have stayed awake as long as possible, counting the minutes until his Prime came home—knowing he was so far away, and hurt, but being unable to help, would have been a torment for any Signet, though it always seemed to be worse for Consorts than Primes.

He and Jonathan had talked briefly twice, once before the battle and again during the endless drive from Rio Verde to Houston. In that second call Deven had heard and felt the near-panic in Jonathan’s voice from waiting to hear that his lover was all right.

It was a testament to Jonathan’s endless patience that he hadn’t come unglued when he realized the Elf had punted Deven halfway across the country without warning or discussion. Dev had honestly expected some anger there, but Jonathan had just said, “Miranda needed you.”

Deven stood over him for a moment, listening to him breathe and watching his eyelashes flutter as he dreamed. He looked peaceful, so whatever he was seeing in there must not be precognitive.

Finally, he sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in to kiss his Consort gently on the lips.

Jonathan made a noise and woke smiling. “How was your flight?”

“If there is a hell, it involves flying commercial.”

The Consort yawned. “I checked in on Nico, like you asked—he was barely awake. I think he held out just long enough to know you were okay. Apparently that whole portal-building thing is like being hit in the third eye with a brick if you haven’t seen the destination.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s all right,” Deven replied, and if Jonathan heard anything more than friendly concern in the words, he graciously ignored it.

“And how’s Miranda?”

“Much better. She went through so much today . . . and all for someone she doesn’t even like.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Family matters are never that straightforward. They’re made up of layers of time, guilt, love, anger, and obligation.”

“She said it was her fault.”

“Taking on the burden of culpability not her own,” Jonathan murmured. “Where have I seen that before?” He ran his hand from Deven’s Signet down to his hip. “Incidentally, that is a magnificent ensemble you’ve got there.”

“Oh, shut up.” Deven laughed. “You should have seen me washing off dried blood in the men’s room sink at Walmart. The greeter at the doors about had a heart attack when I walked into the store—I think they told themselves it was a costume for some kind of horror film.”

“I’m glad you got back before dawn . . . I was starting to worry.”

“I told Wu to break every speed limit between the airport and here. I couldn’t wait to get home.”

“I can imagine not, if the alternative was the
Deliverance
Best Western.”

“No, silly man. I wanted to get home to
you
.”

Jonathan looked genuinely surprised. “Oh?”

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately . . . about us. I know I’m a disaster most of the time, and a spoiled brat the rest. But in spite of all my egregious faults, you have made me happier than I ever thought I could be. I hope you know what a miracle that is . . . that you are.”

The Consort stared at him for a moment, then reached down and shoved the book off his middle, grabbed Deven around
his
middle, and hauled him down onto the bed, looking intently into his face. “You really mean that,” he said, sounding faintly dazed.

“Of course I do.” Dev brushed his fingers over Jonathan’s lips, smiling. “You’re my always.”

Jonathan grinned. There was genuine happiness in his eyes, without a trace of the heavy emotion he’d been carrying around since all of this had begun. “Oh, darling, I hope you can stay awake for another hour, because you are about to get so laid.”

“Don’t you want me to take a shower before—”

Unsurprisingly, he never got to finish the question.

Eight

Three nights into her second stay at the Haven, Stella still didn’t completely believe she was there. Everything after the wreck seemed so unreal she was sure she would wake up any minute now back in her apartment bedroom, startled out of sleep by her upstairs neighbor having loud arrhythmic sex with his girlfriend.

Instead, when she opened her eyes, she was in the same guest suite as before, left to her own devices inside the home of well over a hundred vampires who, for the most part, ignored her. She was the Queen’s pet, not theirs; with the exception of the servants who fed her and kept her mini fridge full of Dr Pepper, and the two guards who alternated keeping an eye on her, she hardly saw anyone.

Last time, that silence had bothered her because she wanted desperately to know what was going on out there, but this time, it was a relief to be left alone. She just wanted to relax enough that she wouldn’t have screaming nightmares about being hit by a truck and smashed into Witch-jam, trapped in a burning car and bleeding out, dying on the street, or ending up paralyzed. The worst dream was the one where she watched her father weep at her funeral. In her entire life Stella only remembered seeing her father cry twice, once when her stepmother had died, and once a couple of years later when he and Stella had watched
Up
.

She knew how lucky she’d been not to die in that crash. The fact that it probably wasn’t luck at all was deeply disturbing . . . people didn’t walk away from crashes like that without a hair out of place. There had to be something else at work, and she had a feeling she knew what, or rather Who, was responsible.

Stella lay in the enormous bed wrapped in a safe cocoon of blankets, with Pywacket folded into a kitty loaf and asleep at the foot of the bed. She wished she’d taken Miranda up on her offer of a bottle of sleeping pills. An afternoon of oblivion without the crunch of metal echoing in her ears would be really nice.

How the hell did I get here?

She was an average, everyday Witch only a few weeks ago—a store clerk, average height, a bit on the round side, with a typically Austinesque fashion concept, perfectly happy with how things were. She’d come through a period of crippling depression thanks to music and was starting to reach a place where she could imagine doing something interesting with her life . . . a work in progress. Sure, her religious proclivities and her psychic gift put her in the oddball category, and with a homicide detective as a father her family life wasn’t typical, but . . . how had she ended up the Pony Express courier between a deity and a bunch of filthy rich, gorgeous, sword-fighting vampires?

She’d accepted this role, whatever it actually was, that night during the Drawing Down, but it had yet to stop freaking her out. Maybe if she were sure of what she was supposed to do, she could get used to the idea.

She knew Miranda and the others felt the same way. They needed to know what they were here for—yes, to defeat Morningstar, but how?—and how exactly they were meant to complete their Circle, but the only being who had that information was Persephone, and they couldn’t talk to her until they had completed their Circle . . . unless it was through Stella, who also had no idea how to do her job.

“Kind of crappy of you,” she muttered. She’d developed a habit of talking to Persephone when no one was listening—mostly complaining. She had no idea whether Persephone could hear her, or would care if she did, but there was something comforting about the thought that somewhere, out there, Someone was listening to her and might eventually answer. At the very least, Persephone probably thought she was amusing. That was something.

She sighed and felt her body beginning to finally relax after two hours of tossing and turning. The situation was frustrating to say the least, but she didn’t have to figure it all out tonight. She could sleep tonight.

Her eyes drifted shut . . .

. . . and something startled her awake. Stella, suddenly freezing, flailed around like a drunken monkey for a minute, trying to make sense of things—why was she so cold? Why was the bed so hard? The air felt different, it wasn’t shielded like she’d had it—was something attacking her?

She shoved herself up into a sitting position, gaping around her, heart pounding, breath coming in gasps.

This was not her room.

It was a study of some kind; there were bookcases and a desk, but despite the lack of dust, the place had the feel of a room that wasn’t in use.

She had never seen this room before. She didn’t even know what part of the Haven she was in.

As she got to her feet, turning in a slow circle, trying to understand, the question returned:

How the hell did I get here?

 • • • 

Less than two hours from Sacramento, coastal redwood trees stretched so high into the night that they seemed to tickle heaven as the wind wandered through the forest. The air was damp and cool, sound muted, a feeling of peace hovering like a ghost amid the massive trunks.