Shadow Rising (The Shadow World Book 7)

by Dianne Sylvan

  It took a full day for her insides to stop hurting; it felt like she’d pulled every muscle in her abdomen and back, like the aftermath of violent food poisoning. If she tried to move too suddenly or too far pain would lance through her body from the bullet’s point of entry, even though the wound itself was gone. Internal bleeding, she realized. The thing was still trying to kill her.

  The bullet had acted like wood though it had been, based on David’s brief observation, a fairly ordinary 38-caliber round. Though the one that hit her had destroyed itself when exposed to air, David had dug two others out of nearby trees and gathered up the shell casings to analyze.

  Deven stayed by her the whole time, giving her more healing energy every time she woke moaning in pain.

  When she finally woke on the third day, she felt almost like herself again, and with Dev’s help managed to take a shower and move over to the couch for a while.

  He wrapped a blanket around her and sat down cross-legged at her feet, taking both of her hands. She could sense him looking her over, healing-wise, and after a moment he nodded to himself.

  “I think you’re out of the woods,” he said. “No bleeding this time. How do you feel?”

  “Shitty,” she croaked. “Situation report?”

  He smiled. “All quiet on the southern front. David’s at Hunter Development harassing Novotny, Nico is with his mother, the house is full of refugees, and I’m avoiding all of them.”

  “Oh?” Her throat was scratchy, and she wished fervently she had a—

  Deven reached off to the side and held up a can of Coke.

  She made grabby hands at it, earning a laugh, and guzzled half the can before saying, “Seven hundred sixty-six years and you haven’t come up with a better strategy than hiding?”

  “You needed me,” he pointed out. “Besides, all the rituals of the Order are in the Codex, and at least a few of them are locked until the Solstice—there must be one to undo what Xara did.”

  “What did she do, exactly? I mean she basically said you were her successor, right? If you’re that dead set against the idea just say no.”

  “It’s not that simple.” He reached into his pocket and brought out a cloth bundle; she could see, even through the fabric, that it was giving off light…pulsating. “She passed the Hallowing to me on her dying breath. It’s magic…very old magic, as old as the Signets. As long as I don’t put this on, it can’t be completed, but until I find a way to give it to somebody else without dying…” He looked down at the bundle, frowning, and shoved it back in his pocket. “It shouldn’t have worked in the first place - you can’t just pass the thing to anyone.”

  “But everyone knew Eladra meant for you to have it,” she said. “Are you sure you should go against her wishes?”

  “I don’t care about her wishes,” he said flatly. “She was out of her mind to think I was some kind of holy being—I never even finished training. And then there’s that whole thing where I murdered her in cold blood. That alone should have made the thing reject me.”

  She understood, of course, how he felt—he’d been abandoned by the God he’d loved to die by the hands of His supposedly holy people, and escaped only to have another unwanted fate thrust on him by Eladra; he’d run away from that, too, but centuries later found himself chosen by another force beyond his control: the Signet. He hadn’t chosen that any more than he had chosen to be sent to the monastery or named Eladra’s successor…he’d been forced to live after Jonathan went on without him, then forced to bond to her and David, then Nico…and while the Tetrad had so far been a good thing, it still hadn’t been what he had asked for.

  She remembered David saying, once, that Dev had spent most of his life believing he was little more than a commodity—a prize to barter off to whatever god wanted his worship, a body to buy and sell for drugs or assassination or to rule the West. Of course he would fight tooth and nail not to be pushed into another fate.

  But that didn’t mean he would succeed.

  She didn’t argue with him, and in fact her heart broke for him, knowing how futile his anger probably was. If that amulet really was like a Signet, there was no undoing it.

  …although how exactly he was meant to wear both at once, she had no idea.

  “For now, though, someone needs to be in charge of the Cloister people,” she said. “Can you maybe take it on temporarily? They’ll cope a lot better if someone they trust is in control.”

  He gave her an “are you mental?” look. “Why on earth would they trust me? They all know who I am and what I’ve done. Tradition would make them obey me, but out of fear, not trust. They’ll be much happier and much better off once we get this whole thing fixed. Now that you’re better I suppose I should go tell them that much—that no, I have no intention of leading them, and in a couple of weeks we’ll know what to do. They can take the time until then to figure out who they do want.”

  “I’m sure it will be just that easy,” she told him wryly.

  “Anyway,” he went on, ignoring her pointedly, “if nothing else, we finally have something over Morningstar: They don’t know we have the Moriastelethia. But that does mean they’ll keep looking for it, so the other Cloisters need to be warned. We managed to salvage most of Xara’s records, most of their belongings, and as many relics as we could carry in one trip—as soon as Nico’s back up to snuff he’s going to Gate us back there to look for more. He’s also going to do the same with some of the Elves—take them back to Avilon, see what they can save.”

  “Good,” she said. “Assuming Morningstar doesn’t have people hiding there waiting for exactly that.”

  “He’ll have plenty of swords with him, don’t worry. And given what he was able to do the other night…” He trailed off.

  Miranda thought back, remembered watching the Weaver with her heart in her throat. “Since when could he do all that? I mean, so many things at once, and still manage to transport everyone? I know he’s powerful, and that pulling from all of us things can get epic, but that…that was unbelievable.”

  The pride in his smile made her smile. “Elves. Every house should have one.”

  He pushed himself up off the floor and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “If you think you can do without me now, I’m going to go talk to them…might as well get it over with. If you have any pain at all just call and I’ll be here.”

  She smiled. “I’m okay, really. I probably won’t be up and around until tomorrow but nothing hurts. I’m just tired.”

  Once he’d gone, she burrowed down into the blanket and throw pillows, enjoying the heat of the fire; it was a balm for her worn-out muscles. She drifted in and out of sleep for a while, finally feeling comfortable and safe again.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was to a gentle tap on her mind.

  “Mmm…glad you’re here,” she murmured, smiling at her Prime.

  David held up a glass of blood. “Fresh from the city, just in time for your 3am feeding.”

  She stuck her tongue out, and he handed her the glass and stuck another pillow behind her to hold her up.

  He wasn’t kidding—he must have taken it from a live human himself that very evening. The energy of the blood washed over her with every swallow, and she basked in it as she had the firelight, grateful for the feeling of renewed life that seeped into her veins and soothed the last of the exhaustion into a gentler, easier fatigue.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I needed that.”

  He cupped her face in his hand and stared into her eyes for a long moment. “You scared me,” he finally said. “I’ve never seen you in that kind of pain.”

  “I scared me too.”

  She started to ask what he’d learned from Novotny, but he lay a finger over her lips. “Later,” he said. “Just…”

  Miranda nodded, understanding. “Take me to bed.”

  He picked her up and carried her across the room, where the bed was already turned down and waiting, and took a
moment to undress before crawling in beside her and pulling her close. She wrapped herself around him slowly; it still felt like she was moving through water just to put her arms around him.

  Safe. I’m safe. No matter what, no matter how many people climb in and out of this bed, you are my shelter.

  David smiled at her thought, and kissed her first on the lips, then the forehead, then the nose. And you are mine. Always.

  He buried his face in her neck, and they clung to each other for a long time.

  *****

  The two groups of refugees at the Southern Haven had been housed near each other mostly out of necessity; there was only so much room even in such a huge building. This time, the Elite had been forced to double up, but as far as Deven knew nobody minded, or at least nobody complained loudly enough for him to get wind of it. Though David knew which Elite was the Red Shadow spy, Deven had left her in place purely to keep his finger on the pulse of community gossip. With everything changing so rapidly it was important to know if their warriors were happy—and increasingly difficult to find out given how busy everyone was.

  He passed by the corridor that led down to the Elven quarters, though he wanted badly to give up on his errand, run down that hallway, and hide in Nico’s arms.

  He also wanted to see the baby again, but that urge also made him uneasy, and was enough to spur him onward, away from where he knew she and Kalea would be.

  Only one hallway further he found the Cloister refugees. This was the first time he’d been down here; he hadn’t been lying when he’d said Miranda needed him. He, David, and Nico had been nearly hysterically worried about her for the first day. He’d burned through a lot of healing power keeping her safe…he shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn’t had the gift. Certainly no ordinary vampire could have survived that bullet more than a few minutes, healer-adjacent or not.

  He caught sight of one of the Cloister priestesses moving from one room to another, and said, “Wait, please.”

  She turned, saw him, and actually squeaked, going stark white and dropping to her knees.

  Oh, honestly. “Don’t do that,” he told her, walking up to her and offering his hand to pull her up.

  She stared at it like she had no idea what to do, but after a beat took it, and stood.

  The members of the Cloister were not normally trained to be servile, but when he saw the cord she wore around her waist he understood: She was an Acolyte, one of the specially chosen junior priestesses whose job was to attend the Hallowed One. She would consider it her sacred duty and honor to cater to his every whim, and while that normally just meant bringing tea and tidying up, she was used to taking care of Xara, not this strange pretender to Xara’s throne.

  “Can you gather the Acolytes and anyone with a leadership role to meet with me?” he asked, keeping his voice low. If the others heard him out here God only knew how terrified they’d be.

  She kept her eyes averted. “Yes, of course, H…um…sir. Where?”

  He looked around. He wasn’t sure what all was down here. “Is there somewhere you’ve been gathering for prayers? Anywhere we can all fit comfortably is fine. I’ll go where you tell me to go.”

  Biting her lip, she pointed down the corridor. “There is a room without furniture…we’ve been using it as a makeshift temple. I will have them there immediately, H…sir.”

  Sighing, he found the room she’d indicated, which was fortunately empty. It was basically a den, like a half dozen others in the Haven, but instead of sofas and a liquor cabinet it now held cushions, candles, and an altar the Acolytes had set up using regalia and tools they had brought from home.

  Part of him balked at the idea of being in such a place. He had spent years as Eladra’s Acolyte, learning at her feet and serving her, and hours and hours beyond counting in a Temple meditating, praying, at war with himself all the while.

  “I do not believe in your Goddess,” he had insisted to her.

  “You do not need to believe,” she replied with a smile. “You do not believe in air, or water, or the ground beneath your feet—they simply are. Persephone simply is.” He stood in front of the altar, chest constricted by what he realized after a moment was longing. For all his confusion, the months he had spent in the Cloister were among the few—the years in the monastery accounting for the rest—parts of his life given over only to peace, to solace. Yes, he had denied Persephone, but he had felt accepted by Her and Her children nonetheless. Eladra had never demanded he believe or have faith; she had simply offered wisdom, and a place free from fear.

  And he had thrown it all away. Thrown it back in her face.

  Killed her.

  Killed them all.

  He pulled the Darkened Star from his pocket and practically dropped it on the altar, stepping back, suddenly unable to bear touching it. It was stained with invisible blood that would never wash clean. He had no right to touch it, no right to be here at all. How could Xara do this? Didn’t she understand what kind of creature she had chosen to care for her sisters and brothers?

  “Are you well, my Lord?”

  He couldn’t look toward the calm, low voice until he had taken a breath and fought back tears. Finally, he said, “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Someone came up beside him. “If you like, I have a box you can place it in that might be more…appropriate.”

  He nodded vaguely. “Good. Good idea.”

  He looked up to see a woman in Acolyte’s robes—dark-skinned, as Xara and Laila had been, and in fact her features reminded him strongly of Xara’s, just younger. She had glorious dreadlocks down to her waist, held back on either side with silver combs, and had Xara’s proud bearing.

  She moved behind the altar and dug around in a trunk until she produced a carved ebony box much like those Signets were usually kept in between bearers. Her long-fingered hands unwrapped the Darkened Star with reverence, and without reacting to the way the stone was still pulsating, she lay it in the velvet-lined box and closed the lid.

  “Are you…”

  She smiled at his inability to form a coherent sentence. “My name is Ashera,” she said. “I was Xara’s senior attendant…and, yes, her sister by blood. We became vampires together, she and I.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I tried to save her—”

  “I know,” she replied kindly. “I was there.”

  He looked at the stately, serene woman in front of him, the very embodiment of the priesthood, and said, “She should have passed it to you. I have no business here.”

  Behind them he heard the other Acolytes entering the room and gathering, hovering, unsure whether to sit or stand or kneel or what.

  Ashera started to respond to his words, but he turned away, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “Sit, please,” he told the others.

  There were fourteen in total: ten women, four men, all but two dressed in the Acolytes’ robes. The other two wore more utilitarian-looking clothes; he recognized them as Stewards, another special designation, this one describing the people who took care of the night to night logistics of running the place, just like at a Haven.

  Women tended to outnumber men in the Cloisters by three to one, and there were a variety of races represented, just as he expected. Vampires devoted to the Goddess’s ancient cult tended to come from all walks of life. The Cloisters were one of the few places he’d found where gender, race, and background were essentially meaningless to the hierarchy. Everyone had an equal share of resources, equal responsibility; the difference was only of kind. Even the Hallowed One had chores. As with the Elves it was communism in its purest sense.

  He wondered how they were coping, suddenly dropped here where there were servants and there were no gardens to tend.

  Ashera smiled at them as she took a seat, easily and quietly regal. Her presence seemed to reassure the others, as did her pointedly choosing a cushion near him, as if to say, “See? He’s not going to eat us…yet.”


  He fumbled for words for a minute. They didn’t look particularly scared, but merely apprehensive, perhaps a little awed. He was used to having power…power he had won with blood. The Signet had chosen him but he had made it clear to all of California that there was a reason. He was used to intimidating people, making them cower. It was his job, what he was good at. This…

  “Look,” he said, opting, for once, for the bare truth: “We all know Xara made a mistake. I am in no way qualified for nor deserving of the Moriastelethia. You all know who I am, what I did to Eladra. She placed her trust in me and I murdered her. Whatever prophetic impulse Xara was following, she was wrong. As soon as I figure out how to undo the Hallowing I’ll give it to one of you, you have my word. For now, let’s all just be honest with each other—I don’t belong here. If you want my orders, for tradition’s sake, fine—I nominate Ashera to lead you in my stead until we straighten this out. Follow her as you would have Xara and don’t waste a single thought on what I would want.”

  They were all staring at him. A few brows were furrowing in what looked like confusion.

  “What?” he asked.

  All eyes turned to Ashera.

  She chuckled and stood smoothly. “I am afraid you are mistaken, my Lord,” she said. “About yourself, if nothing else. May I show you something?”

  Completely nonplussed, he said, “All right.”

  She returned to the altar, and to the trunk behind it. She withdrew a slender handmade book, and smiled softly down at it before bringing it to him. “Each Hallowed keeps a record of her experiences that he or she then passes to her successor. They continue writing in the same book until it is filled, then start another. It is the closest thing we have to an unbroken line of tradition. The current Hallowed’s is private, of course, but Xara let the Acolytes read some of the older volumes to help us learn about the joys and responsibilities of the calling.”