Queen of Shadows

by Dianne Sylvan

  Sure. I’ll go out and start drinking blood right now. Then I’ll come back with fangs and a melanin deficiency and rule the world. And also, David will fall so madly in love with me that the Signet will pick me as his Queen and we’ll live happily ever after in bloodsucking bliss among the sparkly unicorns.

  She wished she had something to throw.

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, ducking her head against the rising wind. Looking back over her shoulder at the Haven, she felt even angrier and shook her head violently, trying to put as much distance between herself and the building as possible.

  She walked past the stables, where the paddock was empty—the horses were inside like sensible creatures. There were two glossy blacks in there, she knew, a stallion and a mare, and though she was afraid of horses, she had been pleased at how much David cared for them. They followed him around like giant puppies when he came down to ride or groom them, prancing sideways and tossing their manes when they saw him, nosing his coat for sugar cubes. Animals by and large were leery of vampires, but he had raised these from foals. The stallion was named Osiris, the mare Isis.

  The Lord of the Dead and the Queen of Heaven.

  She snorted. Damn David, too, for good measure.

  Impulsively she veered off the cobbled path and onto a narrow track that wound its way into the woods. She’d been out here once with Faith, who had showed her where the creek ran alongside the Haven grounds; the Second moved with confidence in the darkness, grabbing her hand more than once when she was about to blunder into a tree. They’d seen deer slipping shy and silver through the brush, and a white barn owl soaring silently overhead. The sound of the water would be soothing to Miranda’s jangled nerves, and if she got rained on, well, she wouldn’t melt.

  “Miss Grey.” Terrence’s voice issued from her wrist. “Please don’t leave the path alone. The woods aren’t safe for you at night and it’s about to storm.”

  She sighed. “Follow closer if you want. I’m not going far, I promise.”

  They’d had a few minor clashes of will, and she always won. Most of the time she regretted pitting her desires against his orders, and she ended up apologizing, but tonight she didn’t care. Nothing was going to happen to her here; this was the Haven, and she was . . .

  She stopped. A strange sound had managed to make its way through her irritation to her conscious mind.

  The sound was a lack of sound. There was no noise—no birds, no deer, nothing. It was quiet, in the woods, at night.

  Oh fuck. Miranda, you moron.

  Slowly, she took a step back, and another. Swallowing the atavistic fear that clawed its way up along her spine, she turned on her heel and walked back toward the garden, dismayed at how far off the path she’d strayed in her mental tantrum. It was so dark . . . what had she been thinking, coming out here without a flashlight? The clouds had obscured the moon, and she could barely see through the trees, but there was enough light that she knew it wasn’t much farther.

  Don’t run. Walk. Just keep walking. You’ll catch up with Terrence in a minute and have a good laugh. Don’t run.

  She was fighting thousands of years of fight-or-flight instinct that clamored in her ears for her to bolt. She could feel it watching her . . . something in the trees . . . something hungry . . .

  . . . just the way someone had been following her that night . . .

  Panic gripped her, and she ran.

  Branches snapped and leaves rustled behind her, and she blundered into a thick knot of bushes and had to fight her way through, feeling thorns scrape her arms and pull threads from her sweater. She broke free and ran faster, but somehow she’d gotten turned around and what she’d thought was the garden was actually the break in the trees around the creek.

  The ground disappeared beneath her feet, and she tripped, a sharp pain shooting through her ankle. With a cry, she tumbled onto the bank, reaching for something to stop her fall, roots ripping her clothes until with one last sickening lurch she slid off the bank and into the burbling water.

  By some miracle, she didn’t lose consciousness when her head struck the exposed limestone at the bottom, and by another miracle, the water wasn’t that deep. She fought her way upright to find herself only submerged to her hips. Miranda tasted blood; she’d bitten her lip during the fall.

  A twig snapped above her. “Terrence?” she called. “I’m down here!”

  There was no reply, so she tried to get to her feet. Her ankle gave way and sent her back to the ground, pain coursing through her leg. Broken? She didn’t think so, but it was badly sprained and wouldn’t hold her weight.

  She expected Terrence’s head to appear over the bank, and when it didn’t, she tried her com. “Elite Twenty-nine.”

  It chimed, telling her the com had connected to Terrence, but he didn’t respond. She repeated the code, adding, “Terrence, this is Miranda. I’m in the creek and can’t get out without help.”

  Something moved up in the trees, and fear prickled her scalp. Her heartbeat stepped up.

  Her com chimed, and a soft, ghostly voice said, “Terrence can’t come to the phone right now . . . but I can see you, Miranda.”

  She looked around frantically. “Stay the fuck away from me!” she yelled into the night.

  “Do you taste as luscious as you look, little girl?”

  It was coming closer. She backed up against the bank, feeling around for a weapon, her fingers closing around a chunk of rock lodged in the mud. As thunder rattled through the trees, she worked to pry the rock free, knowing it was an inadequate defense against what was coming—but it was something. Desperate, she said into her com, “Star-one!”

  “He’s not going to find you, baby. I’ve already got you. I’m going to hold you down and fuck your pretty body, then drain you till you shrivel.”

  Why, oh why had David taken down the shield? If it were still up, he could find her anywhere. He’d already be on his way. Maybe, just maybe he was monitoring her frequency, and knew something was wrong.

  “He wants to taste you, too,” the voice went on, cold and heartless. “That’s all you are to us . . . all you’ll ever be.”

  She couldn’t fight a vampire. She couldn’t run.

  She let the old anger rise up through her as it had when she’d struck at Helen. She had been here before. Compared to what had already been done to her, death was nothing.

  “Come on, then!” she challenged the darkness, yelling to be heard over the wind, brandishing her rock. “Come get me, you bastard!”

  “Poor little lost girl, thinks she’s so strong. She has no idea what’s really out there in the dark . . . close your eyes, pretty baby, it’ll all be over soon.”

  Just then a voice erupted over the network. “Guess again.”

  Lightning split the sky, and Miranda saw a second’s glimpse of someone on the bank, saw them leap down at her—

  Her mind had no idea how to interpret what happened next. The air in front of her seemed to shimmer, then coalesce, each mote of darkness igniting and fusing. A shadow formed among the shadows, and solidified.

  The Prime appeared, standing between her and her attacker.

  It couldn’t change course in time to avoid him. David snarled, another flash of lightning catching on the silver of his eyes and the gleaming white of his teeth, and seized the attacker and flung it into the side of the creek, where it hit with the deafening crack of broken bones.

  Miranda shrank back, falling into the creek again, her knees hitting the bottom hard enough to bleed.

  The attacker was struggling up out of the water, but David was already on him; he dropped on the figure like a striking hawk, and she heard her attacker’s agonized cry. A few minutes later, there was a loud splash as the Prime dropped the body in the water.

  The rain let loose. Lightning flashed again, and she saw blood on David’s mouth. They stared at each other in the darkness.

  Miranda let the rock fall from her hand.

  Tu
rning away, David bent, lifted a handful of water and washed the blood from his face, then demanded of her, “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  Her anger flared again. “I’m fine, thanks. Bleeding, but that’s always awesome.”

  Faith’s voice interrupted. “Um . . . Sire?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Where are you? I turned around and you were gone.”

  “At the Haven,” he answered. “Get back here immediately. There’s been another security breach and there are two Elite down.”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Miranda was aware, then, of the fact that she was soaked, and that her entire body hurt like it had been beaten. She sagged against the bank, heedless of the mud. “Where’s Terrence?” she asked.

  “Dead,” was the terse reply.

  He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, not that it did much good; but at least it kept the rain off her face. “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “Terrence’s signal stopped, sending up an alarm. As soon as I heard it I began listening to the entire network. I intercepted the traitor’s transmission—he knew too much about us, but not as much as he thought, or he would never have spoken to you over the coms.” He scanned the bank, then looked at her. “Come here. I’ll have to carry you out.”

  She wasn’t happy with his tone, but there was no time to argue; she was beginning to tremble from the chill, and she was bleeding in several places that were going to need attention. She stepped into his outstretched arm, and he lifted her up and held her to his chest, his other arm reaching overhead to grab a root that hung over the creek.

  Even in the situation they were in, she marveled at how casually strong he was. She wasn’t a big or heavy woman, but he lifted her one-handed and climbed out of the creek without appearing to exert any effort at all. Once on land again, he set her down to test her ankle, but there was no way she was going to be able to pick through the woods without falling and making it worse.

  Sighing, he picked her up again, this time with both arms, and carried her straight out of the trees to the garden, where the full brunt of the storm hit them once they were out of the shelter of the wood. Neither of them made any attempt to speak until they’d made it to the Haven.

  Once inside, several guards appeared, along with a cadre of servants, to offer their assistance.

  “Retrieve Terrence’s body from the forest,” David ordered. “Bring in the traitor’s corpse as well, then gather whatever evidence you can from the scene before this weather erases everything. Be careful. Have Terrence prepared for the standard Elite funeral tomorrow night, with honors. Esther, is Miss Grey’s dinner in her room? Good. Draw her a hot bath and stoke the fire, as well as my own. As soon as Faith gets here, send her directly to my suite.”

  Miranda was rocking back and forth on her unsteady feet, unsure whether she was going to pass out or just throw up. The noise and fuss happened around her, not to her; dimly she noticed herself being picked up again like a sack of old potatoes, borne down the long hallway and into the comfort and safety of her bedroom.

  But how safe was it, now? They had come for her at the Haven, when she was supposed to be under guard. Was anywhere safe?

  She knew the answer to that, and it was breaking her heart.

  He sat her on her bed, removing his coat and tossing it carelessly on the ground, where it clanked as the concealed sword inside struck the marble floor. She let him examine her, his hands rough and clinical, deeming her wounds superficial and her lucky to be alive.

  Esther, the lead servant for the East Wing, came in and made a beeline for the bathroom, where Miranda heard her turning on taps and laying out towels.

  The normally cheerful little woman emerged with Miranda’s comb. “I thought Miss Grey might want to get those tangles out first,” she said diffidently. “And maybe I bring bandages for your knees?”

  “Thank you, Esther,” Miranda said before David could speak for her. He was never unkind to the servants, but the mood he was in would probably result in hurt feelings. “I think bandages are a good idea. It’s nothing serious, but it never hurts to be sure.”

  Esther nodded and gave Miranda a motherly smile and pat on the cheek. “We don’t want our reinita getting hurt,” she said, and departed on her errand.

  Miranda looked up at David. “Reinita?”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Little Queen.”

  “Is that . . . is that what everyone thinks?”

  “I don’t give a damn what everyone thinks.”

  “Then what do you think?”

  He stood facing the fire, which had been obligingly stoked so that it cast its merry warmth around the room. He didn’t seem to feel the cold that had to be down to his bones by now; they were both soaked, and his fine linen shirt was pasted to his torso, stuck to the muscle she knew was there, outlining his body. She hadn’t realized just how well built he was.

  Through the wet shirt, she could barely make out the edges of what looked like . . .

  “Is that a tattoo?”

  He sighed again, and without answering, unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on top of his abandoned coat. He turned back toward the fire, allowing her a full view of his back and shoulders.

  His entire back was inked in the stylized shape of a bird of prey: a black-and-red hawk. Its wings spanned his shoulders, its tail reaching all the way down past his waist.

  “That’s beautiful,” she breathed. One of her hands couldn’t help but reach out, wanting a chance just to touch the lines of ink, to see if they were smooth, or raised like Braille. If it was in Braille, could she read him then, with her fingers, and learn all the mysteries? Or would the story end too soon?

  “Do you need help getting in the bath?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I can manage.”

  “Good. I’m going to go change.”

  He grabbed his shirt and coat off the floor and stalked off to his room, the curves of the tattoo shifting as he moved.

  Miranda got to her feet carefully and hobbled into the bathroom, yanking off her sodden clothes on the way, grumbling to herself the whole time. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her like she’d done something wrong, when she’d nearly been killed?

  She lowered herself painfully into the steaming tub, thanking whatever deity might be listening for Esther, who knew exactly what temperature she liked. Right away the hot water began to soothe both her injured ankle and her wounded pride. She washed the scrapes on her knees and elbows and then lay back for a while, closing her eyes and trying to stay grounded.

  But the reality of her situation made grounding hard. Terrence was dead because someone wanted to get to her, which meant that the insurgents not only knew she existed but considered her a threat, or at least worth killing. She was in danger and unless she spent every moment with the Prime they were probably going to try again, and again. Worst of all, her attacker had been one of the Elite. Any of them could be Blackthorn, and that meant that the Blackthorn could find the Haven.

  It was supposed to be hidden, all signals monitored coming and going. There were no unauthorized radios, computers, or other forms of communication—the security system could detect them. New Elite recruits were brought in from Austin unconscious so they couldn’t trace the route back, and learned the location only once they were initiated and, supposedly, trustworthy. So little was left to chance . . . but that little was going to cost her her life.

  She looked up at the bathroom walls in the midst of scrubbing stubborn bits of dirt from her arms and legs. She’d taken a lot of long baths in here, and she loved the muted tile with its mosaic accents. She’d gotten used to not having a mirror—there were mirrors in the real world. She’d have to look at herself again . . . and she’d see the sun. The prospect should have pleased her.

  She levered herself up out of the tub, yanking the stopper with her good foot, and dried off, toweling her hair and letting it dry down over her shoulders. She dug ou
t her old yoga pants and a T-shirt from Book People that read KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD, and took a moment to smear some of the antibiotic ointment Esther had brought onto her knees and elbows and a nasty scrape on her forearm. Only one knee really needed a bandage and felt badly bruised beneath the laceration. She was probably going to be black and purple all over tomorrow.

  She stared at the array of possessions on the chest of drawers, then with numb hands took her backpack from a drawer and began to pack.

  She didn’t have that much. A couple of journals where she’d jotted ideas for songs; her phone, her iPod, and her computer, which all went into the laptop bag; miscellaneous toiletries; clothes. Her guitar was already snug in its case. There were a few books that needed to go back to the library and a folder of sheet music she’d taken from the music room to study. She stacked them up carefully.

  Her hands closed around the spine of Shakespeare’s comedies, and she lifted the book and pressed it to her chest.

  After a moment she set it down and dug a pen out of her purse, opening up one of her journals; she took a deep breath to steady herself and wrote a few lines, then ripped the page out of the journal and folded it.

  As she was sticking the note inside the book, she heard the door to the suite open.

  “Faith has volunteered to drive you back to town,” David said. “I’ve arranged a hotel room for you while your new apartment is being prepared.”

  “What’s wrong with my old apartment?” she asked without looking up.

  “It’s not safe for you to go back there. Don’t worry—all your things will be packed and moved for you in the next few days.”

  She wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the energy. What difference did it make where she lived, anyway?

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  He came to her and put his arms around her, and she buried her face in his neck, trying to breathe in the solace that wrapped her in its protecting wings. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “I know it.”

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  He didn’t answer at first, and when he did his voice was full of pain. “It would be best if you didn’t.”