Shadow’s Fall

by Dianne Sylvan

  Miranda strode into the bar, her entire body burning with pleasure from the hunt, strength and purpose flowing through her veins again, smoothing away the weariness, letting her walk again as a Queen.

  Signets made other vampires nervous. She walked in aware that every eye was on her—doubly aware, as she was doing it on purpose to distract the crowd from what came in after her.

  Cora didn’t respond well to large crowds, and Miranda was worried about being recognized, so they’d stuck to a smaller hunting ground for dinner—a park known mostly to joggers from the university who came out at night for a last run before hitting the midnight books. As part of the school, it was well lit and frequently patrolled, so there was little risk for the students … unless, of course, the city was full of vampires.

  The youngest Queen was unused to hunting this way. She and Jacob depended heavily on bottled blood, especially during winter months when the weather made nighttime travel treacherous even in urban areas. Prague was hardly a backwater—Miranda had never seen a city as beautiful—but it was cold as hell for long parts of the year. Cora had never really learned the heady joy of drinking from a live human or the sweetness of having that deep itch soothed by their blood.

  She took to it like a spider to a snared butterfly.

  Miranda and Jonathan helped her draw one out, a petite brunette on her jogging round. “Just watch,” Miranda told the Queen. “It’s easy.”

  Miranda reached out to touch the girl’s mind, and the jogger halted, blinking, confused. She looked warily at the three flashing-eyed strangers standing beneath a sweeping willow tree just off the path.

  “Come here,” Miranda said, barely whispering.

  The girl obeyed. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  She smelled like peppermint soap and sweat and … enchiladas, her most recent meal. Miranda took careful hold of her will and let it go slack in her grasp so that the girl’s head tilted off to the side, exposing her throat.

  Miranda remembered when David had done this with her, gesturing, showing her the places it was safe to bite. “Here,” Miranda said, tapping the skin lightly. “Any lower and you don’t risk hitting a major artery, but you also don’t get much flow. This is best.”

  Cora nodded, leaning in, and Miranda placed her hands on the girl’s back to support her. She gasped and pushed back, instinctively trying to escape; Miranda held her there, soothing her fears, letting her know she was okay, that no one wanted to hurt her, but that she was giving them something they needed, the only thing, everything.

  “Good job,” Miranda said to Cora as the jogger went on her way … walking this time and taking long swallows from her water bottle. Miranda had imprinted the usual instructions on her to go home, eat something protein- and iron-rich, and rest.

  Cora’s eyes were practically glowing with satisfaction. Heavy-lidded and half-open, they were the eyes of a predator sated.

  One by one, all three Consorts went on the hunt. Jonathan always preferred young men—athletic, all-American cute, a far cry from the slender, dark creature waiting for him at home. Miranda, on the other hand, still had not regained her comfort with men, except her Prime, and so she, too, fed on women.

  Afterward they all went for a different sort of drink.

  The patrons of Anodyne had seen Signets before, but never three at once, plus dog. Miranda had had someone call ahead to make sure there were no objections to Vràna’s attendance; the dog could have waited in the car, but she made Cora feel so much safer it would be a shame not to at least ask. There was no food served at Anodyne, and Miranda wasn’t even sure that the health department came anywhere near the Shadow District, so no one was likely to make any noise over it.

  They approached, two beautiful women and one handsome man, all dressed impeccably and carrying themselves like royalty, with an enormous shaggy Nighthound padding quietly alongside. No one would have had to ask who they were.

  “I’ll have a Black Mary,” Miranda said. “O negative, if you have it.”

  The bartender checked the fridge. “My O neg is three days out, but I have a batch of AB pos just donated tonight.”

  She nodded, and he went about fixing her drink as well as pulling Jonathan’s Shiner and Cora’s glass of Merlot. Miranda was the only one having blood in her beverage, and though once the idea had grossed her out, she’d found after an experimental sip of David’s one night that she liked them … a lot.

  “Signet tab, my Lady?” the bartender asked.

  “Yes, Miguel. Thank you.”

  They all retired to a corner booth where they could talk. “What do you think of Austin?” Miranda asked Cora.

  The Queen smiled. “I think I have had a very interesting time here, and I am looking forward to returning to my home.”

  “So how are things with you and Jacob?” Jonathan asked, giving her mischievous eyebrows. “Any …”

  Cora laughed. “We are … a work in progress, my Lord. But we care much for each other, and I think one day soon we will be truly married in deed as in word. He is a very gentle and patient man, and for that I am thankful.” She sipped her wine and then asked, “How long was it for you, my Lady, before you were able to bear a man’s touch?”

  “Only a few months.” Miranda let the coppery-acidic tang of her drink bite into her tongue for a second before swallowing it. “But it would have been never, except for David.”

  Jonathan looked thoughtful; when he saw they were watching him, he set down his glass and said, “I’ve never been abused, not in any form. But my Prime certainly has … and even though when we met he had a lover already, it still took him a while to feel safe with me. I like to think that between myself and David we brought him back from a private hell he might never have come out of.”

  Miranda smiled and held up her glass. “To good men,” she said.

  “To good men,” the two Consorts affirmed, and they clinked glasses.

  They were all laughing, enjoying the first slightly blurry effects of the alcohol, when Miranda’s bladder complained loudly. She groaned. “Damn it, let me out, Jonathan.”

  “I swear, Miranda, you’re the peeing-est vampire I’ve ever met.” He scooted good-naturedly out of the booth, and she made a beeline for the ladies’ room.

  As she was washing her hands, she felt … just for a second, almost like … someone was watching her.

  As Miranda extended her senses through the room she asked, “Who’s there?”

  No answer and no alarms from her psychic probing. Sometimes when she was out in public, she overreacted to things—often humans didn’t have their auras under control and tended to project without meaning to, and some vampires were guilty of the same carelessness. She expected it from humans, since most had no idea they were even gifted, but for vampires it was careless because it could expose what they were or, at the very least, warn off potential prey.

  She sniffed the air; nothing stood out among the competing smells of human bodies, urine, soap, tile cleanser, and wood polish.

  She left the restroom just in time to see a dark coat exiting the back door of the bar.

  Miranda knew she should have gone back to her table, but … something …

  Curious, she peered out the door then stepped out into the crisp night. She knew there were Signet guards all around the building, and she was on high alert herself; she opened out her shields to let her senses sweep the entire area for other minds and found those of her guards, a few passing humans on the street … and one other.

  “Who are you?” she asked, not raising her voice. “I know you’re there.”

  She reached inside her coat and flipped the leather strap that kept Shadowflame safely in its sheath so she could draw the blade, but stood with her hand on its hilt, waiting.

  It was a woman’s voice that answered: low, ironic, with an edge of formality that immediately identified her as Not From Around Here. “So this is the Queen of whom the legends foretold, the Flame of the South, whose fate rules the fate o
f so many.”

  Miranda pushed back her coat so that her sword and her Signet were both visible; she’d learned that move from Deven, as well as the studied indifference she injected into her voice. “And you are?”

  “I come seeking your Prime.”

  “Well, he isn’t here. You’ve got me. And five minutes before I get bored and my drink waters down.”

  The woman detached herself from the shadows and came forward; at first all Miranda could see was her coat. The woman reached up and pushed back her hood, revealing a shining cascade of blond hair around a fine-featured oval face. She had an almost Disney-princess kind of beauty, except for the darkness in her eyes … they were a clouded blue, with silver undertones, and an immortal depth behind their coolness.

  The woman looked at the sword, then back up at Miranda’s face. “I assure you, I am no threat to you.”

  “Now, if I believed everyone who said that, I wouldn’t have a coat left without bloodstains.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant expression, but it did contain some respect. “So young,” she said. “I was young once … a thousand years ago and a thousand miles away.”

  Miranda held her ground, though she could sense the woman letting her own shields slip, letting a glimpse of her true power show through … and it was formidable. She could easily hold her own among the Signets who were, by now, gathered around the table in the Haven.

  Miranda might have been frightened of her, but the fact remained: This was Miranda’s territory. Here, she was Queen. Whatever this woman was, she might be a threat, and she was not to be underestimated … but neither was Miranda.

  “I want your name,” Miranda said. “And I want to know what business you have with the Prime.”

  “My business with the Prime?” The woman chuckled and stepped forward. “My business is that I have a gift for him … a gift that could guarantee victory over his enemies … as well as set him on the throne of the entire Council. My name …”

  Just then the back door burst open, and Jonathan and Cora appeared, looking ready to fling themselves into whatever trouble Miranda had gotten herself into.

  Instead, they stared at the woman, and Jonathan said, “I know you.”

  She met the Consort’s eyes. “I should hope so. I should hope you’ve seen me in your visions for months now. Perhaps that means you even know who I am.”

  But Jonathan didn’t have to say it. Miranda knew. The pieces came together, and the gnawing feeling of recognition in her gut—from her own scattered visions, months and months ago—suddenly fed her a name.

  “Lydia,” the Queen said. “You’re Lydia … David’s sire.”

  Nine

  “ … all those in favor of Central Africa’s redistricting plan, please raise your right hands.”

  David hadn’t realized it was possible to be bored and angry at the same time. The last Council he’d attended—his first as a Prime—had been fascinating because it was all new to him.

  In the back of his mind he made a note to propose that the next summit include something besides just sitting around a table; they could be having lucrative discussions on security tactics and learning more about each other’s territories … hell, even a round of miniature golf would be better than listening to two Primes debate whether Chad should be considered North or Central Africa … again.

  The evening was not going according to plan A.

  Hart was gloating. David knew he was gloating, even though his facial expression was schooled to neutral. Every now and then David felt eyes on him and looked over to see Hart pointedly looking away with a slight smile.

  It was the kind of smug little grin that David itched to beat right off his face.

  Right now David should be presenting his case against Hart, waiting for them to judge whether having a Queen shot in public counted as a declaration of war or was simply worthy of censure. He’d figured that they would vote to suspend Hart for a decade or two; the Council rarely moved against one of its own without serious provocation. The punishment itself wasn’t the point.

  What David really wanted was to see Hart lose influence and lose face. The fact that Hart was unhinged enough to hatch a complicated plot just to get back at them for freeing Cora would make him seem like a petty amateur rather than the sophisticated noble he tried to present as. As Miranda had said, it wasn’t worth losing more lives over … but it would be worth the look on Hart’s face when he was scolded like an erring schoolboy in front of his peers.

  Now that wasn’t going to happen. Until he had information from the blast that had killed Monroe, David had no evidence linking Hart to the shooting. No gun, no testimony from Monroe, no case—just a paper trail for a weapon that no longer existed. Maguire was looking for the missing gun, but David knew better than to expect it to reappear; a gun was a tiny thing, easily disposed of in a town with a lake in the middle.

  He felt his phone vibrate and surreptitiously reached down to check it, expecting a check-in from Miranda; but it was a text from Deven, who was seated right next to him.

  Any minute now. Brace yourself.

  David gave a slight nod.

  “Motion carried,” Tanaka was saying. “The last item on tonight’s agenda is a late submission from the Northeastern United States. Prime Hart, you have the floor.”

  Hart rose. “Honored Chairman, my fellow Primes, I move that the Council bar Queen Miranda Solomon from performing in public.”

  Dead silence.

  David’s first impulse, of course, was to reach out with his mind, grab the nearest blunt object, and bash Hart’s skull in; before he could even complete the thought, however, stabbing pain in his thigh brought him back to center, courtesy of Deven’s fingernails.

  “Gentlemen, I realize such an action would be unprecedented on the part of the Council,” Hart went on, barely able to keep the self-satisfaction out of his voice, “but the Queen has created a new threat to the Shadow World that we cannot allow to continue. Her very existence as a public figure risks exposure for all of us. As we saw last night, there are humans out there who are obsessed enough to act against her in full view of thousands of people—not to mention her near-exposure last year by the media.”

  Something occurred to David right then that he hadn’t really considered before: Hart was behind the “leak” to Constellation. That had been his first attempt to get Miranda off the stage, and then his second, a far bolder move, had failed … leaving him with this as his new card to play.

  The rest of the Council was staring at David, waiting for him to respond; the silence was more than a little uncomfortable. Tanaka had to go about business as usual: “A motion is on the floor; is it seconded?”

  “Seconded,” Australia chimed in. Not a surprise; Hart and McMannis were thick as thieves.

  In Tanaka’s entire tenure as chair of the Council, violence had never broken out, but it was clear he expected it to this time, or at least that he would have to break up a vicious verbal fight between David and Hart. He had a look of dignified resignation mixed with dread on his face as he said, “The motion is now open for discussion.”

  Janousek spoke first. “I’d like to go on record as saying I find it extremely distasteful of Prime Hart to raise this motion when Queen Miranda isn’t here.”

  Deven made a noise of disgust. “I don’t think the word is distasteful so much as convenient.”

  Hart shrugged. “She chose not to attend the meeting. This issue won’t wait.”

  “Of course it will,” Deven said. “You and your petty vendetta against the South is what won’t wait. Are we really supposed to believe that your timing here is a coincidence?”

  “Are you accusing me of something, Prime O’Donnell?” Hart demanded, outrage in his voice. “If so, I hope you or your pet there have sufficient evidence to back up such a serious claim.”

  “Do I really need to make an accusation?” Deven asked, still leaning back comfortably in his chair, unaffected by Hart’s tone.
He addressed the rest of the table. “Is there anyone here who honestly thinks it was a random human who organized last night’s incident? Don’t say anything … just sit there and look uncomfortable if you agree with me.”

  “If we might return to the point,” Janousek said before Hart could respond, “I think that we should consider the larger issue here before we rush to legislate what Miranda can and cannot do with her life.”

  “What issue is that, Lord Prime?” McMannis asked.

  “I believe it would be setting a dangerous precedent to approve such a motion. For centuries the Signets have enjoyed autonomy—our power over each other is, and should remain, limited. If we start saying a Queen can’t be a musician, what’s next? Rules about how the rest of us make our money? Restrictions on hunting? Who here wants to lose his freedom for the tenuous promise of security?”

  There was a murmur of agreement among the Signets; Jacob had hit them where they lived. The Council was happy to get together and argue about boundary lines that meant nothing, but when it came to real change, especially real change that could affect them directly, they ran like rabbits.

  “At the same time, however, we cannot ignore the possibility that Queen Miranda’s actions may expose all of us,” McMannis countered. “We are charged with maintaining the secrecy of the Shadow World and ensuring the safety of our kind—and some of us extend that to the humans who live in our territories as well, though that’s an entirely separate debate.”

  “But what risk is there, really?” Deven wanted to know. “How has Miranda put us in jeopardy so far? A rumor started that was easily dismissed as fairy tale—without some kind of direct proof, the human world will never believe in us. We’ve come close to exposure before—we’ve seen what happens. Those who speak the truth are treated like lunatics. Without large-scale proof, our secrecy isn’t in any real danger. And last night could easily be blamed on an obsessive fan; I’m sure Prime Solomon will be able to produce one. I see no reason to change our entire policy over something that is ultimately frivolous.”