Of Shadow Born

by Dianne Sylvan

  She stared into the ruby for a long moment, willing it to relight, but it remained dark . . . whole, yes, but still asleep, waiting, she supposed, for whoever came to take it after she finally died.

  She was so focused on the Signet that she almost didn’t hear the footsteps before it was too late.

  The noise hit her ears a split second before the stake sang through the air where her body had just been. She twisted backward, the cylinder of wood grazing the sleeve of her coat, and spun downward into a crouch, one hand stuffing the Signet back into her pocket and the other unclipping Shadowflame.

  She straightened in a blur of motion, drawing the sword just in time to meet the blade that swung for her neck.

  There was no time to think, no time to do anything but act; she parried the first attacker’s sword while another tried to dive in on her left, her leg flashing out sideways to connect a boot heel in his rib cage. She rammed Shadowflame into the first one’s throat and pulled the blade on the same breath, spinning around to slice open a third attacker on the follow-through.

  She leapt backward, giving her a few feet to sweep the situation with her senses: seven of them, one of her, all of them armed, all of them thirsty for exactly one thing—her blood.

  They had no idea what hell they had just unleashed upon themselves.

  The Queen made no move to escape, no effort to call for backup. She flung herself into their midst with a hiss and gave herself over to the bloodred haze of rage, letting her body take over, meeting sword slash and fist with such force that even seasoned fighters who knew their quarry were caught by surprise.

  She had three of them down in less than a minute, and the other four circled her, suddenly made wary by the groans of their dying comrades.

  “Come on!” Miranda snarled at them. “If you’ve come for my life, take it! Four against one, you can do better than that!”

  Shadows moved beyond the streetlight, and four became eight . . . became ten. She was surrounded.

  She knew she should Mist away, reappear back at the car and call in Elite to pursue them . . . but something deep within her, perhaps her precognitive gift or perhaps just wild suicidal desperation, kept her rooted to the spot, her heart clamoring for their blood.

  One of the attackers turned his head just enough that she saw the glint of something in his ear.

  “Morningstar,” she spat at them. Her voice rang off the night air. “You can take a message back to your boss, then. I am Queen of this territory. I paid for my Signet with blood and death, and neither you nor anyone else will take it from me. You cannot defeat me, you bastards. I dare you to try.”

  They accepted the dare.

  * * *

  Olivia heard the sounds of battle long before she saw it: the old familiar clang of steel on steel in its age-old rhythm, the cries of pain, grunts and yells of both male and female voices, heavy sounds of bodies hitting walls.

  Warring instincts flared up: Part of Olivia wanted to run toward the fighting, and part of her wanted to run away.

  But the Prime had already decided for them and had broken into a run.

  Olivia caught up in time to see a rather surreal scene playing out before her: a street in the Shadow District, out in view of everyone, where at least a dozen black-clad men and women were attempting to take out a single opponent. All around them, Olivia could see faces peering out windows, watching fearfully, all of them no doubt terrified that gang violence had at last erupted to destroy the tentative peace of Austin.

  But, she realized as she drew closer, that wasn’t the issue here. They weren’t watching the whole fight . . . just its epicenter, where a single woman was engaging every one of her attackers two, sometimes three at a go.

  She was as graceful as a dancer; her sword was a silver flame in the night, almost liquid in motion, so fast the blood that sprayed from the wounds it inflicted didn’t seem to even touch the steel.

  But there was something more at work here—Olivia had seen someone fight that way before, throwing her entire body and mind into the fight as if she had nothing to lose . . . someone who didn’t care anymore whether she survived the fight. Her desires had contracted to a single pinpoint: make someone pay.

  Olivia saw a sword slip past the Queen’s guard, saw it pierce her shoulder; the Queen hissed, but merely spun toward its wielder and beheaded him with a single stroke. She paused long enough to pull the blade from her body and throw it on the ground. She was bleeding badly, but it didn’t stop her, nor did the half-dozen or so other wounds she had sustained already—a couple of lacerations on her arm, bruises on her face, and the way she held herself suggested a cracked rib or two.

  She had six of them down before she truly began to wear out, and Olivia saw her falter.

  At her side, the Prime sucked in a breath that was half a gasp and half a snarl. Olivia looked at him, saw how mesmerized he was by her—and before Olivia could ask if he recognized her, he had already set off for the fight, sword drawn.

  The attackers fought the Queen until they had driven her back toward the wall of the building behind her, but she didn’t give up, even though she was growing weaker from blood loss and, it seemed, the waves of sorrow she was emitting so strongly that Olivia felt tears in her own eyes. Whatever her intention in taking on this fight, Olivia knew that the Queen was at the end of her strength . . . she was about to give up.

  It happened so fast. One of the men parried her sword’s stroke and knocked the blade from her hands, another kicking her in the side; she went down to her knees, then rolled onto the ground with a groan of pain, arms clenched in front of her abdomen. Olivia could see blood seeping out between her fingers.

  The attacker stepped in closer, raising his sword to swing down in the final strike—

  —and it met another blade, hard enough to throw off a spark as the two swords grated along each other’s edge, bringing the attacker face-to-face with his own death.

  Olivia saw the shock in the man’s face turn into instinctive horror as he realized what he was looking at—who was on the other end of that sword—and tried, in vain, to turn and run.

  He made it about two steps before his body jerked, and a loud, sickening crack split the air, his body twisting violently and falling to the ground.

  The Prime took his head in a graceful arc and turned, slowly and deliberately, to face the others.

  They were all staring at him in petrified silence.

  He tilted his head to one side. There was nothing human, none of that compassion Olivia had seen earlier, in his hell black eyes. “Run,” he said softly.

  And they did.

  Olivia watched his gaze travel from window to window around the scene and catch the eyes of all those watching the fight. No one would mistake him for another vampire; he was too well known in this city. They all understood the implications of what they were seeing.

  Shutters and blinds flipped closed. Deadbolts shot up and down the street. Lights went out.

  Only then did he turn to the Queen.

  She was curled up on herself, one hand on the pavement while the other was still held against her middle; she stared at the ground, eyes dull.

  He went silently to his knees before her, still unspeaking. Her pale, graceful hands, hands that had swung a sword and killed half a dozen vampires, were shaking, and Olivia watched with her heart in her throat as he reached out and took the one that lay on the ground, covering the Queen’s hand with his own.

  The Queen was still.

  Her eyes shut tight.

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t do this to me.”

  He didn’t speak, and she went on, “If I open my eyes and I’m dreaming . . . if I wake up and I’m alone again . . .”

  He lifted one of his hands from hers and cupped her face, palm against her cheek so softly, as if she were made of spun glass.

  Slowly, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

  A ragged gasp passed through her lips, and she lurched backward, away from h
im. “No . . . no . . . no . . .”

  When he didn’t say anything, she reached out to him, shaking even harder this time, until her bloodstained palm met solid flesh, his shoulder, then his neck, then his face. Her hand slid back down over his chest, seeking a heartbeat.

  Her voice was barely a whisper, as if giving words to the thought made it real, and she was too far gone for even that much hope. “Is it . . . is it really you?”

  He nodded.

  “You died . . . I felt you die . . . the others saw you . . . you went to dust . . . there was nothing left but a shadow.”

  Softly, he smiled. “And of shadow I was reborn.”

  The sound of his voice seemed to break something inside the Queen. She lost her balance and fell sideways, landing almost in a fetal position, so far past hysterical she barely moved as shock waves of emotion wrenched her heart in all directions. She was screaming—a ghostly, keening sound, the kind of sound that was all that remained in a broken heart after every last hope had been stripped away and all that remained was too raw and bloody to even bear a loving touch.

  The Prime moved over to her, gathering her up in his arms, bundling her into his coat and holding her tightly, rocking slowly back and forth with her; his face was turned up to the sky, eyes closed, but Olivia could see the tears running in silver rivulets down his face, and she knew that whatever holes still riddled the Prime’s memory, this much he knew: He was home.

  Eight

  She fully expected to open her eyes to her bedroom, her solitude, and feel the brief moment of terrified joy ripped away from her as reality settled back in.

  What she got was a little different.

  She smelled antiseptic, industrial cleanser; she could hear beeping, and whirring, and the sounds of people milling around. As her eyes fluttered open she saw a white curtain, and looking down, white sheets, and her arm stretched out across the bed, a plastic tube taped to her wrist, the needle a thin but very real presence in her arm.

  “There you are, my Lady,” came a voice, and a blurry face resolved itself into Mo. “How are you feeling?”

  She had no idea how to answer that. “What happened? Why am I here?”

  “You were in deplorable shape,” he said, his voice becoming a little stern. “Wounded, dehydrated, underfed, exhausted—your electrolytes were, as they say, extremely out of whack. You’ve been receiving fluids and blood for several hours . . . and a little Xanax thrown in with some pain medication for a few superficial wounds you sustained during your . . . altercation.”

  “Altercation.” She remembered, vaguely: blood, and screaming, adrenaline coursing hot and violent through her body. It didn’t even seem real. Had she really been attacked by a dozen vampires? How many had she killed? With numbers like that, she should have been dead.

  Mo sensed her confusion. “I wish I could have been there,” he said. “According to witnesses it was like nothing they had ever seen. Even those used to watching Signets fight were beyond words.”

  “I don’t understand . . . it feels like a dream . . . even . . .”

  She gasped.

  Her hands tightened in the sheets, and she heard the heart monitor’s beeping begin to accelerate. “No,” she whispered. “It couldn’t be real . . . Mo . . . tell me . . .”

  His face softened, and he smiled at her gently. “Look to your right, my Lady. I warn you: It may be something of a shock.”

  Miranda couldn’t do it. She was seized with such fear, she was paralyzed, unable to even acknowledge the hope that . . . It couldn’t have happened . . . it had to have been a hallucination brought on by exhaustion or the fight . . . Things like that simply didn’t happen, not in this world. If she looked, she would see nothing, and even that tiny thread of possibility would be lost to her.

  But gradually, a quarter inch at a time, she forced her head to turn, forced herself to confront reality.

  The heart monitor shrieked out an alarm. She heard Mo fussing with it.

  She was shaking, she knew she was shaking, so hard she could hear her teeth chattering. Disbelief dug its teeth into her like a wolf snapping its head back and forth to break a rabbit’s spine. Her mind, her heart, everything . . . stopped.

  A man lay asleep in the bed next to hers. He, too, was hooked up to a variety of monitors but slept peacefully, hands folded over his stomach, breath slow and even. Black hair fell into his face, and though his features were drawn and he was dangerously thin, that face was unmistakable.

  She heard Mo murmuring to a nurse about sedatives and heard him say, “My Lady, please, you must calm down. Your poor heart is going to explode at this rate.”

  She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even move. All she could do was stare.

  She took a breath and pushed words out one by one, each taking a herculean effort to speak: “But . . . you’re sure it’s him.”

  He smiled. “You would know that better than I, my Lady.”

  Miranda struggled to sit up and scooted toward the edge of the hospital bed. “Help me up,” she gasped. “Mo, help me—”

  The medic looked like he wanted to push her back down, but, obviously realizing it would be pointless, he sighed, nodded, and lowered the rail on the side of the bed. “Slowly, please,” he said. “Wait—”

  He quickly clipped off the tube from her IV and plugged it, freeing her from its tether; she slid onto her feet but nearly collapsed, her legs buckling beneath her. Mo caught her and steadied her patiently, then stepped away to let her stand.

  Miranda, heart racing, took one step and then another, forcing strength into her limbs, the four feet from one bed to the other feeling like a mile. At last, her hands wrapped around the rail, and she leaned on it heavily, pulling herself closer, holding her breath.

  Mo came to stand beside her.

  She couldn’t stop shaking, and her voice trembled as she asked, “Mo . . . in your professional opinion, as a doctor . . . have I gone mad?”

  She looked over at the medic to see his expression lose its usual genial professionalism; for a second it looked like he wanted nothing more than to hug her, put her back to bed, and tuck her in safe and sound. “No, my Lady,” he said. “Nor are you dreaming, or delusional. This is very real.”

  “But it’s not . . . possible . . .”

  As she spoke, she remembered the last thing she had heard before the world went black: And of shadow I was reborn.

  “We don’t know what happened,” Mo said quietly. “He and his companion brought you here, but before anyone could interrogate her she disappeared, and our attention was diverted to the two of you. As soon as we got you on a gurney he passed out cold.”

  She reached out, letting her palm rest for a moment on his chest, feeling it rise and fall, feeling the thrum beneath her hand. A good, strong heartbeat; a slow, even breath. Just in the few moments since she’d woken his face had softened, the blood pumped into his veins reinvigorating the flesh, giving it back its warmth and life. She stood there, watching, feeling his heartbeat, still so afraid . . . so afraid she would wake up, despite Mo’s words, or that this dream would dissolve into the nightmare she had faced over and over. Her heart could not accept this, not yet.

  “If you need anything,” Mo said, “press the call button.”

  She nodded, and the medic left; deprived of his reassuring presence, Miranda felt even more terrified, smaller and more vulnerable. She kept her free hand wrapped around the bed rail, gripping it tightly, lest her knees give out again.

  Even with all the machines beeping and whirring, her breath on the air seemed loud, her words strangely young and childish. “David? Can you hear me?”

  After an endless moment, she saw a flicker of movement and his eyes slit open, blinking against the room’s relatively bright light. Miranda reached over and snapped off the examination lamp; the clinic had lighting options for both sectors of its clientele and staff.

  Eyes opened, first unseeing, then gradually focusing on her face.

  She nearly so
bbed. Oh, God, how she had missed that blue . . .

  . . . but . . .

  Despair choked her. He was blinking at her, confused . . . without recognition.

  “Please,” she whispered. Tears were already falling, and she didn’t try to stop them. “Please tell me you know who I am.”

  He stared at her, and she could see the pain in his face—he was trying, reaching for the memory, and it was so close . . . his history, their life together, everything, it was so close . . .

  Miranda took a deep, slow breath, closed her eyes, and sang softly,

  You’re in my blood like holy wine

  You taste so bitter and so sweet . . .

  There was a choking, gasping noise, and she opened her eyes to see that he was pushing himself up, struggling against the wires and IV, blue eyes full of tears—and memory—trying to reach her.

  She flung her arms around him, not caring if the monitors got dislodged and the whole staff came running; she was weeping again, and so was he, murmuring her name over and over, his hands moving over her body, pressing against her shoulders and back, proving to himself she was there—and she did the same, touching him everywhere she could, kissing any place she could find with her lips, her sobs giving way to first a gasp, then another, and then laughter.

  They clung to each other, neither able to speak at first through the overwhelming relief, the joy that was so immense it hurt, the creeping hell of the last three weeks finally, finally over with, her heart almost unable to contain it all.

  “Where were you?” she finally sobbed into his shoulder. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you come home?”

  “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know . . . Please forgive me, beloved . . . please forgive me . . .”

  She shook her head, though what she was denying she couldn’t say for certain, and put her lips to his at last.

  They held on to each other until the flood of emotion had moved through them both, and Miranda could pull away far enough to look in his face. Their eyes locked, his still murky from the struggle to remember everything, hers anguished and confused.