Shadowflame (35 page)

Miranda threw the door at the head of the stairs open and dove out, aiming low, anticipating that Ovaska would have doubled back to ambush her as she came out. She barely avoided the sword that whistled through the air inches from her neck, and then she hit the ground rolling, coming up onto her feet in time to leap back from another swipe.

She didn’t have time to look around, but she knew immediately where they were. She knew this room, had fought in it a hundred times; she remembered where all the weapons had once hung on the walls. The Elite had taken Sophie’s arsenal, so the walls should have been bare, but two swords and several other blades were hanging up—hers, Miranda realized, and Deven’s.

Miranda raced for the wall, and just as she got her hand around one of the swords she felt the sting of Ovaska’s blade slicing into her left arm. Miranda forced herself to ignore the pain and the blood and spun around, bringing the sword up to meet Ovaska’s.

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Ovaska was bleeding profusely from her thigh, and her face was disfigured with bruises from their struggle on the floor. The stake was still in her leg.

“Who are you working for?” the Queen demanded.

Ovaska laughed. “Your death,” she said simply, and attacked.

Distantly Miranda heard something pounding on the wall, but neither she nor Ovaska allowed herself to be distracted. This time, with both of them injured, it was a more evenly matched fight. They fought across the broad expanse of Sophie’s studio, Miranda backflipping out of her reach then diving back in again, Ovaska spinning in midair to add more momentum to her arm. Miranda felt the sword almost alive in her hand, as if her entire body were a weapon, and she let herself slip into the space that Sophie had shown her, between present and future, drawing on a strength beyond herself until she almost knew what Ovaska would do next—

Miranda dropped low, swiping out with her foot, knocking Ovaska off balance as Miranda struck her injured leg. Ovaska tumbled backward, wheeling her arms to regain her equilibrium, but she lost her guard just long enough for Miranda to kick her again, this time in the stomach, sending her to the ground.

The Queen sprang back up and went in for the kill.

Ovaska scooted back, and instead of beheading her, Miranda’s blade opened her chest, blood gushing out in its wake. Ovaska pushed herself backward again, and as Miranda brought the blade down a second time Ovaska reached down and pulled the stake from her leg, using all her remaining will to thrust it upward.

Miranda felt the wood penetrate her rib cage, but she, too, had one last burst of strength to give, and as Ovaska fell down onto the ground again, Miranda’s sword flashed, and Ovaska’s neck parted, her body striking the concrete floor . . . followed by her head.

Ovaska’s arm fell outstretched, her sword landing beside her with a loud clang.

For just a second Miranda heard nothing but the hoarse sound of her own breath, and the world was held suspended, the Queen’s eyes on the fallen body of Marja Ovaska, the floor stained with their mingled blood.

Miranda heard another thunderous pounding, and it shook her enough to make her remember . . . she wasn’t finished yet.

She bent over Ovaska’s body and stuck her hand in the assassin’s pants pocket, retrieving the ring with the keys to the basement room and cell doors.

Miranda stumbled back the way she had come, her entire body begging her to fall, her strength finally failing her, in so much pain she couldn’t think—but she didn’t need to think. She just had to walk.

She held on to the rail as she half fell down the stairs, her vision swimming black and gray, her breath nothing but wheezes; the stake had collapsed her lung. She absently reached up and pulled it, but she didn’t even feel the wood leaving her body. She had to keep going. In just a minute . . . in just a minute she could lie down . . .

The Queen fell against the cell door, swinging with it into the cell itself. Her fingers were numb around the keys, but she used the bars to support herself and put one foot in front of the other, forcing herself to keep going.

“Sweet Jesus,” she heard someone whisper. “Miranda, sit down . . . you’re going to kill yourself . . .”

Stubbornly she shook her head and sagged into the back wall, trying to focus her gaze on the keys enough to figure out which one went to the shackles.

“Miranda—stop.”

She could barely move, but she lifted her head and met Deven’s eyes.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said softly.

She started to protest, but he held her eyes. She could see how tired he was . . . so tired . . . she understood . . . she just wanted to sleep . . .

“Put your hand on my shoulder, Miranda,” he repeated.

Shaking too violently to speak, she obeyed.

“It’s all right,” she heard him say. “I’m ready.”

Miranda felt power, more than she would have believed he still had, lifted into her, a gentle current of energy that stemmed the flow of blood from her wounds, eased her pain, and helped her slide slowly to the floor instead of falling.

The keys fell out of her left hand, the sword out of her right.

“There,” he whispered. “We can both rest now.”

Miranda smiled, nodded, and closed her eyes.

Before the Elite even had the door open all the way, David and Jonathan both raced inside the building, into a scene of blood and death, Ovaska’s headless body sprawled on the ground, her lifeless face caught in a moment of eternal shock.

David had been able to feel Miranda for a few minutes, but she was gone again—back into the shielded room, he knew. She was hurt . . . badly hurt . . . dying . . .

So was Deven. Jonathan faltered, gasping, his hand flying up to his Signet. “Dev . . . no, baby, don’t . . .”

“Over here!”

Faith was pointing at an open door in the corner. David grabbed Jonathan’s arm and hauled him along into the stairwell.

Prime and Consort burst into the room, and David made it to Miranda’s side in a heartbeat, falling to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms, knocking Deven’s sword out of her lap.

David was already weakened, but he didn’t care; he opened himself to her fully, letting the energy between them return to balance, giving her everything he could spare to heal her at least enough to make it home safely . . . but to his surprise she wasn’t as bad off as he had felt she was even a moment ago, and her wounds had already stopped bleeding.

He looked up in time to see Jonathan lowering Deven’s body from the wall where he had been chained, the two of them sinking to the floor together.

It didn’t look like Deven was breathing . . . but Jonathan was still alive. There had to be some hope . . .

He felt the same tide of power between the Pair that had passed between him and Miranda. Jonathan held Deven close, breathing hard, his eyes full of anguish, waiting . . . but Deven hadn’t just given all his energy to Miranda, he’d given her everything, even his life force, the base energy that held the body and soul together . . . and Jonathan simply wasn’t strong enough to replenish that.

Desperate, David extended the connection between himself and Miranda to Jonathan. He wasn’t sure if the Consort would know what to do with it the way Deven would, but Jonathan seemed to have learned a few things from his lover; he “caught” the line of energy and drew from it, his gratitude echoing along the line to David. Then, with the four of them joined as they had been that night to heal Kat, Jonathan poured the energy into Deven as gingerly as he could . . . and again they waited, afraid to even breathe, afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium they’d managed to cobble together for the Prime.

Finally, finally, David saw the Prime’s lip tremble. Deven’s eyes fluttered open, pupils dilating until they focused on his Consort.

Jonathan smiled, so relieved he half sobbed, and kissed Deven everywhere he could that wasn’t covered in bruises or blood.

Deven returned the smile weakly and murmured something in Gaelic too low for David to interpret, but that made Jonathan laugh; then, with a sigh, Deven turned his face into his Consort’s chest and passed out.

David withdrew from the connection, shielding himself and Miranda off again. He felt Miranda stir in his arms and looked down into her face. Blood had run down her forehead from a cut and was drying on her cheek, but her skin was unmarred, and her eyes were exhausted but full of life as she blinked up at him.

She started to cry. She could barely speak, but she was determined to be heard as she whispered raggedly, “David . . . Deven . . . he’s . . .”

“Shh . . .” He laid a finger on her lips. “He’s alive, beloved. He’s alive.”

Miranda was still crying, but she broke out into a smile and nodded with relief.

Then she said, “Blood. Shower. Chocolate. You. Now.”

He laughed quietly, kissed her, and replied, “As you will it, my Lady.”

Nineteen

Texas didn’t have much of a winter, but what it had was wet and bitter, and autumn was already headed that way, a line of storms from the north driving freezing rain into the Hill Country with a vengeance.

Esther had built a roaring fire for the Queen, clucking over her still-pale cheeks like a mother hen before leaving the suite warm and cozy and smelling faintly of herbs and candle wax.

Miranda leaned her chin on her guitar and stared into the flames, absently plucking a string here and there. Despite Esther’s worries, she was feeling better tonight, just shaky and tired; for the past three days she’d slept more than she’d been awake, and she hadn’t left the Haven even though she was due back at the Bat Cave for a follow-up session to rerecord a couple of problematic tracks.

She had told Grizzly she had the flu. Because it was going around in this nasty weather, he had no reason to doubt her.

She paused and reached up to touch her Signet. Part of her wanted to cancel the entire project and give up on the idea of performing. So many people had been hurt . . . but in the end, she couldn’t be anyone but who she was, and as she had told Faith, music was a part of her she wouldn’t surrender unless there was no other choice. She’d find a way to make it work . . . tomorrow.

Tonight, she just wanted to be warm and safe and comfortable, with the rain falling outside and the firelight soothing her inside. But her heart still ached, and her body still ached, and it was hard to feel comforted knowing how many of her friends had suffered at the hands of Marja Ovaska. It was hard not to feel guilty—for not stopping Marja sooner, for letting Sophie get killed, for a hundred things Miranda couldn’t have anticipated and couldn’t change even if she had. There were still questions that needed answering—chief among them, who was Ovaska working for? What did that client want with a Signet? Miranda was afraid to even contemplate that.

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called.

When she looked up, she was surprised, and said, “Deven.”

The Prime closed the door quietly behind him. He, too, was still drawn and tired looking, moving a little more slowly than usual. He hadn’t even regained consciousness until last night. Even Jonathan’s power combined with David’s and Miranda’s almost hadn’t been enough to save him—Jonathan wasn’t a healer and didn’t have Deven’s skill to direct the raw power as a healer could. He could only push the energy into Deven and hope it kept him alive. It was something of a miracle Deven had survived at all. It would take a while to fully recover from that, even as strong as he had been.

David had apologized to Miranda a half-dozen times for taking the liberty of offering their energy . . . before she reminded him that Deven had given his own life to save her and had been the one to shield her from the explosion before that. She had no regrets about having to sleep an extra day or two if it meant that Deven was still alive . . . and that was something she’d never expected to hear herself say.

Deven came to the couch where she was sitting and held something out to her.

Miranda frowned. “What is this?”

He smiled. “It’s a sword, Miranda.”

“I know that. But why are you giving it to me?”

“Because she’s yours.”

Miranda set aside her guitar and took the blade he offered; it was the one he had worn here, the one David had said was new. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and she felt a stab of recognition—she had fought Ovaska with it, not with Sophie’s sword. This one felt natural in her grip and was perfectly balanced, as if it had been created for her arm.

“I had her made for you,” Deven explained. “Not by Volundr, though, don’t worry. Call her a wedding gift, or perhaps a peace offering.”

She drew the blade partway from the sheath, admiring the carving along the steel. “It’s . . . she’s beautiful . . . thank you.”

He nodded and took a step back, intending to leave, but she said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

Miranda went on. “I was thinking that . . . maybe you and David should see each other again.”

He didn’t bother—or perhaps didn’t have the energy—to hide his surprise. “What?”

“I don’t want to be the reason that David is unhappy,” she said. “He loves you. So maybe you could meet sometimes, like a weekend every couple of months, no questions asked. We could make some kind of arrangement that would work for all four of us.”

Deven stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook his head. “No.”

“Wait . . .
you’re
saying no?”

“That’s right.”

“But . . . why?”

Again, the smile; a touch rueful, a touch enigmatic, a touch wry. “Because I don’t want to be the reason you’re unhappy.”

“But . . .”

He reached over and touched her head as if in benediction. She felt a light energetic pulse, as if he had stroked her hair, though his hand didn’t move, and it made her feel warm and safe . . . the way she had craved to feel for days. “It’s time for him to be with you, Miranda. You have the right to grow together as a Pair without me interfering. Life is going to be hard enough for you already in the next few years. Perhaps one day later on we can talk about it. But for now . . . Jonathan and I are going home, where we belong.”

This time he did walk away, but as he opened the door, she glanced down at the sword in her hands, then looked back up and called, “Deven.”

He paused in the doorway without looking at her. “Yes?”

She held up the blade. “David said you name your swords, and that’s what this carving is.”

“It is indeed.”

“Well . . . who is she? What do I call her?”

Deven smiled at her over his shoulder. “Shadowflame.”

The stables were heated, of course, but David still fretted over the horses’ comfort in such ghastly weather, so he visited them every night for at least a few minutes. As far as he could tell, neither one was at all perturbed at being cooped up inside—the forecast called for a few days’ clearing before the next front, so he hoped he could take them both out tomorrow night, but in the meantime both seemed content to be coddled.

He ran his hand down Osiris’s nose. The Friesian flicked his ears toward David and whuffled his hair affectionately.

“Here you go,” David said to the stallion, offering him a cookie from his pocket.

Osiris munched contentedly on the cookie and nosed David for more, but David shook his head and chuckled, admonishing the horse. “Don’t be greedy.”

“He can’t help it,” came a voice. “You’re irresistible.”

David turned toward the sound; he hadn’t felt anyone approaching, but it wasn’t that surprising given who it was. “You should be in bed . . . and certainly not walking through the cold to get here.”

Deven shrugged. He was bundled up in his coat, with a scarf and gloves; he looked a hundred times better than he had even the night before, but still weary, even with his usual wardrobe, jewelry, and eyeliner perfectly in place. For once Deven looked older than a teenager, and it made David want to drag him into the house and tuck him back into bed whether Dev liked it or not.

“Our steward called,” Deven said. “The jet’s been cleared to leave tonight. There’s a car on the way to pick us up.”

“You’re . . . you’re leaving? Now?”

“We’ve been away too long.” When he saw the uncertainty in David’s expression, he added, “I’m fine to travel, dear one. I need a few days’ rest yet, but I’ll sleep much more soundly in my own bed.”

“With your own Consort,” David said—almost blurted—before he could stop himself.

Deven gave him a searching look. “So that’s why you were angry at me,” he mused. “It wasn’t just for keeping the Red Shadow secret from you . . . it was for keeping it from you but telling Jonathan.”

David started to make the expected denial but couldn’t. He also couldn’t meet Deven’s eyes. “You’re right.”

“He’s my Consort, David. I don’t say that to rub it in your face . . . it’s just the way things are. He knows me, and loves me, in a way you can’t . . . and vice versa. Each of you is a part of me, and that will never change.”

David noted the careful distance Deven was keeping—but that might be as much about Osiris as about David. Deven had never been comfortable around horses. Experimentally, David moved away from the stall, toward the Prime, who stood his ground.

They faced each other, eyes holding for a while, before Deven said, “I suppose I’ll see you at Council.”

“Right . . . I suppose.”

Another pause. “Any luck figuring out how those amulets worked?”

David didn’t remark on the change of subject. “Novotny’s analyzing the one we found on the body as well as looking for other evidence. We didn’t find anything else in the building—nothing at all, not even personal effects.”

“So Sophie’s warehouse wasn’t where Ovaska was living. It was just a holding pen for us. She might have other artifacts at her real home base.”

“It looks that way. We’re working on finding her hideout. There’s not much to go on so far, but . . . Novotny’s people are smarter than the FBI and have better equipment. They’ll find something.”

“What about her client?”

“There were no other vampires in the area that night, at least none that showed up on the sensors. I had Elite canvass the neighborhood. Witnesses we questioned that night saw a limo traveling down Buckland, but it didn’t stop at the building. Either her client has a shielding device of his or her own, or her client is a human.”

Deven nodded. “I’d wager it’s a human.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the Shadow only hires out to humans. Her leaving her victims’ left hands behind indicates she was still following standard Shadow protocol, so it stands to reason she was working for a human.”

“She didn’t cut off Miranda’s hand.”

“Her client wanted Miranda alive and unspoiled.”

“But we can’t know for sure the client is human.”

“Perhaps you can’t. But I know my agents.”

David asked what had been on his mind for days. “Did you mean it when you said you didn’t try to recruit me because we were sleeping together?”

Deven sighed, looking down at the hay-scattered ground, then back up at David. “As I said . . . Sophie was the only agent I was ever attached to. I knew better, even as I let her keep working for me. Caring about them compromises my ability to send them into certain death. There was no way I could have done it to you.”

“Do you enjoy being the Alpha? Killing people for money?”

The Prime gave him a mischievous grin. “I don’t kill people for money, David. I pay other people to kill people for money. I’m a murder pimp.”

David laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And to answer your question . . . I enjoy training warriors. I enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that they’re the best in the world. And it’s not all about vengeance and greed. More than half of our contracts are for governments that need something done that the human military can’t accomplish. Many of my people have stopped wars before they started, brought down dictators, taken out spies. I’m not ashamed of what I do . . . or of what I’ve done.”

They met each other’s eyes again, and David understood what he was saying. Despite the consequences, despite almost dying, Deven would do it all again if it meant bringing Miranda to David . . . and not only had Sophie taught David’s Queen, she had fought in the battle of the Haven and had a hand in ending the Blackthorn war. Deven had no regrets about that . . . and, in the end, neither did David.

Finally, Deven nodded. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. “Take care of yourself . . . and take care of each other.”

“You, too.”

Deven reached out and took David’s hand, lifting it to his lips, squeezing it, and then letting go. “Good-bye, David.”

David didn’t expect to feel his heart breaking as Deven walked away, and yet . . . there it was. No matter what, no matter how much time or distance came between them, some part of him would always be at Deven’s side, and part of Deven would always reside in David’s heart.

David crossed the stable to catch up to Deven, laying a hand on his shoulder. Deven stopped and turned toward him, and David saw the pain in his eyes, pain he had intended to keep hidden until he was safely twenty-five thousand feet above Texas and long gone from here.

David slid his hand up to Deven’s face, tipping the Prime’s chin and kissing him softly. He felt Deven’s arms move around him, and they held on to each other for a moment, eyes closed, memorizing the smell and taste of each other, the sound of each other’s breathing.

“I love you,” David said into Deven’s ear.

Holding on to his hands, Deven stepped back, his smile remarkably like the one that David had seen on his face after he had healed Kat that night in the city: a smile of peace and happiness, untouched by the sorrow that he wore habitually beneath his coat.

“I love you, too,” Deven replied.

Then he released David’s hands and walked away.

Once again, a car was waiting to take Deven and Jonathan to the airport; and once again, Faith was waiting, but this time she was standing inside the Haven’s enormous front doors. Protocol be damned—it was cold outside.

The Pair emerged from the hallway with their honor guard. The rest of their Elite were already on the way back to California, but their bodyguards would travel on the jet with them.

David and Miranda had said their good-byes to the Pair in private. They were trying to keep as much of the story under wraps as possible to avoid causing gossip about Ovaska’s intentions or origins, so they had all agreed not to make a dramatic production of the farewell; but this time no one was slinking away, just observing tradition in truth instead of hiding behind it. This time there were no furtive glances, and Deven and Jonathan were side by side.

Faith was just glad to have a chance to hug them both.

She smiled to herself. Jonathan gave his Prime a kiss on the forehead, and Deven looked up at him with an indulgent sparkle in his eyes. Yes, this time things were different. Thank God for that.