Shadow Redeemed

by Megan Blackwood

  He grunted and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Who was it, Mags?"

  "Lenora," I said, "I'm sure of it. There's something else you need to know."

  "What?" Emeline and DeShawn said in unison.

  I crouched down, rummaging beneath the rose bush for the stake I'd thrown aside. It didn't take long to find.

  "This was pinning the papers to the ground," I said and stood, holding it out to DeShawn. He reached for it, confused, but I pulled it just out of his reach.

  "I am sorry to report that I smell traces of Annie Reynolds's blood on the stake."

  He stepped back, fists clenching. "You mean Lenora turned her just to stake her? Just to make some godawful point to us?"

  "It looks that way. I'm so sorry."

  "You're sure?" Emeline asked. I glared at her. I wouldn't be so cruel as to speculate on the death of one of his teammates unless I was certain.

  "Lenora does everything for the theater."

  DeShawn kicked the garden bench hard enough that it tipped over, breaking the line of blood that shaped the heart. "I'm going to be the one to take her down."

  "Whoever is in position and able will destroy Lenora," Emeline said. "I understand your frustration but there will be no 'saving' her for you, is that clear? That's the kind of emotionally driven decision making that would allow her to get away, or others to be killed. I won't have that."

  "Then I'll make damned sure I'm the first to get to her." He threw the stake back into the rose bushes and started to stalk back toward the house.

  "Wait," I said. He did.

  "Lenora is prepared for us now. She's gathered her resources and is digging in. Now is not the time to go knocking on her door."

  "Then what?" he demanded. "Wait until she throws her party and go in when she's got all her tricks in place?"

  "Don't treat me like I'm stupid, DeShawn. Remember who you're talking to."

  He turned back to me and shoved his hands in his pockets, tipping his chin down. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "I know. Emeline, you and the others must make finding the source of the breach your priority."

  "Who cares how they got in?" DeShawn asked.

  "Why is that, Miss Shelley?" Emeline asked.

  "Ragnar had the Venefica. Any tricks he pulled with magic we could assume were her doing. Lenora has no such alliance as far as we know. We must understand where she's getting her magical firepower from if we're to face her on even footing."

  "There is no even footing to be had," DeShawn said. "She's got numbers. We've got a bunch of vampire infants and my team..." He pressed his lips together. "My team's been culled."

  "Let me deal with the numbers problem," I said.

  Emeline's eyes narrowed. She was tried, but not that tired. "What are you planning?"

  "I'm going to ask a favor, that's all."

  "From whom?"

  I licked my lips and met her eyes. "We have an elder nightwalker taking mental control of a vast collection of ghouls and neophyte nightwalkers in the city. A stronger, older, nightwalker could wrest that control from her."

  "I forbid it," Emeline said. "We've already had this conversation."

  "The situation has changed. I am going to ask Lucien Dubois for help, Emeline, and I do not think you can stop me."

  "You're going to get hurt, and we need you at full strength. No matter your past he will attack—"

  "Then she's going to need back-up," DeShawn said. "Wait a sec girl, let me get my boots on."

  Twenty-five: Favors

  DeShawn clung to my back, one arm wrapped around my waist, as we flew through the streets of London. His other hand rested on the grip of the pistol strapped to his hip, covered but not trapped by his thick motorcycle jacket. He'd loaded it with gold-filled bullets and crammed as many ammo packs as he and Roland could rummage up into his backpack.

  I told him he wouldn't need it, that Lucien wouldn't attack us no matter the pressure of his blood. What I didn't tell him was that, if he did, DeShawn was already dead. Quick as I was, Lucien had changed in his time running between the shadows. Tooth to claw, there was none in the Sun Guard who could stand against him should he mount an assault.

  I shivered at the thought. Maeve's wards were less than tissue paper to him, even if she figured out how Lenora had gotten through. The only thing that kept him from wiping us out was loyalty to me.

  A lie to call it something so simple as loyalty, but lies kept me going when all else failed.

  The sun beat down on my arms, heated the top and back of my helmet. I pushed the visor up a sliver to let more air through, breathing deep to catch any hint of Lucien. I'd last scented him along this stretch of the Thames, a narrow strip of greenbelt holding the line between the city and the water. The trees here were thick-trunked alders, bare branches curling knobby fingers at a sun that refused to give them sustenance until the spring came again.

  Those trees hadn't been there when I had first come to London. Old and thick as they were, I was older still. When all this was over, I'd visit somewhere like the redwoods. Somewhere I could feel small again, coddled in the comfort that my choices were insignificant to the state of the world. Trees would grow, and rain would fall, whether or not humanity was preserved against the night.

  Something richer than sunlight caught my attention, a deep and animalistic warmth that I recognized straight down to my bones. He'd been here. Recently.

  I slowed the bike and peeled out of traffic to skip up a curb into the greenbelt. DeShawn grumbled something about what I was doing being illegal. I found a clearing hidden by a stubbornly green row of bushes and parked the bike in the shadow of them.

  "He here?" DeShawn asked, tossing his helmet into a saddlebag.

  "Close." I tipped my head back, breathing deep. The sewage-and-algae stink of the Thames threatened to overwhelm my senses, but he'd been here. I was sure of it. "This way."

  DeShawn kept his hand on the gun as I lead him down the embankment, following something more than my nose. Lucien's presence was a lodestone in my heart, in my mind. I never drank his blood, but I didn't need magic to know where he was. Just as I didn't need magic to know where my hand and leg were. It was the same with Roisin. Only with her, it didn't hurt so much.

  Where the water met the land, a figure stood. Tall and lean in an ankle-length black coat, waves of dark hair cinched against his neck under a red woolen scarf. He had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up close to his ears, as he stared into that grey-brown water. Somehow, the winter sun failed to illuminate him. The narrow shadow of the bridge above reached out to shade him, though he was too far away for that to be possible.

  "Stay here," I whispered to DeShawn. He went rigid.

  "Like hell."

  "If he attacks, distance will be the only thing that saves you."

  DeShawn chewed that over and eventually nodded. He unholstered the gun and sank into a bracing stance, pointing the weapon at Lucien's back. An instinct to knock his hands aside clawed through me, but I pushed it down. Here, in this place in time, the man pointing the gun at my lover's back was my ally.

  I approached, letting my boots crunch over the gravel. He already knew I was there, his senses were as keen as mine, and the simple fact that he hadn't fled into the shadow that caressed him told me he was willing to talk. My heart hammered in my throat. I wasn't sure words would be possible. Not for me, anyway.

  I stood next to him, not looking, not daring to see that face gaunt and pale, weak from days spent without feeding. The death-scent intensified this close, singing my nostrils. Standing so close, I should be overwhelmed with the urge to slaughter him, to excise his presence. I was not. This didn't surprise me. Silence thickened between us.

  "Your friend is mistaken if he believes that weapon will harm me," Lucien said, his voice like old boulders dislodged after too long growing moss.

  "I let them use their toys. It does no harm to have a talisman."

  "There's magic in such t
hings."

  "Then maybe it will do some good after all."

  Lucien licked his lips, shifted his weight. I was aware of every twitch of his muscles with electric tension. He tilted his head, almost looking, then stopped himself.

  "You should not be here."

  "I get that a lot lately."

  "Magdalene..."

  My stomach clenched. My heart froze. I forced myself to breathe so that I could speak. "I need a favor."

  His laugh was so low it started out as a mere vibration, rolling up through him with rueful strain. "You should be trying to rip my throat out." He tipped his head back, looking at the sun without squinting or shielding his eyes. "Has your master slackened the leash so much?"

  "Not all of us require leashes."

  He looked at me then. The wool of his scarf scratched against the collar of his coat, his gaze a heavy press against my cheek. I did not turn. I did not look. For to do so just might break me.

  "The daylight dampens the predator in me," he said. Not a question, a statement. "I hadn't considered..." He trailed off, lost in thought, no doubt remembering that night we came together deep in the bedrock of London.

  None of us had considered, I wanted to say, and that was the problem. None of us ever thought, even for a second, that the ties that bound us weren't embedded in our blood. But I was not here for that conversation.

  "A favor," I said again.

  "Ask it."

  "Have you encountered Lenora Faviola?"

  "Yes. She came to me." I felt him smile, somehow, in the pit of my stomach, and was surprised by a spike of jealousy.

  "Did she tell you of her plans?"

  "I turned her away. We spoke no more than introductions."

  I closed my eyes, released a sigh, and opened them again. "She's flooded London with ghouls, with fresh turns."

  "Yes," he said, when I had paused too long. These things he knew—had to know—for no matter how he tried to isolate himself, the change was in the wind, in the trees, in the fear-struck eyes of mortals.

  "She has enslaved them all to her, even Ragnar's cast-offs."

  "She has."

  "You are stronger."

  He stared out across the water.

  "No," he said. His fingers curled into fists in his coat pockets. Knuckles cracked. "I can't do what you want me to do."

  "You could do it. You're strong enough."

  "That's not what I meant."

  It was my turn to laugh then, a short, rueful burst. "She will overrun the city, and she has not the old rules that Ragnar carried. She cares not what she wakes, only that she wins. She must be stopped."

  He pulled one hand out of his pocket. I looked. I hadn't meant to. To see any part of Lucien was to drive a stake into my chest. As a figure on the shore, hidden behind coat and scarf, I could distance myself. But that movement... My predator's eyes looked before my head caught up.

  He held no weapon, had not even extended his claws. He held his palm above the water, as if he could sense something rising from it. The veins on the back of his hands were grey and narrow, giving his flesh the sucked-in look of someone who'd spent too long in the bath.

  Dying. He was dying and I was asking him for help.

  "It's already awakened."

  "Even more of a reason to put her plans to dust."

  His fist clenched, arm trembling from the pressure. "I cannot help you."

  "Why?" A bubble of rage burst within me. "Thousands will die, Lucien..." His name was a thorn in my tongue. I pressed my lips together and gathered myself. "There aren't enough of the Sun Guard to stand against this threat. Roisin and I... we're not enough. Was that Ragnar's alternate plan? That, if he were to fail, another nightwalker would make certain we failed with him? Are you working for him even in his death?"

  "No." His voice was harsh, raspy. "But do not ask this of me."

  "I have no one else to ask."

  He shoved his fist back into his pocket and looked up once more, staring down the sun. I could not see his eyes. "Go."

  The word was a punch to the gut. "What?"

  "Go."

  "You must feed," I said, stupidly, as if his hunger must be the thing keeping him from helping me. As if his hunger was only born from him forgetting to get lunch.

  "Go."

  I turned, my hair whipping against his side and cheek from the force of it, and strode back up the embankment, too furious and hurt and... wrought... to muster up any parting words. He wanted me to go. I would go. I had work to do anyway, doubly so now that he would not help us.

  DeShawn's eyes widened as I approached and he dropped the gun to the ground, moving his finger off the trigger. "Mags? Girl? You all right?"

  "Fine." I snapped the word off and almost shouldered him aside as I walked past.

  "What happened?" He holstered the gun and jogged to keep up.

  "He won't help."

  "I mean, yeah, I figured that. And?"

  "Nothing. That's all. We're on our own."

  DeShawn paused, looking from me to the figure on the riverbank and back again. "Want me to shoot him?"

  I snort-laughed as I swung a leg over the bike and grabbed my helmet. "It wouldn't help."

  "I think it might help a little."

  "Come on, we have to go." The last word caught in my throat. I pursed my lips and shoved the helmet on.

  It was only then did I feel the corpse-cool tears streaking down my cheeks, pressed against my skin by the padding of the helmet.

  Emeline said I'd get hurt. I should have listened.

  Twenty-six: Invitation Accepted

  As the sun kissed the horizon, the Sun Guard came out to dance. We left the house in waves. DeShawn called in every favor he could with his police buddies until he had a number he felt could hold a cordon. It wasn't enough. Even dragging in the military—which he did, despite Emeline's protestations—wouldn't be enough. He and his gun-toting friends went first, circling the high rise building Lenora had claimed for her celebration.

  Next went the mortal contingent sworn to the Sun Guard—Seamus and Talia and Maeve and all the rest, inserting themselves into key logistical positions around the high rise. Talia said they were lucky, the building had a small footprint, it'd be easy to monitor all the ins-and-outs. Seamus had glowing things to say about the CCTV network in the area, and how stupid Lenora was for setting up shop in a place where we could keep a tight eye on her.

  Maeve said nothing, just pressed her lips together and muttered under her breath. Like me, she wasn't good at faking optimism.

  Roisin and I were next. In accordance with the rules of the invitation, we wore long crushed velvet dresses—hers emerald green, mine blood red—that Talia spirited up out of somewhere. Both of us would have rather strapped on proper armor but, to do our jobs, we needed to get into the building. Talia had clucked at us and told us we'd be refused at the door if we showed up without the dresses.

  Fine. But we wore our combat boots under that velvet, communicators in our ears, and I carried my blade across my back while Roisin kept both guns holstered to her hips. When Talia protested, we told her Lenora knew what she'd invited, and Talia let the matter go.

  Roisin and I were to go in first and report what we saw to our support crew—DeShawn and the guard—so they could brief the younger sunstriders and, if it seemed clear, send them in after us.

  I didn't like that part, but Emeline had shut down my protests, and I hurt too much to press the issue. I just wanted to get moving. To get to fighting. I wanted Lenora's blood on my talons so deeply the urge was a physical hook in my chest, dragging me forward.

  "Barricades are keeping an entrance open on the south side." Talia's voice crackled in my ear. "Nightwalkers man that entrance. The humans that want in are being funneled through the other doors."

  "Understood," I said, leaning my bike around a corner that would take me closer to the south side of the building. Roisin followed without a word. We had our ridiculous dresses hiked up around our
hips so we could ride, the wind threatening to tear them free every time we gave a little extra life to the throttle.

  "These dresses are stupid, Talia."

  "Showing up out of dress code would be stupid," she retorted.

  "Mission chatter only," Emeline said.

  I rolled my eyes behind the shelter of my helmet. The tension in Talia's voice was so thick I could feel it. If she was that wound up, the rest of the mortals were too. A little humor to get the team to relax would go a long way.

  My sunstriders didn't need humor, though. I could feel their minds—motes floating around a flame, present but far enough away not to be a distraction—and every one of them was wound up with anticipation. If they'd been lesser beings, they'd be salivating at the mouth. The experience in the tunnels had given them a taste of victory and, after having had their home violated, they wanted another hit.

  Patience, I willed as I slowed the bike. Up ahead the road dead-ended into the high rise Lenora had claimed as her own. Massive spotlights painted brilliant swathes of purple and blood red across the side of the building, advertising to all who'd received the invitations—dropped over the city like confetti—that this was the place. The place with the answers.

  The place they were all going to die.

  The pavement up to the doors had been painted dark red, the paint so fresh it clung to our tires as we eased the bikes up toward the door. Talia hadn't been kidding. An honor guard of nightwalkers—all of them a few days old—lined the approach, each one watching us with hungry eyes. Each one was too afraid to attack, even though everything in their reformed bodies would be screaming at them to lunge. Lenora held her leash firmly in hand.

  "Having a problem here," Roisin said.

  We killed the engines and parked the bikes, leaving our helmets on the saddles. If the nightwalkers wanted to take them, they were welcome to it. It'd just make them easier for us to track, later. Roisin peeled leather gloves off her hands, struggling to pull them over the punctures her extended claws had left in the fingertips. Her pupils had blown, filling her golden eyes with black ink, her fangs pushed against the plush curve of her lips.