Shadow's Fall (15 page)

Seven

“Well now,” the Prime said to the man hanging by his wrists from the cinder-block wall. “What am I going to do with you?”

Monroe raised his head; he’d been beaten pretty severely and not fed, so his face was a mess of bruises and a few nasty lacerations. “I was thinking perhaps a bonus, my Lord.”

A sigh. “You should be grateful I’m not abandoning you completely. Solomon is itching to feed you your own entrails, and it would be much easier for me to let him.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a hospital bag of blood with a length of tubing still attached; he fed the end into Monroe’s mouth and squeezed gently to start the flow. Monroe sucked as slowly as he could given how hungry he had to be, and neither spoke again until the bag was empty.

“You are a great many things, my Lord, but cruel isn’t one of them,” Monroe panted.

He laughed coldly. “You think you know me? Foolish boy. It wouldn’t be a matter of cruelty, but one of efficiency, and you
know
I’m efficient.”

The wreck of Monroe’s face began to smooth out as the blood worked its way through his parched system. Soon he was more dirty than injured. Clearly the Elite had taken out their anger on him.

“How much truth am I to give Solomon?” Monroe asked.

“You remember what we discussed in the pre-mission briefing.”

“Enough to indict on the shooting,” the prisoner said with a nod. “What of my other mission?”

A smile. “What other mission?”

Monroe nodded again. “Understood.”

A moment later the door to the interrogation room swung open, and David Solomon and his Second entered … then drew up short.

“What the hell are you doing here?” David asked, at the same time Faith said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Deven smiled. “Allow me to introduce 8.3 Claret,” he said, gesturing at the chained vampire. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t kill him.”

David leaned tiredly against the edge of the table that held the implements he usually employed for interrogations, rubbing his forehead, exasperated. “Tell me again why I don’t hate you?”

The Prime of the West considered the question as he helped his agent down from the wall, then said, “Because I’m really, really good in bed.”

David rolled his eyes. “Just tell me that the shooting was Hart’s idea, not yours, and I might not kill you this time.”

“Of course it was Hart’s idea, darling. I told you he’s been up to something. You’re lucky that I had Claret in his Elite already, or whomever Hart had pull the trigger
would
have shot Miranda in the head, and that would be the end of her career. This way she can ‘recover’ and stage a comeback, and you have a solid case against Hart.”

“So your objective was to shoot her in the chest,” David said to Monroe, who had straightened and was now standing at attention awaiting further orders, “and then to get caught so Hart’s plot would be revealed.”

Monroe—Claret—shot a glance at Deven, who nodded permission for him to speak. “Precisely, Sire,” Monroe said.

“And everyone’s just going to take the word of a turncoat Elite over a Prime?” Faith wanted to know.

Now it was Deven’s turn to roll his eyes. “Have you got ballistics back on the gun?”

“Still waiting,” David said. “Maguire said he’d have something for me by the time the Council reconvened.”

“Well, I believe you will find that the weapon in question was registered to a fellow by the name of Richter, who works as a courier for the import/export business we all know is a front for Hart’s narcotics distribution ring. There’s a clear and present paper trail between Richter and Hart.”

“You’re telling me Hart’s enough of a moron to use a gun that could be traced back to him?”

“No. Hart’s not a moron at all. He’s a crazy bastard and a complete dickweasel, but not a moron. He simply expected his assassin to procure a human weapon. Given Monroe’s record with his Elite, there was no reason to doubt he’d be able to pull off the job without getting caught. Sad, really.” Deven looked at Monroe. “He’s so going to fire you.”

David glared at Deven. “One of these days your meddling is going to backfire on you.”

“What exactly do you call Marja Ovaska? A resounding success?” Deven pointed out. “I had an operative in Hart’s Elite. I saw an opportunity to thwart Hart’s ambitions, and I took it. If I’d told you, you would have insisted I stop the shooting altogether, and you would be back to trading insults and punching him in the nose with no solid evidence that he’s plotting against you.”

David, losing some of his calm, said, “Do you have any idea what you put Miranda through? How hard it’s going to be to manage the aftermath of all this?

He shrugged. “Miranda’s not a child. Stop underestimating her—she can handle it.”

“That. Is not. The point.” David stepped forward so that his greater height towered over Deven—purely out of anger, not because he honestly believed the Prime would be cowed by him or anyone else. “You are not a god, Deven. You have no right to push us around your little chessboard.”

They stared hard at each other. Finally, Deven said, a soft dare as well as an ultimatum in his voice, “Well then, my darling, stop acting like a pawn.”

He vanished into thin air.

David heard Faith let out a breath. “Dramatic,” she muttered. “As per usual.” She waved a hand at Monroe, who was still standing silently. “What do we do with this?”

David forced himself to ground. “Leave him here for now. We’ll act as if we questioned him—you are prepared to testify against Hart, aren’t you, Claret?”

“Yes, Lord Prime.”

“Good. Then I suppose I won’t flay you. Faith, keep double guards on this door and another pair in the corridor—I don’t want Hart getting any ideas about sending in another assassin to destroy the evidence. The Council is set to reconvene at midnight—Maguire has my private cell, but if he should contact the main lines, put him through to me immediately.”

Faith bowed. “As you will it.”

They left the interrogation room together, David securing the bolts behind them. “I’m going to go tell Miranda what the Littlest Magnificent Bastard has been up to this time.”

Deven had been right, which made David even more irritated with him; Miranda took the news that her shooter had been acting under orders from the Alpha as if she’d been expecting to hear it all along.

She was in the middle of getting dressed for a night out on the town—she, Jonathan, and Cora were going into Austin and steering clear of the entire Council situation. They’d stick to the Shadow District where there were no humans to recognize her, since she was supposed to be in the hospital recovering from serious injuries.

She paused midway through lacing up her boot and sighed. “It figures.”

“You aren’t angry?”

Miranda laughed humorlessly. “This is the same person
who sent someone to teach me how to fight so I could take part in the battle that landed me the Signet … and who was spying on us through a yoga teacher, and who slept with my husband, and whose ex-agent killed half my friends … and who saved my life by giving me all his energy, and who saved Kat’s life, and who saved my career last night. I’m sure it would pain Deven to know this, but he’s pretty much lost the ability to surprise me at this point.” She switched to her other boot and added, “In his own twisted way he’s actually being kind of sweet.”

David rapped his head lightly against the bedpost in frustration, earning a chuckle from his Queen, who patted the couch next to her. He joined her and kissed her temple. “He said I underestimate you,” David said. “Do I?”

Miranda sat back thoughtfully. “Not really. You tend to overreact a little when it comes to me, but then, you’ve never once tried to stop me from doing something that was important to me—even when it might be better if you did.”

He took her hands. “I want you to have everything you want in life,” he said. “I’m willing to deal with whatever consequences arise.”

She shut her eyes, and there was pain in her voice. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me. Maybe I should just—”

“Don’t even think it,” David said quickly, changing his grip from her hands to her wrists. “At this point, you absolutely cannot quit.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d be letting Hart win. This is exactly what he wants: for you to doubt yourself and give up.” David held her eyes. “I promise you, Miranda, if at any point it looks like you’ve gone too far and that the risk is too great, I’ll say so. But I believe in you, and I’m not giving up, so neither should you.”

She smiled, eyes bright. “Thank you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her on the nose, then the lips. “Now, get out of here and go have fun. Try not to get into any more trouble.”

“I thought you said have fun!” She stood up and fetched her coat and wallet. “I’d tell you to do the same, but …”

David rose with her and nodded. “If I have an ounce of fun tonight it will be because Hart is eaten by coyotes and shat out over a cliff.”

She laughed and quoted one of his favorite phrases: “From your lips to God’s ears.”

Jonathan woke to an empty bed that evening, but that happened often enough; he rose and dressed for his evening out with the Queens, taking his time, trying to decide if he wanted to continue this half-assed silent treatment or act like an adult.

He hadn’t managed to get his Prime alone since the shooting, and Deven had conveniently had his phone off during the Council meeting, ensuring that Jonathan’s desire to speak to him about what he knew—he
knew
, even without precognition, because he knew his Prime—was going on would go unfulfilled until the next night. Jonathan had given up and gone to bed, and a few hours later when the sun had gone down and they would normally wake twined around each other like wild ivy, Deven had avoided him yet again.

Really, that was all the confirmation Jonathan needed, but he wasn’t going to let this one go. As soon as he was finished dressing, he felt out along the Signet bond between them, and when he found his mate’s presence, he had to smile: of course. Where else would he be?

There were underground tunnels connecting the Haven itself with the outbuildings, though for the most part the complex was purely nocturnal except for a handful of day guards. Deven had most likely taken them, but now it was safe to go outside; Jonathan followed the gentle pull of his mate’s presence out one of the Haven’s side doors and across the compound.

He found his Prime alone in one of the Elite training rooms running through a complex
kata
with his sword, Ghostlight.

The Consort paused in the doorway for a moment. He’d always loved watching Deven move; Dev was naturally graceful, but when fighting, he achieved a level of lyrical precision that was as deadly as it was beautiful.

Deven had studied for half a century in Japan and made his way around the East learning everything he could about martial arts before coming to America to fine-tune his skills with the warrior branch of the Order of Elysium. He had realized very early after becoming a vampire—and perhaps even before that—that he had two choices: Kill or be killed. By now, his style was purely his own, a unique blend of dozens of disciplines and moves that suited his size and speed.

This particular series of choreographed moves was one he had designed himself, and it was slower than the rest, more art than martial; Deven had created it as a form of meditation. It was a sequence he taught his agents to enable them to still their minds and cleanse themselves of distracting emotion.

Of course.
Jonathan sighed to himself. Deven was feeling guilty, but no one would ever know, unless they recognized the
kata
for what it was: a confession.

Ghostlight flashed in the simulated glow of a false moon. The blade was, to date, Deven’s favorite, and he was rarely without it. He swung it in a perfect arc as he turned, finishing the
kata
in the same position he started in, and Jonathan saw that his eyes were closed.

Deven stood still a moment before sheathing the sword and opening his eyes. He already knew Jonathan was there, of course, but he smiled when he saw his Consort.

Jonathan came into the room and kissed him lightly. “Are you all right?”

The Prime made an indefinite noise. “Fine. Are you? You had quite a night.”

Jonathan crossed his arms and regarded him gravely. “You know, Dev … I love you. And I think we’ve come a long way since we first Paired … but you can’t keep doing this to me.”

Deven didn’t bother feigning ignorance. “You weren’t seriously surprised, were you?”

“I can’t always tell you everything I see. And I don’t ask to be told everything you’re doing. But when my friends are in jeopardy, I want to know.”

“You didn’t see it coming? I thought you were the prescient one.”

“Damn it, Dev, don’t do that. Don’t trivialize this. You could have stopped this whole thing, and Miranda wouldn’t have been hurt at all. Do you realize what she went through last night? It was supposed to be one of the biggest nights of her career, and instead, fifteen thousand people saw her bleed all over her guitar.”

“There are bigger concerns here than a couple of bullet wounds,” Deven said sharply. “Do you want to coddle her or save her life?”

“How about if we let her fight her own battles?”

“She will. Do you think this is just about Hart getting back at Miranda? There’s a whole world of awful coming toward this Haven, and it isn’t just about Miranda or David … or even about Hart. It’s about all of us. You know that.”

Jonathan took a deep breath. He could argue with Deven until his voice gave out, but he knew better than to think he’d ever win.

“It’s all changing,” Jonathan said at length, looking away. “Everything we knew … ever since David took the South, something has been …”

“I know,” Deven said, laying a hand on Jonathan’s arm and running it up to his shoulder. “I can feel it, too, love, and I know we have to be ready for it. I tried to warn David. All I’m trying to do now is make sure that in the long run, we all survive. There might have to be collateral damage.”