Shadowflame (10 page)

The scientist went on, “It was easy enough to identify it as
Betula pendula
, silver birch, found widely in Europe. This particular specimen can be traced all the way to the Lapland region of Finland.”

“Finland,” David repeated. “That’s different. Can you tell if it was made there, or imported to the States first?”

“There are traces of low-grade steel in the grooves left by the carving implement, and that steel is well over a century old—it predates the Bessemer process. Our conclusion, based on contaminant elements in the steel, is that whatever was used to carve the stake was also made in Finland. Based on traces of soil in the grooves, I can say with confidence that the stake was carved there as well.”

“What about the person who carved it?”

“There I’m afraid the data is inconclusive. I can tell you that he or she was right-handed based on the carving strokes, and there was no extractable DNA except that of the Queen. The blood soaked into the wood enough that it caused interference. As you know, we’ve made considerable progress analyzing vampire blood on its own, but in the presence of so many other variables, it made in-depth analysis impossible.”

It was a strange quirk of vampire biology that as soon as their blood was exposed to air, it began to break down very quickly. To the naked eye it still looked like blood, but on a microscopic level it essentially died, the cells dissolving as if in an acid. When ultraviolet light touched it, it actually began to smoke. That made it very difficult to study, and Dr. Novotny’s people were some of the few who had had any success. Thanks to their work, David had been able to develop the DNA scanners inside the coms, primarily using skin cells.

On the bright side it meant that human authorities couldn’t positively isolate vampire blood at a crime scene or learn anything about it in a standard forensics lab. On the downside, it meant the stake probably wasn’t going to tell them anything useful about the woman who had attacked the Queen.

David looked disappointed but not entirely surprised. “So we’re possibly dealing with a Finnish woman, although the stake may not have been hers to begin with, and possibly a vampire because it’s so old, though we don’t know that for sure either.”

“She moved way too fast to be human,” Faith pointed out.

“Have you made any progress on the sensor failure?” David asked.

Novotny shook his head. “No more than you have, Sire. We have no idea why this assassin didn’t register on the network. She was perfectly average in height and weight, based on the Queen’s description. Psychic shields wouldn’t block the sensors—they read purely physical traits. Somehow she found a way to confuse the signal, like a stealth bomber. I’m guessing some sort of scrambling device.”

“Which gives her more than passing familiarity with the system,” Faith observed uneasily. “How many people outside the Haven know how it works?”

“I want another check run on Elite and staff,” David said to Faith. “This time concentrate on hires since the war. Look into their prior associations, employers, friends. Find any connection you can to Finland—it’s worth a try. Flag anyone who was separated from their patrol unit or otherwise unaccounted for at any time, for any reason. Pull them in for questioning.”

“I thought you monitored all your staff and Elite,” Novotny said. “If one of them is passing on information, when and how would they go about it?”

“Last time it was through the mail,” Faith responded.

“Security is tight,” David added, “but no system is perfect. I learned that the hard way.”

“In reality all someone would have to do is leave a note somewhere that’s picked up by someone else,” said Faith, discouraged. “We’ve gotten a lot more detailed in our security screenings on hire, and we track everywhere they go through the coms, but there are always holes.”

“Frankly I’m more concerned with motive at the moment,” David said, crossing his arms. “It’s highly unlikely a gang would have organized so quickly in Austin after the war; aside from the sensor network, we have operatives on the streets of every city in the territory listening for unrest or organization. There hasn’t been a single group formed since the battle at the Haven. They’re still far too nervous, and they’re waiting to see just how strong Miranda and I are before they try anything. To me that suggests we’re dealing with a vendetta.”

Faith nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Also, Sire . . . I’ve been considering the exact sequence of events, and I had an observation. The assassin posed as a reporter, which means she knew enough about Miranda to worm her way in to see her. Given how young and new to the Signet Miranda is, word of her two careers hasn’t had time to spread very far. As a musician she’s well-known locally, but not much beyond Texas. Then there are the questions she asked—she fished for information about the Haven’s location. If we were looking at someone in cahoots with one of our people, why wouldn’t they already know where the Haven is?”

David leaned back against the table, chin lowered, a typical listening-and-mulling-over posture for him. “Go on.”

“One more thing. The woman told Miranda she was stupid, which suggests a certain arrogance on the assassin’s part. That’s not typical of gang hit men. They generally don’t banter, and when dealing with a Signet they don’t risk wasting time with insults. Either you take out a Signet on the first shot or you die yourself. Again, I think we’ve got someone here who has a personal reason to kill Miranda.”

Novotny considered that as he closed the case and returned the stake to its cabinet in the wall. “Is your Queen the sort of woman who makes enemies?”

David laughed. “She’s getting better at it.”

Miranda had already decided to like her new bodyguards, especially Lali, a petite woman originally from India who, underneath her Elite uniform, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with
Om Shanti, Bitches!
Lali had a biting wit that seemed out of place with her quiet, melodic voice, and by the end of her first shift with the Queen the two were chatting like old friends.

Jake was more stoic, more a stickler for professional demeanor, but he exuded calm confidence and competence, and though he looked like a Marine Corps rookie he moved like some kind of exotic jungle cat. He was from Laredo originally, son of an honest-to-God Texas cowboy, which took Miranda forever to get out of him. By the night she went into the studio, Jake seemed to have warmed to her, and even cracked a joke or two. He wordlessly picked up her guitar from the car’s trunk and carried it for her, and though she might have protested anyone else doing the same, Jake was simply being courteous, not implying she couldn’t handle it herself.

Miranda was ready for the recording experience to be a bit grueling, but she was still amazed at how exhausted it left her. Grizzly Behr, the owner and sound engineer, was a cheerful fellow with a big beer gut, a big beard, and a big accent, and he laughed sympathetically at the way she wilted as the hours went on.

“It sucks a goat’s balls, but it’s worth it,” he told her from the far side of the glass, where he and the producer were going back over the third take of the song they were working on. It had taken an hour to get everything set up, another for Grizzly and the producer to record some preliminary tracks to adjust the headphones and mikes, and two more to actually record the song, listen to it, go back and fix the second verse where her voice wobbled, listen to it again, record the harmony, listen again . . . Miranda was starting to hate the damn song, though Lali, in the corner of the control room keeping an eye on things, gave her a thumbs-up more than once after hearing what they’d captured.

At least they were starting with an acoustic song that didn’t require any other instruments. There were eight more songs to go, and they were far more complicated. They were going to have to get a Bösendorfer in the studio for several of them, which Grizzly assured her was going to be child’s play. He had a larger studio room where orchestral groups had recorded, and it was big enough for a grand piano. That would be Saturday’s session, however. Tonight was simple . . . comparatively speaking.

Finally at about two A.M. Grizzly called a halt to things. She wanted to kiss him.

“Good job,” he said, shaking her hand when she joined them in the control room. “And thank you for not being a bitchy prima donna. We get a lot of those.”

She grinned. “Funny—I thought I got a little bitchy there for a while.”

“Nah. Just wait until we do ‘Bleed.’ That one should be fun.”

Miranda gave an exaggerated groan. “God have mercy. Have you found a violinist yet?”

“Actually I was just talking to your friend here, and she says she plays.”

Miranda looked at Lali. “You do?”

The Elite smiled. “I do indeed, ma’am.”

“Congratulations,” Miranda said. “You’re my new favorite person.”

By the time they were packed up and ready to go, it was twenty till three. Miranda was grateful for the freezing cold air outside; she was sweaty and sleepy and the chill perked her up a little.

Harlan was already parked out in front of the studio, along with the second Haven car for Lali and Jake. Jake, who had been on front door duty, stowed her guitar in the Town Car’s trunk. While it was open Miranda fetched a bottle of water from the pack that was always there, in a small cooler that typically held an emergency supply of blood as well. She also took a moment to put on her coat and strap her sword in its place on her hip. She’d been reluctant to take the blade inside the studio in case someone noticed it and raised awkward questions.

“I’ll get you the demo CD for the songs where we need a violin,” Miranda told Lali. “If you’re on board, I’ll pay you whatever the going hourly studio rate is plus a bonus.”

Lali looked thrilled and was about to reply, but Miranda held up a hand to shush her, lowering her water bottle and staring hard into the night.

What had she heard?

She concentrated, extending her senses around the parking lot and the intersection adjacent to the studio, sweeping the area for anomalies as she tried to hear the noise again. Her hearing could catch sounds half a mile away, and if she focused her energy on a particular location, she could pick up conversation at more than twice that distance.

It came again, this time clear as a bell: a woman screaming.

Miranda was off and running before either of the guards could react.

Adrenaline surged through her body, and she let her muscles take over for her brain, carrying her faster than even an Olympic sprinter. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, the sounds of traffic distant in this neighborhood tucked away off Lamar Boulevard. She made it to Lamar in seconds, then across, snaking between cars whose drivers could barely see her as she closed in on a spot that burned in her mind with fear and violence.

A quarter mile later Miranda skidded to a halt, drawing her sword, her mind and senses both spinning in a circle as they tried to take in the scene before her.

A woman in a business suit was on the ground, sobbing, the contents of her purse strewn around her. Her hair had been ripped loose from its clip, and her lip was bleeding where she’d been hit. Her clothes were in disarray and she had lost one of her pumps.

The Queen’s gaze lifted from the woman, and her heart seemed to thud onto the scene as her feet had moments ago, lumbering to a stop in her chest.

In the watery glare of the streetlight a figure stood over the struggling form of a man. The human, a thirty something white male with eyes huge and rolling in panic, scrabbled uselessly at the sidewalk, trying to escape the black leather boot placed squarely on his neck.

“Step away from the human,” Miranda commanded, letting her powers flare around her. That alone should have warned the standing figure away, and the sight of a woman holding a sword ought to have at least surprised him.

He merely looked at her, chin tilted slightly to the left, as if translating her words into a foreign language.

Staring back at him, Miranda felt a slow quake of unease in her stomach . . . unease and recognition.

He looked like little more than a teenager, but the shadows in his blue-lavender eyes spoke of great age, of a creature older than she could even imagine now that she, too, was immortal. The way he held himself was regal and proud, as one born to the crown.

It was something of a contrast with his wardrobe. He wore black leather: a coat down to his knees, pants, and boots nearly as tall as the coat was long, covered in buckles and rivets. Several pounds of silver jewelry adorned his neck, hands, and face; his eyebrow, nose, and ear were all pierced, the eyebrow three times. His fingernails were painted black, and black perfectly outlined his large, long-lashed eyes. Spiky dark hair over a high-cheekboned, ivory face gave him the look of a punk angel, just as likely to be Lucifer as Gabriel.

He was absolutely beautiful, both ethereal and sensual . . . and so powerful Miranda had to steel herself not to take a step back.

“I am the Queen of this territory,” she said, pushing iron into her voice and energy into her aura. Her Signet brightened with her words. “You will do as I say.”

Vampires and humans both had quailed before that tone of her voice. A few had bolted. Several had cried.

He simply looked at her a moment longer, then lifted one hand and opened one side of his coat.

The streetlamp caught the gleaming edge of a sword concealed inside, as well as at least three other knives and what might have been a throwing star.

That, however, wasn’t what sent Miranda’s pulse skyrocketing.

At his throat, nestled in among the chains and a heavy silver ankh, was an amulet set with a huge emerald.

The stone was glowing.

Slowly, deliberately, Miranda lowered her sword.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed his coat.

“All right,” she said. “Who the hell are you?”

Ignoring the question, he smiled. She noticed the pointed canines. “At last . . . the flame of the South.”

He had a gentle voice that still carried to her easily. Something about it, and about the smile, offered up a realization that she didn’t especially want, and she nodded, the pieces falling into place.