Queen of Shadows

by Dianne Sylvan

  “We need to go in where we’ll have the greatest advantage and do the most damage.”

  “Side entrance,” Miranda said. “There’s one over there—but the doors are electronically locked.”

  “Locks are the least of our worries. Come on.”

  They slipped past the stables and around to the side of the main building. Miranda was grateful for her borrowed clothes; Sophie had dressed her all in black, and though the T-shirt was tight across her chest, the rest fit well enough. The two of them looked like paramilitary, except that instead of guns, they were armed to the teeth with swords, and Sophie had insisted she also carry a wooden stake in her belt.

  Once on the far side, Miranda looked back around the corner at the front entrance—seconds later, something whistled down from the roof, and one of the insurgents fell to the ground with a cry, a crossbow bolt in his chest. There were more whistles as the Elite picked the enemy off from above. The rest of the insurgents—Miranda counted at least thirty still pushing their way in—clogged the doors, trying to shove their cohorts out of the way before they, too, were shot.

  They were trying to destroy her home. They were killing her friends. They might already have killed Faith . . . or David . . . They wanted to tear apart everything the Signet stood for. Her vision seemed to turn red, but she kept her anger under control—she had to save it for what was ahead.

  Miranda ducked back and joined Sophie at the garden door that she and Faith had walked in and out of a dozen times when Miranda lived here. Sophie was fiddling with the door handle. Miranda was about to remind her that the lock was electronic, when Sophie grabbed her arm and hauled her back, saying, “Move!”

  There was a small explosion, a puff of black smoke, and the door swung open.

  “Hasn’t been a lock made that I couldn’t get into,” Sophie said. “Some require a little less finesse than others .”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t bring anything else that blows up. We could use a nice flamethrower or something.”

  Miranda risked one last look at the front. Suddenly the broad double doors slammed shut, crushing at least one invader between them and blocking the others from getting in. The enemy were shouting among themselves, dividing up to find other ways.

  “Shit, they’re coming this way!” Miranda exclaimed. “Get in!”

  They both ran through the door side by side and Sophie flung it shut, while Miranda dragged the nearest table in front of it to at least buy time. She shoved the table sideways up beneath the door handle while Sophie took a wad of some kind of gray chewing gum and stuffed it into the lock.

  “Pressure-sensitive explosive,” Sophie explained. “When they try to open it, boom! It won’t do that much damage but it’ll make them shit their pants. Let’s move.”

  There was no guard at the door, which told Miranda that everyone who was able had been diverted to the front entrance. It seemed like a bad idea—how could David know that all the insurgents were there, not trying to come around like she and Sophie had?

  Her answer came seconds later when four Elite came pounding down the hallway straight toward them. Miranda recognized one as Theo, who had served as an East Wing guard a few nights during her stay.

  “Stay where you are, hands in the air!” Theo yelled. “Show your coms!”

  “We don’t have coms!” Miranda yelled back. “We’re friends of the Haven, we came to help. There are Blackthorn coming through this door.”

  “We’re aware of that, we’re tracking them,” Theo snapped. “Who are you?”

  “Sophia Castellano,” Sophie said, steel in her words. “Formerly of the Red Shadow and an ally of this Signet. I am also the bodyguard to your Prime’s lover. We need to find the Prime immediately.”

  Miranda blinked at Sophie. “What’s a Red Shadow?”

  “Better that you don’t know.”

  Theo gaped at Miranda for a few seconds, finally recognizing her, then deferred to Sophie without question. “Our Lord Prime is with the rest of the Elite fighting in the Great Hall. We’ve already lost warriors, and they outnumber us three to one. The more swords the better—come with us. Eighty-Three, Forty-Four, stay here and keep that door shut.”

  They all headed down the hallway at a graceful trot, and Miranda asked, “How bad is it?”

  “Bad, my Lady. Samuel and Paul were both in collusion with the enemy and let them in through security after Ariana Blackthorn planted a GPS to trace the Haven’s location. Near as we can figure, they were communicating the one way we don’t check on.”

  “Radio?” Sophie ventured.

  “No, the mail. Postal mail has never been inspected piece by piece except in suspicious cases. Samuel was sending regular one-stamp letters to Ariana at a post office box. It never raised a single eyebrow.”

  They took the hall that led out of the Prime’s wing, and Miranda stuck her head in the suite to see if David was there, by some miracle, but he wasn’t. In fact it looked like a tornado had blown through the room. There were no suite guards—Samuel and this Paul had already abandoned their posts and all pretense of loyalty.

  She hoped they both died nasty.

  They passed the music room, and again Miranda paused—the door was locked tight, but she felt a moment’s fear. “I will protect you,” she promised the Bösendorfer inside. “I won’t let you down.”

  Sophie gave her a quizzical look.

  “Bastards better not hurt my piano,” Miranda replied.

  “That’s what you’re worried about right now? What about your boyfriend?”

  “He can take care of himself. I know he’s a good fighter. I’ve just never seen him do it.”

  “Get ready,” Theo said at her side, urging them all to the left. “We’re almost there.”

  The sounds of the battle reached them first—screams, shouts, cries of agony, the solid thump of fists on flesh, the clash of blade on blade. Something fell and broke all over the tile floor, probably some statuary or another. The sounds of nearly a hundred people bottlenecked into the Great Hall were deafening.

  The Elite defended both staircases and thus far the invaders had fought them halfway to the second floor, but they held their ground.

  Miranda ran up to the railing, searching for familiar faces in the din. An Elite screamed in pain as he was run through with a wooden sword, and blood pooled all around his body, blood that another vampire slipped in; Miranda searched their faces, and the faces of the dead, for those she knew.

  There was Samuel, decapitated and dismembered. Another Elite lay nearby, and she was pretty sure it was Paul.

  Finally she caught sight of Faith in the center of the fight, exactly where Miranda expected her to be. The Second was a blur of motion, her two swords whirling all around her, and attacker after attacker dove in for the kill and never emerged. She wasted no time with banter—Faith had one objective, to put down the insurgents, and she would do exactly that.

  Where was David? And where was Ariana? She had to be here. She would have come.

  “Draw!” Sophie shouted. Two insurgents had broken through the wall of Elite at the head of the stairs and were making a break deeper into the building.

  Miranda joined her, and they outran the enemy and faced them in the hallway, swords at the ready.

  The two insurgents looked amused at the sight of two small women spoiling for a fight. Miranda knew exactly what they were going to do—underestimate her.

  One of them moved in, blade ready, and Miranda took him on, while Sophie took the other. Miranda fought hard, her sword arm already aching from overuse, but she lost as much ground as she gained until she remembered she had better weapons than a sword.

  She lowered her sword, held out her hand toward the man, reached into herself for her power, and pushed.

  He began to tear at his clothes, and his hair, and scream: “No, Daddy! No! I’m sorry! NO!” He dropped to the ground in a fetal position, head covered with his arms, his sword and the fight abandoned to a less visible but f
ar more potent attacker.

  Miranda walked over, put her booted foot on the man’s neck and pushed him flat on the floor, and with one swing took his head.

  Sophie had already dispatched hers with the wooden stake she’d stuck in her jacket. The insurgent lay in a spreading pool of her blood, eyes wide open.

  Miranda’s head already felt like it was going to split from that little stunt, but she grounded quickly—she was probably going to have to do it again. In fact, if only she could get control of more than one mind at once, she could take out several at a time, drown them in childhood fears or reliving the death of a loved one. She could choke them on their own histories while Sophie, by far the better fighter, killed them.

  She remembered being skeptical that empathy would be useful in combat.

  They stepped over the bodies and reassessed the situation. So far the Elite were still holding the stairs, but the insurgents were trying to get the doors back open, and there was no way to know how many might have found other entrances already.

  “We need a way to disable all of them at once,” Miranda said, shouting to be heard above the din. “I don’t think I can work on this many. At that mental depth I have to do them one by one.”

  Sophie started to speak, then looked up past Miranda and grinned. “What we need,” Sophie said, “is a really pissed-off telekinetic.”

  Miranda’s heart nearly burst from her body, and it was all she could do not to jump up and run to him, but Sophie kept her firmly out of the way where they weren’t seen.

  David Solomon stepped out onto the balcony where the two staircases met over the Great Hall.

  He wore his long coat and was fully armed, but the thing that was most frightening—the thing that made the entire fight stop and the hall fall silent—was the churning cloud of wrath that surrounded him, the silver of his aura shot through with deadly black. His eyes were pure silver, the Signet ablaze at his throat.

  He stepped up onto the balcony rail. Miranda saw the Signet’s light begin to pulsate—she’d never seen it do that before, but it made him look even more terrifying.

  “Elite,” he said, “Stand down.”

  As one, the Elite dropped whomever they were fighting, lowered their weapons, and stepped back to line the walls of the Great Hall.

  The Prime jumped smoothly off the rail, landing twenty feet below and straightening to level a steely-eyed gaze on the insurgents, who were inching closer to each other and looking like they wanted to pry the doors back open and flee into the night.

  Miranda rushed to the rail to look down. David slowly, deliberately drew his sword and stood with it down at his side, and when he spoke, it was with the same calm authority she had heard him use at the Elite trials. No one could look away.

  “You have staged an open attack on the Haven of this territory in an attempt to assassinate me and claim the Signet. You have failed. The sentence for such actions is death.”

  The blade of his sword tilted and caught the light. “I will give you a choice. If you hand over Ariana Blackthorn, you will die a quick and merciful death. If you face me now, you will die with honor in battle. If you try to escape, you will be cut down by my Elite and bleed to death on this floor.”

  As if on cue, one of the insurgents broke free of the hypnotic hold David had over them and bolted for the doors.

  David raised a hand, and the man fell to the floor, screaming, with the sickening sound of breaking bones. Blood spurted from the insurgent’s nose and ran from his mouth, and he twitched, still trying to get back to his feet and run.

  Faith, at the ready, swung her sword and finished him, then bowed to the Prime.

  He smiled. “Next?”

  Seconds ticked by before the crowd parted near the doors. The invaders fell back respectfully as a woman stepped out from behind them. She was blond and had huge eyes, a gaunt face that might once have been beautiful, and was smiling that same cruel murderous smile she had worn when she stabbed Miranda through the heart.

  She came out into the center of the room and stood facing the Prime without a trace of fear. Then she lifted her hand, and Miranda saw what was dangling from it: a carbon copy of David’s Signet, only slightly smaller. Its stone, too, was flashing rhythmically.

  A gasp went up all over the room.

  Miranda saw David’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His face went absolutely white. “What’s going on?” Miranda whispered to Sophie.

  Sophie, too, was astonished. “The flashing . . . that’s what happens when a Signet chooses its bearer. When the Prime finds his Queen, that’s how he knows.”

  “Wait . . . it can’t be her!”

  Sophie rolled her eyes artfully. “Well, now, who else could it possibly be speaking for?”

  Ariana and the Prime stared at each other. Then Ariana said sweetly, “Looks like we get to call a truce, my Lord.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Just think,” Ariana went on, “You and I, bound together for all eternity—how poetic. I had no idea, when I killed your little human whore, that this would happen. I thought I was merely inflicting the same pain on you that you had on me. But this is so much better.”

  Miranda started to leap up, but Sophie again grabbed her arm and held her back. “Just wait,” she hissed.

  Ariana, laughing, reached up and dropped the Signet’s chain around her neck.

  The second it settled over her chest, the stone went dark.

  David’s continued to flash, and he glanced down at it, frowning a little before looking back up at Ariana.

  “You will never be Queen,” he told her. “You will never hold a Signet. You are a pretender to the throne, Ariana, and not worthy of these hallowed halls. I’ll cut you down the same way I did your Prime and you’ll die the way you lived—as nobody.”

  Ariana’s face became a twisted mask of rage. “Kill him!” she shouted.

  Her men rushed forward past her, roaring out their challenge, and surrounded the Prime, who stood waiting, a faint smile on his face.

  As the first of the insurgents reached him, he brought up his sword and said to the Elite without raising his voice, “Attack.”

  The insurgents, so intent upon following orders, had all run into the center of the room toward David and were now surrounded by Elite on all sides. The Haven warriors bore down on the insurgents, their swords slicing through the air, and the room was suddenly full of the sounds of battle once more.

  Miranda pulled her eyes back to the Prime.

  He met the first four attackers at once, his sword a liquid flame, his body a blur of motion as he kicked one in the head, spun in midair, beheaded the second man, and opened another’s throat on the follow-through stroke. The fourth avoided the first slash aimed at her, but was simply not fast enough—she tried to parry but couldn’t, and he punched her, then pulled a wood-bladed dagger from his belt and ran her through. By the time he’d gotten to her, more had come, but he didn’t lose a step; she could barely see him, he moved so fast, almost as if he were dancing, each movement graceful and deadly.

  Sophie was laughing, a look of recognition on her face. To Miranda’s eyebrow, she said, “That style—I’ve only met one other vampire who fought like that. Come on—let’s go get messy.”

  Miranda followed her from the balcony rail around to the staircase, and they ran down to join the Elite.

  Miranda’s heart was pounding, but there was no time to think, no time to consider her actions. She simply had to fight. One of the insurgents closed on her, and she felt her awareness turning crimson again, her mind going deeper into the trancelike place Sophie had shown her before she crossed over. Now the power came through her like a breath, and she gave herself to it willingly.

  Nearby she heard something crash, and then a scream; she disabled her opponent and rammed her sword into his neck, unable to avoid the spray of blood; it hit her chest and shoulders, and the thick smell of it only fueled her bloodlust. She glanced up toward the noise in time to see an invade
r fly backward into the wall, then another, and another; they were picked up off the ground and flung without anyone touching them. She jerked her head to the right and saw that David was fending off an attack with one hand and gesturing with the other.

  She felt the energy moving through him up and out like a volcanic eruption, and another insurgent fell to the ground, screaming, clutching his head as his skull cracked.

  Miranda fought her way toward the center of the room. She could hear Sophie laughing as she did the same—but then her laughter cut short, and Miranda whirled around toward her.

  Sophie lurched forward, mouth open. The splintered end of a wooden stake protruded from between her ribs. She seemed to gather the last of her strength to round on her attacker and return the favor, sending the woman who had impaled her to the ground with wood in her own chest. Blood running freely from her body, she threw herself at the next wave of attackers, taking out three more before her strength failed her.

  “Sophie!” Miranda cried, diving between warriors toward her teacher, who fell to her knees, then pitched forward onto her stomach.

  She turned Sophie over gently. “What do I do?” she asked. “Do I pull it? Sophie—”

  Sophie laughed again, weakly. Blood was trickling from her mouth. “Told you so,” she wheezed, coughing. Spasms racked Sophie’s petite frame, and something rattled deep in her chest.

  Then she lay still.

  Miranda’s eyes burned. She looked up; all around her people were dying. The stench of blood and the chaos were overwhelming.

  She caught sight of Faith, still alive, still fighting.

  Her opponent was Ariana Blackthorn . . . and Faith was losing.

  Faith yielded more ground to Ariana, who was swinging side to side with a blade as if she had lost any sort of skill to the scarlet rawness of her hatred. The Blackthorn was a horrific sight, her face streaked with blood and her hair filthy around her face. Still, Faith continued to let her drive her back, and back . . .

  . . . straight to the Prime.

  Faith moved from side to side to avoid Ariana’s wild swings, only bothering to parry when her sword sang too close to Faith’s head for comfort. Ariana obligingly followed her in their waltz across the hall until they reached the center of the storm.