Shadowflame

by Dianne Sylvan

  Yet here she was, spending hours with her secondhand Elite workout clothes soaked in sweat, learning to twist and bend her body into dozens of unaccustomed shapes, pushing herself until her muscles shook and she was so exhausted she could barely stand while a tiny brown woman with a musical accent guided her from one pose into another.

  Lalita called it Hatha yoga. It was an ancient art that helped to train the body and the mind together, and Faith had prescribed it for Cora to help strengthen her muscles and bring health back into her pitiful body. Cora was too weak and clumsy for more conventional workouts, and too frightened to learn fighting skills, but Faith assured her there was nothing violent about yoga and that Lalita was a gentle and compassionate teacher.

  Lalita’s voice danced through the syllables of the sacred language of her homeland—the names of the poses and the words of chants far older than anything in the Haven. Cora liked the sound of it, and of Lalita’s accented English.

  Cora might not be an intelligent woman, but she learned the yoga poses quickly. Her body seemed to have its own memory, and a very good one. Only a few sessions in she could fumble her way through a Sun Salutation without prompting.

  It was strange to be good at something that allowed her to keep her clothes on.

  Cora usually arrived first, as Lalita had a full duty roster and had to come to the studio once her bodyguard shift was done. They had their sessions in a small room in one of the outbuildings, and Lalita had turned the utilitarian space into a soothing, quiet studio that smelled faintly of incense. Cora didn’t mind being alone there; there was only one door, so she felt as safe there as she did in her bedroom. She usually spent those first few minutes in seated meditation as Lalita had taught her.

  She had fought Lalita tooth and nail over meditation, claiming she didn’t want to know the inner workings of her own mind, because there was nothing there except the grimy leavings of Hart’s lusts. But she had seen a glimmer . . . just a glimmer . . . of something beyond that, something about her that was not broken, and could not ever be broken. She didn’t know what to call it, but she wanted to learn more about it.

  Once she had slept in a dirty nest of pillows, but now she sat on them with her spine straight, seeking the silence within herself.

  Lalita, who had arrived silently and let her continue her meditations uninterrupted, sat down before her, mirroring her posture, and said, “Perhaps you are starting to see that there is much more to you than you thought.”

  One day, Cora hoped to be as graceful as Lalita. For now she would settle for being able to support her own body weight on her bird-thin legs.

  “We have another student joining us tonight,” Lalita said.

  Cora tried to hide her dismay. “Oh?”

  “Yes—but don’t worry, she’s a beginner like you were a few weeks ago.”

  Cora nodded. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to object. These people, kind though they were, were still in control here, and if Lalita wanted more students she would have them. Besides, she had mentioned that she was pushing Faith to assign more of the Elite to her classes, claiming that they would be better warriors if they could find a calm center from which to fight. The new student might even be Faith herself, come to see what all the fuss was about.

  At least it was a woman. Cora didn’t think she could bear sharing this with a man. She knew from what Lalita had told her about India that yoga was invented mostly by men of the early Hindu traditions, and that every school of yoga and every teacher had his own style. Lalita’s was peaceful and flowing, feminine, emphasizing balance and flexibility rather than brutal technical perfection. She had learned in two schools, Hatha and Kripalu, and combined the two to form something that she felt was appropriate for vampires, drawing on their enhanced sensory perception and the inherent strength of their bodies. Strength training wasn’t usually an issue for Elite warriors, so Lalita focused on yoga’s other benefits, especially on harmonizing body and mind.

  It was an utterly alien philosophy for Cora, who had been taught—and had clung to the idea—that the body was meaningless and would fall to dust. That had made it easier to let Hart do what he liked with her. But Lalita had created her own spiritual tradition, combining the movements of yoga, meditation, and chanting, with devotion to a goddess named Green Tara who apparently came from the Tibetan Buddhist mythos. There was a statue of that deity in the corner of the studio, sitting on a low table with the incense burner and candles.

  Cora found herself staring at the Tara often, thinking that she reminded Cora of the Virgin, a gentle mother who was still willing to step down from her throne to right the wrongs of the world.

  After that Cora threw her fears to the wind and did whatever Lalita suggested. The most amazing thing about the teacher was that if Cora had reasons why something made her uncomfortable, Lalita would listen to her, suggest alternatives, and they would talk about it. There was no yelling, no force, no demands that she obey. Cora didn’t know how to assert herself, so her tendency was to let things slide, but finally Lalita called her on it:

  “You were strong enough to leave the Prime,” Lalita reminded her as she went to the bench to remove her onduty gear. “Don’t forget that, Cora. You were taught that you were weak and undeserving, but you know that’s not true. You, and you alone, walked out of that room to find something better. You had that strength. You still have it. All you need to do is believe in it and learn to draw on it.”

  The Elite had an array of items they carried: Each had a standard-issue sword, a wooden stake, a knife in one boot, a belt pouch whose contents Cora didn’t know, and a device that she wasn’t sure about.

  Cora pulled her knees up to her chin and watched Lalita prepare for their session; curious, she asked, “Is that a telephone?”

  Lalita looked down at the device and laughed. “Among other things. Our intra-Elite communication goes through the wrist coms, but this phone also shows us maps of the city, and some of us get to see parts of the sensor network. I can check the duty roster for the coming week and know when others are on or off shift, as well as accessing weather reports and other information.”

  “All of that in that tiny box?”

  She grinned and nodded. “Remarkable, isn’t it? When I was a young girl, no one could have dreamed of this sort of thing. Even radio was a fantasy back then. To get a message to someone took days of travel and now it takes seconds.”

  She handed Cora the phone, and Cora examined it gingerly, afraid to touch anything. The computer in her room was larger and looked less fragile, but it still confounded her for the most part. When she touched the phone’s screen, it lit up, displaying a photograph of several cats playing on a rug; one was biting the other on the neck. Cora smiled.

  Just then there was a knock at the studio door. Cora handed the phone back to Lalita, who took it and rose gracefully, unfolding herself like Green Tara from her lotus position.

  “Come in, my Lady,” she called.

  Cora’s heart clenched at the words . . . and did so again when the door opened and Queen Miranda entered the studio.

  “Hello, Cora,” the Queen said, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind my joining you.”

  Cora swallowed. She tried to speak, but nothing would come out of her mouth. It was the first time she had seen the Queen since she had been granted asylum, and in the intervening days she had forgotten how frightening the woman was . . . she seemed to fill the entire studio with her presence and power, and even dressed in similar clothes to Cora with her abundant hair pulled back, being anywhere near her made Cora’s pulse fly into chaos, fear destroying her meditative calm.

  The Queen came over and knelt in front of her, concerned. “Are you all right?” She laid her hand on Cora’s forehead, and her eyebrows shot up. “Good Lord, Cora . . . you have to learn to shield.”

  Lalita looked chagrined. “It never occurred to me that she would need to,” she admitted. “Most of us have some telepathic ability, but hardly anyone here needs mo
re than basic grounding and centering.”

  “What . . . what do I have?” Cora asked haltingly.

  Miranda was staring at her hard, her hand still on Cora’s forehead. “I’m not sure,” the Queen replied. “Identifying gifts isn’t something I’m good at, and it seems like most of your talent is still . . . asleep. Here . . . this will help you for now.”

  Cora felt . . . something . . . move through her, and it was as if someone had pulled a curtain down between her and the Queen; one second Cora was on the verge of panic, and the next she was simply sitting cross-legged in front of a woman with a messy red ponytail.

  “I’ve put a shield around you,” the Queen explained. “It’s temporary, but it will keep me from freaking you out while we’re here. I’ll talk to Faith about having someone teach you to do it yourself. I would, but I’m not really experienced enough at it to show you the technique, and I have a feeling that you’d do better with a female teacher than with David.”

  The idea of having the Prime—even as kind as he seemed to be—so close to her, touching her energy, was so awful that she couldn’t hide her reaction.

  Miranda smiled. “I thought as much. But we’ll find someone. It’s something you absolutely must learn before you leave the Haven—our gifted Elite shield themselves, so you’re safe here, but you’ve got enough ability just from what I can see that going out in the world without protection would drive you mad. Trust me, I know.”

  “I should add,” Lalita said, “that the practices we are learning here in yoga can make such things worse for the gifted—if you have any abilities, meddling about with your chakras can intensify them, which is probably why Cora reacted so strongly. Fair warning, my Lady. I know you are very strongly shielded, but for your own sake, be careful.”

  Cora was surprised that Miranda deferred immediately to Lalita on the subject; she wouldn’t have expected a Queen to listen to anyone. “I’ll try to stay mindful,” Miranda said.

  “Excellent. Let’s begin, shall we?” Lalita moved to the front of the studio, where her mat was already unfurled on the ground.

  Cora had brought her own mat; there were several standing in the corner that anyone could use, but Lalita had given her one outright so that she could practice in her room if she wanted. Cora liked the slightly sticky purple foam, which had a paisley pattern in pink outlined along one end. She and the Queen stood up, and Cora rolled her mat out while Miranda sought one of the extras and did the same.

  Cora hated to admit it, but she felt a tiny bit of satisfaction as the session got underway, because while she was strong and agile, the Queen was no yoga prodigy; her alignment was dreadful, and even with her considerable physical prowess she lost her balance at one point and actually toppled over, giggling.

  “Why don’t you try that one again?” Lalita suggested.

  Miranda sobered and stood back up, and Lalita led her back into the pose; the Queen concentrated on her work, which was a relief, as Cora had feared she wouldn’t take what they were doing seriously, especially not the first time. But Miranda was completely respectful of Lalita’s knowledge and even paused to watch Cora during the Sun Salutation to get a different view of the flow of postures. Cora tried not to acknowledge her stare, but found herself blushing anyway.

  “I’m sorry,” the Queen said. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. But you really are a natural at this, Cora. You look like you were born to it.”

  Cora blushed even more fiercely. “Thank you, my Lady.”

  Lalita was smiling warmly at her. “I’ve taught yoga off and on for twenty years, and Cora is the quickest learner I’ve had so far. Just in the last few weeks she’s gained so much poise and grace—I’m very proud of her.”

  Seeing how uncomfortable Cora was at being stared at, Lalita changed the subject. “All right, then, let us continue.”

  After they moved through the entire series of asanas and spent several minutes lying in Corpse Pose, Lalita began a guided meditation for chakra clearing; in her tradition the body had seven primary energy centers, each corresponding to a different aspect of a person’s being, and those centers needed to stay healthy in order for the whole person to thrive. She led them through the meditation slowly, in deference to the Queen, and Cora visualized her energy moving up through her body, starting in the root chakra at the base of the spine and ending in the crown of the head. The energy opened each chakra, cleaned out any psychic debris, and left that aspect of the self running more smoothly. Cora wasn’t sure how much of Lalita’s spirituality she believed in, but when she did the meditation she could certainly feel something, and when it was done she always felt different, better.

  When they reached the third-eye chakra, which was supposed to govern one’s inner sight, Cora heard a gasp.

  She opened one eye partway and saw that something odd was happening to the Queen.

  Miranda was white as a sheet, and her breathing was shallow. She sat cross-legged as Cora and Lalita did, but her hands were clenched on her knees and her forehead was creased in what looked like pain.

  “My Lady?” Cora asked in a whisper.

  Lalita’s eyes popped open and she, too, looked worried. “Are you . . .”

  Before she could finish the question, the Queen’s hands flew up to her forehead, covering her already-closed eyes. She moaned and doubled over. “No . . .”

  Suddenly things all over the room began to shake.

  Lalita put her hands on the Queen’s shoulders and tried to rouse her, but the Queen didn’t seem to hear; she was lost somewhere, and to Cora’s dismay the shield she was holding up around Cora began to tremble and dissolve and Cora could feel the Queen’s power again, this time surging dangerously. Hot, thick fear seized Cora’s heart, and she pushed herself away, all but crawling backward to put as much space between herself and the Queen as she could.

  Things began to topple over. Mats fell, the fabric hangings Lalita had draped around the room sagged and then slipped from the walls . . . the very ground felt like it was shaking.

  Lalita cried out in alarm, and Cora followed her wide eyes to see that the ceiling fan overhead was coming loose from its wiring.

  The Queen screamed.

  The fan tore from the ceiling and fell.

  Cora flung herself forward, trying to push Lalita out of the way, and the two women tumbled backward in the chaos—

  —which stopped as quickly as it had started.

  Cora, sprawled out over Lalita on the floor, craned her head back to see what had happened, and it was her turn to gasp.

  Standing in the center of the room, one hand held up toward the fan that had frozen in midair, the other touching Miranda’s forehead, was the Prime.

  The Queen’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell sideways onto her mat, unconscious.

  The Prime’s eyes and hand followed the ceiling fan and it floated over to the corner, where it landed in a heap. He turned, looking around the room, and in seconds everything had righted itself, the scattered pieces of Lalita’s altar returning to their places, the tapestries back on the walls.

  He didn’t ask if Cora and Lalita were all right, but she supposed it was unnecessary. Aside from shock they were both fine, not even a scratch on either. He bent and lifted the Queen into his arms, then gave them a quick nod of acknowledgment and strode out of the studio.

  Cora and Lalita were left staring at each other.

  Blood . . . so much blood . . .

  Someone was dying. She could hear Kat screaming—not in pain, but in panic, in horror, her heart—not her body—rent into tatters. Miranda tried to help her . . . she couldn’t move . . . she was an outsider here, trapped behind a glass wall where all she could do was listen and watch, pounding her fists on an invisible barrier. She tried to scream but her voice died on the wind. She could only watch scattered images of the nightmare unfolding before her, powerless.

  So much blood . . .

  “I’m done for, Miranda. You have to save yourself.”
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  Who was speaking? She strained to identify the voice but she couldn’t reach it, couldn’t . . .

  She could hear something dripping . . . dripping . . . water, onto a bare floor . . . dripping . . . blood, dripping . . . dripping . . .

  Bars. Her hands closed around cold steel bars.

  “Please tell me this was all a nightmare, Miranda.”

  “Hello, darling.” A man’s voice, scornful.

  She heard something shatter, saw shards of crystal catching moonlight as they fell . . .

  “Miranda, NO!”

  She could hear the screaming, she could smell the blood and taste it rusty and hot in the back of her throat, but she couldn’t stop any of it.

  “Please . . . you have to save him . . . you have to . . . promise me . . . you’re the only one strong enough to do it. Promise me . . .”

  “How dare you come into our house—”

  Red light . . . red light . . . red . . . four, five, six . . . seven . . . eight . . . glowing red in a circle, one by one flashing, their light falling into sync . . .

  “Hello, darling.” A woman’s voice, scornful.

  Agony . . . searing, her soul being ripped in half, her screams tearing the silence of the night as she fell . . . and watched herself fall . . . only it wasn’t her . . .

  Warmth intruded. She felt herself being pulled back from the glass wall, gentle hands drawing her down, out, back into her body.

  She strained to hear the last few words as she began to wake . . . it was almost as if someone were whispering into her ear.

  Firstborn . . .

  Eleusis . . .

  Alpha . . .

  Lydia . . .

  Trinity . . .

  “Miranda.”

  That last voice, she recognized. She reached toward it, yearning for solid ground, for the waking world, and felt hands taking hers and drawing her down, down . . .