Of Shadow Born (34 page)

Finally, though, other sensations began to intrude—his mouth no longer hurt, but his teeth felt weird, and he had a horrible taste in his mouth, sort of metallic; and, he had to admit, Miranda had been right about having to pee.

He inched his way out of the bed and wobbled to the bathroom. His limbs didn’t feel entirely right. It was as though there were a delay between the neural impulse and the actual movement.

Standing in front of the sink, he gave his teeth a quick brushing and washed his face, the cold water waking him up a little more. Curious, he tongued his teeth to see if anything felt off.

It certainly did.

Vampires had sharpened canines, of course, which retracted into the jaw so that they looked more or less like human teeth, albeit a bit pointier. Feeling around, though, he realized that not only were his canines pointed, the first premolar behind each canine felt sharp as well. He touched one with his finger; the extension impulse could be triggered that way. Even though he’d touched the premolar, the canine in front of it extended. The molar did, too, but only a tiny bit, probably visible but not obvious. He wasn’t sure what the purpose could be . . . unless it was purely ornamental. He couldn’t see it, but he guessed it was pretty damn scary looking.

He left the bathroom and found Jonathan standing by the bed, staring down at their mates, who still slept in each other’s arms, oblivious.

David came to stand next to him. “I had a dream like this once,” he said quietly.

Jonathan held back a snort. “I’ll bet you did.” They watched in silence for another minute before Jonathan said, “He’s not dreaming right now . . . he always dreams.”

David nodded. “It must be Miranda’s empathy—I dream a lot less when she’s beside me, and the ones I have are much less harrowing.”

The Consort watched them another moment before saying, “You’re a lucky man, to be so loved by two people.”

David shot him a look. “Jonathan . . .”

“Don’t worry, I’m not being maudlin, just making an observation. Even as weird as things have been with you and Deven, I’ve always found this irrational sort of comfort thinking that if anything happened to me, you’d take care of him.”

David frowned. “But that can’t happen.”

“That’s what makes it irrational,” Jonathan reminded him with a grin. “But it’s been on my mind a lot since you died . . . which couldn’t happen either, but it did. As strong as you are, a few lines of Greek and a ten-dollar hammer were all it took to kill you. I would never leave him of my own free will—masochistic as that might make me.”

David had to smile at that. “He’s easy to love,” he said. “Just kind of hard to like, sometimes.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Lord Prime.” The Consort eyed him critically. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” David said. “Sort of. Everything’s still a bit . . .”

“Wonky?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Can you feel the bond?”

David reached toward Miranda in his mind, seeking that warmth . . . and finding nothing. “Oh, God,” he gasped. “It’s still not there . . . oh God, it’s not there . . .”

“Easy there,” Jonathan said, catching hold of his arms. “Sit down.”

“But if this was all for nothing . . . if she lied to me, and I did this to Miranda for nothing . . .”

“Pull it together, David,” Jonathan snapped.

David took a deep breath and nodded. He was right, of course. David clamped down on his emotions and forced himself to breathe slowly. “Thank you.”

The Consort said reasonably, “You don’t know for sure it didn’t work. You said yourself you’re feeling off; things might have to settle down, she might have to wake up. Don’t panic yet. She’s going to need you.”

“Yes . . . you’re right. She needs . . . Oh, damn it.”

“What?”

David gestured at the bed. “She needs a live human,” he said. “To complete the transition. A bag won’t do.”

“Call a patrol team and have them snatch one.”

“I can’t . . . It has to be a particular kind, and I’m not sure they would know the difference on sight.”

Jonathan frowned. “What kind? I know she doesn’t drink from men, but what else?”

“It has to be an evildoer,” David said. “The more reprehensible, the better.”

He looked dubious but shook his head. “We’ve all got our feeding quirks. I once dated a man who wouldn’t drink from anyone who took yoga—he said the taste of sandalwood threw him off. How about this: I’ll go. I can pick someone appropriate—I may not have empathy, but I can still spot one a mile away. You stay here as you said you would. I can be back inside two hours.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I get you anything? A nice blonde, perhaps?”

“No . . . no thanks. I’m fine from what Deven gave me earlier. I can hit another bag if I need to.”

“All right. Go back to bed, and try not to worry.” Jonathan fetched his coat and swept out of the suite.

David wished he could have sent Deven instead. If he’d told Jonathan the truth about his errand, Jonathan would still have done what was necessary, but like Miranda, he would feel guilty afterward, for they both cared far more about human life than either Prime did. David was firmly against killing mortals or causing them permanent damage unless it was absolutely necessary, but in a situation like this, he and Deven both would have been perfectly willing to bring back a human to die for the Queen.

With a sigh, the Prime returned to the bed, sliding back into his side; this time, though, he moved closer to Miranda, mirroring Deven’s position next to her so that they essentially held her between them, safe and warm. David kissed her on the cheek and settled back in to try to rest, not expecting to be able to . . . but he was asleep within five minutes, and glad of it.

* * *

Darkness.

She could feel it flowing through her veins, like blood, suffusing her cells, altering them as it went. Her first instinct was to fight it—it was too big, too frightening, too much for her to face—but it beckoned so sweetly, she let it in and lay back, opening herself to its embrace.

There was no pain. She could feel things in her body changing; it wasn’t anything as massive as the first time, but it seemed just as far-reaching. Some part of her had known that crossing over those years ago would change her whole being . . . now she knew that this crossing would change the world.

The darkness was soft and welcoming, whispering over her skin and teasing her almost unbearably. One minute she was on fire, the next drowning—burning, then drifting . . .

She didn’t know how long it went on before she heard the voice. She recognized that whisper in her mind, words like feathers, like wind through a graveyard.

“Here you are at last, child.”

She couldn’t speak back.

“You have come to reclaim what is yours . . . but is it enough for you?”

What could that mean?

“You did not come to this place to serve me, but to take back what you lost. Perhaps when you understand what is truly at stake, you will want more from me . . . and as soon as you call to me, I will answer. For now . . . return to your beloveds, lest they worry.”

She felt her body again, not so much a violent slamming into her skin as a sweet sliding—it felt so good to
feel
, to touch. So good to be alive.

Her eyes fluttered open, her vision blurry at first. There were arms around her holding her tightly, the warmth of a body fitted perfectly to either side of her. She could feel two hearts beating with hers.

She tilted her head first to one side, then the other, making sense of what she saw: deep blue eyes, and pale violet, watching her intently. She could feel their concern—was she all right? Had it worked?

Her hands lifted, one touching either face, her fingers lightly tracing lips, wrapping around a neck. It felt so good . . . skin under her palm . . . so good . . .

Another feeling swept through her:
need
. She needed hands on her, to feel herself touched. She rose up partway and put her mouth to his, ignoring the gasp, unable to think, only to feel. He tasted like an autumn mist . . . like the slow turn of time through hundreds of years . . .

A hand slid up between them and gently pushed her away. “I’m sorry, love, but I think you have the wrong mouth,” he murmured, his voice a wry tenor. “Turn to your right.”

She felt another mouth touch her neck and travel along its line, at the same time that a wave of desire moved into her; she moaned softly and turned toward its source, recognizing that power and wanting it desperately.

This time his mouth took hers, easing her closer, holding her with hands that knew every curve of her body.

He lifted his lips from hers. “Miranda,” he said, barely over a whisper, “you need to go back to sleep.”

She shook her head, but he turned her onto her back again, and now each of them took hold of one of her arms and held it against the bed—not hard, not confining, just calming.

“Rest,” said the first voice.

She looked up into his eyes, knowing that what she wanted was plain in her gaze.

A soft chuckle. “Dear one, you’re going to feel very differently once you’re yourself again.”

He leaned down to kiss her forehead. She sighed; obviously she wasn’t going to get her way. That was all right, really . . . she was starting to feel sleepy again . . . she wasn’t sure if it was her own body or one of them pushing her into unconsciousness, but she acquiesced and turned onto her side, toward the door. A hand threaded through hers, comforting and strong.

She hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room, but over by the door, another familiar man stood, this one blond with muddy hazel eyes that were staring at the bed. The other two saw her staring and turned toward the third.

For just a second, the third man’s eyes were full of a hundred emotions, but he covered it quickly. “Is this a bad time?”

“This is the exact right time,” the first said firmly. “Thank God you’re here.”

The blond gestured toward the door. “I brought the human you requested, David.”

David.
The name ricocheted through her, and memories began to arise.
Yes. David.

“What did you find?” David asked.

The blond reached out into the hallway and dragged another person into the room—a woman, dressed raggedly with sunken eyes that stared vaguely off into space.

“You know, female evildoers are a lot harder to find than male,” the blond said. “There are plenty of drug pushers of both sexes, plenty of addicts, but that’s sickness, not evil—this one took a lot of digging, which was why I was gone so long . . . much to my chagrin.”

David sighed. “So what did she do?”

Jonathan pushed the woman forward. “She drowned her infant,” he replied. “She was acquitted—the lawyers blamed postpartum depression.”

“How is that evil?” David wanted to know. “It’s a terrible thing, but she can hardly be blamed for a mental illness.”

“She was lying,” Jonathan answered with a bitter smile. “Her husband cheated on her, so to get revenge she murdered his only son.”

“Jesus,” David said. “You’re sure?”

“It was obvious she was corrupt as soon as I saw her, and my telepathy is strong enough to get the truth from her. Give her an empathic sweep and tell me I’m wrong.”

A moment later, David nodded once. “Bring her here.”

Jonathan hauled the woman over toward the bed, and David turned and said, “Come on, beloved, before you go to sleep, you need to eat.”

“She smells like death,” she said.

“Go ahead,” David told her in her ear. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

She sat up as Jonathan shoved the woman to her knees beside the bed and pulled her head to one side, baring her throat.

Staring at the blue veins that showed up against sallow skin, Miranda felt her body begin to ache, her teeth pressing into her tongue. She could hear the human’s heart beating, hear the blood pulsing through her veins, hot and dark, promising relief for the pain spreading through her body, her insides dry and itching madly.

Her teeth slid down over her lip. She heard someone suck in an astonished breath, but she ignored it and struck.

Jonathan let the human go, and she pushed her onto the floor, holding her down as she struggled—the woman was screaming in terror and pain, but that only filled her blood with power, made her taste even better.

“Miranda, that’s enough,” someone said.

“No.” David’s voice. “Let her be.”

“David, if she keeps going—”

“I am aware of the procedure,” David snapped. “I said let her be.”

She kept drinking, forcing the woman back to the floor every time she tried to break free, until she became too weak to fight, too weak to scream.

A moment later something erupted from the human—a force Miranda had never felt before, strength so intense she fell back onto the floor, crying out. She understood at once: the last burst of life force, the power of death. It burned through her like an electric shock, and she writhed against it, unable to control it.

Hands took hers. “Focus,” she heard. David. “Ground yourself and focus. Breathe, beloved . . . in . . . and out . . .”

She did as he said, matching her breath to his, taking hold of the energy and grounding it, letting it do what it needed to do to her body.

Silence fell. She lay on her side, curled up in a ball, her breath the only thing she could concentrate on.

She heard the door open. “I need Elite Seventeen and Forty-three for body disposal,” David said to someone in the hall. “Immediately.”

When she heard the word
body
she began to shake, comprehension starting to assert itself, but someone knelt next to her and put a hand to her forehead.

“Go to sleep, little Queen,” he said kindly. “There will be time to worry about that later. Just go to sleep. Let go of the world for a while.” She could hear him smiling.

She was already falling into the dark as he picked her up off the floor.

* * *

They all stared at one another.

Jonathan spoke first, and there was anger in his words. “So you’ve turned her into a killer, is that it?”