Queen of Shadows

by Dianne Sylvan

  More questions along those lines began to occur to her. She was clean—who had bathed her? Someone had bandaged her and dressed her, which meant someone had touched her naked, unconscious body. The way her palm was wrapped suggested someone knew what they were doing. Should she be angry about that, or grateful that they had taken care of her? Had it been David Solomon? The thought made her shiver. He’d claimed he didn’t intend to assault her, but why should she believe him? What kind of crazy fuck took in a strange woman he’d just seen kill four people?

  God. Oh God.

  Miranda sat up slowly and painfully and put her head in her hands. That night came to her in flashes of fear and nausea, just like in her dream, but now it was punctuated with images of men at her feet, begging for their lives.

  The scale was balanced, David had said.

  Did she believe that?

  No.

  She couldn’t think about it right now. There was too much, and it was too hard, and she was too fragile—it wouldn’t take a lot to send her wailing over the edge, shield or no shield.

  Instead, she focused on her body, and on moving it. She slid carefully over to the edge of the bed and dropped first one foot, then the other, over the side. Her feet didn’t touch the floor; it was a tall bed, queen-sized, and she had never been a large woman. She was afraid that her legs wouldn’t support her, but testing with one foot she found she could stand, more or less, as long as she held on to the bedpost.

  First, she tottered over to peer out the window, wondering where on earth she was. She expected to see buildings and busy streets, but the view presented to her was one of rolling hills, endless trees, and, closer to her, an expanse of gardens contained within a tall iron fence. Outside the fence, she could make out the silvery shapes of deer grazing along the treeline. There were several smaller structures as well, all built in the same style as where she was. She figured out, by craning her neck to the left and right, that she was on the second floor of an honest-to-God mansion, somewhere in the Hill Country.

  Her knees felt weak at the realization that wherever this place was, it was definitely no-one-can-hear-you-scream territory. There wouldn’t be any buses running out this far. If she wanted to leave without a ride, she’d have to hike in the Texas heat.

  Without shoes. She looked down at herself, noticing her attire for the first time. They’d dressed her in a white T-shirt and black cotton pants that were too long for her legs. Her hair was hanging loose and her feet were bare, their chipped raspberry toenail polish poking out from the pants. Had they thrown away her clothes? She hoped so, although she’d liked her beat-up old tennis shoes, and she’d been wearing her favorite blue panties with the stars all over them . . .

  Flashes. Hands. Pain. “You’ve got the sweetest little pussy I’ve ever fucked . . .”

  She swayed backward and had to half turn and grab the bedpost to keep from passing out. She wanted to go back to sleep . . . she wanted a drink . . . she wanted to die. Anything to make it stop, to leach the memories from her and leave her alone.

  Shaking her head hard against her thoughts, she turned her attention back to her surroundings and set about a slow exploration of the room.

  It was about the size of her apartment bedroom and had the indefinable feel of a place that was kept clean but never used. The furnishings were expensive but not overblown, fairly traditional in style but not ornate. Bed, chair, matching sofa, fireplace, chest of drawers. Her guitar and purse had been left atop the latter.

  Out of habit more than interest she opened the case and checked to see that her guitar had survived. It had, without so much as a broken string. Small favors.

  She rifled through her purse and dug out her cell phone, which turned on obligingly even though the screen was cracked. No missed calls, no messages. She snorted softly. Who exactly would miss her? If she had died in that alley, it would have taken days for anyone to notice her absence. Mel at the club would probably be first, after she missed her next performance. The cops would probably identify her body from her driver’s license and old student ID, then call her father, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years. Eventually her sister, Marianne, would hear. Would anyone call Kat? Would Kat blame herself for not staying with her despite her protests that night?

  It doesn’t matter . . . you’re alive. Sort of.

  Nothing appeared to be missing—they’d even found her lip gloss. It was pearlescent mauve. Had there really been a time she’d cared about having shiny lips?

  She wasn’t sure exactly who they were, except that David had said we when speaking of the Haven, so it stood to reason other people lived here, too. He was obviously someone important, but it made no sense to her, and deep down she had a feeling she was better off not knowing.

  One door: a small closet, empty. Another door: a small but well-appointed bath. She frowned. There was no mirror above the sink. Someone had, however, stocked the little room with new toiletries and towels, even including a package of elastic bands for her hair. She dug one out and reached up with stiff, aching arms to arrange the curly mass into a hasty braid.

  She returned to the chest and looked in the drawers: there were two more sets of clothes identical to what she had on, plus some socks and brand-new underwear the same brand and size as her old ones, but all in white.

  Miranda pondered taking a shower, but first she had to finish her inventory: there were two more doors.

  The one that David had disappeared through she figured went out into the hallway, so she started with the other . . . but to her confusion, she opened the door to find herself looking into a marble-tiled hall lined with other doors.

  The door immediately to the left was flanked with a man and a woman in black uniforms, each wearing a sword in a sheath down to their knees, and each with one of those silver bands on their left wrist.

  The woman saw her and smiled, then actually bowed. “Good evening, Miss. My name is Helen and this is Samuel. Shall I call for your dinner?”

  “Um . . . no . . .” she sputtered. “Just looking around, sorry.”

  “If you need anything, just ask one of us,” the guard said. “We’ve been instructed to look out for you.”

  “By . . . by whom?”

  The two exchanged a look. “By the Prime, of course,” she replied.

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  Miranda closed the door. She had absolutely no idea what the woman—Helen—was talking about. What the hell was a Prime? Who were these people?

  And if this door went into the hall, where did the other one go?

  She hesitated with her hand on the knob, then eased it open a few inches, almost dreading what she was going to find.

  More weirdness. Beyond the door was simply another bedroom, this one enormous; the bed alone dwarfed hers, and was surrounded by heavy curtains. The far end of the room was a sitting area with a couch and two chairs facing a fireplace twice the size of the one in her room. Bookshelves lined the walls, laden with volumes and assorted objects from a variety of countries and time periods.

  She felt rather like someone digging up relics from the Titanic, but ventured into the room anyway, careful not to touch anything. The books were not dusty, so either they were routinely read or there was one hell of a maid running around. The usual suspects were in attendance: Shakespeare, Milton, Thoreau, Keats; philosophy, history, even physics and engineering; but there were also at least two dozen software manuals spanning the entire life of computer technology, kept in meticulous chronological order, the most recent being a tome devoted to something called PHP.

  Several weapons hung on the walls, all blades, including one that looked something like a samurai sword and a couple of long knives crossed over each other.

  Ninja computer programmer?

  She completed a circuit around the room, finishing at a large desk with a precise arrangement of electronics. Phone dock, MacBook, a set of Bose speakers designed for use with an iPod. Wireless mouse. Two external hard drives. There were also a
few standard office supplies, including a slim silver pen that lay in a groove cut into the desk’s surface. The pen was engraved, and she risked picking it up to read the inscription: PRIME DAVID L. SOLOMON, PHD.

  Ninja computer programmer doctor?

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  Miranda’s heart stopped and she spun around, or at least tried to, though her body wouldn’t fully obey and she nearly ended up falling over. The voice had come from the doorway to her room, and she turned around to see the speaker standing with arms crossed, glaring at her.

  It was a woman of Asian descent with long black hair in dozens of tiny braids, her brown eyes staring daggers at Miranda. She, too, wore the black uniform of the guards in the hall, but with the addition of a series of small silver pins on the collar, and several extra weapons—also blades.

  Miranda started to stutter out another apology, but the woman cut her off. “I could be out in the city hunting for insurgents, but instead I am sent to check on the Prime’s new pet.”

  Miranda felt the apology die on her tongue with a flash of irritation. “I haven’t lifted my leg on the furniture yet.”

  Was it her imagination, or did the woman almost smile?

  “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “I know,” Miranda said, flushing. “I was looking around my room and found the door. It wasn’t locked. I didn’t realize whose it was.”

  She set the pen down where she’d found it and crossed the room, following the guard back into her own chamber, embarrassed to have been caught snooping. As she passed she noticed that up close, the woman was actually a hair shorter than she was, but a hundred times more imposing, weapons or no weapons.

  Miranda made it back to her room before her legs got too weak to stand on, and she collapsed into the love seat with a quiet moan. She’d managed to forget the pain in her muscles and ribs for a while, but now it flared up again, and she leaned back to take pressure off her chest, shaky and exhausted.

  When she looked up, the woman was staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. There was something like recognition on her face, and she reached into her pocket, retrieving a prescription bottle.

  “These are for you,” she said. “Vicodin.”

  Miranda regarded the bottle, which had her name in bold print across the label, issued by a doctor she didn’t recognize and picked up from a CVS on the west side of Austin.

  “I also instructed Samuel to bring you food,” she went on. “I know you’re probably not feeling hungry, but you have to eat if you’re going to heal.”

  Miranda didn’t bother to protest. She knew that this was not the sort of woman to argue with.

  “Also, I’m to give you this.” The guard produced one of the wristbands that she and the others wore, and handed it to Miranda. “It’s a voice-activated communication device. If you find yourself needing help, say the code number of the person you want to speak to, and it will connect you if you have sufficient security clearance.”

  “How do I know the codes?”

  “Samuel is code nineteen. Helen, code twenty-three.”

  “What about you?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Star-three.”

  “Why a star?”

  “The Prime is Star-one, and I am his second in command.”

  “Then why aren’t you Star-two?”

  “Traditionally the Prime is first in the chain, followed by his Queen, then their second. Our Prime has no Queen, so Star-two is vacant.”

  “What exactly is a Prime?”

  She got the look of someone trying to find words to explain calculus to a hamster. “The Shadow World is divided loosely into twenty-seven territories,” she began. “Each territory is controlled by a Prime, and ideally by a paired Prime and Queen, who set the law which is enforced by their warriors—us. Everyone living within that territory is required to follow the Prime’s law on pain of death.”

  “Okay, back up. Shadow World?”

  The woman looked taken aback. “What?”

  “I don’t get it. I’ve never heard of any of this, and your Prime guy was talking about your world like it’s this whole separate universe. Are you all nuts? You really think there’s some special kind of law just for you? Who is he? Who are you? And what the fuck is going on in this place?”

  She fell back into the cushions, drained by the burst of questions, and stared at the guardswoman, who blinked at her in surprise.

  Miranda waited for her to say something, her head starting to pound—normally the guard’s thoughts and feelings would tell her whatever she wanted to know. This business of having to ask questions felt strange after months of knowing too much about everyone she met. She could even look the woman in the eye, if she wanted to, without being confronted with her entire life story, which for a woman wearing a sword was probably a good thing.

  “And one last thing,” Miranda said before she could help it, “if you guys are bodyguards, why don’t you have guns? What good is a sword going to do you in the twenty-first century?”

  Now the woman definitely smiled. “Bullets are useless against our enemies,” she told Miranda, “but decapitation works for pretty much everyone.”

  “So, what, you’re the Highlander?”

  She took a deep breath and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. “I think perhaps this explanation will take a while.”

  Miranda shut her eyes a moment. “I figured.” She gestured weakly at the woman, who was sitting with absolutely perfect posture, ready at a moment’s notice to leap into action . . . whatever sort of action went on here in Bizarro World. “Why don’t we start with your name.”

  “All right. My name is Faith.”

  “Nice to meet you, Faith. Miranda. Now, tell me who you people are.”

  She tried not to let the statement come off as a command, but Faith’s eyebrow quirked anyway. “It’s complicated. You may not believe me.”

  “Then keep it simple, for now. Ten words or less.”

  “I can give it to you in three.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Faith smiled, and the entire universe, already perilously close to spinning wildly off its axis, ground to a halt as she replied, “We are vampires.”

  Three

  Her name was Maria, and she spoke no English, but the halter top and leather miniskirt said all anyone at the club really wanted to know.

  He led her from the dance floor up the stairs to the balcony, where the guards were holding the space, keeping the rest of the crowd away. She followed gamely, her mind full of sex and tequila.

  She was young and sweet and surprisingly innocent, here with her older friends for a wild night on the town before starting another week cleaning hotel rooms. He imagined her in her maid’s uniform dancing in the hallways, a vacuum her partner, peeking in people’s suitcases. The thought made him smile.

  He also had another image of her: so drunk her eyes rolled in her head, being held down and fucked by the group of frat boys he’d seen moving in on her. Maybe she would remember, maybe it would just be a haze of booze and Rohypnol, but in the morning she would wake up hung over with the vague feeling that someone had been cruel to her, and it would never occur to a poor immigrant girl to get the police involved over being treated like a gutter whore.

  He’d seen it a thousand times. They came to Texas for something better, and perhaps they found it—but the milk of human unkindness was as bitter in Austin as it was in Mexico.

  Maria was nineteen, and her Spanish was lightning fast. She spoke of her friends still out on the dance floor, and of the guy who’d stuck his tongue in her ear an hour ago, and of the merits of Patrón over Cuervo. She was nervous. A handsome man in black had slid in behind her on the dance floor, his hands wrapping around her hips and drawing her back against him, and her will went completely slack. Her friends had elbowed each other, and he knew what they were thinking: rich white man.

  The human mind was astonishingly easy to manipulate. They were al
most always open to gentle suggestion, and few knew how to shield. It was that manipulation, ironically, that enabled his kind to feed without hurting anyone . . . when they bothered to do so.

  He drew Maria to the corner and pressed against her, feeling her small hands and long fingernails clench his upper arms. She had no intention of saying no, but still, he turned so that if she wanted she could still get away, even as he took firmer hold of her mind and tilted her chin back.

  The smell of her skin—perfume, yes, but beneath that soap and sweat and the intoxicating scent of the feminine and mortality—brought his hunger out full force. His teeth scratched lightly over her neck, and he lowered his head and struck.

  Her body tightened, but his hold over her was too strong to allow her to panic. She moaned and ground her hips into his. He ran power through her, heightening her arousal until she moaned again; desire and pleasure strengthened the blood, and flavored it with an undertone of sex and chocolate, thick and hot. She also had the faint taste of frankincense—a good Catholic girl.

  He drank until he felt the itch in his jaw fade, and until her heartbeat fell into rhythm with his. Beyond that point, taking more could injure her. This was all he needed, and would affect her about as much as donating at the blood and tissue center.

  He lifted his mouth from her skin and licked the two tiny holes. They would be gone by midmorning.

  Maria sagged back against the wall, and he held her up for a moment, carefully planting suggestions in her mind: She’d met a man, they’d danced and had a few drinks, and then she’d gone home. She could fill in the details with her own imagination. She was to get in the cab that would be waiting outside and return to her apartment, eat something, and then sleep.

  He watched her walk back down the stairs in her stiletto heels, wondering for the thousandth time why women in this century hadn’t jettisoned such patriarchal masochism. Once he saw her walk out of the club, where his guards would steer her into the Yellow Cab and pay the driver, he took the stairs and left himself.