Shadowflame

by Dianne Sylvan

  “You think David’s swishy?” Miranda asked, pausing, a bit out of breath from trying to get the damn thing zipped. “I never noticed that.”

  “It’s nothing in particular, just a . . . quality.”

  “Well, I had no idea. The whole thing completely caught me by surprise.” Miranda pulled the top into place, then leaned over to wiggle her breasts into it properly. “Is it wrong that I feel weird about it?”

  Kat made a face. “Mira, of course you feel weird. Think about it: In relationships we form concepts of people based on their behavior and what we know about their histories. Those concepts can be accurate or not, and they can be healthy or not, but regardless, if something shakes them, it shakes us, too. You knew David one way, and it turns out that way wasn’t entirely on target, so now you have to adjust. Given how close you are, that makes it even harder.”

  Miranda faced her friend. “Well?”

  Kat frowned, eyeing the outfit. “I liked the first one better—the red lace brings out your eyes, makes the green more intense.”

  Miranda wished for a moment that she could see herself; instead she was in a dressing room with a curtain pulled over the mirror and Kat there to critique her. She’d never really liked shopping, and she liked shopping for stage clothes even less. Luckily she trusted Kat’s judgment. “You’re right. Let me try the other one with these pants—if I can get the pants zipped. Jesus, Goth girls are skinny. At least I’ve got an ass.”

  “And a killer rack,” Kat commented. “Especially in that getup.”

  Miranda ran her hands down over her torso to smooth the shirt, which wasn’t a real corset; she couldn’t wear a real one onstage and sing the way she did. There were also limits to the cleavage she could manage with a guitar hanging over her middle.

  “I’ll bet that there are much more disturbing things in David’s past than a jerk boyfriend.” Kat returned to the subject, handing her back the first top. “He’s three hundred fifty years old, after all. And he probably didn’t get where he is by being nice.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Miranda hadn’t told Kat much about David’s past, not even how he had gotten his Signet; she wasn’t sure if Kat was ready for that. “He’s been through a lot and done a lot.”

  “Well, if you can deal with all of that, you can deal with a little swish. It’s not like it’s a bad thing. Bi is the new hotness, you know.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “Only if it’s two women in a porno movie for straight guys.”

  “And as for the ex being a jackass—if David still likes him, and his hubby is a great guy like you said and loves him, he must not be all bad. Maybe you should try to find some common ground. Besides David, I mean, because that could get weird.”

  Miranda smiled at her. “How did you get so damn wise?”

  Kat snorted. “Wise would be if I hadn’t gotten knocked up.”

  The Queen sat down on the changing room’s bench, abandoning her quest for a moment. She’d been avoiding the subject for most of the evening because she knew Kat was tired of thinking about it every moment of every day, but now that Kat had brought it up, Miranda asked what she’d been wanting to since meeting Kat outside the shop: “What did Drew say?”

  Kat shrugged. “He’s overjoyed. He wants to get married.”

  Miranda could hear the ambivalence, and moreover she could feel it. “And you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m done panicking, so that’s progress. And I’m glad I didn’t go through with the abortion before Drew got back. But I still don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Miranda didn’t say anything, though the desire to make Kat promise to keep the baby was so strong she had to bite her lip against the words. It must be part of her prescient gift, if it could be called a gift. She knew, she just knew, that Kat would have the baby, and that it would be a girl, and somehow . . . somehow that little girl would grow up to be very important to a lot of people. But she wasn’t about to put pressure on Kat.

  “I love kids,” Kat went on. “But I’ve seen so many who were so screwed up, and seen how the world is so hard for them . . . how can I have a kid?”

  Miranda took a deep breath, stood, and changed into the red-trimmed top, saying as casually as she could, “Maybe you’re exactly the kind of person who should have kids, then. Someone who’s been there and seen the best and worst of people. Someone educated, with common sense. You could give a kid a great home, with or without Drew.”

  “But am I ready for this?”

  Miranda leaned over and did the boob shake again, settling into the outfit and testing it out to see if she could breathe. So far so good. “Is anyone?”

  Kat leaned the chair back on two legs, sighing heavily. “Distract me, okay? Tell me more about your big gay husband.” Miranda threw a hair scrunchie at her. Kat laughed, setting the chair back down. “Oh, come on. Is the guy at least hot?”

  “Disgustingly,” Miranda replied. “He’s all Goth and leather.”

  “And he’s really old and powerful?”

  “Over seven hundred years old, and yeah. Apparently most regular vampires only live to about five hundred at the outside, so he’s like a little fanged Yoda.”

  Kat gave her a playful grin. “Have you had any fantasies yet?”

  “About what?”

  “About the two of them getting it on.”

  “God, Kat! No!”

  Kat laughed. “Which means yes. Admit it, Mira, it’s a turn-on! Just picture them in bed—”

  “Kat!” Miranda groaned, looking for something else to throw.

  “Who do you think would be on top?” Kat pondered eagerly.

  “Quit it!” Miranda tried to sound outraged, but she was laughing too hard, and said, “Okay, I’ll give you this, seeing them kiss was kind of . . . sexy.”

  “They kissed? Was there tongue?”

  This time Miranda threw a balled-up shirt at her. “Not that I saw. Now tell me what you think, so I can either buy this thing or get the hell out of here.”

  Kat looked her over again, then flashed her a thumbs-up. “Perfect. I dare anybody to be a jackass to you in that outfit.”

  “Thank God. I’ve had enough of this shopping crap for one night. Let me put my real clothes back on and we’ll go for ice cream.”

  A few minutes later Miranda was mercifully back in her jeans, although she was wearing a lace-up black top with belled sleeves and her favorite big black boots. She’d spent long enough slobbing around in threadbare T-shirts back when she was crazy; comfort still came first, but she knew she looked good in slightly more . . . vampire-appropriate clothing.

  She took the new outfit up to the counter, where the bored girl with the pierced upper lip and six pounds of white foundation looked up from her copy of Catcher in the Rye. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Miranda said. “Do you have the pants in a size ten? These are a little snug.”

  The girl didn’t roll her eyes, but Miranda knew she was doing it in her mind. Her tone was both bored and dismissive as she said, “Did you see any on the rack?”

  Miranda’s temper flared, and she looked into the girl’s eyes and said, power and immortality both clear in her voice, “Go check in the back, please.”

  The girl went pale under her Urban Decay and stammered for a second before saying, “Yes, of course. Hold on just a sec.”

  Miranda shook her head and glanced at Kat, who was looking at her appraisingly. “You didn’t even have to vampmojo her.”

  Miranda smiled. “How do you know?”

  “I remember that tone of voice from the time I took you to the ER and you almost flattened that nurse. You were standing there in your panties and you might as well have had a crown on your head.”

  The clerk returned with a pair of pants guaranteed to fit the Queen, who handed over her Visa wordlessly.

  “Aren’t you going to check the price?” Kat asked.

  Miranda shrugged. “I’m not worried about it. I have to wear this in front of an audie
nce, so I don’t mind spending more.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot, you’re Miss Gotbucks von Rich-Ass now.”

  Miranda signed the charge slip and said, laughing, “That’s Queen Gotbucks von Rich-Ass, thank you very much. Now come on—there’s a double-scoop Mexican vanilla hot fudge sundae out there with my name on it.”

  David wasn’t the kind of man to procrastinate, and he certainly wasn’t one to avoid facing his problems—at least, not anymore. Once upon a time he had run as far and fast from Deven as he could, and only when there were several thousand miles between them could he breathe again.

  He’d thought that all those miles and all those years had done what apologies could not. He’d thought that the past was past, and now that they both had Consorts and were presumably happy and settled in their reigns, it would be just like it had once been, when he had been Deven’s student in the training ring and they had been friends outside it.

  Denial, denial, denial.

  Now here he was, in his bedroom pondering the sword in his hand—a sword that Deven himself had given David after he took the Southern Signet—growing progressively later and later for their appointment in the training room, and David Solomon, Prime of the Southern United States, was scared out of his mind.

  It was all coming back now. The flash of Deven’s smile, the softness of his mouth, the way he moved like a dancer and an assassin in one . . . the cold fire in his wide eyes that belied the molten passionate core of him, a core that had only ever laid itself open for one man . . . and that man was not Jonathan.

  For ten years David and Deven had been inseparable. From the night they first fell into David’s bed, stripping off each other’s Elite uniforms and pressing needy, sharp canines into each other’s flesh, they had been bound by blood and sex so tightly that neither of them knew their boundaries anymore.

  Finally Prime Arrabicci had gotten wind of what was going on in his Elite and called the Second and his lieutenant into the Prime’s office.

  “I’ve heard some disturbing rumors regarding the two of you,” Arrabicci had said tiredly, and David had known exactly who had been in here first, ranting and raving about the perverts in their midst. “Lieutenant Torvald has informed me that the two of you have been conducting some sort of horrible sexual relationship.”

  David and Deven had stood side by side in front of their Prime, and Deven had said, “Sir, Lieutenant Torvald is, as always, mistaken. David and I are not conducting some horrible sexual relationship. We are in fact conducting a fucking fantastic sexual relationship.”

  Arrabicci had groaned and put his head in his hands. “Do you two see the position you’ve put me in here? Aside from any concerns about the two of you doing . . . whatever you do, the fact is we have rules about senior Elite consorting with their juniors. I could have you both thrown out of here on your asses.”

  “But you won’t, Sire,” David had pointed out. “You’ve said yourself we have the best record in the Elite. To toss us out just because we sleep together—off duty, Sire—would be strategically unwise.”

  “Rules are rules, Lieutenant. Therefore I have no choice but to promote you.”

  David had paused, frowned. “I’m sorry, Sire?”

  “You are hereby promoted to co-captain and will serve at Deven’s side. You aren’t to be granted any privileges or pay raises before a six-month probationary period, just to make it clear that I’m not rewarding deviant behavior—I want everyone to see you’ve earned your place at the top, David. And as for your . . . relationship . . .”

  David had braced himself.

  But all the Prime had said was, “Obviously it’s affecting your fighting abilities in a positive and useful manner. You’ve both gone from the best damn warriors in my Elite to the best damn warriors I’ve ever seen. So whatever you two are doing to each other in bed, keep doing it . . . just don’t let me hear about it.”

  “As you will it, Sire,” they had both said together.

  Then they had left the office and walked with utmost dignity back to Deven’s quarters, where they proceeded to shag each other senseless for the entire rest of the night and the following day.

  Deven had needed someone to bring him out of his darkness. David had needed someone who wouldn’t die on him. At first it had been an ideal friendship, two very different lone wolves in search of a pack . . . but soon . . . a look began to linger; a touch seemed to happen of its own accord; and was there a softness in Deven’s eyes when speaking of him? Neither had been looking for a lover, yet they had tripped and fallen headfirst in love like a pair of hormone-ridden teenagers.

  They had spent ten years fighting gangs and making love. Their desire for each other thrived on combat. A victory in the streets meant they would be half naked and going at it in the car on the ride home. Their blood boiled and they tore into each other rabidly. David’s entire world contracted to whichever bed they were in, the exquisite pleasure-pain of who was sucking or stroking whom, the sweetness of Deven’s blood on his tongue.

  And now, when things were so very different, his traitorous heart wanted to travel back in time, back before either of them knew the burden of a Signet, back when he had believed they had a future together.

  No. It’s over with. You’re friends now. Nothing more.

  It was understandable that seeing Dev again would cause old feelings, and old hurts, to bubble to the surface. The last time they’d seen each other, David had been lost in his grief for Miranda, so there was no time for any of that, only time for Deven to help bring him out of it, set him back on his feet, and leave him ready to go back to work. This time there were no such emotional distractions. Now, the Pair were here, and he was about to go to sparring practice as they had a thousand times, and either they would start airing some things out or their friendship was ultimately doomed.

  Logical, yes . . . and about as appealing as a fireplacepoker lobotomy.

  The bedroom door opened and Miranda walked in laden with several shopping bags and the expression of a woman who had just been victorious in an epic battle.

  “Thank God that’s over,” she said breathlessly, dropping her plunder on her chair by the fireplace. “I’m set for a few months provided I don’t acquire too much more muscle.”

  She came over and kissed him on the forehead. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the training room beating up our houseguest? Whoa . . . what’s wrong, baby? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  She knelt in front of him. He leaned his forehead against hers. “In a way, I have,” he managed. “I don’t suppose you would come with me?”

  She looked into his eyes, and he didn’t bother trying to hide his feelings. It would be pointless.

  Miranda laid her hands on the blade he was holding, projecting calm support, though if he were her he would be a bit perturbed at finding his husband in such a twist over an ex. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

  David tried to find words. “I don’t want to upset you.”

  “All the more reason why you should,” she said. “If there’s something you think you can’t tell me, it must be important. No secrets, remember? Although . . . I can guess.”

  “Can you?”

  “Of course. I’m not blind, David.”

  He rested his head on her shoulder. “What should I do? Force a confrontation? Go on pretending nothing’s wrong?”

  “I don’t think that would work,” Miranda told him. “It’s just going to keep getting in the way—and if you want to stay friends you’re going to have to get it all out in the open and just deal with it head-on.”

  “I hope you’re not worried that I’ll . . .”

  “I trust you, David. I know you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our relationship. Besides, I can sense . . . it was really intense between you, but intensity has a way of burning to ash in the real world.”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured, tracing her upper lip with his thumb. “I think things with you and me get pretty intense sometimes.”


  She smiled, and her tongue flicked out to touch his skin, sending electricity between them. “True, but I have a few distinct advantages over Deven.”

  “What are those, beloved?”

  “One: I have a vagina, which statistically you prefer. Two: I’m prettier. Three: I’m not a total asshole.” She stood, pulling him along with her. “Now, come on. No hiding, remember? You go and cross swords—and I mean that in a martial arts sense, thank you—and try to get some of this angst out of your system. I’m going to take a shower, and then Jonathan has asked to hear me play.”

  “Are you sure you won’t come with me?” He tried not to sound plaintive.

  “I’m sure. You’re the Prime of the Southern United States, baby. You strike terror into the souls of lawbreakers and tremors into the thighs of your Queen. There’s nothing in your heart that you need to fear.”

  He smiled at her, kissed her, then said, “I am the luckiest bastard on this earth to have found you.”

  Miranda nodded. “I know.”

  Then she handed him his sword and ushered him out the door.

  Gossip traveled with vampiric speed in the Haven, and by the time David reached the training room a sizable crowd of off-duty Elite, including Faith, had gathered to watch him go up against the Prime of the West.

  Deven was already there, punctual as always, and David wished that Miranda had come—not because of his dread of the whole thing, but because she would have loved to see Deven out of his rock star apparel. Dev wore the same sort of black workout clothes as anyone else who practiced in the training ring; even without all the leather, though, he was still an impressive sight, as the shirt he wore revealed the full-sleeve tattoos he’d had as long as David had known him.

  “You’re late,” Deven observed mildly.

  “Prime’s prerogative,” David answered, shucking his coat and shifting his sword from its concealed sheath to one at his belt. Underneath the coat he, too, was dressed to fight. He gestured at Deven’s tattoos. “Did you get the angel touched up?”

  Deven glanced down at his right arm. “The color was fading in places. Ironically the other side hasn’t changed at all.”