Shadowbound

by Dianne Sylvan

  She had finally told Deven about the new moon, and in typical Deven fashion, he hadn’t expressed the slightest regret over the deaths; instead he had immediately suggested that since the new moon fell on a Saturday that month she should stake out a Catholic church to catch the postconfessional crowd the night before Mass.

  “Ninety-five percent of the people there will be genuinely penitent over fairly pedestrian sins, but the rest want an audience,” he had said. “Murderers especially—if they get away with it, they have to brag, and they think a priest who can’t see their faces is ideal.”

  “But won’t they have looked into the law and know they could still be arrested? Texas doesn’t have confessional privilege.”

  “TV and movies make it seem like every criminal is a mastermind, but the truth is, most of them are depressingly stupid.”

  All she had to do was wait behind a tree, scanning people’s emotions. Deven was right—nearly all of them were good people who went into the church feeling bad about something and came out feeling better . . . but it didn’t take five minutes to find what she wanted.

  “Have you heard anything from the raid?” Deven asked.

  Miranda waited at the corner for the Walk sign to light, standing among a group of humans on various nighttime errands. Several were on their phones, too, but she was willing to bet they weren’t talking about vampire warfare. “Not yet. I’m heading home now to check the network, but if anything had gone awry I’m sure he or one of the Elite would have called. How’s the Codex coming?”

  “It’s . . . weird.”

  “You’ve had the thing for two weeks—I thought you’d have it all translated by now.”

  “Well, I’m getting there, but there are a lot of symbols I’ve never seen before, and they’re key to understanding the text, so it’s going more slowly than expected. Unfortunately the sections I haven’t been able to finish are the ones that seem to apply to us.”

  “Of course they are. This is our luck we’re talking about.”

  “Fair point.” He paused. “Look . . . I know you’re having a hard time with killing humans. But there are thousands of people like the one you found tonight. Organized crime, drug dealers, pimps, Congress—lots of things besides vampires slink around in the darkness. We walk among the unrepentant every night. You will never have to take an innocent life, Miranda. You have to shift your perspective or guilt is going to eat you alive.” She could hear him smile ruefully. “Trust me. I used to be Catholic. Guilt is my heroin. But guilt never made anyone a better person, and neither did shame. You are a good person. You’re doing the best you can to do what’s right in a painful situation. Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” she said, smiling at the words, the smile almost reaching her heart. “I hear you.”

  “Good. Here endeth the lesson. It’s been so long since I last lectured David I was afraid I had gotten rusty.”

  Miranda grinned. “How can you be so wise and so fucked up at the same time?”

  “Most wise people are fucked up. You don’t gain wisdom from pleasant experiences, after all—you buy it with pain.”

  She had to chuckle at the wording. “You should write greeting cards,” she suggested. “Cards for vampires could be a lucrative niche market. You know—Lordy Lordy, Look Who’s Five Hundred Forty.”

  He laughed. That made her feel better; she rarely got to hear him laugh. “Go home,” he said. “Put on something slinky and wait for your adoring husband to return from his service in war.”

  Miranda snorted a bit loudly; a woman walking past where she stood let out a little yelp of surprise. “I’m going to put on yoga pants and fall asleep on the couch,” she replied. “How about you put on something slinky and drag that big burly blond of yours off to bed.”

  “I don’t think I have anything slinky, but I might manage the second part. Good night, love.”

  “Good night.”

  Perfect timing—she was less than a block from the rendezvous point, and she could see down the street that the limo was already there. As appealing as the idea of sleeping was, she knew she wouldn’t; she would sit by the computer, her insides in knots until her phone rang and she knew it was all over and David was either ensconced in a hotel in Dallas to pass the day or on his way home to his Queen.

  Twelve

  He walked in a slow circle around the training ring, scrutinizing the tall man who stood at its center.

  The man waited, looking straight ahead, standing essentially at attention except with a long fighting knife in each hand. He was beautifully built, with impressive but not overly bulky muscles beneath the complexion of a man from the Middle East. Dark, slightly wavy hair that would have been absolutely gorgeous long; eyes to match, so brown they were nearly black, unyielding but full of keen intelligence, quick to take in detail. Facial hair kept close to the skin.

  “I am satisfied with the results of your final assessment,” the Alpha finally said, stopping in front of him. “I believe your training is at an end.”

  In an ordinary world, this man would not have been intimidated by someone of Deven’s stature, vampire or otherwise. And truth be told he wasn’t intimidated, exactly—Deven could tell. He had never been defiant, but he didn’t avert his eyes in the Alpha’s presence and asked more questions than the others usually did.

  Deven trusted his gut, and it said this man was exactly what he needed. Most people who stood where the man was standing were afraid of him, and he liked it that way, but given this one’s abilities he was willing to accept respect and obedience.

  They could work on fear later if it became necessary.

  Deven removed a flash drive and an envelope from his coat pocket and handed the drive to the man. “Your first assignment,” he said. “I’ll warn you now—it’s beneath your skill. Everyone starts off with a similar job so I can see how you perform in the field before you are sent out on behalf of clients. This location guarantees you won’t be bored, even if on paper it seems pedestrian.” He held up the envelope. “Your cover ID, boarding passes, and additional credentials you probably won’t need but should have just in case. You have the number to call if you run into trouble or have questions. Are you prepared for deployment?”

  The man sheathed both knives on his back and took the envelope. “Yes, Lord Alpha.”

  “Very well then. I expect your first report Friday of next week. Now . . . this is your last chance to back out. The minute you are designated and step outside this room, the only release is death. Your contract is as immortal as you are.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Good,” Deven said. “Kneel.”

  The man obeyed, his eyes never leaving the Alpha’s face. Deven stood over him, taking a knife from his belt, and drew the blade across his own index finger, both of them watching silently as blood welled up in the cut. Deven touched the man’s forehead, tracing a waning crescent moon in blood. The man probably wouldn’t feel the low-level current of energy that uncoiled from the blood and bound him to his fate.

  “You belong to me now,” the Alpha said. “Rise as your first designation: 1.3 Alizarin.”

  He took a step back to allow the Agent to stand, caught his eyes, and added with a slight smile, “Welcome to the Red Shadow.”

  • • •

  The night was quiet, with barely a wind to stir the trees; cricket and frog songs were the only constants. The slightest sliver of moon had appeared in the sky, though it was obscured at the moment in a bank of cloud that had arrived on the leading edge of the autumn’s first front.

  Deven had been out on the Haven terrace for an hour, sitting cross-legged with the Codex on his lap, one hand resting on its cover, the other toying with the moonstone ring he still couldn’t put away.

  Once he had loved spending time on the terrace, staring out at the forest, and he still did, but . . . it was different now. A soft melancholy had grown over the walls and twined around the columns like ivy.

  He couldn’t be out here now with
out thinking of Nico.

  He finally had to admit it: He missed the Elf terribly—and not just for romantic reasons. He hadn’t realized, until they met, just how badly he longed for someone to connect with who understood what he was and what that meant.

  He also knew he should be glad Nico was gone. A world apart, Deven couldn’t be tempted to do anything stupid.

  I have enough. I don’t need an extracurricular Elf to complicate things. When I fall in love people get hurt. I only want one man, and I have him.

  To distract himself he shoved the ring back into his pocket and returned his attention to the Codex, where it was supposed to be.

  He hadn’t been lying when he told Miranda the damn thing was resisting translation. Entire sections were written in symbols; it looked like some kind of runic alphabet, though he was familiar with the Norse Elder Futhark and with the Celtic Ogham and this was neither. If he had to describe it to someone, he’d say it looked like the bastard child of Norse runes and Sanskrit.

  Not once in his time with Eladra had she ever mentioned the Order using anything like this. His best guess was that the first Signets, the Secondborn children of Persephone, had their own sacred alphabet—something they could use to keep their inner workings secret from any but the highest-ranking Priestesses of the Order.

  If that was true, he had no idea what to do about it.

  The parts that were simply in Elysian Greek were simple enough. They comprised the texts and rituals he was familiar with from the Order, along with a retelling of the myth of Persephone and Theia.

  He’d always liked the Order’s version of the story. A lot of mythological scholars claimed the two sister goddesses had been enemies—one darkness, the other light, one a huntress and one a healer. But by the Order’s reckoning it wasn’t opposition; they complemented each other, two halves of a whole. They bickered like siblings always did, but they loved each other.

  Deven sighed, frustrated. The fact was he was going to have to send the Codex back to David only half translated. David might be able to find another High Priestess willing to help, or he might be able to use that ridiculous brain of his to analyze the symbols, identify the patterns, and crack the code. Hell, he’d probably write some kind of program that would do it for him. Novotny could have handled the Greek, but it would have taken longer, and there probably would have been translation errors, missed nuances. Elysian Greek was complicated—it gave the finest Greek scholars migraines with its convoluted metaphors.

  According to David, Morningstar had a Codex, too. Deven wondered what language it was written in.

  He closed the book and sat back, his left hand still on the cover, fingers tracing the Seal of Elysium. He thought of the Cloister he had destroyed . . . it wasn’t the one where he had lived, but they were all very similar to one another in layout and design. It had been so long since those first days that he could barely remember what life had been like there, but some things were still clear: the sound of voices lifted in hymns that had been sung since long before the time of Christ; the smell of beeswax candles and ritual incense. And above all, there was the peace that saturated every corner of the Cloister, the peace from which he had fled.

  Eladra had tried so hard to help him accept that peace. But what he couldn’t make her understand was that he had spent his human life in a place much like the Cloister—but one that was full of fear, not love—and after years of torment in the name of God, followed by a month of being slowly and brutally murdered in the name of God, the thought of devoting himself to any religion felt like another violation on top of every other he had endured. He had been burned by the fire of God so many times that he was terrified to touch anything warm. He had still believed then, but he wanted nothing to do with God—any god.

  She tried to show him that this was different . . . that he was exactly the kind of child Persephone loved, and that none of her earthly representatives would ever hurt him . . . but he had not believed her. She was fighting a battle already lost.

  He’d tried to pretend that the only reason she cared was the prophecy that had led her to turn him in the first place . . . but no, deep down he knew better. He had known the moment he woke to immortality, months of agony and a terminal fever finally banished from his body, with her beside him, her eyes full of kindness and her gentle hands washing blood and sweat from his face, that she loved him as her own child, just as he knew that he had broken her heart when he ran away.

  If only he’d taken a moment to tell her . . . anything . . . to apologize, to thank her for trying to save him. He had slaughtered them all as quickly and efficiently as he could without letting himself feel anything. In the end, after all she had done for him, Eladra was just another target, another mission completed.

  Deven pushed the Codex down to the foot of the chaise and put his head in his shaking hands. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “All right, now, stop that,” he heard, jolting him back into the present. He looked up to see Jonathan approaching with an expression on his face at once stern and concerned.

  “You know what will happen if you dwell on the past,” the Consort admonished him. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

  “I didn’t do it to myself,” he said softly. “I did it to her.”

  Jonathan sat down next to him, putting one hand on his thigh, the other on his face. “You said Eladra knew what her fate would be. She chose to turn you, and by doing so, knowingly accepted what would happen. At any point she could have told you that part of the prophecy, could have tried to change things, but she didn’t.”

  Deven laughed humorlessly. “So you’re saying my killing her is her fault.”

  “No. I’m just saying you didn’t betray her.” Jonathan pulled him close, this time eliciting a small but genuine smile. “And tearing yourself up over it isn’t going to change what happened—all it will do is kill you. Do you think she’d want that?”

  “You don’t think the matrix the Elf built is strong enough to withstand the power of a good hard vampire mope?”

  “I don’t think you should tempt fate, baby. Besides . . . you’ve been sad long enough. What did Nico tell you to do when your emotions get all weird?”

  “Breathe, ground, and consciously let go.”

  “Well, then, do it.”

  The Prime closed his eyes and grounded as firmly as he could . . . but letting go wasn’t as simple as it sounded. Those old feelings were desperate to stay wrapped around him, like Spanish moss, slowly choking the life out of him. Nico had given him protection against that fate, but the memories and emotions were never going to go away. Still, he tried, for Jonathan. After a moment he did feel better.

  Deven sighed and rested his head on Jonathan’s shoulder. “You’ve been so good to me,” he said, eyes closed. “I wish I had more to give you.”

  Jonathan was quiet for a while, both of them listening to the midnight symphony going on all around them. He seemed to be debating with himself over something, and while he did, Deven relaxed against him, the relief of his solid presence like the front that had blown in and softened the sky.

  Then Jonathan drew back, and Deven blinked and looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong?”

  Jonathan’s words were just about the last thing he was ever expecting to hear. “Let’s get married.”

  Deven stared at him, incredulous. “What in the . . . what now?”

  “I’m serious, Deven. It’s legal now—let’s do it.”

  “But . . . why? You’ve never brought this up before.”

  Jonathan’s expression and voice were both perfectly sincere, leaving Deven feeling even more bewildered. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” the Consort admitted, sounding a touch sheepish. “I just knew you’d think I was insane—and maybe I am. I know it’s just a silly piece of paper issued by human authority. But this war we’re facing, the way everything keeps changing, it’s . . . what if you break again, and the Elf never comes b
ack, or he does but you’re too far gone to repair? I don’t know what’s going to happen to all of us, but . . . even if we win, I know that the world we’re left with won’t be the same one we know. To me, in all that uncertainty, a silly piece of paper means everything.”

  “But we don’t even have real legal identities; why do you care about legal marriage?”

  “Because . . . I never thought the day would come that I could,” the Consort said. “Did you ever think you’d be able to marry one day?”

  “No.” Deven smiled a little. “I never credited humanity with the ability to evolve that far. But those rights are for the people who fought for them. I’ve never done a damn thing for anyone’s cause but my own.”

  “It’s not just about the young. It’s about all of us.”

  “So that’s why? To celebrate human government taking a moment not to be completely repulsive?”

  “No . . .” Jonathan kissed the top of Deven’s head, bringing another smile. “Just for once, before the world goes to hell, I’d like to know I had some part of you that no one else ever had.”

  “My soul isn’t enough?”

  “You didn’t give it to me freely, Deven. The Signet split you in half and joined you to me. I want you to bind yourself to me of your own free will. I want to be your choice.”

  “You really are serious about this,” Deven said, frowning, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize it meant that much to you.”

  “It does.”

  Again, he leaned against Jonathan with a sigh, closing his eyes for a few seconds before saying tiredly, “Well, then, you’re not doing it right. You should be on your knees—you know how I love you on your knees—and have a ring or something.”

  “I don’t have a ring. I’ll get you one.” There was a smile in his voice. “Diamonds?”

  “Only if they match my tiara.”

  Now the Consort sighed. “Fine . . . if it will convince you I mean it . . .”

  For all that he thought he felt so indifferent toward the idea, Deven found he was still astonished when Jonathan shifted off the chaise and knelt in front of him, making them almost the same height for a moment. As Jonathan took his hand, Deven felt his heart flip over, breath catching in his chest.