Shadowbound

by Dianne Sylvan

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  He leaned in and kissed her, then reached over to hit the buzzer and ask Harlan to stop the car.

  • • •

  Searing pain—a hot iron this time. “Confess!”

  He could hear the ragged ruin of his own voice, hoarse from screaming: “I’m not a demon. I never hurt anyone. I’m not a demon . . . please . . .”

  As the long hours passed and he still maintained his innocence, they grew impatient. Those hours, and the days and days before of torment and blood, were nothing, nothing, compared to the day they began crushing his hands . . . one finger at a time, then the palm . . . that was what would cause the systemic infection that only becoming a vampire could save him from. It was a kind of pain that would never leave him; seven hundred years later he would still wake screaming from phantom agony in both hands, and they would ache for hours afterward.

  “Confess!”

  The horrible, dull crunch of bones slowly breaking—

  Deven fought his way out of sleep with a cry of terror, striking out with all his strength . . . but the assailants were invisible, made only of memory.

  He’d been having nightmares about the past for seven centuries, but over the years they’d become more vague, events blurring into each other as the memories became less distinct. Having the Elf mucking about in his psyche had triggered something, though, and brought those memories roaring back. Usually having Jonathan next to him helped immeasurably; the Consort’s presence soothed him, gave him distance.

  Tonight Jonathan wasn’t in bed. That was a bit odd; Jonathan had been very diligent about staying with him as much as possible while he slept after the healing sessions. There must have been some sort of disturbance that called him away.

  Sunset had passed an hour ago, leaving the air in the Haven soft and faintly ocean-scented as the wind blew in from the coast. The metal shutters covering all the windows stood open, bathing the bedroom in a gentle blue light. Gradually, the cool air and peaceful silence carried away the nightmare.

  Finally, he climbed out of bed and found clothes. Most likely Jonathan had been roused by one of the Elite; he had been running himself ragged managing the territory while Deven slept off repeated Elf hangovers. Luckily Jonathan was an excellent organizer, leader, and strategist. Really, when it came down to the night-to-night work of the Signets, Deven was a bit on the useless side; he had always preferred . . . to . . .

  He paused, frowning, shirt halfway on.

  Something was different. Something . . .

  He held up his hands, rubbing them together—they felt different. They were stiff from clenching them hard in his sleep, and they felt . . . they felt.

  The fugue state he’d been walking around in had given way to sudden clarity: After weeks of feeling like he was shrouded in fog, growing more and more physically numb and bowing beneath the weight of his history, it felt like the moon had come out and pierced the gloom, throwing everything into sharp relief.

  Heart pounding, he reached out along the bond to find Jonathan, but as he’d suspected the Consort was in town. He must have left right at sunset to have arrived in the city already; whatever was up, it was important. Deven grabbed his phone and sent Jonathan a message: Call me when you can.

  For the first time in two weeks the Prime emerged from the suite looking like himself—blades, coat, piercings, and all. He even yanked out a hair to check the dye job and deemed it fit for another week. With Ghostlight returned to her usual place on his hip, he strode down the hall, smiling.

  The guards he passed looked genuinely relieved to see him; there was no telling what the rumor mill had been generating to explain why their leader had become a shut-in while the Pair entertained a pointy-eared weirdo.

  Curious as to whether there was an energetic connection between himself and Nico, he expanded his awareness to try to find him. Sure enough, the Elf’s presence glowed softly in his mind—not in the rooms they’d given him, but nearby.

  He found Nico in a long hallway, staring at the wide array of weaponry on display there. The Elf’s expression was one of apprehension and sadness, but when he sensed Deven approaching, he looked up and smiled.

  The world spun off its axis for a moment under the beauty of that smile, but he shrugged off the reaction impatiently.

  The Elf was dressed in a more Tolkien-esque robe and cloak this time, the cloak a deep blue with silver embroidery around the edge and a carved silver crescent moon clasp. The Elf’s hair, unbound, fell all the way to his waist, shining like silk. He was wildly out of place before a wall covered in weapons. The outfit would have looked much better in an old-growth forest, or a castle of carved marble . . .

  . . . or on my bedroom floor.

  Damn it.

  “Good evening, my Lord,” Nico said, bowing. “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “I am,” he replied, returning the smile. “I feel like myself again.”

  Nico’s gaze swept from Deven’s head down to his feet, then back up; the way his eyes lingered was just a little longer than a cursory examination called for. Was that appreciation in his gaze, or just analysis? The Elf was maddeningly difficult to read.

  “You must be cautious,” Nico advised him. “I know you feel well, but you are still fragile—try not to exert yourself too much either physically or psychically until after I have finished my work. I would hate to see you fall back into that darkness again.”

  “So would I.” Deven gestured at the wall and said, “I wouldn’t have expected to see you in here.”

  “I have wandered around most of the buildings and the grounds in the two weeks I have been here—trying not to frighten anyone,” he added a bit wryly. “I saw these . . . implements . . . and wanted a closer look, although . . .”

  “Jonathan calls this the Gallery of Pointy Things,” Deven said. “The previous Prime hung all these disgusting old animal heads on the walls—no one would walk down here in the dark because of all the beady glass eyes staring at them.”

  Nico approached a pair of Damascus steel swords that Deven had picked up in India and lifted a hand as if to touch one, but then thought better of it. “You are . . . very creative when you wish to deal death.”

  Deven almost laughed at the disturbed expression on his face, but said only, “I take it you don’t have warriors where you come from.”

  “No. Elves are a pacifist people; we live our lives so as to cause the least harm possible. We seek out peace and cooperation, not destruction.” He lowered his gaze to the sword Deven wore.

  Dev drew the blade and held her out in both hands for him to look at; Nico actually touched the hilt, lightly, then ran his fingers along the sword’s spine, and that touch made Deven feel like his own spine was melting. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “This carving is lovely,” Nico said. “Gaelic, is it not?”

  “Yes. It’s her name: Ghostlight.”

  Their eyes met, the Elf’s gaze penetrating. “It suits you.”

  Unsure whether that was a compliment, Deven resheathed the sword.

  Nico looked at Deven, eyes troubled. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Reconcile who you are with what you do.”

  “I don’t,” he replied. “I think of my healing ability as just another attribute, not a sign that I’m part of anything bigger.”

  Nico lowered his voice to where the nearest guards wouldn’t overhear. “And the Red Shadow? How do you reconcile contract killing with being a healer?”

  “How did you—”

  “I have spent three nights inside your mind, my Lord,” Nico said. “I know a lot more about you than you probably want me to.”

  Deven turned away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “I was born with this blood, and I suffered for it. Your people fled the human world; I was left here alone to fend for myself, and I chose to become powerful enough that no one else could hurt me. Once you’ve lived the life I h
ave, in the world I’ve had to live in, then you can judge my decisions.”

  “I meant no offense,” the Elf said, taken aback by the coldness in his words. “I only want to understand. This world is . . . I was unprepared for what I would see here.”

  “It’s easy to see nothing but ugliness.” Deven took hold of the Elf’s arm and drew him along by the wrist, down the hall to one of the back doors of the Haven. “Let me show you something.”

  The Haven was situated to the west of Sacramento proper, and its primary residence was designed to mimic a Mediterranean villa; it had courtyards and fountains that flooded in moonlight, all of which closed up tight at dawn. His favorite feature, however, was a wraparound terrace that stretched along the entire back length of the building, allowing access from any adjacent room. The terrace looked out over a wildlife refuge where the trees seemed to go on forever.

  He led the Elf out onto the balcony, up to the wall that surrounded it where the view was finest.

  Nico smiled, eyes sweeping out over the valley. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Deven had done the same thing many times over the years; something about looking out over the forest and breathing its air felt like sustenance, assuaging a different hunger than did blood.

  They stood there for a while in companionable silence, Deven leaning on his elbows on the wall, Nico with his arms crossed. Overhead the sky was ablaze with stars in the black bowl of the night; distantly he could hear the city, but facing west, all was peaceful, the noise blending into the night symphony of crickets, frogs, and wind through leaf-laden trees.

  “This is beautiful,” Nico said.

  Dev nodded. “One day I’ll have to take you to the giant redwoods. You’d love it there—it’s like a living cathedral. Sometimes I sneak off for a night and go listen to them talk.”

  Nico gave him a slightly surprised, speculative look. “You can hear them?”

  “Well . . . I . . .” Deven cursed himself mentally for saying anything. There were parts of him he never revealed to anyone, not even Jonathan—and yet in the course of a ten-minute conversation with Nico he’d already let something slip that no one on this earth had ever known about him. “Never mind.”

  Sensing his discomfort, Nico turned his gaze back to the view and let the matter drop.

  It occurred to Deven that this was the first time he’d really been alone with the Elf, at least when he was coherent. The thought actually made his stomach twist around itself with uncharacteristic nervousness. Meanwhile, the part of his mind that was able to think rationally was flabbergasted that of all the attractive males he’d ever met, less than half a dozen had ever affected him at all, and no one had ever turned him into a gibbering idiot like this.

  It was ridiculous. He was Prime, not some hormonal teenager. Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake.

  “I did not mean to judge you, earlier,” Nico told him quietly. “I have often wondered . . . how differently would things have turned out if my people had fought back instead of hiding? The thought of killing another creature sickens me, but when something precious is threatened, how is it more righteous to run away rather than to stand your ground?”

  “I must say I didn’t expect to hear that from you.”

  Another smile, this time smaller, touched with some regret, from what source Deven couldn’t imagine. “I am known for saying unpopular things.”

  Their eyes met again. God, those eyes . . . They had their own gravitational pull, and his heart was spinning in orbit around them.

  “We’re not . . . related, or anything, are we?” Deven asked suddenly around the tightness in his chest.

  As if he were expecting any question but that one, the Elf laughed. “No, we are not. As I understand it, you have the blood from your grandmother, who was of a different family line than ours.”

  “Right. I never met her. My parents didn’t exactly invite her round for Christmas dinner.” A thought arose that had never before occurred to him, and he asked, “Is she still alive?”

  “She is indeed.”

  “Where?”

  “In Avilon, one of only three Elven sanctuaries that survived the Burning Times. We sealed the Veil—the barrier that shields Avilon from the mortal world—not long after you were born, so she assumed you died at the hands of the Inquisition like so many of our part-human kin.”

  A flash of the nightmare he’d woken from earlier appeared in Deven’s mind, and a violent tremor ran through him, the memory of that time crystal clear and horrifically close for a moment. The intrusion was so harsh and unexpected that it left him feeling weak—as the Elf had warned, he wasn’t completely recovered, and before he could brace himself against the wall, his knees gave out.

  He fully expected to crack his skull on the tile floor, but Nico acted with near-vampire quickness and caught him, gently lifting him back up with an ease that surprised the hell out of the Prime. Nico’s willowy body held far more strength than he would have believed, and while he inwardly cursed himself for displaying such vulnerability, he sagged against the Elf for a moment, trying to ground . . . all the while noticing how solid Nico was, how warm . . . and how everywhere they were touching felt like it was electrically charged.

  Deven rubbed his hands together against the phantom pain—for a moment he could feel it again, the radial breaks from the center of his palms, the unbearable pressure just before the bones splintered. That stench he had tried so hard to forget . . . human filth, blood, putrefaction, burning flesh . . . pushed cruelly into his mind.

  Nico took his hands lightly, drawing them apart to stop the compulsive motion. “Breathe, my Lord . . . you are no longer in that place, or that time. This is your home and you are safe.”

  Deven felt Nico reach into himself and offer a light current of energy, which the Prime took gratefully. The weakness faded, the world righted itself, and he laid his head on Nico’s shoulder. For just a moment they stood there, holding on to each other.

  Deven thought back to the last time something like this had happened, but this time he had no painful history with the person holding him. That night had caused so much suffering that it was hard to think back on it with anything but shame . . . but the memory of that stolen moment in David’s arms still brought a stab of longing for what had once been beautiful . . . out of reach now, forever, which was absolutely a good thing for everyone concerned.

  Before Deven could speak, the Elf drew back and led him over to one of the seating areas on the balcony, gingerly helping him sit down on a chaise longue and lean back into the cushions. The loss of contact was almost physically painful.

  Nico moved back to stand at the wall again, putting a few feet of distance between them.

  “I did die at the hands of the Inquisition,” Deven said after a while. “I was dying on the floor of my cell, rotting from the inside out from infection, when a woman came to the prison and bought my freedom. She knew I wasn’t going to survive, so she brought me across—but doing that to someone already so weak should have killed me outright. She couldn’t even keep me unconscious for the transformation because I would never have awoken. I don’t know how I lived through that night, but I did.”

  As he thought of Eladra and his years with the Order of Elysium, dizziness washed over him again with the onslaught of guilt, and he fought as hard as he could to push it away where it couldn’t destroy the tenuous balance the Elf had given him.

  There was sorrow in Nico’s face as he said, just loudly enough to carry, “You have a strong heart.”

  “Either that or I was too afraid of hell to die.” He didn’t really intend the words to come out as bitterly as they did, but the thought of Eladra brought the reasons for his mental breakdown back to the forefront of his mind, and it was hard, after all of that, not to get caught up in the emotions that went with it. He looked away from the Elf and shut his eyes a moment.

  He didn’t hear footsteps, but Nico crossed the balcony and sat down beside him, and Deven felt the pressu
re of a hand on his forehead.

  The pain vanished.

  “Whatever the reason you survived,” Nico said, “I am grateful you did.”

  The undeserved compassion, even affection, in the Elf’s voice was almost too much, but he managed to keep himself centered and said, “I should keep you around so you can zap me every time I get upset about something.”

  A smile. “I would not normally intervene—difficult emotions have their place—but I am concerned that in the state you are in, dwelling too much in the past will shatter the energy matrix and we will be back at the beginning. I know how difficult the process has been for you and wouldn’t put you through that again unless I had to.”

  “We need to change the subject, then.”

  “I think it would be wise.”

  “All right . . . tell me more about your home, Avilon . . . where is it?”

  “Between,” Nico said. “It once existed here on earth, but when we were threatened with extinction, the Elders drew the Veil around it, essentially removing it from ordinary space and time. To leave it, or to return, one must cross through the Veil, an act requiring tremendous power now that the old portals are gone.”

  “Did you know why I was calling?” he asked.

  “Not at first. The Speaking Stone was in the Temple, locked away in a back room; no one had laid eyes upon it in decades. But the Acolytes were helping to move some old archives and artifacts from one room to another, and they found the stone, glowing red and pulsating. No one in the Temple knew what to do with it, so they brought it to me.”

  “It just happened to be found when I was calling you? That’s one hell of a coincidence.”