The Shadows

by J. R. Ward

  They had doctored the infant's as well.

  The newborn had been the rightful heir to the throne according to the stars.

  As the implications sank in, Catra opened her lids and looked over her shoulder. s'Ex had his back to her and was struggling with someone--or, rather, someone was struggling against the executioner's hold.

  When s'Ex turned around, the Chief Astrologer, in his red robing, was up against that enormous body, locked in a grip that was so tight, she could hear the labored breathing under that ceremonial hood.

  With a hard yank, s'Ex ripped off what covered the male's head. Beneath the folds, the Astrologer was terrified--and the fear got even worse as he put two and two together and clearly concluded he was looking at a female no one was supposed to see.

  "Yes, I have to kill you now that you've seen the Princess," s'Ex said. "But first, some answers."

  Catra glanced back down at the charts and thought . . . what she had found here was something her mother's adviser should be even more scared of.

  As soon as s'Ex found out . . .

  "Shall we tell him what you've discovered," s'Ex said, dragging the smaller male with him. "Shall we ask him why the charts have been altered?"

  Catra stared up at the executioner.

  Something in her face must have betrayed her emotions, because s'Ex frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

  Absently, she noted that the executioner's gray disguise was stained with even more blood. He had not hesitated to do away with any of the males who had sought to attack, in spite of the fact that he had trained them, worked with them, no doubt found a kinship with them.

  If she revealed this part of what she'd found?

  Well, if she did, then, in addition to this Chief Astrologer and no doubt AnsLai, the Queen . . . Catra's mother . . . the female responsible for leading the s'Hisbe . . . was going to die.

  And Catra felt . . .

  She actually felt nothing.

  Then again, the female was her leader, not her parent--and the Queen had violated the traditions to her own ends.

  It was the only explanation, especially given what the female had said in the ritual chamber.

  Catra spoke up to the Chief Astrologer. "These charts have been doctored. I assume you did it."

  The male had turned his head away so as not to see her, but s'Ex was having none of that. He bit his serrated blade, holding the weapon between his teeth, and clapped his now-free palm on that skull, wrenched the thing around by the jaw.

  Then he spoke around the steel. "The Princess asked you a question. I suggest you answer it."

  When there was only a gaping mouth and no words, s'Ex looked at her. "Shut your eyes."

  She shook her head. "Do what you must. I shall be fine."

  s'Ex cursed, but then he gripped the Astrologer's gloved hand and squeezed it so hard the male moaned . . . and then jerked and screamed as bones were broken.

  Then s'Ex took the dagger from his lips and placed it back against that throat. "Now, answer the question--"

  "Yes! I changed the charts!" the male shouted. "I changed the charts! I did not desire to do so, but the Queen demanded it of me! I was sworn to secrecy!"

  "Does AnsLai know?" Catra asked.

  "No! He does not! No one knows!"

  The explosion of speech seemed as much due to the threats he was facing as the purging of a conscience that had long been troubled.

  "I did not wish for this!" The male began to weep. "It is a violation of my sacred position, but she told me she would kill all of my bloodline--she said she would kill my mate, my young . . . my parents. . . ."

  "Why switch the charts for TrezLath and his brother? I don't understand why it was necessary to change one for another."

  "The true Anointed One, the infant born first of its mother's womb, iAm, was sickly. He was not expected to live past the night, much less survive into adulthood. The Queen wanted one of the sacred twins for you, Your Holiness, so she ordered me to change the chart to the second son, who was hearty and strong. That was the reason."

  Catra took a deep breath.

  In the silence that followed, she knew that what she said next was going to change everything. Violently.

  She swung her eyes back to s'Ex's. The executioner was preternaturally still, his huge body exuding a calm that she had a feeling was like that before a storm.

  In an utterly level voice, he said, "Tell me."

  As if he might already know.

  She turned back to the chart, rolled it up, and placed it in the heavy gold box with the others. Then she got to her feet and approached the executioner and the male.

  "Give me the knife," she said again to s'Ex. For a different reason this time.

  "Why."

  "Because we need him alive."

  She expected him to argue, and was shocked when s'Ex flipped the weapon around and handed it to her hilt-first without comment.

  It weighed almost as much as the box.

  "Now let him go. You have to let him go," she said. "He's not going to run off, because I am the only one who can save his life. Release him, s'Ex. I am commanding you to do so."

  When the executioner complied with the order, the Chief Astrologer dropped to the ground as if he were no more than a bolt of cloth. And he was smart. He dragged himself a number of feet away.

  Locking eyes with s'Ex, she said loudly and clearly, "Now, Astrologer, tell him why his daughter's chart was changed."

  EIGHTY

  The phone was ringing.

  As Paradise sat up against the giant bed's headboard, she shifted her eyes over to the subtle chiming sound across the way on the desk.

  At least answering it would give her something to do, other than sit here in this subterranean suite and stew over what might be happening at nightfall.

  Her father had been absolutely livid that she had still refused to go home with him, even in light of the threat against all vampires by the s'Hisbe. But she'd felt like she had to stand up for herself, in spite of the change of circumstance. If she caved? It was like running the clock of her life backward.

  And she'd stuck to her guns even when he had reminded her, not that it was necessary, that he'd already lost her mahmen and did not want to have her go over unto death's cold embrace, too.

  As she had uttered her last and final "Not going," he had stared at her as if she were a stranger.

  And perhaps she was.

  Riiiiiiiing.

  Maybe it was her father. She couldn't imagine he had found any rest, either. Although he would probably have tried to text or call her cell.

  Shifting her legs off the edge of the mattress, she jumped down and jogged to the phone.

  Picking up the receiver, she said, "Good morning, how may I help you?"

  It was a male voice, but not that of her blooded sire. It was the one who had called before from the s'Hisbe, the one who had issued the decree of war in that strangely accented tone: "I have a message for your King, Wrath, son of Wrath. The Queen wishes to thank him for the swift return of the Anointed One. Wrath's compliance is that of a wise leader and statesmale, and it is my pleasure to reassure him that no military action shall be taken by us and that there is accord, once more, between our peoples."

  Click.

  Paradise looked at the phone.

  Had she gotten that right?

  Punching her finger into the two buttons on the cradle, she cleared the line, and when the dial tone came back on, she tapped out her father's number on the buttons. Or tried to. She was shaking so badly, she couldn't get the sequence of digits right.

  When things finally rang through, she found herself breathing hard.

  "Hello--"

  "Father!" she cut in. "Father, they called again--"

  "Paradise! Are you safe--"

  "Yes, yes, you have to listen to me! They called again, the s'Hisbe--they said Wrath returned the . . ." What was it? ". . . the Anointed One? They said everything was okay--I mean, they calle
d off the war!"

  Stupid way of putting it, she thought in the back of her head. Like the thing had been a birthday party canceled because of bad weather?

  "Whate'er speak you of?" her father said slowly. "Wrath was not going to give Trez up."

  "He must have changed his mind?"

  "I spoke with him at dawn. The Brotherhood had sent out a day-faring emissary to gather intelligence on the Territory. Whate'er has . . . I shall have to call him at once."

  "Will you try to let me know what happens?"

  "I shall."

  "I love you," she blurted.

  "Oh, Paradise, I love you, too. Stay underground."

  "I promise."

  As she hung up the phone, she found herself praying she got the chance to apologize in person to him. Although she supposed that impulse was just her inner four-year-old wanting to be a good girl.

  No matter the outcome of the conflict with the Shadows, she had to stand firm.

  The threat of war was a good reminder that you only had one life to live.

  So you'd better make it count.

  *

  As s'Ex met the unwavering stare of the Princess, he decided she was very smart to disarm him and get the Chief Astrologer away from his reach before he got the answer she had prompted from the male.

  But the explanation was unnecessary; he knew the "why" of the chart's alteration.

  The Astrologer stumbled through his words. "The infant was the rightful heir, supplanting you, Princess. But the Queen did not want a commoner's bloodline on the throne. She knew that her executioner was the sire. She forced me to change the time of birth by four minutes, thirty-two seconds--which would place the young under a disadvantageous positioning of the sixth planet from the sun."

  At once, the sound of his daughter's plaintive cry ran through s'Ex's mind . . . and then entered his bloodstream.

  His chest began to pump with hard breath.

  His fists curled up.

  His heart skipped a beat . . . and then settled into the slow, steady beat of a killer.

  The Princess held out his blade to him. Her eyes were full of sorrow, but they were also very, very clear. In a voice that shook, but had strength in it, she spoke four words.

  "Do what you must."

  She knew she had just sentenced her mother to death. By this truth coming to light, he would not hesitate to avenge the murder of his blood.

  With his war hand, he accepted the serrated blade--and tilted the tip toward his face. With two quick streaks down the hollows of his cheeks, he marked himself.

  Once for his daughter whom he would never know.

  Once for the wrong he was going to rectify.

  As he turned for the break in the tiled partition, he was single-minded--and yet he stopped.

  Cranking his head over his shoulder, he pegged the Chief Astrologer with his stare. As the male shrank back in mortal terror, s'Ex said, "If my daughter was to be the heir, who succeeds the Queen now?"

  "S-s-s-she d-d-d-does." The male pointed to the Princess. "She has rightful claim to the throne. Her records have not been altered. She would have been second in line after your daughter, and with the death, she is the legitimate heir--"

  "The murder," he cut in, "of my daughter, you mean."

  He glanced at the Princess.

  She didn't seem to care about the repercussions of what had just been said. She didn't even appear to have heard the words that she was about to become Queen. Instead, she was cradling that long, thin gold box to the chest of her maid's disguise, her head bowed.

  Tears hit the brilliant yellow metal, falling from her eyes.

  "You must rule," s'Ex announced. "You must take the reins of this community and rule it properly. Do you hear me? Snap out of this emotion, and get ready for what is about to happen."

  Her stare shifted up to his. "She was my sister. They killed . . . my sister."

  For a moment, s'Ex recoiled. It was the last thing in the world he expected her to say.

  And abruptly, the reality that his grief was shared hit him, and he was strangely touched.

  Walking over to the Princess, he cupped her face and lifted it unto his own. After wiping away her cheeks, he bent down and pressed his lips to her forehead.

  "Thank you for that," he whispered.

  "What?"

  He just shook his head and stepped back. "You." He pointed to the Chief Astrologer. "You need to take care of her. You believe in your traditions, you hated your lies? Prove it by making sure she survives--in about ten minutes she is going to be your Queen."

  Instantly, the male shuffled around on the floor, prostrating himself and putting his forehead to the bloodied red marble at the female's feet. "By all that is written in the stars, I shall serve Queen Catra vin SuLaneh etl MuLanen deh FonLerahn until the final beat of my heart and the last breath of my lungs."

  s'Ex sensed the sincerity, and knew that the new Queen was going to be safe. "You have the ceremonial garb in here, do you not?"

  The Chief Astrologer answered at the floor. "I do."

  "Get her dressed. In twenty minutes, her mother's head is going to be at the foot of the throne. Bring Catra there so that the change-of-power ceremony can be completed."

  "What about you?" Catra said. "You'll be there, too? Please tell me you'll be there."

  "Worry about yourself, my Queen. You are so much more important than any one individual in this room, this palace, this land."

  With that, he turned and disappeared into the hidden passageway.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  The cleaning and preservation of a warrior's weapons were a sacred duty, a way of honoring the connection between the fighter and his tools.

  As Rhage sat with his head bent over the second of his two favorite forties, the sweet scent of metallurgical detergent was as familiar as the sound of his own voice.

  Across the bedroom, he could feel his Mary's tension. But she did not say a word.

  "I'll be careful," he told her, putting the spray can back in his gun cleaning box. "I promise . . . I'll be really careful."

  He gave the vow even though he knew that personal discretion was only part of surviving a battle. Being aware of your surroundings, watching your back, having your brothers watch out for you as well--all of that helped, sure. There would always be the element of luck, however.

  Or destiny.

  Fate.

  Whatever you wanted to call it.

  "I know you will," she said tightly.

  He brought the chamois square up one side of the barrel and down the other. "If I don't . . . come home, though."

  He stopped there. She was going to know the question he was asking. He'd given her enough to go on.

  "I'll find you," she choked out. "I'll find you somehow."

  He nodded--and thought he probably should go over to her, but he couldn't handle the closeness. As it was, he was on the thin edge of falling apart, and with a flat-out war waiting for him at nightfall, he just couldn't afford the emotion.

  "I simply can't bear the thought of you getting hurt," she said as she blew her nose with a tissue and blotted at her eyes. "That bothers me almost more than the dying."

  Well, yeah, because they had been granted that miracle--which would pay dividends when death tried to separate them.

  He thought of Trez and wanted to vomit.

  God . . . the sight of that male mounting that fucking funeral pyre was a tattoo on his brain.

  Abruptly, he dropped his gun and his cloth to his knees. "I'm a horrible person. I'm a really horrible fucking asshole."

  Across the way, Mary sniffled again. "What are you talking about?"

  He forced himself to resume cleaning, mostly because if he looked her in the eye, he wasn't going to say it.

  Hell, maybe he shouldn't say it--although he never could keep things from her.

  "I, ah . . . I hated what Trez and Selena went through. The same with Tohr."

  From out of nowhere, he remembered sitting i
n Manny's fancy-ass clinical RV and demanding that the doctor save the Chosen.

  Like if he just ordered the guy to find a cure it would happen.

  Then he had a snapshot of Layla, bundled up outside as the flames had roared into the sky. Pregnant Layla, who was carrying Qhuinn's twins, for fuck's sake.

  Who had looked as if she were going to expire from the mourning of her sister's passing--to the point where Rhage wasn't the only one worried about her pregnancy, her life, the young.

  "I'm an asshole," he whispered.

  "Talk to me, Rhage."

  "I'm glad that wasn't us," he choked out. "As much as I love all of them, and I mourn with them . . . I'm so fucking glad I didn't lose you. . . ."

  Tears came to his eyes.

  And his shellan came over to him.

  As she took his gun and put it aside, and then wrapped her arms around him, murmuring support into his ear, he felt even worse.

  It just reminded him of what Trez was never going to have again--

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  "Rhage," V barked from out in the hall. "Trez turned himself in."

  Rhage straightened up and scraped his tears away. "What?"

  Moving Mary out of the way, he jumped across to the door and ripped it open. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "You heard me--meeting in Wrath's. Now."

  As the Brother went to run off, Rhage grabbed V's arm. "Are you sure?"

  "The call just came in from the s'Hisbe."

  "Does iAm know?"

  That stopped the Brother, and he looked up to the ceiling. "Shit."

  "Are you sure Trez isn't in the house?"

  "No, he's gone. I checked the security camera feeds. He left his cell phone on the stone steps and disappeared about an hour ago."

  "Holy . . . shit. Okay, all right . . ." Except he wasn't sure if that was true. Maybe there was no war . . . but what about the Shadows?

  Their two Shadows?

  "Let me go up and tell iAm," he heard himself say as he glanced back at Mary.

  "Do you want me to come with you?" she said.

  "Yeah, I do."

  *

  iAm came awake to two pairs of shoes at eye level. One was a set of shitkickers, big as recliners. The others were Coach sneakers, with the logo in gray and black, and Velcro straps instead of laces.

  As he lifted his head, he looked up at Rhage and Mary. "What time is it?"

  Mary knelt down, and that was his first clue that whatever message they were delivering was bad, bad news.

  Rhage was the one who spoke up, though, "iAm . . . we got reason to believe your brother has turned himself in."