Of Shadow Born

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Of Shadow Born Page 13

by Dianne Sylvan


  “I remember dying,” he said hoarsely. “I remember the darkness. And I remember waking up and feeling the daylight coming . . . I must . . . I must have crawled to the stairwell before the sun hit me. After that it was black again . . . I was so weak . . . I didn’t know where I was, or who I was, but everything hurt, and I knew I had to find . . .” He looked up, around at the room. “Olivia . . . where is she?”

  “Olivia?”

  “The woman who brought me here. Who saved my life. Where is she?”

  Bewildered at his desperation to find this woman, Miranda said, “Mo said she vanished before they could question her.”

  “She took me in the other night and kept me safe while . . .”

  “While what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said helplessly, putting his head in his hands. “I don’t understand what this means, what it’s done to me. My back . . . my back hurts . . . it itches so badly I want to claw the skin off.”

  The second he said it, she was pulling the gown off his shoulders, sudden knowledge gripping her heart. When she saw the tattoo . . . the remains of the red-tailed hawk that were now . . . something else entirely . . . her dream, and Deven’s, made sense.

  “I think I may be sick,” David said softly.

  Miranda slammed her hand against the call button, and a cadre of nurses and Mo swept into the room, taking over with no little relief of their own. They eased David back down onto the bed, checking his vitals, adjusting the fluids they had dripping into his body; she heard Mo ordering Valium, and something called Phenergan, for the nausea.

  “You must relax, Sire. Please. You are safe, and your Lady Queen is here with you. There will be time for understanding all of this later once you are strong again, but for now you both are in desperate need of quality sleep. In fact, I shall have your people return you to the Haven tonight—once this batch of sera is in, you should be fine on your own as long as you keep feeding regularly. You will be more at ease in your own bed.”

  The nurses tried to usher Miranda into a chair when she refused to leave David’s side; finally they compromised and wheeled her bed closer so that she and David could at least hold hands while Mo pushed another bag of fluids and blood into Miranda’s IV, just to make sure she was stable.

  There was definitely something more than blood in the bag—Miranda felt woozy almost immediately, and the nurses had a much easier time guiding her back to bed after that.

  She kept her face turned toward him, though, waiting for herself to wake up and all of this to end, but it didn’t. The drugs coursed through her, relaxing her gently away from the room, carrying her in their safe, somnambulant arms into the darkness that welcomed her, but she kept watching his face, as long as she could, just in case when she woke it had been the last time . . .

  But gradually the room faded, the sounds faded, and she began to drift in a silent sea of shadows that buoyed her up, cradling her softly. She relaxed, feeling safer than she had in weeks, and listened to the movement of the shadows, so much like water, with tides and breakers as the darkness lapped over her, warming her, soothing away the horror she had been living in.

  She looked up at one point to a starlit sky—or was it the reflection of the ocean of stars she now floated through, shining back down at her from overhead? The stars turned in their own endless waltz, through time and space and nothingness.

  She felt a hand on her face and looked up.

  There was a woman kneeling above where she lay in the dark water-shadows, thin black robes like wisps of smoke flowing down over her moon white skin. She stared down at the Queen through fathomless black eyes—black, without pupil or iris, simply the night sky caught in their depths. Hair the color of old wine, or perhaps blood, flowed down over her shoulders much like Miranda’s own, but it seemed to move of its own accord, almost serpentine around her shoulders.

  When the woman spoke, her voice was the wind through a cold winter thicket, the slip-slip-slip of sleet, the whisper of snow. “You have done well, my daughter, and I thank you.”

  Miranda stared up at her. “Who are you?”

  “Now your work truly begins.”

  “What work?”

  “First you have to make a choice . . .”

  Miranda tried to grab her arm, to hold her there until she gave a straight answer, but her hands wouldn’t cooperate; they seemed to be made of mist, and the room was mist, and mist flowed forward and into every corner of her vision, and gently lathed the room away until it was just her, drifting in the shadows, resting, cocooned in that diaphanous mist that was so like a raven’s wings wrapped around her, feathers holding her safe, safe . . . safe.

  * * *

  There was little comfort to be found, even in the hunt.

  His teeth broke through the woman’s skin, sliding through muscle and into vein, before withdrawing to allow the hot rush to spill forth. She was too far under his thrall to struggle, but she tensed at the pain and moaned softly, the sound lost in the neverending noise of the New York streets.

  Jeremy found the city barbaric and disgusting. Humans died here every night and no one took any notice; it wasn’t so much that he cared about their lives as the idea that fifty feet away pedestrians kept walking, oblivious to the violence a stone’s throw away, and even if the woman were screaming, they would in all likelihood simply walk faster, not wanting to get involved. When a murder was reported it didn’t generate the kind of scene they portrayed on television; there would be perhaps two police officers, neither particularly invested in the crime, stretched thin as they were.

  For that reason the Northeast had always been ruled by vampires who turned a blind eye to killing. There was really nothing to stop them here. London was just as bad, and as he understood it Los Angeles had once been even worse. And even with no-kill laws in place in the South, only the advent of the sensor network had put an end to the fun in New Orleans . . . and still, if one was discreet, there were ways around it. Vampires would always, always find a way to kill.

  He didn’t kill her. There was no point, really. The momentary high of her death would do nothing to assuage his true hunger.

  Drunk as she was, he didn’t have to bother with altering her memory. It would be a minor miracle if she remembered the night at all once her head was in the toilet in a few hours.

  The alcohol in her bloodstream hit him a moment later; he’d chosen her for that very reason. For a few minutes the world spun and swam, and he felt himself relax, worry . . . everything . . . blurring until nothing mattered. For just a moment, he was free.

  It passed, leaving faint nausea in its wake that also faded quickly. Jeremy left the alley as sober as he’d entered it, and also just as heavy-hearted.

  He was only a couple of blocks from the apartment. He had a blood supply there, but after the last few nights he’d needed to get out . . . just for a little while. Even the most devoted parent needed a moment away. He had given Amelia a phone, promised he’d be back soon and wouldn’t go far.

  She had simply looked at him through her big, empty eyes and nodded vacantly.

  At least it was something. He’d gotten a few words from her here and there but still couldn’t tell how much she understood about where she was, or even that she was free. In her sleep she whimpered, begged invisible assailants to stop, her child’s voice numbly repeating phrases she had been schooled into reciting to entertain Hart during his use of her body. Listening to it had been a new form of torment, and up until now Jeremy had thought he was familiar with them all. It had taken a monumental act of will not to head straight for the Haven and fight his way through the Elite to draw and quarter Hart with his bare hands.

  Not now. Later. One day he would have his vengeance. For now, Amelia was all that mattered.

  To that end, he was preparing to get her out of the country. Perhaps once they were home in Brisbane and she was surrounded by sights and sounds and scents she had grown up with, she would rally. At the very least it would be more comfort
ing to her than this place.

  His phone rang, startling him, and his heart immediately set to pounding. The only person who had his number was Amelia.

  “Hello?”

  There was a pause, and then a soft, young voice said, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  He froze where he was, midstride. “Sweetheart, are you all right? I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “What are you—”

  He heard the faint sound of glass breaking, but not heavy like a window or mirror—more like a jar, or a bottle. Then there was a scraping, and the noises in the room got suddenly louder; he could hear traffic going by down below. “Amelia . . .”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  Something in her voice triggered an instinct older than time, and he broke into a run, heading toward the apartment.

  “I can’t do it, Dad. I’m sorry.”

  He came around the corner of the building, and as he heard the phone clatter to the ground, someone across the street yelled in surprise.

  A dark shape fell from one of the fourth-floor windows, nightgown fluttering in the wind, a cape of white-blond hair trailing behind.

  He was halfway across the street, desperately calling her name, when she hit the ground and the explosives in her body went off, throwing him back into a parked car with a blast of heat and a shower of blood.

  * * *

  My name is David Solomon. I am Prime of the Southern United States. I hold a PhD in Engineering from MIT and have a Stanford-Binet IQ of 187. I was born in . . . in England . . .

  His hands wrapped around the cool sides of the sink, and he leaned forward, staring into the stream of water flowing into the vessel as he tried again.

  I was born in England and married Elizabeth Cooke. She bore one son, Thomas, before her execution for Witchcraft. I came to America in . . . in . . .

  The date would not come. He had to start over:

  My name is David Solomon. I have black hair and blue eyes. I have a tattoo of . . .

  His mind filled again with that cold, gray fog, and he had to try a different approach, something to cast light through the confusion.

  My name is David Solomon, Prime of the Southern United States. My Queen is Miranda Grey-Solomon, an award-winning musician and singer, gifted with empathy and some of my telekinesis. I met her four years ago, as a human, and I brought her to the Haven when she was injured.

  Yes, that part was working. It sounded right, it made sense. As long as he kept his mind focused on the connections to his heart, he didn’t panic. It was only when he tried to remember anything else, anything outside his emotional world, that he felt the creeping madness begin.

  He stood at the sink for far longer than seemed appropriate, and sure enough, a few minutes later he heard the soft knock. “Are you all right in there?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yes . . . of course.”

  She opened the door a few inches and peered in, and he saw the relief cross her face when her leaf green eyes settled on him. She was still expecting him to disappear, or for herself to wake up. He felt rather the same way.

  “You still look so thin,” she said, coming into the room in her bathrobe, her hair a damp fall of shining curls around her face. “I guess you couldn’t feed . . . where you were.”

  He closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I guess not.”

  He felt her hand, warm and real, on his bare shoulder, and reached up to link his fingers with hers.

  “I called California,” she said. “I’m pretty sure Deven fainted. He dropped the phone and Jonathan picked it up and said they’d have to call me back.”

  “What . . . who?”

  She frowned, took a breath. “Deven . . . the Prime of the West. Your ex-lover . . . mostly. Our friend. Little guy, lots of leather, the world’s oldest bitchy queen.”

  Again, he shut his eyes, this time against a sudden memory: mouth against mouth in the darkness, his nails digging into tattooed biceps, a gasp of pain that faded into pleasure.

  “I hurt you,” he murmured. “I went to him and hurt you.”

  Miranda nodded. “Three years ago.”

  “Why would I do something like that . . . to you? Why . . .”

  She looked down at the tile floor, then back up into his eyes. “You love him,” she said. “Not the same way you love me, but you do. You were both very confused about your relationship, and you made a terrible mistake. But it’s been three years and we’ve grown so much since then.”

  He returned her nod; it made sense, and he believed her. He remembered that night, the desperation . . . both of them trying to claw their way into . . . something. Something they had lost long before. Something that should never happen again . . . and yet . . . it had . . . and . . .

  “You do remember him,” Miranda said with a sigh. “That’s something, I guess.”

  She smiled. “Come on,” she told him, tugging lightly on his arm. “Esther brought in more blood—doctor’s orders. Then we can have a long sleep.”

  With a nod, he followed her back into the bedroom, to the fireplace, where two goblets of blood sat on the coffee table. They drank in silence for a while, both concentrating on the renewed strength and nourishment that seeped into all the still-raw places in their bodies and minds . . .

  “I can’t feel you,” he said suddenly, head snapping up.

  Miranda lowered her eyes. “I know.”

  “I should be able to. You should be in my head.”

  She set her glass down, staring at the fire. “The bond between us was broken when the Signet shattered. I don’t . . . I don’t know how to get it back.”

  His hand moved up to his throat. “My Signet.”

  “Oh!” Miranda, looking sheepish, rose from the couch and took her coat from its hook by the door; she reached into the pocket and retrieved the heavy silver chain, then returned to him, sitting down and giving him an uncertain look. “Do you think that’s all it will take?”

  He held out his hand, and she placed the Signet in it silently. He regarded the amulet for a moment; he could feel its energy humming faintly, and as soon as he turned it over in his palm, the stone began to glow.

  Miranda sighed. “Thank God. It remembers you.”

  “I thought it was broken.”

  “It was. Earlier tonight it fixed itself.”

  “You didn’t think that was a little strange?”

  She raised an eyebrow and said wryly, “Don’t know if you noticed, baby, but much stranger things have happened tonight.”

  He lifted the chain and fastened it around his neck, letting the stone settle where it belonged between his collarbones . . . and waited.

  The stone continued to glow, but nothing felt different. He remembered . . . vaguely . . . the first time he had put it on, and the rush of power that had overcome him; this time he could feel the Signet’s aura, whatever it was, like warmth spreading through his skin, but there was no drama, no rush . . . no bond.

  They were still two separate people. The wrongness of it made him feel sick.

  Miranda’s eyes were wet, and she looked away again. “Too much to ask that it be that easy,” she muttered. Then her eyes returned to him, and she managed a smile. “But you look like yourself again with it on.”

  He let his hand rest on the stone. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what to do to make all of this better.”

  She smiled again through her tears. “You don’t have to make it better. You being here makes it better. Just be patient—I’m sure it’ll all come back.”

  He met her eyes. “But . . . what if it doesn’t? What if . . . this is just how things are now? Do you still want . . .” He looked away, no longer able to bear the desperation in her gaze. “Would you still want to be with me if we couldn’t have what we did before?”

  “David Solomon, don’t be a dumbass,” she said, reaching over to swat hi
m lightly on the back of the head, a move he was sure he remembered. “I didn’t fall in love with you because of a mystical bond. I sure as hell didn’t marry you for it. I married you because I wanted to spend as much of my future with you as I could, as your partner and Queen, and because I loved you. None of that has changed. I believe things will come back. But if they don’t, we’ll adapt. I lost you once already—no stupid soul mate thing is going to make me lose you again.”

  Her voice, fierce and strong, flooded his heart with love, and he smiled. That’s my girl. “All right,” he said. “We’re in this together, then. For better or worse.”

  “Let’s stick with better. We’ve already done worse.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” he answered automatically.

  She smiled. “That’s my boy.”

  They took each other’s hands and just sat for a while, taking in the wonder of each other’s presence. It seemed a silly thing, perhaps, but wherever he had been, he had missed just being with her, hearing her breathe, catching the scent of her shampoo. He had missed their conversations and the way she moved. Her wit, her honeyed voice . . . her skin . . .

  “Bed,” she said, softly but insistently. Once again, he obeyed.

  Halfway there, he stopped and pulled her back toward him, into his arms, fixing his mouth to hers with a greater hunger than he had felt since waking up in Olivia’s loft. He wove his hand through her hair, his tongue through her lips, kissing her until they were both breathless and dizzy from the heat that leapt up through them.

  He took hold of her robe and pushed it off her shoulders onto the floor, running his hands down her back. Her fingernails scratched over his skin as she urged him toward the bed again, neither willing to break the kiss as they sank into the comforter together. She pinned him on his back, leaned down to nibble along his neck, while her hands busied themselves getting reacquainted with the rest of his body.

  “Do you remember this?” she asked.

  He grinned. “If I say no, will you keep doing it?”

  Miranda chuckled. “You asked for it—how about this?”

 

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