David put his head in his hands, feeling a thousand times his age just then. “I don’t know how to do this. How to feel this much and still function. I’m not as strong as Miranda—I never have been.”
“Be grateful for that,” Nico told him. “Think of the fire that strength was forged in.”
“I suppose you’re right.” David lifted his eyes to the Elf’s, and their gazes held for a silent moment; David laid one hand against Nico’s face and Nico leaned into the touch with a smile. Nico covered the hand with his own, and turned David’s palm to place a kiss over his lifeline.
Then he seemed to make some sort of decision, and with a nod, rose from the floor. He smiled. “Come to bed, my Lord.”
“It’s early yet,” David pointed out. “I’m not really tired, either, and I should—”
“David,” Nico said firmly, a surprising glint of mirth and mischief in his moonlit eyes, “Come to bed.”
The Prime blinked. He mentally sputtered for a moment. His eyes fell on the Elf’s outstretched hand. Such a simple gesture…he’d been imagining this moment for months, but…
He took a deep breath and reached out, folding his fingers around Nico’s. “As you will it,” the Prime said softly, and rose.
*****
Miranda was sitting behind her piano finishing her encore when she realized she never wanted to tour again.
She had no idea how normal human musicians survived months and months on the road. Granted, they didn’t have a mystical bond slowly starting to itch and ache in the back of their minds, but the stress of being away from home and performing night after night…even without an empathic gift it had to be exhausting.
Her friend Jane Cassidy, with whom she’d recorded a wildly successful duet not long after her first album, claimed she loved touring. The travel itself was boring and repetitive and she never got to see as much of a city as she wanted, but the high of performance, the love of the audience, was Jane’s favorite drug, the love of her life as she called it. Jane sold out large venues all over the world; Miranda had stuck with small spaces where she could manage the crowd without draining herself. Smaller venues better suited her far more intimate style—Jane was a rocker chick, all spiky hair and electric guitar.
Big crowds made Miranda nervous. The last time she’d done a really large concert, a charity event for the relief effort after a hurricane decimated the Gulf Coast, she’d nearly had a panic attack out on stage—every noise was a gunshot, every face an assassin. She still remembered the bullet hitting her chest, remembered having to fall. That night at the Austin Live Music Festival had nearly ended her career…which was what Hart had wanted. She was glad that she’d won that round before she finished the battle with her sword; he’d never have the satisfaction of seeing whatever finally did drive her offstage.
Her security team, with Avi in the lead, surrounded her and escorted her from the theater as soon as the encore was done. She wasn’t doing much publicity this time around, aside from a few radio and print interviews and a few meet-and-greets with contest winners. After three hours of singing she wanted nothing more than a hot shower, warm blood, and a decent night’s sleep.
The first two she could get. The third, not so much. It was really amazing how difficult she found falling asleep without David next to her and without the familiar sounds and smells of her home all around. His presence anchored her, helped her relax—there was nothing to fear if they were together.
That night came another complication, though not an unexpected one.
Once upon a time not very long ago, David had had sex with someone else, and Miranda had been forced to experience it vicariously, overcome with a combination of betrayal, rage, and arousal she hoped to God she’d never feel again. Knowing what was happening, and knowing what was about to be destroyed, she had been through one of the worst nights of her life, third on the list after the attack that had brought her to the Haven and far, far worse, feeling David die.
How could five years have changed everything so drastically? She was, by any standard, still very young for a vampire and even moreso for a Queen. Only a few women had taken the Signet under the age of 100. But that night, only three months after their wedding, she had been sure it was over—even if there was no way she could physically leave him, neither could she forgive him.
Funny.
She was, luckily, settled into her hotel room for the night, replacing a string on her guitar that had broken in the middle of the show and forced her to finish on her backup instrument, when she felt it start, and instead of sinking onto the bed in mute horror, she couldn’t help but smile.
This time what she felt was relief. Relief that her Prime could be happy for a few hours and that Nico might be able to shed some of the burden of his broken heart, even if just temporarily.
Of course, the relief very quickly turned into something else—and this time, she was able to feel what he was feeling without her vision clouded by anger. She wondered, if she bent her mind closer to his across the miles, would it—
…long-fingered hands, nails scratching lightly along skin pale in the candlelight…kisses at once unhurried and intense, one article of clothing falling away at a time, everything so slow and euphoric…a soft chuckle at his impatience…waiting for this for so long…I love…need…want…NOW…
Miranda gasped and “jumped” back, the rush of feelings—and the feeling of phantom teeth sinking into her thigh—a little more than she’d bargained for. Her whole body was buzzing from the inside, like a gradual electrocution.
A wave of need and appreciation hit her. She managed to strip herself down to the t-shirt she’d had on after the show, and tumbled onto the bed. Experimentally, she mentally nudged herself farther away, and the sensations toned down, but didn’t stop. Still, if she had that much control without even working at it, that was a good sign that she could learn how to regulate the energy and even channel it into something useful like sparring or performing.
Not this time, though. This first time she’d just have to let it happen, and try to observe as impartially as possible so she could learn more about how the links among them worked together. She and David were bound to each other, David to Nico, Nico to Deven…and that was ignoring any emotional ties. Deven had mentioned hearing Jacob and Cora in bed together once. There was too much to learn, and so few opportunities to really study how they fit together.
“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it,” she murmured.
This was going to go on for a while—she knew her husband, and that same drive for excellence he applied to his technical wizardry applied to amorous pursuits. He’d had 350 years to practice, after all. She remembered how Nico had tasted the night they’d turned him, and how she’d wanted to shove David onto the bed and tear into him…and now they were together, and when she imagined it…or better yet imagined she was there too…
Miranda groaned. It was going to be a long night and her hands were already tired from three hours onstage.
If only she’d had the foresight to bring Mr. Shaky.
*****
Once again, Deven dreamed.
At first he was wandering alone in the dark like always, but somewhere just past the reach of his vision he could sense something…something warm, something safe.
He struggled toward it, realizing he was soaked to the skin like he’d done a swan dive into a lake, so cold his teeth chattered audibly in the silent darkness that gradually took the shape of a forest.
It was a familiar one, but this was not Muir. These were shorter trees, broader, massive old oaks that were both younger and more stately, in their way, than the redwoods. A forest like this one had housed the Cloister where Eladra had brought him to heal and learn…God, was that where he was going?
Dread fell into his stomach, but he couldn’t stop moving. If he did he would surely freeze. Freezing wouldn’t kill a vampire but would put him in a sort of stasis, and if he didn’t manage to l
ose consciousness before his body became paralyzed, he would be trapped, immobile, until something brought him out of it. Freezing was one of those unspoken horrors among their kind he pretended not to be terrified of. He had to keep walking, on and on in the dark and alone, until the blurry not-quite-a-thing in the distance took the shape of a building.
Light flickered warm and golden in the windows. Carved stone walls, a fountain somewhere within, a sense of solace held safely in the arms of the forest…it wasn’t the Cloister he knew, or the one he had destroyed, but it was very much like them. It seemed to be empty except for one entrance whose door stood open, beckoning him into the dry comfort under its roof.
As dreams were wont to do, as soon as he stepped up to the threshold the scene changed—inside, the building was in fact a bedroom at the Austin Haven, one he recognized by the number of potted plants and books covering every flat surface. The air was verdant and held a touch of the greenwood, the faintest wisp of incense, the smell of vanillin from the books and…
…sweat…
He moved into the room cautiously, heart beginning to pound. Like most Haven bedrooms this one was dominated by a large bed hung with light-blocking curtains; on one end of the room was a fireplace with seating, and the doors to closet, bath, and hallway stood shut tight on the other three walls.
The dreamtime wavered, shimmering like heat from the pavement, and though physically he didn’t move, the shifting in and out of phase with the room made him dizzy. He groped sideways for something to steady himself, and found the back of a chair.
He realized, then, that this wasn’t a dream—or at least not fully. The forest outside had been imaginary, but this room was real, and what was happening in it was happening now in the waking world.
Astral projection. Body in one place, mind in another.
Fantastic.
He started at the sound of a quiet chuckle at the other end of the room.
The voice was soft but clear, and its familiarity made his chest hurt like he’d been staked. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
The second held a smile in its lilting accent. “Kai may be the popular one, but I’ve hardly been celibate these centuries.”
Pulse clanging so loudly he was sure they would hear it, Deven moved closer, until he was beside the foot of the bed, holding on to the post to keep from drowning.
Oh God.
He saw exactly what he expected to see, and yet, it was still a shock. He’d seen David naked a thousand times, of course, and was intimately familiar with every inch, but he’d barely ever even seen past the Elf’s forearms. It turned out that the tattoo on Nico’s face didn’t stop at his cheekbone; it took up again over his clavicle and wound over and around his shoulder, down to his wrist, and then started again at his hip. The tangled sheets obscured a few spots, but it was clear the scrolling vinework went all the way down to his ankle; there were lines of flowing Elvish script twined around the vines, and there was a quiet power to the ink that meant it must have been done ritualistically.
He kept staring at it, mesmerized, unwilling to let himself think about what was going on here until he had no choice. David closed a hand around Nico’s chin and drew him in for a kiss, the Elf groaning softly into his mouth and digging his fingers into the Prime’s shoulder where there were already mostly-healed half moons in blood.
They were both bloody—not messily so, but with obvious bite marks and fingernail scratches all over that were moments away from disappearing. Sharing blood, drawing pain…they hadn’t just fucked, then, they had devoured each other. David was a cruelly accomplished lover; he knew how to draw out every second of pleasure until it was almost unbearable…until his partner was begging, every moan a plea for more and more. He was the one man Deven had actually craved in his entire long life, and that constant need had been as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
Standing more firmly in the room Deven could feel it; the air was humming both with sexual energy and the lazy satisfaction of two people who’d been holding back from each other for far too long. There was so much love and pleasure permeating every inch of the room it was almost impossible to breathe—even though he wasn’t really there.
“Already?” Nico said with a smile as David edged down and left kisses along his throat. “You have a remarkably short refractory period, my Lord.”
Deven almost smiled through the snarl of emotions he was feeling. Truer words had never been spoken.
David lifted his head and looked down into Nico’s face. The Elf’s adoring gaze traveled from David’s practically glowing blue eyes down to his lips, then back up again. Something passed between them that was almost too subtle to feel, but Deven recognized it—a link. They’d been magically bonded at some point. When? Who had done it? Why?
Why. As if he really needed to ask. Everything happening now, from the thinness of Nico’s face to the link that was currently feeding the Elf enough power to live as more than a wraith, was Deven’s fault, born of the suffering he’d been only too glad to force on everyone around him.
Kai’s words came back: “If you can make everyone who loves you come to hate you, will you finally be satisfied?”
“I only have you like this for a little while,” David said, nuzzling Nico’s ear and then nipping the point, eliciting a hitched breath. “We’ll figure out how to negotiate everything once Miranda comes home, but I want to enjoy these few days as much as fate will allow.”
“As do I.”
“Glad you agree.” David curved one foot around Nico’s calf, one hand around his arm, and pulled him closer, kissing him hard and deep—a tremor ran through Nico, and he gripped David’s biceps with surprising strength. There was a brief, and only partly serious, struggle for control, Nico switching their positions with lightning quickness and pinning David’s wrists above his head, then the Prime doing the same to him, both growling faintly.
Deven had to cling to the bedpost even harder. It was unbearable to watch—so incredibly beautiful, and so agonizing, seeing two people he had cast aside in so many ways find in each other what he had been unable to give either.
Again, David held the Elf beneath him, this time saying in a harsh whisper, “Whatever happens tomorrow…right now, right here…you’re mine.”
“Yes,” Nico murmured. “Yours. You have this night made me your own, by blood and flesh alike…” He locked eyes with David and all but hissed, “Now it’s my turn.”
The emotion that surged through the room—through Deven—as they tore into each other was too much…too much for his weakened and already shaken heart to bear. Panicking, Deven shoved himself backwards, out of the room, out of the dream, and a moment later gasped himself awake and sat bolt upright in bed.
He was shaking, and couldn’t catch his breath, disoriented—the last time he’d been thrown back into his body so forcefully was when Miranda had created the Trinity and dragged him back from death. The feeling was too similar, the shock of what he’d witnessed overwhelming the logic that he had nothing to be upset about, and he curled up in a ball, trying desperately to get warm.
He should be glad. They could have each other and stop trying to get through to him. They could give up, and live their lives while he faded into the shadows beneath the trees where he belonged, his sustained heartbeat enough to keep Nico alive. That was all they needed. They didn’t actually need him. Nobody did. Not now. Maybe not ever. All he had to do was stay alive, forever, giving Nico the only thing he could even if it meant being chained to the world for centuries, decade after decade rolling out endlessly…
Freezing. He was freezing. The room wasn’t cold, but ice was forming in his veins. He could give in to it, it would be so easy…
Then something…it was difficult to know what to call it…his soul, perhaps, or at least the tiny wasted part of him that was still longing so deeply to feel again, stumbled out of hiding, its sorrow combined with a thousand other kinds of despair and grief, and
it felt like his entire being became one concentrated plea, whispered harshly into the still air and screamed into the void:
“Help me…please…help me.”
He had made that same entreaty a hundred times over the centuries until finally he had accepted that there would be no answer. Either there was no one to reply, or Whoever was there had dismissed Deven as Deven had dismissed those he had once claimed to love. He knew the words would fall flat on the deaf ears of the universe. It was folly to try, foolish to grasp at those last frayed threads of faith that had clung to his heart even after all else had fallen away. Chained to a table at the mercy of a Dominican, or feeling the knife-blades of grief when the words Call Ended flashed on his phone and his world shattered…he had been begging for mercy for hundreds of years and received no reply.
From what seemed like a thousand miles away, he heard wings.
He didn’t look up—he was too afraid to find out he was imagining it. He kept his head bowed, breath coming shallowly, as something heavy and warm was drawn over him, rustling, tickling the skin where it touched.
Feathers.
He must still be dreaming. She couldn’t show up in the real world like this, only in the dreamtime. The power to intervene directly in their lives was still denied Her. She had to act here, or through someone.
He was grateful to be asleep, though. The real world was so empty and cold. Here he could dream up love from the past, or a Goddess to hold him, or a moment of peace in ten lifetimes of loss.
But when he lifted his head, he gasped; there were no wings around him, no waterfall of blood red hair…the eyes that met his were not star-flecked black, but dark violet, filled with their own quiet power.
Shadowstorm (The Shadow World Book 6) Page 12