“Then how do you know they existed?” David demanded. “I thought you didn’t believe in anything you haven’t seen with your own eyes.”
Deven gave a world-weary sigh. “The same way I know most of what I know: none of your damn business. The point is, they’re all gone and can’t help you.”
Stella was giving Deven an odd look, but after a moment she said, “There is one other place you could go: Persephone.”
Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. An image formed in her head: a woman robed in shadow, with endless black eyes. “And . . . how would we do that?”
The Witch shrugged. “Step between the worlds.”
The Pair gave her a long blink.
“I’m serious,” Stella told them. “Witches go between worlds all the time—trance journeys, vision quests, that sort of thing. Sometimes we even invite the Goddess to enter our bodies and speak through us. It’s called Drawing Down the Moon.”
Deven lifted his head from his knees. “Aspecting?”
“That’s another term for it. I’ve never done it before, but I’d be willing to give it a try—the summer solstice is next week. That would be a good time.”
“Is it dangerous?” the Queen asked. “I’m not putting you at risk.”
“If you don’t take the proper precautions, and if you’re Drawing Down an aspect of deity that’s too much for you, it can be. It’s a demanding ritual. But I know what I’m doing—in theory at least.”
David rubbed his temples, his classic headache tell. “So . . . you’re going to invite an invisible superbeing to come hang out in your body and tell us what’s wrong with me.”
Deven shot him a rather aggravated look. “I can give you a list of what’s wrong with you right here and now.”
“Boys, please,” Miranda said. “Stella . . . are you sure? We’ve already asked way more from you than we have any right to.”
Surprisingly—or no, not really at all, given who she was—Stella looked excited at the prospect rather than nervous. “I’m sure. I can do it. I know what precautions to take. The worst that happens is nothing happens, and we know as little in a week as we know now. Besides, it’ll be fun.”
“I’m surrounded by crazy people,” David muttered.
The Witch grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
* * *
The next night, they decided it was time the city saw them again—alive, strong, and very much still in charge.
“Did Dev get back to Sacramento?” Miranda asked.
David, who was thumbing along the screen of his phone to read the network status report, answered absently, “No . . . he said he had a stop to make on the way.”
She relaxed into the corner of her seat, listening to the steady thrum of the car’s engine and feeling more at ease than she had in days. Something about being here, on their way into town with Harlan driving and David on his phone, was so comforting, a familiar ritual that made life feel almost normal for a moment.
“He was acting kind of weird,” she added. “Did you notice?”
David lifted his eyes to hers and gave her a smile. “Beloved, with all the weird going on lately, I’m having a hard time keeping up. How was he acting weird?”
“I don’t know, just . . . he was awfully quiet when he left. Preoccupied. And not with some matter of state or Red Shadow business. Something personal. It’s not like him to let that kind of thing show.” She fiddled with the lapel of her coat.
He finished what he was doing and gave her his full attention. “When you get to seven hundred years old you’ll have a lot on your mind, too.”
“I can’t imagine being that old. When he was born the printing press hadn’t even been invented.”
“Neither had whiskey,” David said. “Imagine what that must have been like for him.”
“Do you remember what it was like when you were human? The world, I mean?”
He got that look—the one that meant he was trying to access a memory—and said, “It was dark, quiet, at least in the village where I lived. Cities were beginning to be lit up at night, but sleepy towns like ours were dark. Now . . . there’s constantly light and noise everywhere, no matter what the hour. Everything moved more slowly back then, and life was short and hard. You didn’t have time to think about much beyond work and food and babies and death.”
“It sounds awful.”
A shrug. “Not really. Most people were pretty content with what they had. There was joy and sorrow, loss and celebration, just like now. People are people. Then of course you had the oddballs like me, eyes on the horizon, a mind full of ideas—troublemakers.”
She grinned. “You? Never.” Miranda toyed with her buttons for a moment before asking, “Do you think he was right? About there being Elves?”
David leaned back, sighing. “At this point I have no idea. I want to laugh at the very notion . . . just like I want to laugh at Stella’s delusions of goddesses, and I wanted to laugh at Marja Ovaska using magical talismans and at things like Awakening rituals existing . . . but it seems the universe is determined to make a fool of me.” He held up his phone. “See this? When I was human, a device like this would have been considered demonic. The thought that you could use your thumbs to send words through the air to be read by people thousands of miles away—at the speed of thought, no less—was beyond impossible.”
Miranda nodded in understanding. “It’s possible, then, that there are still things that haven’t been measured in a scientific way but are real all the same.”
“I always said that about the Signets—that it was just some form of electromagnetic or other energy that couldn’t be measured yet—but I tried not to analyze it any further because I think deep down I knew I couldn’t explain it away.”
“I never thought I’d hear you admit that magic might be real, even if it whacked you over the head.”
“That’s pretty much what happened, isn’t it? I was killed by magic, resurrected by magic—my tattoo changed by magic.”
Miranda thought of her dream, the one she couldn’t remember that had woken her to searing pain in her back, and Deven, too. “So . . . the tattoo thing happened nearly three weeks after you disappeared . . . that means when you initially came back, you were still regular old you.”
“I suppose so.”
“I think we need to find this Olivia,” she said. “She might be able to tell us more about what happened to you.”
“I know where she lives . . . assuming she hasn’t run. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had. She’s got as many ghosts as any Signet I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re sure she was the Second in Australia?”
“Positive.”
He was quiet for a while, looking out the window, and when he finally flicked his gaze back to her, she shot him a questioning look.
“I was thinking about Faith,” he said.
Miranda bowed her head. “I miss her.”
“So do I.”
“I don’t think I ever realized just how hard she worked, how much she did for us. I wish I had . . . I don’t know.”
He nodded. “I regret so much when it came to her.”
She thought a minute, weighing whether to say anything, then said, “You do know she was in love with you, right?”
He smiled sadly. “I know.”
Surprised, she asked, “When did you figure that out?”
An eyebrow raised. “I don’t remember exactly . . . but I know.”
The car pulled to a stop and Harlan said, “The Black Door, Sire.”
David and Miranda exchanged a look. “Ready?” he asked.
She nodded. “Let’s do it.”
The Shadow District was still recovering from the weeks of insanity that had gripped it—first with Jeremy’s thugs causing mayhem, then with the uncertainty of the Prime’s death—but a respectable crowd was out on the streets. Miranda could feel all the eyes on them as she straightened her coat, tossed her hair back over her shoulder, and took her
Prime’s arm.
They walked up past the velvet rope where a dozen or so people were waiting to get in, and the bouncers both grinned broadly and held open the doors.
Miranda looked up at David, who gave her a quick kiss on the lips and, smiling, swept into the club at her side.
* * *
The deep stench of charred wood and flesh was beginning to dissipate from the ruins of the Cloister, but a silence hung over the blackened walls, both sorrowful and expectant.
Here in the Northwest the nights were cold, the damp an ever-present cloak over the redwoods, and while it was never entirely silent, the remains of the holy place caught hold of the quiet and held it close.
A small group of huddled figures moved among the ruins, looking for anything worth salvaging, but the fire had been ferocious, and there was little left besides the walls themselves.
One of the searchers, a dark-skinned woman in a black robe, paused in her grim work and stood apart from the others for a moment, hand to her face in grief.
She didn’t hear the step behind her, but she felt the stake’s point at her back.
“Easy,” he said softly. “Don’t cry out.”
The hatred in her voice was iron-edged, but she kept it low as she said, “You have no right to set foot on these lands.”
“I am aware of that, Xara.”
“What do you want?” she hissed. “What more can you possibly do to us?”
Deven drew up close to her and said into her ear, “Never, ever ask that question.”
He stood behind her, watching the other members of the Order, most of whom he recognized, if not by name, then by face. Xara’s heart was hammering, her breath shallow with terror—despite her anger, she still feared him, and rightly so.
“Have you been through Eladra’s quarters yet?”
Xara shook her head.
“Good. Walk with me. There’s something there I need.”
Her eyes on the others, she did as she was told, carefully picking her way among the fallen timbers, following his lead until they reached what was left of the High Priestess’s rooms.
Here, the fire had not been as destructive; parts of some of the furniture still stood, and the Order would probably find a number of artifacts that were still useful.
“She trusted you,” Xara said, tears in her voice now. “How could you do this?”
“Eladra foresaw her fate long ago. She made peace with it. If you’re going to lead them, so must you. I’m not here to ask your forgiveness, Xara . . . I don’t deserve or want it. Now, pick up that box.”
She bent over a pile of debris and, with hands shaking violently, brushed aside wood and ash to reveal a half-hidden silver coffer.
“Your ring,” he commanded quietly.
Nodding, Xara held her right hand to the lid of the box, her priestess’s ring fitting into the lock; it clicked open, and she lifted the lid.
“A Speaking Stone?” she asked. “What do you want with this?”
He reached around her and took the palm-sized piece of polished labradorite from its cushion of velvet. “I need to make a call.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “Are you going to kill me now?”
Deven reached up and touched the side of her face, kissed her softly on the cheek. “I know it changes nothing, Xara, but . . . I’m sorry.”
He was gone before she could reply.
* * *
Jonathan knew, of course, when his mate returned from Texas, but even so he was a little surprised to walk into their bedroom and find Deven lying on his back in the middle of the floor, still in his coat, an empty bottle of Scotch on one side of him, a bloody knife on the other.
“Good Christ, who did you kill now?” the Consort asked.
Bleary eyes looked up at him. “Nobody.” Deven held up his hand, displaying a cut down the center of his palm that, as Jonathan watched, healed over and vanished. He groped sideways and produced an odd object: an ovoid, flat piece of dark stone that shimmered blue, gray, and green in the can-dlelight. There was a dark smudge on the stone’s surface. “Blood calls to blood.”
“How drunk are you?”
Deven smiled faintly and put his forearm over his eyes. “Drunk enough to do magic.”
“Magic?” Jonathan went over and helped him up, steering the Prime, who was more than a little wobbly from the alcohol, over to the bed. “Deven . . . what did you do?”
Deven flopped onto his back and stared up at him for a moment before grabbing Jonathan by the neck and pulling their mouths together.
Jonathan knew perfectly well what he was doing, but turning down a kiss from Deven was simply not something he was capable of, so he sighed and returned it, stretching out next to his Prime on the bed. Deven tasted of whiskey, which he often did, but there was desperation in the kiss that Jonathan wasn’t used to.
The Consort drew back from him and said, smiling, “You’re not changing the subject that easily, baby.”
“I’m not trying to. I just wanted to remind you that you love me before I tell you what I have to tell you.”
Jonathan rapped his head against the mattress theatrically. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
“Two things, really . . . First of all . . .” Deven laid his hand palm up on the bed with the weird stone in it, closed his eyes . . .
. . . and as Jonathan stared, mouth dropping open, the stone rose into the air, spun around a few times, and lowered back down.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
“How long have you been able to do that?” Jonathan finally asked.
Deven bit his lip. “Since the three of you banded together to heal me that night in Ovaska’s hideout.”
“Three years? You became telekinetic three years ago and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?” Jonathan took a deep breath. “I suppose you’ve already told David.”
“No. I haven’t told anyone but you.”
Clamping down on his anger, Jonathan counted to ten silently and then said, “Okay . . . you said there were two things.”
“The second one is far, far weirder, and I’m not sure you’re going to believe me.”
“What? You can fly? Shapeshift? Start fires with your brain?”
“Weirder than that, I’m afraid.” Deven sat up, picking up the stone and showing him that the blood smear had disappeared. “Remember when we were talking about the Order, and the Persephone myth, and you asked me about the other side of it?”
“Other side—oh, right. How one goddess made vampires to kill people and the other goddess made, what was the word you used . . . the Elentheia?”
“Yes. I told you it was true, that they did exist once, and you laughed at me and told me I had clearly done too much acid in the sixties.”
“Right . . . I still think that, by the way.”
“You also said that if it were true, there’d be a lot of pointy-eared people walking around.”
“And you got pissy and changed the subject.”
“Yes.”
“So? Where are you going with this?”
Deven sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Just looking at the ears wouldn’t tell you if someone had Elven blood. Only the pure-blooded Elentheia had the ears. But there’s another trait that did pass down for a few generations before it finally faded.”
Jonathan suddenly realized he was gripping Deven’s hand very, very hard, and his heart had begun to race. “And . . . what’s that?”
“The eyes,” Deven said softly. “We all have violet eyes.”
Eleven
“Where am I?”
She smiled, crossing her arms. “Put it together, Sire.”
He looked around at the dense forest that surrounded them, starlight seeping through the trees; she was standing in what looked like a pool of light, though the moon was not visible . . . and oddly, she seemed to be in a sort of grayscale instead of full color, like . . .
“You’re dead,” he said. “We both are.”
> “Looks that way.”
Sorrow and guilt wrapped around his heart. “I’m sorry . . . Faith, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she replied with a shrug. “It wasn’t your fault.” Her gaze sharpened, and she came toward him, laying her hands on his shoulders; the contact felt real. “It wasn’t your fault, David,” she said firmly. “Remember that. I’m okay.”
He reached up, took her hands, and squeezed them. Strange how comforting such a small gesture could be in a place like this . . . wherever it was.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me. I’ve been dead about three minutes longer than you have. Not a lot of time to explore.”
Again, he looked around, confused. “If this is the afterlife, why is it a forest? It seems familiar, but . . .”
Faith stepped away suddenly, her eyes drawn to something behind him. He turned.
The fabric of the night seemed to turn into water, an area about six feet tall going blurry until light poured out of it. They stood together staring at it for a long moment, both knowing, deep down, what it was, neither willing to go any closer.
A light breeze lifted the leaves all around, and he heard a voice whisper, “Faith . . .”
She took a deep breath. “It’s for me,” she said softly. “It’s time to go.”
Before he could answer, she pulled him into a hug, and he could feel her heart beating fast as she whispered, “I love you.”
There were tears in her eyes as she stepped back and turned to the portal, but her steps were sure, her shoulders squared, no fear in her body as she walked into the light . . . and was gone.
He was alone . . . but only for a moment.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up and his senses prickled with alarm. There was someone . . . something . . . behind him . . . and for once in his life, he was paralyzed with terror.
“Face me . . .” that same feather-light female voice whispered over the wind, the words cutting through him. “Be not afraid, child.”
Steeling himself, barely breathing, he turned . . . and met silver-black eyes full of stars.
* * *
“Earth to Prime.”
Of Shadow Born Page 17