Shadow Rising (The Shadow World Book 7)

by Dianne Sylvan

  Of course, back then she didn’t have a bed this comfortable, or a sleeping Elf keeping her warm.

  She grinned into the dark, still amazed at her own boldness. Up to now she and Nico hadn’t discussed sex, and she still wasn’t sure what had possessed her, but…she certainly was glad it had. She’d seen the aftereffects of Elf Tantra repeatedly since David had taken up with him, but aside from a little touching here and there in the midst of whatever was going among the four of them, she hadn’t been on the receiving end, as it were.

  Now she understood that dopey grin David got sometimes.

  Good lord.

  She yawned and snuggled deeper into the covers; the arm around her middle tightened slightly. It really was too bad David and Deven were off on their own today…with the weather outside so frightful it would be even more lovely to sleep the afternoon away all tangled up in a pile. She’d been catching echoes of their date off and on since about midnight, which only made her wish they were here even more.

  As if by magic—she nearly snorted—when she lifted her eyes, there were two additional bodies in the bed, appearing out of nowhere…and, it seemed, without their clothes.

  Miranda couldn’t help it; she had to giggle at the look of resigned annoyance on Deven’s face when he started awake and realized David had Misted them out of one bed and into another. She tried to smother the laugh in the comforter, but Nico shifted behind her and woke, lifting his head long enough to see they had company and then dropping back on the pillow with a grunt.

  After a bit of blanket reconfiguration and a couple of yelps due to misplaced knees and elbows, everyone was under the covers, warm, and settled in.

  “So,” David murmured into her hair, “Did you two have a nice evening?”

  She flicked his ear. “As nice as yours, it sounded like. Just not nearly as loud.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Deven said sleepily from his position between her and David. “He’s the screamer.”

  David rolled his eyes. “You weren’t complaining.”

  “How could I? You kept sticking things in my mouth.”

  The Queen nearly choked on a laugh, and without opening his eyes Nico clapped her firmly on the back a couple of times, which only made her laugh harder.

  She loved the look on David’s face, watching her silliness—he looked happy, open, and completely at ease. So did Deven, for that matter, at least as much as he could—when they were all together like this, he seemed to shed some of his centuries of weariness.

  Deven reached out to her, and she held back a smile; he still sometimes wasn’t quite sure how or where to touch her, and she didn’t want him to feel self-conscious about it. They’d had a few sexy moments devolve into gales of laughter when, confronted facefirst with the female anatomy, he’d frozen like a deer in headlights. Luckily he was a quick study, and she was good at giving directions. David had taught her that much—his penchant for dirty talk had the useful side effect of teaching her to speak up and make it clear what she wanted. Oddly she’d noticed that even Dev found that a turn-on.

  “What’s going through that mind of yours?” Deven asked, pulling her closer, laying his head on her shoulder.

  “Men are crazy,” she murmured. “Straight, gay, bi, whatever the hell you are now…”

  “I think of it as gay-plus-one,” he replied with a smile in his voice.

  “You’re really not weirded out by it?” David asked from behind him. She knew he’d been wondering but hadn’t been sure how to ask. “You did have a very specific understanding of yourself for over seven centuries.”

  Dev’s answer was wry. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, my raven, but of everything that’s happened in the last few years, suddenly venturing into the Land of the Ladyparts is hardly a cause for alarm.”

  David snorted quietly at the term. “Seriously?”

  A sigh. “It’s not as if I’ve developed an attraction to women in general, after all—just this one.” He squeezed her around the middle and kissed her ear. “It’s part of the grand glorious destiny that’s probably going to get all four of us killed. Just like how you and I never got over each other, and how there just happened to be an Elf of Jonathan’s bloodline who could join with us…Persephone owes us a lot of answers and has a lot to answer for, but even I have to admit She’s trying Her damnedest to take care of us.”

  Surprised, she looked over at David, whose expression mirrored hers. It was the closest thing to optimism she’d ever heard from Deven, and she would have attributed it to post-coital glow, but there was a sort of casual sincerity to it she’d come to recognize. The most revealing things Deven ever said about himself always came off as almost an afterthought.

  She started to say something, but didn’t have a chance.

  Thunder struck inside her head.

  She immediately put her hands over her ears, crying out in pain, but there was no way to block out sound that wasn’t sound and wasn’t coming through her sense of hearing—her mind was suddenly full of smoke and screaming.

  Her awareness was seized and dragged from the room, across impossible distances—she caught glimpses of stone buildings, trees, and flames.

  Her mind grounded hard in a location she had never set foot upon.

  A voice she recognized echoed through her, begging: “Great Queen—please help us. They have come for the Stone. Please. We are—”

  The connection broke as suddenly as it had been formed, and Miranda was left sitting bolt upright in bed with the others all staring at her. She could barely breathe, the fear and chaos were still so intense inside her mind, but she fought for words, for thoughts, for anything.

  David took hold of her with his mind and held her fast; Deven and Nico added their own energy, shoring up her shields so she could distance herself from the vision enough to communicate.

  “They’re under attack,” she panted. “The Cloister. I know where it is. We have to go—NOW.”

  Chapter Five

  Lady, help me be brave.

  Xara, the Hallowed One, kissed her forehead gently as the alarm bells began to toll throughout the Cloister. “Remember,” the priestess said, “She is always with you, and so am I. Now go.”

  The young vampire was pale with fear and blood loss, but she gathered her courage and looked into Xara’s eyes. “I will not fail you,” she whispered, and bolted from the room.

  Xara set the knife down on her personal altar and closed her eyes, listening: screams, pounding, gunfire. The stench of acrid smoke had begun to fill halls whose sacred stones had, only an hour ago, been filled with soft light and the peaceful drone of evening prayers.

  She reached up to her bare neck, touching the skin, ignoring the sudden feeling of loss and vulnerability. She did not need jewelry to mark her as the Hallowed One; it was who she was, in her blood, in her very skin. She would not meet her fate cowering on her knees. She would stand as the Dark Mother’s chosen one, and die as she had lived.

  Taking up her formal cloak, she dressed, her eyes on the statue of Persephone she had brought from the ruin of Eladra’s quarters. Perhaps someone…her own replacement, she hoped…would find it here, and it would find a new home. Perhaps it would be destroyed, as they were being destroyed, and the Shadow World would die as her sisters and brothers were dying now. Still something would be reborn from its ashes…nothing ever truly died, but passed through the lands of the Lady to find a new sunset, a new being.

  She did not start at the pounding on her door, or the rough human voices beyond it. She stood before her altar, waiting, whispering a prayer for her people.

  Of course the Cloister was not built as a fortress; it was easy for them to break down doors and drag the novices and attendants out into the cold night. They had never been anything but peaceful; the Swords of Elysium had their own strongholds, while the priesthood lived in the serene quiet of the forest. If there was anything left of the Order after all was said and done perhaps the Swords would deign to return and p
rotect their gentler cousins once more. So much had been sundered, so much broken. So much wasted.

  Hot, clammy hands closed around her upper arms and hauled her from the room, hammering her with questions and insults, which she ignored. She let them drag her, did not fight or scream; she could hear screaming all around her as the humans murdered their way through the building, but she remained calm, waiting.

  They threw her to the ground outside in what had been the back gardens. The night-blooming flowers and berry bushes, which drew in the deer who were their primary everynight food source, had been trampled…such a shame. Shannon had taken such pride in the garden. The angel’s trumpets, her favorites, had been smashed under the boots of the men who now stood around Xara in a semicircle, crossbows trained on her heart.

  The night stank of smoke and blood. There were flood lights all over the grounds, as the men searched for those in hiding and dragged them out into the brightness, blinded and weeping.

  Slowly, she stood, drawing herself up to her full height. Lady, help me be brave. She felt the wings of the Goddess wrap around her, lifting her up when her own courage might fail; there was no room for fear in a heart so full of Her peace.

  Far to the right she could see a pale, huddled group of women still in their sleeping clothes; they were the Acolytes, priestesses-in-training, who acted as her attendants. When they saw that she had been captured, a cry of horror went up among them, and one of the men struck the first girl to cry with the butt of his weapon. The girl moaned and went down, blood erupting from her skull.

  She counted, checked faces: Laila was not among them. Neither, it seemed, was Ashera; she breathed out in relief.

  Thank you, Lady. Thank you. Hold them safe. What happens to me does not matter. Keep them safe.

  “Where is the Stone?” a cold male voice demanded.

  She let her gaze sweep from one end of the semicircle to the other, taking in the blank expressions on most of the humans’ faces; so they were cursed, as she had seen in her dream, their free will stolen for the pleasure of the Prophet. The ones in charge, the Shepherds, still maintained some semblance of will, but all the faces before her showed only hatred, disgust. They were here to slaughter unarmed innocents, yet it was she who was an animal?

  “I do not have it,” she replied, lifting her chin to show her bare throat. “You cannot have it.”

  One of the men seized a girl from the crowd and dragged her into the circle, holding her by the throat.

  “Tell us where it is and we’ll let your little whores live,” the leader said. “If you keep it from us, you’ll watch every single one of them die.”

  The girl whimpered, her eyes huge with terror, and fitfully struggled against her captor. He flung her down in the dirt and stepped hard on her back, flattening her; as she cried out, he took a stake from his belt and slammed it into her back so hard it pinned her to the ground like a butterfly.

  She looked up at Xara, agony in her sweet young face, blood trickling from her mouth. Xara held her eyes, giving her something kind in her last moment, pressing the thought into her mind: Go to Her, child…She will hold out Her arms and take you in, and there will be no pain, only love. There is only love in Her embrace…only love.

  Great spasms wracked the girl’s body, and she fell still, but her face showed nothing but peace.

  The leader waited.

  Xara met his gaze. “No.”

  Enraged—though at her refusal or her calm, she couldn’t tell—he ordered another girl brought.

  Out beyond the men, in the field that bordered the forest, she sensed something…something changing…they needed a little more time, just a moment more…

  “I will give you what you want,” Xara announced, causing the men to freeze.

  The leader strode toward her, wrapped one massive hand around her throat. She was not a large woman, never had been, and he towered over her, but she stood fast. “Where is the Darkened Star?” he asked her in a deathly quiet voice.

  “Oh, I did not mean the Star,” she replied. “I meant the other thing that you want.”

  He tightened his hand, snarling. “What’s that?”

  “Death,” she gasped. “Blood. You came here to bring death…and death has found you.”

  A scream.

  The leader whirled around just in time to see all hell break loose.

  Xara lifted her eyes and watched as dozens of dark figures poured into the field from the edge of the forest, where the fabric of the night seemed to have turned to water. Steel caught the light all around, and the shouts of anger turned to panic.

  The humans turned and drew their weapons, but they were already falling; swift and silent, death came over the fields, laying claim to them all.

  The human leader barked out orders, his rage a palpable force against her will; he pulled a stake from his own belt and turned on her, and before she could react, she felt it pierce her chest, its shaft forced into her body.

  He turned to run—whether toward the battle or away she would never know—but did not make a single step.

  A sword flashed.

  The human’s head parted from his neck and toppled over, his body dropping to the ground in a heap.

  Xara sank to her knees, pain enveloping her. She could feel her blood pulsing its way out of her body, but she was still unafraid; she smiled up at the man before her.

  A green light shone from his throat, and his eyes seemed to glow though they were black as those of the Lady Herself. Only a few years ago she would have felt fear, or hatred; but now she was Hallowed, and she understood how things must unfold. She knew what Eladra had known, and knew what he would know…soon.

  She fell over. The ground was hard from weeks of freezing temperatures, but the cold no longer reached her. She held on to her last shreds of life just a moment longer—she wasn’t done yet. She had one last task. Just a moment more…

  Hands took gentle hold of her and turned her over, arms wrapping around her to hold her up.

  She stared up at a new face, but another she recognized: The woman whose red hair ran wild, her eyes oak-leaf green and filled with power. It was she who bore the Stone of Awakening; she whom the Goddess had marked as Her own, long ago. It was she whose voice had issued from the Speaking Stone and she to whom Xara had called with it tonight.

  Our Queen.

  Xara smiled at her, trying to lift her hands in the traditional gesture of honor, but could barely move.

  The Queen smiled back and took one of Xara’s hands. Xara knew she had no idea what truly lay ahead of her…what she truly was. But that was all right. She was Queen; she would step into her true identity when the time had come…and nothing would ever be the same.

  Xara returned her gaze to the prodigal, who was trying to feed energy into her broken body. She summoned a thread of power and denied him.

  “Easy,” he said. “Let me work.”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Xara, don’t be a fool,” he told her urgently. “I can heal you.”

  She lifted her free hand—barely even registering the movement—and closed her fingers over his. “Listen to me,” she said.

  “Xara—”

  “Listen,” she ordered, managing to find a touch of her authority.

  He fell silent. “Yes, Hallowed One.”

  Beyond them, the battle was finished. The noise died down, and she could sense the survivors and their saviors gathering, watching.

  “Laila has the Star,” she whispered. The darkness was closing around her…so sweetly, beckoning. She could feel the Lady drawing close, helping her keep her eyes open just a little longer.

  “Laila is gone,” he replied just as softly. “They took her.”

  “…you must find her,” she went on. “You must find her.” She drew up the last of her strength and reached up to touch his face, finding tears; she held her fingers up into the moonlight, wondering at the wetness, remembering there w
as a time she had been sure he had no soul and could not weep. “Thank you for coming.”

  “We got here as fast as we could,” he said. “You lost at least eight…I’m sorry we didn’t save them all.”

  She held his eyes. “You are forgiven,” she told him. She touched his forehead, lips, and heart, leaving faint smudges of her own blood. “By the…grace…grace of the Dark Mother, whose wings encircle the Night…I charge you…to protect and guide the children of Her Hallowed House…as if they were your own…”

  “Xara, don’t—”

  She continued, ignoring him. “…to keep safe the secrets, as set forth in the Codex, to receive Her knowledge and wisdom and power…to ensure the survival of Her children in the new world to come…from this moment until you draw your last breath and step forever into Her embrace…I name you the Raven’s Blade, Guardian of the Mysteries…Hallowed.”

  The last word rang out, and with it the last of her strength. She went limp, but her eyes held onto the world just long enough to see the survivors of the Cloister who had gathered around her, bloody and frightened but still hearing her final words; and as one, they knelt, and it was done.

  *****

  Miranda wasn’t a hundred percent sure what she’d just heard, but the reaction told her enough: every single surviving member of the Cloister had gone to his or her knees, and Deven had gone stark white.

  “God damn it, Xara,” he said quietly, lowering the priestess to the ground. He closed her eyes, folded her hands over her chest, and stood, regarding the others silently.

  “Some of the humans escaped,” he announced to them. “Tell me which way they went.”

  One of the girls nearest the front cleared her throat and rose. “They left by truck, toward the west, Hallowed One—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  They all stared, confused, but no one argued; no one seemed to know what to do. She could feel Deven’s fear—greater than any she remembered ever sensing from him, so intense it was rendering him unable to think straight.