Of Shadow Born (23 page)

David sat brooding in the car halfway to the city, not even sure what he was brooding about; he wanted to know what was going on, and on the other hand he didn’t, because he had a feeling it wasn’t good.

What if, when he came back, he hadn’t come back all the way? What if part of him was gone—the part that had bonded to Miranda—and could never return?

And
how
had he come back? It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t as though he’d just seemed dead; he knew, even without Deven and Jonathan’s verification, that he had really been dead. Besides, they would know the difference. No seven-hundred-year-old vampire could be fooled by fake death.

On impulse, he called California.

“Yes, David?”

He frowned. “Are you all right?”

“Right as rain.”

It took David a minute to recognize the relaxed tone of Deven’s voice—it had been a long time since he’d heard it. “I’ve interrupted something,” he said.

“Actually your timing is impeccable as always. Jonathan’s in the shower. I’m being disgustingly lazy.”

“But it’s ten
P.M.
You stayed in bed three hours late?”

“Rank hath its privileges. Besides . . . it was very important business. Negotiations for a cease-fire between warring parties.”

David rolled his eyes. “You could just say makeup sex. What were you fighting about this time?”

“Whether Alexander or Hannibal had the sounder military strategy. I said it was an unfair comparison on account of the elephants.”

David snorted. “In other words, none of my business.”

“Was there a reason you were calling?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no, not really. I just wanted a distraction from my thoughts, I suppose. I’m on my way to Olivia’s loft to try to persuade her to tell me more about that night.”

“Are you sure she’s still there?” Deven asked.

“Well, there are two vampires inside the building, and they’ve been coming and going for days—I’ve been watching.”

“I remember Olivia from the last Elite tournament. Gorgeous tattoos. She was fierce in battle. I considered trying to poach her from Australia, but she was too loyal to Bartlett—and to her commanding officer, Hayes.”

“Any news on that front?”

“No. No one’s seen him. It would seem he got his daughter back and ran for the hills. Idiot.”

“Why idiot?”

“Because if he had asked for help, we could have conspired together, all of us, to bring Hart down and expose him and McMannis.”

“This from you?”

A sigh. “All I’m saying is that we could have helped him.”

“We still can. All it would take is someone demanding to see McMannis’s Signet up close. If we turn the matter over to Tanaka, no one could accuse us of harboring a vendetta.”

“Not yet. There’s something bigger at work here, and I want to know what it is. Somehow all of these events are linked—I can feel it. Can’t you?”

“Deven, I have no idea what the hell I’m feeling. I don’t even know what I am. I’m wandering around a stranger in my own life—I can barely keep the details of what happened together, much less draw any conclusions.” He leaned back.

“Well, just relax, and stop trying to force everything. Go see what Olivia has to say. One way or another we’ll get answers.” There were a few muffled sounds, and Deven said, “I have to go, darling—I have an immense load of work that I need to sort out.”

David snorted. “You’re just going to shag again.”

Wicked amusement entered the Prime’s voice. “Jealous?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

There was a pause, and then Deven said, “David . . .”

“The bond, Dev. You still have one . . . I don’t. Of course I’m jealous.”

“Oh.” David couldn’t tell whether Deven sounded relieved. “About that . . . hopefully you won’t have to go without it much longer.”

“Why not?”

“Remember how I said the Elves were extinct? Well, there’s still some of their blood around, especially in Witches. So I sent out a call looking specifically for someone with the ability and the Sight to help rebond you.”

“Sent out a call how, exactly?”

“I happen to know someone who collected magical relics, and among them was a particular kind of stone that can be used to more or less ping people with Elven blood.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, surely not. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Right. Enjoy.”

He heard a murmur, but whether it was a farewell or not, there was no telling; Deven hung up without clarifying.

The Prime shook his head. He had hoped calling Deven would make him feel better. Instead he felt worse, whether because he didn’t find the idea of magical stones making magical calls particularly comforting, or because the thought of Deven and Jonathan spending the whole evening enjoying the luxury of a connection David no longer had . . . or just the idea of them . . .

Oh for fuck’s sake. Let’s not go down that road again, Prime.

“Sire, we’re within half a mile of the address you specified,” Harlan said from the driver’s seat. “Did you want me to drop you at the door, or were you intending a stealthier approach?”

“To hell with it, Harlan. Let’s make a spectacle of ourselves.”

“As you will it, Sire.”

This was not the part of town where one would often see a Lincoln gliding up the street; no matter where he had Harlan park, it would be noticed. Might as well let his presence be known.

“Are you sure you don’t want backup, Sire? At least a bodyguard?”

“I don’t want to spook her. I’m in no danger here. Don’t worry.”

Harlan opened the car door for him, and David disembarked with a sweeping look around the block; he could feel eyes on him from one of the buildings, but other than that, the neighborhood was quiet.

Olivia’s front stoop was just as it had been. He paused, looking down at the ground where he was pretty sure he’d fallen . . . or crawled . . . or magically appeared . . . in front of the building, then took the steps up to the door.

He heard movement inside at his knock, but no one answered. Eyes narrowing, he tried again.

Still nothing. Curious, he tried the door handle . . . it was unlocked.

Quietly, he said into his com, “Patrol Team Nine, what is your current location?”

“East Cesar Chavez and Matagorda, Sire.”

“Divert to my coordinates. I want you approaching this warehouse from all four sides. Alert me when you’re in position.”

“As you will it, Sire.”

David quickly checked the grid on his phone again; the situation was the same, two vampire life signs inside. There was no way to differentiate between strong and weak, male and female—only whether a vampire wore a Haven com or not. Signets themselves showed up differently, as white dots instead of red or green, and Jeremy Hayes had proven that that part of the system was unreliable. Whether it was the lack of an actual Signet around his neck or the fact that he hadn’t displayed Prime-level power until he Misted, David couldn’t say yet, but somehow Jeremy hadn’t shown up as a white dot until the night of the Awakening. David wasn’t sure how to compensate for it, though—he rather suspected it was a onetime issue.

There were not, however, any white dots here. These were green; not his people. Very slowly, he lifted the latch on the door and eased it open, thankful for well-oiled hinges that didn’t squeak. He wasn’t going in until the team had arrived, but he didn’t want the sound of a bolt to tip off whoever was in there.

He leaned close to the door, listening. For a minute there was nothing, just the sounds of an ordinary night outside and the settling of an old industrial building inside, but then suddenly he heard a creak and a raspy noise that had to be a door on the other side of the building. Sure enough, the signals inside were approaching one wall. Whether they knew he was there or not, they were about to get away.

Or so they thought.

The loft was dark, and though it still smelled like turpentine, there were no paintings standing around the room, no art supplies in haphazard configurations that would make sense only to a creative mind.

David moved into the room with all his senses on alert, listening for any movement, a breath, a shift of weight . . . He knew someone was still here . . . he could feel it . . . and it probably wasn’t Olivia.

A click, a whistle.

Before he could even realize he knew that sound, he felt the impact of the stake as it buried itself in his heart.

* * *

A standard punching bag wouldn’t do it for vampires. It would just burst like a piñata after a minute or two. Fortunately centuries of training warriors had given rise to quite a few innovations among the Signets, one of which was a steel-reinforced system that could withstand all but the most enraged pummeling.

“Good!” Bax pronounced as the Queen slammed her fists into the bag. “But less force, more precision. Targeted strike, my Lady.”

Miranda nodded, blowing out of her face a sweaty curl that had escaped her ponytail. She hit the bag again, this time remembering to keep her wrists straight and
place
her punches rather than throwing them.

For the most part the Haven vampires didn’t need extensive hand-to-hand combat training; they usually fought with weapons in their hands, so it was more important to learn how to kick the shit out of someone before beheading them. Still, Miranda didn’t like having holes in her training, and since losing David, she had tried to fill all her waking hours with exhausting work, so she enlisted Bax, a longtime Elite lieutenant who specialized in violent things to do with one’s fists. By the time Bax was done with her, her arms would be noodles, and any tension she had in her body would be good and worked out.

Over the last few weeks she had imagined several different faces on the punching bag. Her favorite was Hart, but Jeremy Hayes came in a close second.

She was still trying to have compassion for him—to have lost his wife and daughter, and his Signet, all at once, then be forced into indentured servitude for Hart to try to buy his daughter’s life back . . . it was horrible, sickening. And if he had come to Australia’s allies for help, she would have been more than glad to band together with him against the bastards who had usurped him.

But instead, he had killed Faith, and killed David . . . and if Miranda ever saw him again, she wouldn’t waste time with pity. He would know exactly why she took his head—if he was so noble, he would be ready for justice, and the Queen of the South would deliver it with a smile on her face.

She wasn’t used to being quite so bloodthirsty . . . but some crimes were unforgivable. Sometimes a raised fist didn’t earn the other cheek; sometimes it earned a stake through the heart. This time, she didn’t let her empathy overwhelm her anger; she had a right to be angry.

Miranda’s fists collided with the bag so hard that Bax, who was standing behind it holding it still, was pushed back a few inches, no mean feat for a 250-pound former heavyweight boxer.

“Sorry,” she panted, lowering her arms. “Got carried away there for a second.”

“Not a problem, my Lady,” Bax replied with a grin. “I’m just glad I’m not who you were thinking about just now. At least I hope not.”

Miranda summoned a smile, though she was drenched and out of breath. “Not today,” she told him.

“Time for one more round?”

She started to say that she’d had enough for one night—

—but pain crushed her, forcing her to cry out and fall to her knees. Her hands went to her chest—she could feel something, something piercing her flesh—

—but there was nothing—

No, no, no . . . not again . . . it can’t be happening again . . . please God no . . .

David.

* * *

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. Again?

He dropped to the ground, grasping at the stake with hands gone numb with shock. It was slippery, bloody, and he couldn’t get a grip on it . . . but it didn’t matter anyway; he could feel the wood in his heart, feel his heart shuddering to a stop, leaving him with only a moment to live.

Except . . . it didn’t happen.

David was dizzy and nearly unconscious from lack of oxygen, but he managed to get hold of the stake and, with all the strength he could muster, pull it from his chest. The stake hit the ground, splattering blood, and he fell forward onto his hands, desperate for breath.

The pain in his chest amplified for just a second, and then he heard a thundering noise in his head, once, then again, then stumbling around until it fell into a steady rhythm.

His heart was beating.

Distantly he heard a second click, another whistle.

He snatched the stake out of the air a foot from his face, turned it around, and threw it back where it had come from, extending his telekinetic power to make sure it struck true.

A strangled cry. The clatter of a crossbow hitting the concrete floor, followed by the heavy thump of a body.

Breathing hard, grateful to breathe at all, David sat back on his knees, vision swimming. His mind was spinning in circles.

His phone rang: Miranda.

His bloody finger left a smudge on the phone’s screen. “Beloved,” he said hoarsely.

The Queen was practically screaming with fear. “What happened? I felt a stake—”

“Yes, you did.” He swallowed his own reaction and spoke calmly, for her sake. “It’s all right . . . I’m fine. This shirt, however, is a goner.”

“But . . . I don’t understand—it felt like it was a heart shot.”

David stared down at the stake, then lifted his eyes to the far end of the room where his assailant lay. “It was,” he told her. “I took a stake to the heart . . . and I lived.”

* * *

By the time he summoned a second patrol team to help tear the building apart looking for the other vampire he’d seen on the grid; sent the stakes and the attacker’s fingerprints to Hunter Development for testing; reassured Miranda that she didn’t need to come to him; essentially told a severely rattled Jonathan the same thing when he called; and ascertained that Olivia was not, in fact, tied up somewhere in the building or lying dead anywhere nearby, the Prime had a splitting headache and excused himself from the scene to hunt.