Of Shadow Born (42 page)

Stella could feel David’s love for Miranda reverberating along the bond, and hers for him—they had grown stronger in the broken places, and now that love was like a force of nature all its own. Stella was pretty sure that anyone who tried to Bondbreak them now would get one hell of a surprise.

Apparently what didn’t kill them made them damn near invincible.

Behr finished his accolades, saying, “Returning to the stage, back and better than ever, UT Performing Arts presents . . . Miranda Grey!”

Deafening applause followed him off the stage and continued as the curtain lifted.

Stella found herself beaming.

The spotlights fixed and focused on the black-clad, red-haired woman in the center of the stage. Her bright green eyes sparkled with anticipatory mischief, and she stepped forward, slinging her guitar strap over her shoulder, walking up to the mic.

The audience was on its feet. So were Stella and Lark. The love of all those people, their gratitude at having Miranda restored to them, filled the auditorium to bursting, and Miranda drank it all in, grinning from ear to ear.

She struck the first chord, and as her voice began to fill the theater, weaving its own dark magic in with the lyrics and bringing the entire audience under her thrall, she took in their love and returned it as joy.

* * *

“Up here,” he said. “One more step.”

Miranda peered over the way-too-close edge, and just what she saw from that height was dizzying. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Are you sure you want me up here? This is your Thoughtful Spot.”

He smiled. “I doubt you’ll make a habit of it, beloved. But I wanted you to see. Please.”

She swallowed hard, trying to push down her terror of heights; this meant so much to him, and she had to admit she was curious about this place where he came to do his brooding. She had been genuinely surprised when he asked her to come with him tonight.

“Okay,” she said with a nod.

David offered her his hand. The wall where he was standing was about three feet off the ground, without a step up. She felt his arm muscles engage as he lifted her up off the roof and onto the wall at his side.

“Go on,” he murmured in her ear, barely loud enough over the wind. “Take a look.”

Miranda took a shaky breath; David’s arm moved around her waist, the solidity of his body next to hers comforting. “I won’t let you fall, beloved,” he told her, kissing the side of her neck. “Ever.”

She opened her eyes and gasped.

All of Austin lay before them, from the skyscrapers off Congress Avenue leading up to the Capitol, to the building she recognized as the Travis Auditorium. The city was lit up in golden streetlight and neon red; she could see the marquee of the Paramount Theater.

From this height, everything had order and logic to it; the traffic lights moved the cars along in a pulse like blood through the city’s veins, and humans came and went, small enough to be dolls.

This was their city. They had suffered to keep it safe, and who knew where the future would lead, but Miranda couldn’t imagine calling any other place home.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Thank you for showing me.”

David turned her slowly toward him, careful to keep her feet on solid concrete. A gust of wind caught her hair, unfurling it off to the side like a scarlet cape. David wrapped both sides of his coat around her to keep her warm. She smiled up at him, her heart aching—but this time not with loss or grief, only with happiness.

His hands slid around her hips, drawing her close, and as their lips met, Miranda knew, from some place deep within her that rang with absolute authority, that nothing, mortal or immortal, god or human or vampire, would ever come between them again.

Epilogue

Forgive me. Forgive me.

Jeremy knew he was going to die, and he was grateful.

He woke in chains, so weak he could barely lift his head. The burning pain in his wrists and the sawdust coating his insides told him they had drained his blood . . . nearly all of it. He hung from a wall, shackled, vision fading from color to gray and back again.

Finally he managed to make some sense out of what he was seeing: a stone chamber with an altar facing him. On the altar was a large, leather-bound book with yellowed pages, lying open. There was also a bowl of dark liquid . . . he knew it was his blood.

The sound of a door opening . . . hooded, cloaked figures filed into the room. He couldn’t think straight enough to count them. They formed a circle around the altar, but there was enough of a gap that he could see what they were doing.

One figure stepped out before the others and laid something on the altar.

Jeremy’s entire body went cold.

His Signet.

Oh God.

He had known they would kill him. He hadn’t known they were going to do this.

He deserved to die—he knew that. But whatever they had planned would be far worse than his continued existence.

The lead figure began a chant, which the others took up in call-and-response. He couldn’t understand it; the language was unfamiliar. Their voices were hollow, like a cold wind through reeds. Fear crawled up his spine.

Finally, the leader said in English, “We have come tonight to complete the Ritual of the Quickening, in the name of our Lord.”

The others answered in unison, “So let his will be done.”

The leader reached into his cloak and pulled out a heavy gold chain he wore around his neck . . . on which hung an amulet set with a dark stone. One of the others brought forward a wooden plate . . . holding the artifact stolen from Hart.

The leader picked up the artifact, flipped over his amulet, and snapped one onto the other decisively.

Then he returned to the altar and lifted up the bowl of blood, saying, “Let the sacrifice we make tonight charge this blood, drawn from the veins of the enemy of the Holy, that it may grant our warriors the strength and speed to hunt them down to the last and restore this earth to righteousness.”

The stone in the amulet began to glow.

Suddenly, Jeremy panicked—something about what he was seeing overwhelmed what little conscious mind he had, and all he was left with was an atavistic terror. He struggled in his chains, fighting to get free, but it was no use; he was too weak.

I have to warn them . . . they have to know . . .

It’s too late.

As he stared at the Signet on the altar, the full weight of his failure fell around his shoulders. He knew what they were about to do, and knew, from watching his own victim, how much it was going to hurt. But on the far side of that torment would be an end at last. He wouldn’t have to see the damage he’d caused with his last moments. He wouldn’t have to know who else would die because of him.

One of the men brought their leader another object.

A hammer.

Jeremy closed his eyes.

The last thing he heard before hell descended upon him was the sound of a shattering stone.