Shadowflame (18 page)

“I’m going to get someone to drink,” she said, not giving David time to protest as she tore herself from his side and made her way to the bar. She intended to get one of the mixed drinks that the Black Door specialized in—the kind with blood in it—but when she saw Jonathan at the bar, she decided she was more interested in getting blind drunk than anything else at the moment.

“My Lady,” Jonathan said, raising his beer in salute. “Shiner?”

“I think I need something a little stronger,” she replied, motioning to the bartender, who set aside the row of drinks he was making and came for her order instantly. She asked for a shot of Patrón.

Jonathan frowned. “Tequila,” he said. “That doesn’t bode well. What’s wrong?”

She gestured out at the dance floor. “Something about my husband dancing with someone else makes me want to rip that someone’s little pixie head off. Sorry, Jonathan. I guess I’m just not as evolved as you.”

“Actually, he’s not,” Jonathan said, looking out at the floor. “He’s looking for you.”

Miranda turned to see that Deven was still by himself, though now one of the sexy mortals in his bevy of admirers had two tiny holes in his neck that were swiftly closing; meanwhile, David was standing next to Faith, but his deep blue eyes were scanning the crowd, and when his eyes met Miranda’s, he broke out into a smile.

Her heart climbed back up from where it had sunk into her feet, and she smiled back, knocked back her shot, and left the empty glass on the bar.

Jonathan was chuckling to himself and shook his head. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, Miranda. Especially when it’s totally unfounded.”

Bristling, Miranda walked away without answering, but if he’d been a telepath her reply would have been crystal clear:
Blindness isn’t particularly attractive either.

She might be young and new to her Signet, but she was well aware that she was one of the strongest empaths among her kind, and she knew quite well there was nothing unfounded about her jealousy, becoming or otherwise. But it seemed that a certain amount of denial was just a part of the Pair’s relationship, and she wasn’t going to disillusion Jonathan. She liked him too much. If he was content to go on pretending it really didn’t bother him, well, so be it.

But she was still glad the Pair were getting the hell out of her territory.

When she came into view David held out his hands, and she took them, stepping up to him and then turning, slightly, to draw him out onto the floor. One of his hands slid down her back to her waist and the other up to her chin, and she put her lips up to his, claiming his mouth fiercely enough to banish, she hoped, all thought of anything . . . or anyone . . . else. She pulled him with her into the song that pounded all around them, her fingernails scratching lightly through his shirt, her teeth tugging gently on his lower lip.

Miranda remembered once, in a philosophy class, hearing about Plato’s theory that humans once had had four arms, two heads, and four legs, but they had been split in half by the gods, and spent the rest of their lives seeking that sundered half with whom they fit so perfectly. At the time it had been a fanciful sort of story, ancient philosophy as written by Disney.

She believed it now.

She was exactly tall enough to rest her head on his shoulder, his arms reaching just right around her middle, hip locking into hip as if they had grown that way from the dark soil of some overgrown, night-blooming garden. She’d danced with him a dozen times and not once had there ever been any awkward bumping; he grabbed her hand and spun her away, then back, and she was laughing at the ridiculousness of such a ballroom move in the middle of a floor crowded with youngsters, but when she came back to him she fit just where she had been, and the electrical charge of that contact nearly tore a gasp from her throat.

One hand circling her waist, he tilted her back, and she bent almost double, her hair sweeping the floor. There were, of course, people watching; if anyone in this room knew vampires existed, they knew these two, and knew that the connection between them was stronger than the forces that held atoms together and kept the moon spinning around the earth.

She wanted desperately to drag him into a corner of the room and wrap herself around him, but as the song came to an end and his mouth found hers again, she barely had time to immerse herself in the delirium of the kiss before a familiar, and unwelcome, sound broke into the moment.

“Damn it,” David hissed, pulling his lips away to look down at his phone.

His gaze jerked up to her. “It’s Kat.”

“Answer it!” Miranda felt cold dread falling as a stone into her belly.

As David said “Star-one,” another noise shrilled out, this one a network alarm.

“Faith!” Miranda all but yelled into her com. “I need you!”

“Here,” the Second said, appearing beside her almost instantly. “What’s happening?”

“Coordinates,” Miranda said to David, who was trying to call Kat back and getting no answer. He switched the screen to his view of the network sensor grid and drew a line with his finger over the screen, spinning the diagram around to match their location.

“Not far from here,” David said. “Faith, get a team to East Seventh and Comal immediately.”

Faith didn’t even bother replying; she simply darted away, already issuing orders into her com, her stiletto heels hitting the floor with as much purpose as her usual combat boots. Meanwhile, Miranda had her phone out and was trying to get Kat, but it kept going right to voice mail.

Fear rose in her throat. “Kat . . . Kat . . . David, something’s wrong, we have to find her . . .”

David pulled her off the dance floor, over to a clear space by the bar where Jonathan and Deven were drinking. Both Prime and Consort looked startled at David’s grim expression and her rapidly spiraling panic.

David was still staring down at his phone. “Her signal dropped off here, but her call came half a block away, so we can assume she’s being taken north—”

“There’s no time for your dicking around,” Deven snapped, and for once Miranda wanted to hug him. “You. Me. Mist. Now.”

David looked up, shocked, but nodded.

About two seconds later, the Primes had vanished into thin air.

Miranda was still on the verge of a breakdown. “I have to get there . . . I can’t run that fast. The car won’t be here in time. Jonathan, what do I do? Kat’s in trouble, she might be dying, oh, God—”

“You haven’t learned to Mist?” Jonathan asked, amazed. “Well, then, we’ll start right now. Grab my arm and hold tight—there’s no time for finesse, so as soon as we land be prepared to skin your knees and vomit.”

She didn’t care about the consequences. All she could think of was getting to Kat. She seized Jonathan’s proffered arm and felt a sickening lurch . . .

. . . and the club spun away into darkness.

Nine

True to Jonathan’s word, the second Miranda landed, her knees hit the concrete hard enough that she felt one of her kneecaps fracture, and she pitched forward and threw up all over the median grass.

Then she forced herself to her feet, fighting the waves of vertigo that kept battering her from all sides as well as the pain in her knee, and tried to make sense of the scene before her.

The first thing she saw was blood, and it nearly made her sick again, because she knew whose it was.

“Kat!” she cried, pushing herself forward from the street into the alley. “Where is she? Kat!”

Footsteps thundered up to Miranda’s side, and Faith grabbed her arm and steadied her. “Miranda, listen to me—you can’t help her now. Just stand back and everything will be fine.”

“I can help her! Let me go!” The panic was so overwhelming that Miranda nearly shoved Faith away, but before she could summon the energy, she felt someone else grabbing her other arm—David.

“It’s all right, beloved,” he said. “Just hold on.”

Miranda, however, was beside herself and couldn’t be consoled. “Is she dead? Did they find her hand? I want to see her hand! David, please, I need to see . . .”

“Easy,” David murmured. “Come with me . . . one step . . . and another . . . it’s all right, just take it slow . . .”

He led her around the crowd of Elite—the patrol team that had come as soon as Kat’s emergency signal went out, and the second team headed by Faith that was arriving as Miranda stumbled toward the scene.

The street corner was splattered with blood. A woman’s form lay sprawled out on the concrete, blood oozing out around her, her car keys flung several feet away.

Kat was trying so hard not to scream. She was panting, half sobbing, every other breath almost a wail. Her bald head was dripping with blood, as was her arm . . . from the cleanly sliced stump where her hand had been severed. Someone had tied a strip of fabric as a tourniquet and it was already soaked.

Worst of all, there was a knife protruding obscenely from her abdomen.

“Kat, Kat . . .” Miranda was sobbing as Kat was sobbing, and the Queen fell down beside her friend, her best friend she couldn’t protect with all the immortal power in the world. “Help is coming, Kat, I promise.” She tried to reassure the human, doing anything she could, because it was why she was here . . . for all the good it did anyone.

“Miranda.”

A sharp voice cut through her panic, and she looked over Kat’s bleeding, broken body to see a pair of ice-cold lavender eyes fixed on hers.

“Pull yourself together, Queen,” Deven commanded gently. “She doesn’t need to see you like this.”

Miranda took a deep, shaking breath and threw her energy into grounding, bolstering her shields, and calming herself enough that she could look at the situation realistically.

She knelt beside Kat’s body, holding Kat’s still-attached right hand, while the Elite tried to stop the bleeding from her left arm and the wound to her gut. A few inches from Kat’s arm, the severed hand lay on a clean cloth, blood soaking into it.

Deven’s voice grabbed Miranda again. “Listen to me. You need to tell your people to step back and maintain their distance. The forensic team must start searching for evidence. There should be a trail—we caught the attacker by surprise and I wounded her. Tell them now.”

Miranda jerked her head up and gave her orders, and the Elite scattered.

“Now. You have a connection to this woman, so I will need your help to help her. Do you understand me? Let yourself be open to me, as if I were David calling for your energy. I’ll pull from both you and Jonathan. It will work faster this way. Open yourself, and stay grounded.”

Miranda fell into a cross-legged position that mirrored Deven’s, though he was on the side of Kat with the . . . hand . . .

“Focus!”

The snapped command made her look away from the gruesome sight and back down at Kat’s anguished face. Kat was crying, shaking, and so pale . . . Miranda opened her shields as she’d been told, but she also spared a tendril of her power to reach softly around Kat’s heart and soothe her fear, let her know that she was loved and taken care of, and now she was safe. She was safe, and loved . . . safe . . .

Kat stopped flailing against the hands that held her, and those hands lifted.

Miranda watched in rapt fascination as Deven closed his eyes and held his palms out over Kat’s body, first over her belly. He reached down and carefully drew the knife out of her flesh, laying the weapon on a sheet of plastic that would be wrapped for evidence. Then he held both palms over the wound and became very still.

All around them, sound seemed suddenly muffled, a strange peace descending over the chaotic scene. Everyone came to a standstill and turned to stare as the light in Deven’s Signet began to glow brighter and brighter . . . At first it seemed almost like a trick of the streetlamp, but soon it was too bright for that, becoming like an aura, or a halo . . .

Miranda felt a gentle tug at her shields, and she opened them wider to him, feeling him reach in and lift tiny sips of power at a time, feeding them into Kat’s body as if she were a starving baby bird. Blended with his own energy, and his Consort’s through their bond, Miranda’s power added strength and love to the mix, and soon she felt the wound begin to close, all the rips and gouges mending themselves, until even the skin that covered the wound began to knit, first an angry red wound, then a dark jagged scar, then softening to pink, then fading to white.

Miranda felt her own energy start to wane just a little and reached sideways to her Prime, who opened himself willingly; now, all four of them were part of the web, each feeding power into Deven, which he fused with his own and directed with utmost care to where it was needed, cell by cell repaired to blossoming health.

But Deven still hadn’t lifted his hands; his eyes were closed but his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up at Kat and asked softly, “Shall I bring her back, Katerina?”

Kat, too, had been overcome with peace and was breathing in tandem with the Prime, who waited for her answer. She smiled and said hoarsely, “Yes.”

Nodding, Deven closed his eyes again and went back to work; a second later Miranda felt something . . . something inside Kat fluttered, like a tiny hand waving hello.

Then he moved his attention up to her left arm, and this time picked up the poor severed hand and placed it against her wrist, holding his own hands over the joining, closing his eyes and breathing . . . in and out . . . in and out . . . for several minutes, while Miranda felt the ebb and flow of power through her, David, and Jonathan, then through Deven, and into Kat’s arm.

Finally, Deven withdrew both energy and hands, and a gasp went up all around them as the Elite saw that Kat’s wrist was whole again, without even a scratch.

Deven disengaged himself from the power matrix, and each of them did the same until their bonds were only for each other again. The connection among them was so infused with serenity, Miranda was reluctant to leave it, but she could feel everyone weakening. It was time to let go.

Miranda was crying, but she met Deven’s eyes. He looked like he was about to lose consciousness. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The smile he gave her was one she would always remember: It was one of pure peace, even bliss. Whatever his other gifts were, whatever creature he was, Deven had just done what he had been born to do. He was a healer. She would never doubt that again.

“David,” Deven said, “catch her.”

Just as Deven passed out and sagged sideways into Jonathan’s arms, so did Miranda do the same, falling backward against her Prime, who held her tightly and picked her up to carry her home.

“Thank you, Mr. Behr. Let me know when would work for you and your staff to reschedule, and send me a bill for their time tonight as well—I know it’s extremely inconvenient for you to have a no-show, especially when you go out of your way to set up for us late at night. Again, I apologize. Have a good evening.”

David hung up with a sigh and stood at the foot of the bed, watching Miranda sleep; she and Deven had been the worst off, and so far neither had woken in almost twenty hours. Jonathan said that he had seen Dev heal so intensely only two or three times before, and it always wiped him out for a day or two; vampires simply weren’t designed to burn energy that way. They were predators, not healers.

He wondered: Had Deven been born at a different time, with the abilities he had, would he have been a valued member of his tribe, perhaps a shaman or priest, instead of constantly coming under the scrutiny and abuse of men who thought their God couldn’t possibly have shared such astonishing powers with another? Or would he have been burned at the stake the way Lizzie had been? God, it seemed, had a rather caustic sense of humor.

David checked his phone again: a text from Elite 43, the guard he’d already assigned to watch over Kat, who was presently with her at the Signet-run clinic, where she slept in recovery. The clinic specialized in vampire-related injuries and had several immortal staff members who could alter memories as well as manage the symptoms of an attack or overzealous feeding. Kat had none of those, but no normal hospital would understand what she had been through. It was best to keep her somewhere that the doctors knew what she knew and wouldn’t refer her to the psych ward or try to involve the police.

The Prime had also ordered a guest suite at the Haven prepared for Kat. He doubted she would go along quietly, but he wasn’t about to let her stay on her own after tonight.

Another message, this one from Faith’s team on the scene: The blood trail had gotten them nowhere, vanishing midstride in the middle of the street, but they had collected samples that went immediately to Novotny, and hopefully the good doctor could discern something in the blood before it died. The weapon used to stab Kat had also been retrieved; an egregious error on the attacker’s part, but then, she had been interrupted.

David and Deven had Misted within five feet of Kat’s prone body and the vampire kneeling over her with a knife. Dev had been quicker on the draw and slammed a throwing stake into the woman’s back; she screamed and bolted, not even looking back. The stake fell out as she ran, and it, too, had been cataloged as evidence and taken in for trace analysis.

Surely,
surely
something would be found. No criminal was brilliant enough to attack four people without leaving a single speck of evidence. She was clumsy enough to leave both the stake in Miranda’s shoulder and the knife in Kat’s stomach; she had to slip up somewhere. Red Shadow or not, nobody was that good.

He sat down beside Miranda and straightened the covers around her gingerly so as not to wake her. He’d never seen anyone twist sheets the way she did. He laid his hand on her forehead, pleased that her body temperature had dropped to normal; when he first put her to bed she’d had a fever. Her body hadn’t known what to do with the wild fluctuation in her energy and had reacted as though it were ill until he woke her long enough to coax her into drinking some blood from their emergency store. She had done as he bade her, murmured something about it tasting old, and fallen back to sleep before the sentence was finished.

After a moment of watching, he sighed and stretched out alongside his Queen for a while, facing her, the slow rise and fall of her chest more comforting than he would ever have thought possible.

He touched her face, brushing his fingers along her lip, loving every inch of her and gripped, for a moment, with fear; someone was after her, and their reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would find whoever it was and hurt them until they begged for death . . . but lying there staring at her, he couldn’t think of torture and violence . . . he could only think of how strange and wonderful it was to love her, to have her here, every day, to wake beside her when he had come so close to losing her.

He was grateful that the Signet bond ensured that, should she die, he would die within minutes. The thought of existing on this planet without her, as he had for so many years, was too horrible to contemplate.

There, he knew, was the difference between how he felt about her and how he had felt about Deven. Losing Dev had been heart-crushingly painful, yes, and there had been days he could barely get out of bed beneath the weight of his sorrow, but that night he had stood before the smoldering ruins of Miranda’s apartment, desperate for any hope but deep down knowing there was none, had been the worst moment of his life.

The thought, though, brought images to his mind that he didn’t want, and a longing that spread from his belly outward, that part of him that still yearned, whispering, wondering what it would be like, for just an hour . . . remembering another face on the pillow before him, another mouth catching his in the darkness, another back arching against his hands . . .

Suddenly he had to be out of the bed. Thinking about Deven while lying with Miranda was flat-out blasphemous to them both. David got up, feeling imbalanced and uncomfortable in his skin. Thank God she was asleep.

He sat down at his desk and for a moment covered his eyes with his hands, wishing to God or any convenient higher power that he could stop feeling this way. He had thought that he loved Miranda with every inch of his heart, and that there couldn’t possibly be room for anyone else. Yet some dark corner of his being had held on to what once was, all this time, and was slowly crawling through his veins, leaving behind an old fire and a new fear. He could tell himself it was purely physical, or just nostalgia . . . but he knew a lie when he heard one.

He tried checking his e-mail and messages, but there was nothing new. Still, there had to be something he could do in his workroom, and once he was out of the suite he could talk to Faith without waking Miranda.

Once in the hallway, though, he found that his feet refused to carry him to the workroom; they seemed to have an agenda all their own, and he was headed down the corridor before he realized where he was going.