Shadow’s Fall

by Dianne Sylvan

  “Still waiting,” David said. “Maguire said he’d have something for me by the time the Council reconvened.”

  “Well, I believe you will find that the weapon in question was registered to a fellow by the name of Richter, who works as a courier for the import/export business we all know is a front for Hart’s narcotics distribution ring. There’s a clear and present paper trail between Richter and Hart.”

  “You’re telling me Hart’s enough of a moron to use a gun that could be traced back to him?”

  “No. Hart’s not a moron at all. He’s a crazy bastard and a complete dickweasel, but not a moron. He simply expected his assassin to procure a human weapon. Given Monroe’s record with his Elite, there was no reason to doubt he’d be able to pull off the job without getting caught. Sad, really.” Deven looked at Monroe. “He’s so going to fire you.”

  David glared at Deven. “One of these days your meddling is going to backfire on you.”

  “What exactly do you call Marja Ovaska? A resounding success?” Deven pointed out. “I had an operative in Hart’s Elite. I saw an opportunity to thwart Hart’s ambitions, and I took it. If I’d told you, you would have insisted I stop the shooting altogether, and you would be back to trading insults and punching him in the nose with no solid evidence that he’s plotting against you.”

  David, losing some of his calm, said, “Do you have any idea what you put Miranda through? How hard it’s going to be to manage the aftermath of all this?

  He shrugged. “Miranda’s not a child. Stop underestimating her—she can handle it.”

  “That. Is not. The point.” David stepped forward so that his greater height towered over Deven—purely out of anger, not because he honestly believed the Prime would be cowed by him or anyone else. “You are not a god, Deven. You have no right to push us around your little chessboard.”

  They stared hard at each other. Finally, Deven said, a soft dare as well as an ultimatum in his voice, “Well then, my darling, stop acting like a pawn.”

  He vanished into thin air.

  David heard Faith let out a breath. “Dramatic,” she muttered. “As per usual.” She waved a hand at Monroe, who was still standing silently. “What do we do with this?”

  David forced himself to ground. “Leave him here for now. We’ll act as if we questioned him—you are prepared to testify against Hart, aren’t you, Claret?”

  “Yes, Lord Prime.”

  “Good. Then I suppose I won’t flay you. Faith, keep double guards on this door and another pair in the corridor—I don’t want Hart getting any ideas about sending in another assassin to destroy the evidence. The Council is set to reconvene at midnight—Maguire has my private cell, but if he should contact the main lines, put him through to me immediately.”

  Faith bowed. “As you will it.”

  They left the interrogation room together, David securing the bolts behind them. “I’m going to go tell Miranda what the Littlest Magnificent Bastard has been up to this time.”

  Deven had been right, which made David even more irritated with him; Miranda took the news that her shooter had been acting under orders from the Alpha as if she’d been expecting to hear it all along.

  She was in the middle of getting dressed for a night out on the town—she, Jonathan, and Cora were going into Austin and steering clear of the entire Council situation. They’d stick to the Shadow District where there were no humans to recognize her, since she was supposed to be in the hospital recovering from serious injuries.

  She paused midway through lacing up her boot and sighed. “It figures.”

  “You aren’t angry?”

  Miranda laughed humorlessly. “This is the same person who sent someone to teach me how to fight so I could take part in the battle that landed me the Signet … and who was spying on us through a yoga teacher, and who slept with my husband, and whose ex-agent killed half my friends … and who saved my life by giving me all his energy, and who saved Kat’s life, and who saved my career last night. I’m sure it would pain Deven to know this, but he’s pretty much lost the ability to surprise me at this point.” She switched to her other boot and added, “In his own twisted way he’s actually being kind of sweet.”

  David rapped his head lightly against the bedpost in frustration, earning a chuckle from his Queen, who patted the couch next to her. He joined her and kissed her temple. “He said I underestimate you,” David said. “Do I?”

  Miranda sat back thoughtfully. “Not really. You tend to overreact a little when it comes to me, but then, you’ve never once tried to stop me from doing something that was important to me—even when it might be better if you did.”

  He took her hands. “I want you to have everything you want in life,” he said. “I’m willing to deal with whatever consequences arise.”

  She shut her eyes, and there was pain in her voice. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of me. Maybe I should just—”

  “Don’t even think it,” David said quickly, changing his grip from her hands to her wrists. “At this point, you absolutely cannot quit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’d be letting Hart win. This is exactly what he wants: for you to doubt yourself and give up.” David held her eyes. “I promise you, Miranda, if at any point it looks like you’ve gone too far and that the risk is too great, I’ll say so. But I believe in you, and I’m not giving up, so neither should you.”

  She smiled, eyes bright. “Thank you.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the nose, then the lips. “Now, get out of here and go have fun. Try not to get into any more trouble.”

  “I thought you said have fun!” She stood up and fetched her coat and wallet. “I’d tell you to do the same, but …”

  David rose with her and nodded. “If I have an ounce of fun tonight it will be because Hart is eaten by coyotes and shat out over a cliff.”

  She laughed and quoted one of his favorite phrases: “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  Jonathan woke to an empty bed that evening, but that happened often enough; he rose and dressed for his evening out with the Queens, taking his time, trying to decide if he wanted to continue this half-assed silent treatment or act like an adult.

  He hadn’t managed to get his Prime alone since the shooting, and Deven had conveniently had his phone off during the Council meeting, ensuring that Jonathan’s desire to speak to him about what he knew—he knew, even without precognition, because he knew his Prime—was going on would go unfulfilled until the next night. Jonathan had given up and gone to bed, and a few hours later when the sun had gone down and they would normally wake twined around each other like wild ivy, Deven had avoided him yet again.

  Really, that was all the confirmation Jonathan needed, but he wasn’t going to let this one go. As soon as he was finished dressing, he felt out along the Signet bond between them, and when he found his mate’s presence, he had to smile: of course. Where else would he be?

  There were underground tunnels connecting the Haven itself with the outbuildings, though for the most part the complex was purely nocturnal except for a handful of day guards. Deven had most likely taken them, but now it was safe to go outside; Jonathan followed the gentle pull of his mate’s presence out one of the Haven’s side doors and across the compound.

  He found his Prime alone in one of the Elite training rooms running through a complex kata with his sword, Ghostlight.

  The Consort paused in the doorway for a moment. He’d always loved watching Deven move; Dev was naturally graceful, but when fighting, he achieved a level of lyrical precision that was as deadly as it was beautiful.

  Deven had studied for half a century in Japan and made his way around the East learning everything he could about martial arts before coming to America to fine-tune his skills with the warrior branch of the Order of Elysium. He had realized very early after becoming a vampire—and perhaps even before that—that he had two choices: Kill or be killed. By now, his style was purel
y his own, a unique blend of dozens of disciplines and moves that suited his size and speed.

  This particular series of choreographed moves was one he had designed himself, and it was slower than the rest, more art than martial; Deven had created it as a form of meditation. It was a sequence he taught his agents to enable them to still their minds and cleanse themselves of distracting emotion.

  Of course. Jonathan sighed to himself. Deven was feeling guilty, but no one would ever know, unless they recognized the kata for what it was: a confession.

  Ghostlight flashed in the simulated glow of a false moon. The blade was, to date, Deven’s favorite, and he was rarely without it. He swung it in a perfect arc as he turned, finishing the kata in the same position he started in, and Jonathan saw that his eyes were closed.

  Deven stood still a moment before sheathing the sword and opening his eyes. He already knew Jonathan was there, of course, but he smiled when he saw his Consort.

  Jonathan came into the room and kissed him lightly. “Are you all right?”

  The Prime made an indefinite noise. “Fine. Are you? You had quite a night.”

  Jonathan crossed his arms and regarded him gravely. “You know, Dev … I love you. And I think we’ve come a long way since we first Paired … but you can’t keep doing this to me.”

  Deven didn’t bother feigning ignorance. “You weren’t seriously surprised, were you?”

  “I can’t always tell you everything I see. And I don’t ask to be told everything you’re doing. But when my friends are in jeopardy, I want to know.”

  “You didn’t see it coming? I thought you were the prescient one.”

  “Damn it, Dev, don’t do that. Don’t trivialize this. You could have stopped this whole thing, and Miranda wouldn’t have been hurt at all. Do you realize what she went through last night? It was supposed to be one of the biggest nights of her career, and instead, fifteen thousand people saw her bleed all over her guitar.”

  “There are bigger concerns here than a couple of bullet wounds,” Deven said sharply. “Do you want to coddle her or save her life?”

  “How about if we let her fight her own battles?”

  “She will. Do you think this is just about Hart getting back at Miranda? There’s a whole world of awful coming toward this Haven, and it isn’t just about Miranda or David … or even about Hart. It’s about all of us. You know that.”

  Jonathan took a deep breath. He could argue with Deven until his voice gave out, but he knew better than to think he’d ever win.

  “It’s all changing,” Jonathan said at length, looking away. “Everything we knew … ever since David took the South, something has been …”

  “I know,” Deven said, laying a hand on Jonathan’s arm and running it up to his shoulder. “I can feel it, too, love, and I know we have to be ready for it. I tried to warn David. All I’m trying to do now is make sure that in the long run, we all survive. There might have to be collateral damage.”

  “We’ve known each other sixty years, and you still think I can’t deal with whatever machinations you have going on in defense of our friends? Am I supposed to be like the other Queens and not dirty my hands in the unsavory dealings of the menfolk? Should I be at the doily party instead of at your side?”

  “No.”

  “Then why can’t you open up to me, Deven? Why does it always have to be you alone against the world? Why won’t you let me help you while I can?”

  Deven frowned. “What do you mean, while you can?”

  “I mean … if this all comes to a head, we need to have plans in place for the worst-case scenario, and that means you let me in. Now. Do you not think I’m strong enough?”

  “Of course I do,” Deven said, looking surprised at the suggestion. “Jonathan, I trust you, and you have my full faith; I just …”

  Jonathan waited but didn’t back down, and finally Deven said, “You already have too many burdens, my love. Even in the name of those we care for, I can’t stand to lay anything else on your shoulders. I see what you go through, just knowing what you know, and …” His wide eyes had darkened, a trait Jonathan had never seen in other vampires—all their eyes went silver when they were on the hunt, but Deven’s actually became a noticeably darker purple when he was emotional … which was rare.

  Whatever quirk of genetics had landed Deven healing power had also made him just a little … otherworldly, at times, like a strange wild thing wandered out of the mists of some ancient forgotten realm. With his being medieval Irish, Jonathan had joked once that Deven might be some kind of Faery changeling … and that was one of the few times Deven had ever gotten genuinely upset with him. Jonathan had never brought up the idea again.

  Deven came closer to him, putting both hands on his chest, one over his heart. “I’ve already killed too much,” Deven said softly. “I can’t stand to hurt you, too.”

  Jonathan couldn’t help it—it was so unusual to see that much emotion in the Prime, he had no choice but to respond, and kissed Deven hard on the mouth, taking his breath away. They melted into each other with a sigh. It was a beautiful thing, to be Paired, to feel that balance and solace just at a touch. Deven called it holy; Jonathan was inclined to agree.

  “I have to go,” Deven said after a few minutes, drawing back reluctantly. “David’s going to present his evidence to the Council and move for a censure—and we know if they throw Hart out he won’t go quietly.”

  “They can’t excommunicate him from the Council, can they?”

  “Technically no. A Prime is a Prime, no matter how fucked up. But they can have him suspended—or he gets tossed out this time, and next time his vote is null and void on every motion.”

  “That’s barely a slap on the wrist for having a Queen shot.”

  “It’s symbolic. It means no matter what he tries to get done next meeting, no one will side with him; he’s essentially blackballed for as long as Tanaka judges he deserves it. And since all his friends are cowardly sheep, they’ll leave him twisting in the wind if he wants to pull another stunt like last night’s.”

  “Has anyone ever been thrown off for good?”

  “Not for good, but for a good while. Why do you think Demetriou never shows? He got a fifty-year suspension for his involvement in Horak’s death. He could have come back this decade, but his pride won’t let him … and at heart he’s too chickenshit to risk facing Janousek.”

  Jonathan had to laugh at that. “Demetriou’s afraid of Jacob? Why on earth? He’s like our own personal Jesus.”

  Deven grinned, but sobered quickly. “Jesus got angry, too, you know.”

  Suddenly, something very strange happened: It felt like the building shook, just for a second, and there was a muffled boom.

  A heartbeat later, alarms began blaring all throughout the Elite training complex. Jonathan cast his senses around, heard footsteps rushing toward one end of the orderly rows of buildings, and he and Deven were out of the training room and headed down the hall with the guards seconds later.

  Jonathan smelled the smoke before he saw it. They came around a corner and ran into a huge crowd of Elite from several territories who had no doubt been holding grudge matches or showing off after the tournament; everyone was surrounding a hallway that led to a plain steel door, into a cinder-block outbuilding.

  “Interrogation room A,” Deven informed Jonathan, charging through the crowd to where Faith was holding everyone back from the scene. “What’s going on?”

  The Second looked utterly thunderstruck, but she was still issuing orders to get the area contained and cordoned off. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Was someone trying to blow the door and let the prisoner escape?” Jonathan asked.

  “No,” came David’s voice, as he Misted right at Deven’s elbow. “The smoke is coming from inside the room. Wait here.”

  Sword drawn, the Prime nodded to Faith, who already had her own weapon out; with everyone watching, the two slipped into the antechamber, where the interio
r door to the interrogation room was hanging partly off its hinges.

  Jonathan tried to keep Deven from getting any closer, but it was as always a useless enterprise; Deven was in the doorway in a flash, and after a pause, Jonathan heard him curse loudly in Gaelic.

  Faith was the first one out, and Jonathan saw immediately that her boots were covered in blood.

  She looked up at him. She sounded like she was about to be sick. “Monroe.”

  “Where is he?”

  Faith made a helpless gesture. “All over the place.”

  “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

  The line had appeared between David’s eyebrows again, and his eyes were silver.

  Deven sighed deeply and poured himself another bourbon.

  Even before David hung up with Detective Maguire, Deven knew what he was going to say; while he should have been annoyed at the complete and utter derailing of a very intricate and costly plan, the most he could drum up was resignation.

  “The gun disappeared from Ballistics,” David said, sinking into his chair. “The gun, the data, the report … it’s all gone. There’s no record of the gun ever being entered into the system, though several techs swear they had eyes and hands on it before it vanished. Maguire’s having the entire department torn apart, but … it’s gone.”

  “And 8.3 Claret was blown to vamp-jam all over the walls of the interrogation room,” Deven added with a slow, amazed shake of his head. “You have no evidence whatsoever that Hart had Miranda shot, except my word that Monroe was working for me, and that would reveal my involvement with the Red Shadow.”

  “How in hell did Hart get anyone into that room to leave a bomb? And how did he get into APD’s labs to steal the gun and hack their computer system?”

  “I agree it makes no sense, David. Claret was undercover in Hart’s Haven for years, and he never gave me any indication that Hart had this level of finesse. His businesses—the drugs, the human trafficking—he runs them like a street thug, with hired brute enforcers. The degree of organization this suggests is not like Hart.”