Shadowflame

by Dianne Sylvan

  “Her name is Isis,” Faith said. “She bites.”

  Cora looked back at the horse. “She is very proud.”

  Faith chuckled. “That’s putting it mildly. Only a handful of people have ever gotten that close to her, and it’s never her idea. She must like you.”

  Isis gave Faith a look of mild disdain and then ignored her, permitting Cora to continue petting her head and neck. “Were you looking for me?” Cora asked Faith. She had to speak slowly to keep the English organized in her head, but Faith didn’t appear to have a problem understanding her.

  “Yes. I know that with everything that’s been going on you’ve gotten a bit lost in the shuffle, so I wanted to check on you and see if you need anything.”

  Cora frowned and decided to take the plunge. “What has happened?”

  The Second came to lean against the fence. “I’m not at liberty to say,” she replied, “but I can assure you that your safety is still guaranteed. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “I am not,” Cora said, adding, “but I know everyone else here is worried about something. Is it my Mas . . . I mean, Prime Hart?”

  Faith shook her head. “Right now he’s the least of our problems. Let’s just say there is a situation and we’re working to contain it as quickly as we can.”

  “Does the situation have to do with Prime Deven?”

  Faith’s eyebrows lifted. “You’re more observant than I thought.”

  Cora wasn’t sure whether to consider that a compliment or an insult. She said nothing and merely went on stroking Isis.

  “Have you given any thought to what you want to do next?” Faith asked.

  “Yes,” Cora said. “I have no idea.”

  The Second smiled. “There’s no hurry, of course. I was just curious. I know after everything you’ve been through, the peace and quiet here must be heavenly, but I also know that eventually you’re going to get bored.”

  Cora gave her a sad smile in return. “I have no education, no money, no family, and I barely even know how to turn on a computer. I do not think I will have many options.”

  Faith shrugged. “I’m sure if you want to go to school the Pair will be happy to help you. I can arrange a tutor for you if you’d like to speed up your English lessons or start learning other subjects. We can get you an American ID. Really, you just have to decide what you want.”

  Cora withdrew her hand from Isis and leaned back on the fence as Faith had, looking up at the black dome of the sky. “I have never been free to want anything,” she said. “I’m not sure I know how.”

  Faith reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll figure it out. There’s time.”

  As Faith touched her, for the second time Cora felt the strange shivering she had with Prime Deven, and for a heartbeat’s length she saw Faith in her mind’s eye, standing at a window somewhere in the Haven, wiping impatiently at her eyes with one hand. Cora’s eyes followed Faith’s to the scene she was gazing at, but before she could see what had stirred the Second so, her vision cleared, and she heard Faith’s voice: “I almost forgot to give you this.”

  Cora looked down at the bracelet Faith was fastening around her wrist, recognizing it as one of the devices the Elite all wore to talk to each other.

  “This will let us know where you are in the Haven,” Faith was saying. “We can already track you on the sensor network, but this way if there’s a problem you can call for assistance. It’s easy: Just speak into the com and say, ‘Star-three,’ and I’ll answer. It doesn’t have to be in English, either; the system recognizes about thirty languages.”

  “Thank you,” Cora said.

  “I have to go—I’m due in the city shortly. Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”

  “A purpose?”

  Faith grinned. “You could always join the Elite.”

  Cora couldn’t stop herself from laughing aloud. “I lack the grace to walk without tripping. I would slice off my own arm if given a sword.”

  Faith laughed, too, and said, “You know, I think I have an idea that might help you with that. I’ll come back to see you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Cora said again. The Second gave her a slight bow and a brief smile and left her at the fence, where Isis was already nosing up to her for an ear scratching, giving her a commanding snort and tossing her head impatiently.

  Cora sighed and carefully climbed up on the bottom rung of the fence so she could reach the horse better.

  For tonight, at least, this was as close to a purpose as she was going to get.

  Baby I bleed

  I bleed without you

  Kiss me one more time

  Then twist the knife

  And walk away . . .

  Everyone in the studio was crying.

  The rented Bösendorfer took up perhaps half the room, but its sound, and the sound of heartbreak, filled every inch of space, crawling into every nook and cranny like an oak’s roots through concrete.

  Miranda had decided, seemingly out of nowhere, to record a bonus version of the album’s title track. The first version was lushly produced and had a string quartet. This one was just her and the piano, stripped down and raw.

  You carved your name into my heart

  You said we were forever

  But everything falls

  Everything falls apart . . .

  She didn’t know if her empathic influence would translate through digital media, or if it was only something that worked in live performance, but if it did, no one who heard the song would be able to stop their tears; they would pause in whatever they were doing and find themselves reliving the worst possible breakups, betrayals, and disappointments of their histories. Chances were after hearing the track they would skip it every time they played the CD, preferring the first version of the song. She didn’t especially care either way.

  As they wrapped the session, she looked into the control room to see that Kat had arrived and was sitting on the stool that Lali usually occupied. Lali had been recording her part for one of the other tracks, so she was out at the car stowing her violin.

  Kat looked tired. Pregnancy symptoms had hit her like a truck in the last two weeks, and she spent most of her mornings with her head in the toilet. Under the boyish half inch of hair that had grown since the attack, her face was drawn and looked a little clammy, but at least she seemed glad to be there.

  Things were still a bit weird. Miranda hadn’t pushed; she knew Kat was having a hard time with what had happened. So was Miranda . . . even worse than Kat, thanks to a heavy dose of guilt on her back knowing she was the reason the assassin had targeted her friend.

  They were reasonably comfortable with each other again . . . as long as Drew wasn’t around. Aside from the fact that he tended to stare at Miranda as if she were about to pop Kat’s head like the tab on a Coke and slurp her dry, Miranda found it increasingly difficult to put up with how he doted on Kat. Every other word out of his mouth was honey, and he fussed over her like a child when he wasn’t gazing at Kat like she’d hung the moon. There might have been a time when Miranda thought that sort of thing was cute, or at least tolerable.

  Now was not that time.

  In fact, Miranda wanted to smack the shit out of every couple she saw—the more affectionate they were, the more she wanted to strangle them. What kind of moron are you?she wanted to yell at them. He’s fucking your sister! She only cares about your money! He posted those pictures on the Internet! She’s leaving as soon as she gets her birthday present!

  It was possible she was a little bitter.

  “So,” Kat said as they walked out of the studio into the frigid night, “how are . . . things?”

  “The same. You?”

  “Basically the same, but with even more barfing.”

  “How long does that last?” Miranda asked, motioning to Lali and Aaron to follow at a distance but stay unobtrusive.

  “It depends on the person—it’s supposed to be a first-trimester thing, but for
some people it never stops.”

  “Sounds awesome.”

  “Oh yeah.” Kat shifted her bag on her shoulder, and Miranda thought about offering to carry it but knew it would irritate Kat to be treated like an invalid—she already rolled her eyes behind Drew’s back when he fluttered around her. “Look at me, I’m a breeder. Bun in the oven. In the family way. Up the duff. The rabbit died.”

  Miranda smiled, her eyes on the grimy sidewalk that was wet with yet another round of late-autumn rain. She was wearing gloves in addition to her coat; she had been taken aback by how deeply the cold affected her, thinking back to when it was weird to her that the Haven burned its fireplaces in August. It also made a lot more sense to her now that the vampire population of Texas was much higher than in, say, Canada, though she’d heard caribou blood was tasty.

  “I noticed a lot of red eyes when I got there tonight,” Kat was saying. “Were you mojo-ing them?”

  “I guess. I’m curious to see if it comes through on the recording.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something—what happens if your CD sells like hotcakes and you’re famous? Can you tour? Won’t people ask a lot of questions?”

  “Who believes in vampires?” Miranda asked wryly. “I was thinking about it, too, and I figure, people who think anything about my weird behavior will sound like loonies in the press, and if I need to I can address them head on and make them sound even more loony. As for touring, well . . . I can be away from home for a few days at a time. I probably can’t do anything international, though.”

  “His Highness can’t police things without you?”

  “It’s not that. This thing, this connection between us . . . if we go too long without touching, it starts to make us crazy. Physical contact reinforces the balance of power. Apparently once we learn to manage it we can go a week, but right now I get twitchy after about three days.”

  Kat raised an eyebrow at her sideways. “So you’re still touching, even though you’re not sleeping in the same room?”

  “We’re spending time together. Just not like before. I just . . . I needed some space, Kat.”

  Kat held up her hands. “I know, sweetie. I’m not being judgmental. I just want to know you’re okay.”

  Miranda wanted to stop and kick a rock, but there weren’t any around. “I’m not okay. Not by a long shot. But we’re doing the best we can. It’s just going to take a while. It helps that he’s so torn up about it—and that I can feel he’s sincere. I’m not as angry knowing how bewildered and confused he is . . . The guilt feels nice, too.”

  Kat chuckled. “Bloodthirsty wench.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What I texted him last week still holds, just so you know.”

  Now Miranda’s smile was genuine. “I appreciate that, Kat.”

  “What about . . . the other two? Have you heard anything from Jonathan?”

  “No.” Miranda’s voice went flat when she said it, and Kat took the hint and changed the subject.

  “So what do you want to do tonight? It’s pretty early yet. Ice cream?”

  What Miranda really wanted was blood . . . her thirst had escalated in the last three weeks, compensating for the sheer amount of energy she spent working out, sparring, performing onstage, and stalking the streets of Austin looking for a fight. Somehow, though, she didn’t think hunting would be a good girls’-night-out activity.

  “Movie?” she asked. “We could go to the Alamo Drafthouse, watch stuff blow up, drink Guinness milkshakes.”

  “You can have a Guinness shake,” Kat pointed out. “I’m out of commission for the next seven months or so, remember? But a movie sounds good. We’ll eat fries with a fuckton of queso and indulge in some testosterone poisoning. I’ve been wanting to see the new Johnny Depp. He gives me the tickle.”

  Miranda laughed. “Lucky you. I haven’t had a tickle in weeks.”

  “Man, that sucks . . . having a guilt-ridden undead stud at your beck and call and not wanting to take advantage of him.”

  “All right,” Miranda said, stopping. “I’m going to call Harlan and we’ll bring up the movie schedule on the computer in the car. From this point in the evening, I declare a moratorium on relationship talk, baby talk, and vampire talk in general. Tonight we’re going to just be two friends looking for some escapism.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Kat said.

  Smiling, almost believing it would work, they shook on it.

  The Winchester Bank building was one of the Prime’s favorite vantage points from which to watch the city go by. It wasn’t the tallest in Austin, or the flashiest, but it suited him sometimes with its stone gargoyles and half-crumbling architecture. There were nights when he felt like a young god, untouchable; on those nights he took to the tallest skyscrapers. On other nights he felt like a fading relic in a world that would be content to go on without him. Those were the nights when he sought refuge atop the Winchester.

  Time seemed determined to slog ever onward whether he went with it or not. In fact, at the Haven it was as though time had crawled backward to an earlier, more sorrowful era . . . and if only it were a new beginning instead of falling apart.

  David could feel Miranda on the streets below, walking with Kat; he could sense her but was too far away to hear anything specific unless Miranda wanted him to . . . and she never did, anymore. For weeks she had kept him almost entirely shut out of her mind, her body, and her life. He wanted to howl his loss and shame at the night above, to fling himself off the building if he thought for a moment that it might help him atone, but all he could do was tell himself, over and over, She’s still here. She stayed.

  She stayed, and though she avoided him for large parts of the night and slept by herself, she didn’t torment them both with her absence longer than necessary; she came in to see him every morning, and they sat in their chairs by the fire and talked about what they’d been up to, had a drink, made a few jokes, and tried . . . just tried to keep going.

  She spent more time in the city than he did, so she was usually the one who prowled the streets of the Shadow District to keep their presence at the forefront of everyone’s minds. They were rarely seen together.

  Meanwhile he was still enmeshed in the investigation. Coordinating investigations among the West, his Elite, APD, Hunter Development, and the FBI forensics unit took a lot of time and diplomacy. Faith’s discovery—that the stakes were carved of the exact same wood, thereby connecting the assassin to the West—had led them to Volundr, and though the smith had finally wheezed out four names in the midst of choking on his own blood, David wasn’t confident that any of them would prove a viable lead.

  Still, the Prime had been true to his word, and as soon as Volundr broke and gave up the names, David turned him over to the Elite, who had cleaned and fed him and were now arranging transport to return him to his home, along with what Faith considered an obscene amount of money . . . blood money, a penance that would do nothing to erase the sound of the smith’s screams from David’s memory . . . or the feeling that even as desperate as they were to find their killer, the ends may never justify the means.

  The wind whipped past him, catching the hem of his coat, but he was far enough from the edge that it didn’t hit him too hard. The dreary weather suited his mood.

  His phone rang: a voice call rather than data. That first week he’d received a text from Kat that simply said, Your balls + my gun, you rat bastard. He hadn’t been able to think of a clever reply.

  He glanced down to see who it was and took a deep breath.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you alone?” Deven asked. His voice had two simultaneous effects on David: His stomach clenched with anxiety, but his heart quivered with something else entirely. It was maddening that as much as he wanted to stay away from Deven, the investigation kept forcing them back together.

  “I wouldn’t have picked up otherwise. What do you need?”

  His brusque tone apparently surprised the Prime, who said uncerta
inly, “I wanted you to know I got the list you sent me and I’m bringing them all in for questioning.”

  “You could have told me that over e-mail.”

  “Fine,” Deven snapped. “I was checking up on you. Excuse the hell out of me for caring.”

  “Well if you want to know, Deven, I’m lousy,” David replied acidly. “I spent the evening torturing an old man. There’s a murderer on the loose threatening my Elite and my Queen. She could strike again at any time and I have no idea how to find her or what her endgame is. Not to mention, my wife is barely speaking to me. Your Consort may have instantly forgiven you, but mine isn’t so enlightened, or whatever you and Jonathan call your little arrangement.”

  “Don’t throw all your shame on me, boy. As I recall, there were two of us in that bed, and moreover, you started it.”

  “I didn’t notice you having any qualms.”

  “I’m not saying I did. I’m just saying, don’t expect me to shoulder all the guilt here just because Jonathan is older and wiser.”

  “Are you trying to imply that—”

  “David,” Deven said firmly, brooking no refusal, “I’m not going to do this again.”

  David fell silent, as he always had when Deven—whether his friend, his teacher, his lover, his peer, or his employer—used that tone. He sagged back against the wall of the building. “You’re right. I can’t fight the world and you, too.”

  “You have to give her time, David,” Deven said, going from angry to sympathetic with remarkable speed, which told David he hadn’t really been angry in the first place, only reacting to David’s foolish clinging to emotional drama. A simple fact of life that David had discovered in his three hundred fifty years was that in the end, problems weren’t resolved with hysterics and screaming fits. They were solved in the night-by-night work of honesty and the glacially slow rebuilding of trust. Up until now he had lived that as a given; he just wasn’t the kind of person who displayed emotion. But this whole thing had knocked him so far off center that he had no idea how to react to anything anymore. The mere idea that he’d considered throwing himself off the Winchester like some kind of grief-stricken Gothic widow made him cringe.