Shadow’s Fall

by Dianne Sylvan

  “So either he’s wised up a lot in three years and somehow kept it from Claret—which would mean he knew the Claret his people killed wasn’t the real thing—”

  “Or there’s someone else involved in this,” Deven concluded. “Someone Hart hired or who is on his side and working on his behalf.”

  “It has to be Hayes,” David said. “He’s the only player here we don’t know enough about. Do you have a file on him?”

  “Not much of one. He’s been Hart’s Second for eight years, originally from Australia … and in all that time he hasn’t shown the kind of initiative an operation like this would take. He’s loyal, as far as anyone knows, but there’s nothing remarkable about him aside from brooding good looks.”

  “We need to know more. Can you do some digging?”

  “Of course. I can access Claret’s files; he kept them on a remote server. He would have had a way into Hart’s personnel data, as well—I can give you that and you can do a bit of techno-sleuthing. All Claret ever told me was that no one had ever heard of Jeremy Hayes before he joined the Elite; but that’s not so unusual. Vampire Elite are not exactly a sharing-and-caring breed.”

  “I’ve got Elite poring over every inch of that room for the explosives,” David said, putting his head in his hands. “If we can find the blast seed, I can learn more about when and where the bomb was set. That won’t link us to Hart, but it will tell us more about who we’re dealing with here. It’s possible that Hart brought Hayes on board to take his Elite in a new direction.”

  “A direction remarkably like yours,” Deven noted. “Technology, intelligence operatives … the old bastard might finally be learning.”

  David ran his hands back through his hair and looked up at Deven. “I can’t accuse him of anything at Council tonight. I have to let this go.”

  “Yes.”

  “How can I do that, Deven? How can I just let him walk out of here unscathed after what he did to Miranda? After I walked in and hit him like that, if I just let it go, I look like a fool.”

  “Why did you hit him, anyway?” Deven asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you just flat-out lose it like that in front of other people. That’s not the cool-headed David Solomon I know.”

  “Apparently my cool head falls right the fuck off when someone hurts my Queen.”

  Deven smiled. “That’s as it should be. I don’t care how logical you are, darling, when it comes to your Queen, logic doesn’t ever apply, no matter how much you want it to. She will always be the one thing that gets under your armor, the soft underbelly of your dragon’s scales.”

  “So basically she’s a handicap,” David muttered. “That sounds like something you would say.”

  Deven leaned forward, locking eyes with David. “No, David. A Consort is a Prime’s greatest strength. Our power is debilitating. Our responsibility is a long walk alone that ends in a violent death. Eternity—real eternity, not some romantic ideal—kills everything eventually.”

  “Is that why you and I …” David lowered his gaze, heart catching; neither of them had brought it up like this in a long time. “I still don’t understand why it happened.”

  Deven knew what he meant. “A house remains haunted until the ghost inside it is exorcised.”

  “Then it’s over with. You really believe that.”

  A smile, somewhere between sad and amused. “What you and I had was … is … love, I have no doubt. Even a heart as close to dust as mine is capable of loving more than one person. But we’ll never be a Pair, for the simple reason that your Queen completes a part of you no one else can. Miranda is your human heart, still beating. Your soul, still alive. She is a miracle and a treasure, and in three years she’s already made you twice the Prime you were—which is saying something, because you, my darling, are wonderful.”

  They held eyes for a while, and after a moment David reached over and took his hand, sighing. “Thank you.”

  Deven lifted his hand and kissed it, then let go. “Let’s get to the meeting, then, and get this over with—then we can start our real work. This isn’t over by a long shot; we’re going to nail that bastard to the wall … but we’ll start with Jeremy Hayes.”

  Eight

  Musician Hospitalized

  after Shooting

  Austin, Texas (AP)—Grammy-winning artist Miranda Grey is in good condition at a private hospital after being shot twice in the chest Saturday night during her performance at the Austin Live Music Festival.

  “Miss Grey is stable and will make a full recovery,” Dr. Stephen Novotny stated at a press conference Sunday. “Both bullets were successfully removed. Because of Miss Grey’s prior condition we are monitoring her recovery very carefully.”

  An investigation is underway into the identity of the shooter. A representative of the Austin Police Department said the focus of the investigation is on a series of letters the singer received from a possible stalker.

  Local music producer and chairman of the Austin Live Music Association Grizzly Behr also attended the press conference and said, “The ALMA is cooperating fully with APD to find out how the shooter got past security. Attendees of future festivals can rest assured that it won’t happen again. We’re thankful that Miss Grey is going to be all right, and we’re hoping she’ll be back next year.”

  Grey’s representative, Theresa Cuaron, urged fans to either donate blood to the Travis County Blood and Tissue Center or make monetary donations to the Miranda Grey Porphyria Research Foundation in lieu of sending flowers or gifts.

  * * *

  No one knew what hospital Miranda Grey was supposed to be in, and no one knew exactly where she lived. As invasive as the media were these days, somehow her management was always a step ahead of reporters, paparazzi, and other stalker types.

  She absolutely had a right to a private life … but it did leave her fans in a sort of limbo when it came to showing their support.

  Stella didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Lark would probably laugh at her, for one thing, but really, Stella needed to do this by herself, and she wasn’t sure anybody else would understand. She took the evening off from the store and hopped a bus down South First.

  There was a steady stream of people in front of the Bat Cave, the studio where Miranda had recorded her album. An impromptu shrine had appeared at the base of the live oak tree outside the studio, sheltered from the rain that had passed through in the wee hours of the morning by the tree’s canopy and the lee of the building. In less than twenty-four hours fans had left an enormous spread of candles, teddy bears, handwritten signs with Get Well Soon! and We Love You! in permanent marker, and other mementos. Miranda’s official fan club, whose members were known facetiously online as “Bleeders,” had been there, too; the organizers had tacked a poster to the tree where visitors could sign their names. Some of the offerings looked like they’d been made by children, though most of Miranda’s fans were in their early twenties like Stella herself.

  Sighing, Stella crouched by the shrine, looking over the items people had left. She knew how dumb it had to seem to outsiders, but really, this was less for Miranda herself and more for the fans. Stella knew that she wasn’t the only person who had been wandering around lost until she found Miranda’s music. The singer had touched a lot of lives … in ways she would never have guessed.

  The grocery store bouquet of alstromeria was all Stella could afford, and it was dwarfed by the massive vase of roses at the center of the shrine, but it would have to do. She set it in among the others, then rose, pushing her bag back onto her shoulder and straightening her jacket.

  “Thought I might find you here.”

  Stella sighed again. “Don’t you dare make fun of me, Lark.”

  “I’m not, I swear. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Stella shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  Lark fell into step beside her, heading back toward South First. Stella kept her hands shoved in her jacket pockets, her left hand wrapped around her ce
ll phone. It was a nice night for a walk; the storm had largely gone around the city, but there had been enough rain to keep things cool, a bit muddy but otherwise perfect for the festivalgoers that had clogged Austin for days. There were still a lot of events going on tonight, but Stella suspected anything at Zilker Park would be sparsely attended, assuming APD let anyone near the stage.

  “Foxglove said you saw the whole thing,” Lark said.

  “My dad got me a festival wristband. I was in the fourth row. Of course I saw it.”

  “That sucks, babe.”

  “Understatement.”

  They were passing Slim Shaky’s espresso bar, and Lark paused. “Want a coffee? I’ll buy.”

  “Sure.”

  Once they were settled at a corner table, Stella with her soy mocha and Lark with her dark roast Columbian whatever, Stella said, “I know you think it’s stupid. But when her CD came out I was in a really bad place. I’d just started practicing the Craft, my dad told me to go to hell, I had this … thing … and her music helped me make sense of it all. It was like she understood.”

  She braced herself for a sarcastic remark, but for a wonder, Lark was nodding. “I get it. When I was in high school, I was a total outcast—shocking, I know. I was the kid in black with the tarot cards reading philosophy in a town where the two big things were Jesus and football. If it hadn’t been for the other Witches I met online I would have ended up in the nuthouse. Or worse.”

  Stella sighed, relieved. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she wanted Lark to understand where she was coming from.

  Lark leaned on her hand while her other was busy pouring a rather disturbing amount of sugar into her coffee. Whatever kind of outcast Lark had been in her hometown, she and Stella both fit in perfectly here in Austin; she and Lark both had a semi-Goth, semi-geek thing going … but tattooed twenty-two-year-old weirdoes were the norm in this town. The rest of the state was scarily conservative, but Austin was a haven for freaks, geeks, progressives, gays, artists, vegetarians, musicians … anyone for whom the status was simply not quo.

  She wondered if Miranda Grey had felt the same way when she moved here to go to college. She was from a small Texas town, too, and she had left her family and not looked back. There wasn’t a whole lot known about her personal life except what was publicized on her website bio, but Stella liked to think Miranda had found a home here in Austin, too, a place to belong.

  “I have to show you something,” Stella said, pulling out her phone.

  “New app?”

  “No. Just watch.” Stella muted the sound and hit play.

  She didn’t look, but she knew what Lark was seeing because she’d watched it at least ten times since last night: A wobbly, grainy video of the ALMF main stage, with Miranda talking to the crowd and then hitting the first chord of “Bored Now.” Stella knew every note of every song on the album, and that moment was a surreal sort of Name That Tune … broken by a sound like a broomstick breaking. It was muffled by all the crowd noise, but it came from somewhere near where Stella was standing, up front but off to the right.

  A split second after she heard the sound, she saw Miranda jerk backward just a little: once, two times. Miranda looked down, her face going white as she saw the blood just before the pain must have hit her. She looked so shocked … and the whole audience had felt the same way … then she fell.

  Almost the second Miranda’s body hit the stage, she was surrounded by people and the view was mostly blocked. The video went on for about thirty more seconds until the crowd had started to panic and it was too dangerous to stay there. Stella had wanted so badly to run to the stage, to try to … do something … but the police were already herding everyone away, pulling people aside for statements, and Stella found herself being grilled by her father, who was way more worried about her than he was about Miranda … but she didn’t give him the video. She just couldn’t.

  “Jesus.” Lark shook her head. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Again … understatement.”

  “Weird—how come the picture’s so bad? I thought your phone had way better resolution than that.”

  “That’s what bothers you?”

  “No, just …” Lark handed the phone back, looking sheepish. “I remember you saying she doesn’t take a lot of pictures.”

  “She said in an interview once that she hates having her picture taken because when she was younger she had this bad reaction to one of her meds and it messed up her skin for a while, so she’s felt self-conscious about it ever since.”

  “So she has magic antiphotography powers?” Lark asked dubiously. “I know you love this chick and all, but she seems like a grade-A weirdo to me.”

  Stella smiled. “I know. That’s the point.”

  “Why didn’t you give this to your dad? They might be able to analyze the angles or something CSI and figure out who did it.”

  “They’ve got videos of it—lots of people had their phones out that night. The police confiscated a bunch of them, but there are already some showing up online.”

  “Are you planning to keep that forever? Kind of morbid, Stell.”

  “No …” Stella stared down at the screen of her phone, considering, wondering … if there was anyone she could tell, it was Lark, but … it was crazy.

  “What is it?” Lark wanted to know. “You’re making that face.”

  “You’re going to think I’m totally out of my mind.”

  Lark snorted. “Um, Stell? We’re Witches, remember? I’ve seen you do stuff right out of second-season Supernatural. For people like us, ‘out of my mind’ is kind of implied.”

  Stella couldn’t help but laugh at that. “True. But … some things are impossible, right? There are limits to what can really happen. Magic works according to natural laws, so most of the time it’s not that obvious. The wind changes, the rain stops, the rope holds on long enough that the piano doesn’t fall on your head. Stuff like that. But what if …”

  “Spit it out, babe.”

  “Okay. You remember that thing last year with Constellation, where some jackoff said Miranda’s a vampire, and then the stuff about her porphyria came out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  Lark apparently couldn’t decide whether to laugh out loud. “What, like she’s really a vampire?”

  “Well … there’s no such thing, right?”

  She shrugged, fingering the pentagram necklace she wore—Stella had one just like it. “More things in heaven and earth, Horatio.”

  “I was watching the video, though, and there’s this one place where … I thought I saw something. Right here …”

  Stella fast-forwarded the video past the shooting, to where all the security and medics were swarming the stage. “See this guy?”

  She pointed to the tall, burly blond who ran to Miranda’s side and knelt next to her. He was in and out of the frame because other people kept getting in the way, but as tall as he was, she could pick him out.

  “Cute,” Lark said. “A little old for my taste, but still.”

  “Not the point. Notice the necklace he’s wearing? The big emerald that looks like it’s glowing? It looks almost exactly like the red one she wears. Why would they wear matching jewelry?”

  “Okay, that’s a little freaky, but not exactly newsworthy. Maybe that’s her husband.”

  “It’s not. He’s supposed to have black hair. The thing is, if you’re just watching like usual the guy’s just talking to her, but if I watch it with my Sight … something happens.”

  “I didn’t think the Sight worked on video.”

  “Foxglove always said it wouldn’t, so I never tried it. But I always wondered if maybe digital photography was different. A lot of aboriginal-type cultures won’t let themselves be photographed because they believe it steals your soul—there’s lots of myths built up around the idea. And there’s that legend that you can’t photograph a vampire because cameras use mirrors
. But that’s all based on film photography, not digital. Anyway, I kept getting this weird feeling when I was watching this guy, and so I decided to give it a shot.”

  Now Lark looked interested; they’d both said at one time or another that Foxglove, who had taught the Wicca 101 class where they’d met and owned the occult bookstore where Stella now worked, was hopelessly old-fashioned and needed to get with the times. “What did you See?”

  “You know how when I look at people with the Sight I can see how they’re connected to other people—the threads of light? Well, this guy and Miranda are really, really connected. Almost like married people are, but not in a romantic way.”

  “So, like relatives or something?”

  “More than that. It’s kind of tenuous, like it’s new. And what’s even weirder … I’ve checked out her aura before onstage, and it always seemed pretty normal. But now I wonder if maybe that isn’t just one hell of a shield. When she was lying there on the stage, for just a second, her aura went black.”

  “Black? I’ve heard of all sorts of colors, but … black?”

  “Black and a sort of bluish silver, like mercury. And it was crazy powerful. Scary even. I’ve met a lot of Witches, and I’ve never seen one as powerful as she was—but then it’s like she got her control back and she looked normal again.”

  “So you’re saying she’s a Witch.”

  “I don’t know. She might not practice Witchcraft, but she’s got a gift, and she’s had training. She could just be a psychic, or she could be a Witch. But black isn’t exactly the kind of aura you’d find on someone who worships a Goddess and practices healing arts, so I doubt she’s a Wiccan like us. It felt … dark.”

  “Black magic is pretty dark, Stell.”

  “No, not black magic. Not evil. Just … darkness. I don’t know how to explain it, but … when I looked at her, it was like … like looking at death.” She met Lark’s eyes, trying to impress on her how serious she was as she said, “I think … I think Miranda Grey is a vampire.”

  Anodyne fell silent.

  The bartender smiled. “My Lady, it’s good to see you again.”