Shadow’s Fall

by Dianne Sylvan

  She pulled Cora up from the bench, still hand in hand. “Walk with me,” Miranda said. “You and I will walk into that room together and let him see us both. He can hate us both until the sky falls, but he can’t take away who we are.”

  Cora took a deep, slightly shaky breath and nodded. This time there were sparks returning to her eyes, and she squared off her shoulders and ran her hands down over her dress to smooth it out. “Yes,” Cora said. “Let us walk, my Lady.”

  Miranda held open the door; the two Queens smiled at each other, and without hesitation, Cora walked back inside.

  Faith alerted the guards to keep their eyes on Hart for the rest of the night; she had no intention of letting him out of her sight, but she couldn’t be everywhere at once, as evidenced by the fact that somehow the bastard had cornered Cora before either Faith or Miranda could head him off. Thank goodness for Mameha and her dagger.

  Aside from that incident, it seemed the evening was going smoothly. Faith took a moment to admire the splendor. So much power and influence in one room … and so many hidden agendas, fangs waiting to come out after a cordial smile and a few diplomatic platitudes. The ball was a chance for everyone to show off and make nice before the real power plays began.

  Tomorrow night the gloves would come off.

  A circulating waiter offered her champagne, and she took it without really intending to drink it; she was used to having a weapon at hand, and being here made her feel vulnerable and antsy. As beautiful as everyone was, she knew what really lay beneath, and in truth she would have vastly preferred to be in uniform along the walls with the other Elite.

  At least she knew she could run and fight in her heels.

  As she took a tiny sip of her champagne, something drew her gaze across the room, and she found herself meeting a pair of cool hazel eyes.

  He obviously recognized her, and she was fairly sure she’d seen him before, too—the lack of a Signet around his neck suggested he was probably someone’s Second, though with him being in a tux she couldn’t tell whose. He, too, was drinking champagne and lifted his glass to her in silent salute, which she returned without smiling.

  Something red caught Faith’s eye, and she turned her head in time to see Miranda and David return to the dance floor, the Prime spinning his Queen out and then back into his arms, her dark gown twirling around her legs. Faith’s heart caught at the sight of them together, and she lowered her eyes and took a long drink of her champagne before either could notice her staring … not that they would. They only had eyes for each other.

  When Faith looked back over to where the man had been, he was gone.

  “You must be Faith,” someone said.

  She turned toward the voice and saw that her hazel-eyed saluter was standing a few feet away. “I am.”

  Up close, he was really very handsome, with slightly feline features, white-blond hair, and a determined chin. He had the body of a seasoned warrior, flat-muscled but lithe, and seemed as ill-at-ease without a weapon as she was. He didn’t look like he laughed very often; neither did Faith, come to think of it.

  “Jeremy Hayes,” he said, offering his free hand. He had an Australian accent that made him about ten times more attractive. Faith’s pulse started up its own waltz. What was it about Australian men? “Second in Command of the Northeastern Elite.”

  Faith stared at him, heart sinking. “Oh.”

  His eyebrow quirked.

  “You work for Hart,” she said, not bothering to hide her distaste. As another waiter glided past, she reached out and swapped her empty champagne flute for a full one.

  Hayes smiled. “And you hold that against me.”

  “Of course I do. Your Prime is a swine.”

  Hayes tilted his head to one side, considering her words, then nodded. “I suppose it would be impolitic to agree with you.”

  “Yet you’re loyal enough to him to be his Second?”

  A shrug. “It’s a job.”

  She couldn’t help but be shocked at his attitude. How could anyone advance all the way to Second without being fiercely devoted to his Prime? “It’s not just a job,” she replied coldly. “The rest of us understand that.”

  He didn’t react to her tone. “I owe Hart a great debt,” he said. “Those who owe him, he owns. One day I will have paid off that debt, and I’ll be free of him.”

  “And how many innocent people will you have killed in the meantime?”

  “Probably many. But the truth of the matter is, Hart gives his dirty work to specialists like the Inquisitor. I have one job: to lead the Elite. I’m a general, not a confidant.”

  She felt her own eyebrows shoot up. “He has his own inquisitor?”

  He smiled. “Like you said … swine.”

  With a slow nod, Faith reached out and shook his hand. “It’s … interesting to meet you, Second Hayes.”

  “Jeremy, please.” He glanced over at the dance floor. “Shall we?”

  “You want me to dance with you?”

  Now he looked surprised. “That is generally what one does at a ball. I hate to think you put on that beautiful dress just to stand around and look wary.”

  She frowned at him. “I don’t trust you.”

  “I’m not asking you to. I’m just asking you to dance.”

  After another pause, she nodded again and took his arm.

  There was no nightmare quite like throwing a party.

  David didn’t especially like big social gatherings. He preferred to be able to see everyone in the room with him at once and know where the threats might be. A crowd of humans was one thing—they were hardly a danger—but even he had to admit that having the whole Council there, watching him, was unnerving.

  Luckily he’d had years to prepare for this night. The staff had been drilled in their duties for months, and everything had been meticulously prepared, from the flower arrangements—selected to complement Miranda’s gown—to the sequence of music, chosen by the Queen and the orchestra leader to create the rise and fall of the room’s mood. At least they didn’t have to feed everyone, just keep the alcohol flowing. Each Pair’s suite had a fridge with a blood supply, but beyond that they had to hunt for themselves.

  He watched Jonathan spin Miranda around the floor, the two Consorts laughing; David’s heart beat wildly with love for his Queen, who was easily the most beautiful woman in the room tonight. He had nearly gone weak in the knees when he saw her in her gown earlier that evening. She was breathtaking. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  David became aware, distractedly, of Deven standing next to him, and rather expected Deven to ask him to dance, but the Prime was as fixated on their mates as David was.

  They stood side by side for a long moment, neither speaking until Deven’s gaze flicked to the left and he noted, “That’s interesting.”

  David followed the tilt of Deven’s head and made a noise of surprise. “Huh.”

  Most of the crowd was made up of Pairs, of course, but a great many had allowed their Seconds to join in the festivities, both as a perk of the job and as a way to show off the cream of the crop of their warriors. Mostly the Seconds hung around together—a lot of them knew each other and had friendly relationships or rivalries just like their employers—and were self-segregated to one side of the ballroom.

  He saw Faith, and his first thought was that she looked absolutely beautiful. His second thought was that she was dancing with Jeremy Hayes.

  “That’s Hart’s Second,” David said, brow furrowing. “What is she doing with him?”

  Deven shot him a quizzical look. “Have you seen him? I’d be all over that, too, if I were Faith.”

  “But … it’s Faith.”

  A quiet snort. “David, my darling, you can be as thick as a porn star sometimes. Faith is a flesh-and-blood woman, not a stone statue.”

  David continued to stare at the striking couple, conflicted. “But … Hart’s Second? Surely she knows better than to trust him.”

  A shrug. “They�
�re dancing. It’s not a crime.” He gave David a piercing look. “Don’t you trust her?”

  David felt himself flush sheepishly. “You’re right. I’m overreacting.” He turned to Deven and added, “But I think you might be underreacting. If your theory is correct, he’s the one who exposed—”

  Deven shot him a warning look. There were too many possible eavesdroppers here.

  “—your friend,” David concluded.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Deven said. “If I find out for sure it was him, I’ll have his balls and then his head. But tonight, at least, I’m willing to let it go long enough for Faith to get that stick out of her ass for half an hour. Aren’t you?”

  David sighed. “Stop shaming me with your level head.”

  Deven grinned. “Jealous?”

  “Of course not!”

  The Prime of the West just gave him that look, the one that Southerners would refer to as a “bless your heart” expression, and returned to his crowd-watching.

  Miranda emerged from the dance floor with Jonathan in tow and gave David a light kiss. “Ready for another round, baby?”

  David smiled at her. “Are we talking about dancing?”

  The Queen chuckled, then noticed Faith and said, “Would you look at that?”

  Jonathan saw, too. “Wait, isn’t that—”

  “Yes,” David said. He looked over at Miranda, expecting her to be concerned, but she actually looked relieved. He had no idea what to make of that.

  “Come on,” Miranda told the Prime, taking his hand. “Dance with me. I didn’t put on this crazy-ass bra for nothing.”

  “I agree,” Jonathan said. “Except for the bra part. Mine is perfectly comfortable.”

  Deven and David both snorted and happily acquiesced to their Consorts’ desires.

  I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

  Oh, yes, I can.

  She arched her back, letting his hand slide up to unfasten her dress and help her wriggle it off onto the floor.

  Her nails raked long red lines up the length of his back, then curled up in the silvery strands of his hair and hauled his mouth to hers over and over again, her teeth sliding down to tear holes in his tongue and suck.

  He shoved her back against the wall with a grunt. His shirt and jacket were somewhere near the door along with her shoes. They didn’t bother removing any more than was necessary—she barely even got the black lace down past her waist before he had hoisted her up off the ground and pushed into her, hard.

  And if she had been thinking about blue eyes instead of hazel … if she had imagined, just for a moment, that he was taller, that there was a black-line tattoo over his back … at that instant, she forgot.

  She cried out, nearly wailing. They tore into each other, biting and clawing, bodies meeting with such force it was almost more pain than pleasure … almost. They slid down the wall together, and she pushed him down onto his back on the floor, twisting her hips in circles and spirals and eliciting a moan with each movement.

  He tasted like whiskey and fire.

  I can’t do this.

  Yes, I can.

  I can.

  I am.

  Yes.

  Four

  Miranda’s eyes were on the conference room screen, where a diagram that looked like a spiderweb spread out from a single name at the center: Marja Ovaska.

  Lines connected the assassin with weapons dealers, martial arts trainers, spies, and alleged sorcerers of all stripes from all over the globe, but there was a noticeable gap. “So you still have nothing,” Miranda said.

  Deven shrugged and tapped the screen of his phone, causing the diagram in front of them to change. A new line connected Ovaska to something labeled Morningstar. There was no image attached.

  “Morningstar,” David mused. “That’s the corporation you said was referenced in Ovaska’s financial records?”

  “Yes. No CEO is given, but there are at least three deposits from Morningstar into Ovaska’s offshore account over the three-month span before she was killed. Each deposit was two hundred fifty thousand dollars. That’s a standard payment for a Shadow contract … but not enough to kill a high-profile vampire.”

  “Oh?” Miranda asked. “What’s the going rate on a Signet these days?”

  Deven smiled. “I don’t kill Signets. Too risky. The most we’d do would be to take out a high-profile Court member, and that would set you back at least two million. Even if she was driven mad by her need for vengeance, I can’t picture Ovaska agreeing to kill a Signet for as little as three-quarters of a million.”

  “What if there was more money coming after the mission was complete?”

  “Not how it works. I teach them from day one: payment in full up front. Ovaska was methodical and paranoid. I can’t see her deviating from that.”

  “So what would that much money get her?” David asked. “Who would a Shadow operative kill for seven hundred fifty thousand dollars?”

  “No one,” Deven replied. “But we’d sure as hell kidnap someone.”

  Miranda nodded, looking back up at the screen. “Ovaska said she was supposed to deliver me alive—you were just collateral damage.”

  “Exactly. Now, I’ve had my people digging into this Morningstar thing, and that’s where it gets interesting. Like I said, the Shadow doesn’t work for vampires, so my assumption was that Ovaska’s client was a human. But what would a human want with a live Signet? Kidnapping one of us would be ridiculously dangerous, especially for a mortal. I’ve been through the obvious answers: ransom, medical research, political leverage, but there’s one thing I keep coming back to: magic.”

  David rolled his eyes. “Again?”

  “Believe what you want to believe, darling, but the fact is, there are sorcerers out there. Whether their power is real or not doesn’t matter in this case; what matters are the lengths they’re willing to go to, to get that power. So I asked around, and apparently there’s an entire subset of black magic that uses stolen life energy, usually in the form of blood sacrifice. In those sorts of circles, the belief is that the sacrifice of a human can open doors and summon demons—imagine what they could do with one of us.”

  “If that’s true, why hasn’t it ever happened before?” David wanted to know.

  Now it was Deven’s turn to look annoyed. “Don’t you get it? It might have happened before. How would we know? Signets die all the time. It’s only in the last few decades we’ve been able to find out so much detail on how and why. For all we know there have been dozens of Signets killed for this kind of purpose—it’s taken me three years to find out this much, so that tells you how far underground this is. I’m working my way through Morningstar, but there are so many shell corporations and false titles hiding whoever is behind it, it’s like looking for a needle in a needle stack.”

  Miranda followed the web from Ovaska again with her eyes, then asked quietly, “What about Sophie? Was she involved?”

  Deven’s voice gentled. “No. She at least was easy to investigate. Ovaska’s involvement with Morningstar didn’t begin until after Sophie’s death, and it has no connection to Sophie’s history whatsoever. Sophie was just a woman in love, and aside from what she did for a living, there wasn’t a sinister bone in her body.”

  Miranda and Deven’s eyes met for a second, and Miranda nodded. “Okay. Well, as soon as you find out anything new …”

  “You’ll be the first to hear of it,” the Prime told her.

  Standing, Miranda reached over and squeezed David’s shoulder. He caught her hand and kissed it. “I’m going to finish getting ready for tonight, then,” she said. “Dev, tell Jonathan to meet me in the garage at seven.”

  David looked up at her. “Be careful,” he said.

  She grinned. “Aren’t I always?”

  He snorted. “Right.”

  “Have fun at the tournament, baby. I’ll see you in a few hours.” She kissed him on the top of his head, then looked over and gave Deven a nod of thanks, which he retur
ned.

  The Queen headed back to their suite to gather up her guitar and wriggle her way into the Lycra contraption and thigh-high boots she had laid out to wear to her big night.

  Faith woke alone.

  She sat up in bed, startled out of sleep by who-knew-what, and looked around, panting. The sheets were twisted all around her bare legs, and the comforter had gone missing; one pillow was still up by her head, but the other was on the floor.

  “Hello?” she called hesitantly, but she knew even as she spoke that the room was empty. There were clothes tossed all over the place, but they were all hers.

  Relieved, she flopped back onto the bed. Her muscles complained bitterly—her back, her thighs, even her neck were all sore, and she was starving.

  Faith put her hand over her eyes to still the hangover she could feel building in her skull. She really should have stopped after her sixth … seventh … eighth? drink, but they just kept appearing every time her glass was empty. “God, what were you thinking?” she muttered. The sound shot pain through her head.

  Her com chimed, and she groaned. “Star-three,” she said. Her voice was a little hoarse—had she really done that much screaming? Good God.

  “Um … Second Faith … are you all right?”

  Faith frowned. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You were supposed to be here at the tournament twenty minutes ago. You’re never late for anything, so—”

  Faith cut Elite 20 off with a long, colorful series of curses and sprang out of bed. “Shit! Are we up yet?”

  “No ma’am. Our first round is in thirty. You should make it in plenty of time.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  She stripped the sheets from her body and threw them on the floor, then bolted into the bathroom and into a freezing cold shower. The water hit her like bricks, shaking her the rest of the way awake, and she probably would have been humiliated if she’d had time to think about it. She washed the sweat and blood and man-smell off herself as fast as she could, not bothering with her hair—she was about to get it dirty anyway.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said as she grabbed the clean uniform she’d laid out yesterday; she always had one ready to go in case of bloodstains or emergencies. She had it down to a science and was dressed in five minutes, though her clothes were sticking to her because she hadn’t gotten completely dry.