Shadowflame (8 page)

“Bring them in,” Miranda replied.

Faith nodded and strode over to the double doors. Miranda took a minute to compose herself—too bad she hadn’t had a chance to shower beforehand, so she wouldn’t be such a sweaty mess—and sat up straight and tall in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other, her hands folded. Her Signet was plain to see, as was her sword, and she quickly reached up and yanked the elastic from her hair so it fell loose down her back. A ponytail wasn’t nearly as impressive.

Faith held the door open as Elite 62 and three other guards escorted a pitifully thin figure into the room. She was leaning on Elite 62, who treated her with surprising tenderness, helping her walk the long expanse to the dais, steadying her when she stumbled. The other three guards followed at a respectful distance, as if the woman were an honored guest and not a potential enemy.

Miranda saw Faith’s mouth set in a grim line at the sight of the woman, and as she got closer, it was clear why. The girl couldn’t be more than seventeen physically, perhaps even younger; she was so skeletally thin that it was hard to tell. Her skin, once olive and probably beautiful, was ashen, her eyes sunken in with dark circles beneath them. Her dark hair was waist-length, but lank, dull. She was dressed in a gauzy thing that barely covered her wreck of a body. Miranda saw the shadows of bruises on her breasts and legs, and she had a fading black eye that, on a vampire, should have healed in thirty seconds.

Miranda gripped the arms of her chair until her fingers went numb.

One of the Elite, 29 if Miranda remembered correctly, stepped forward and offered herself as translator; Miranda nodded to her. Elite 29 went to the woman and touched her shoulder lightly, gesturing for her to speak.

The girl’s voice was tremulous but held the faintest hint that it might once have been very different. “My name is Cora,” she said through Elite 29. “The Master brought me here to your Haven.”

“Welcome, Cora,” Miranda said. “I am Miranda Grey-Solomon, Ninth Queen of the Southern United States. How can I be of service to you?”

Cora looked like she was sure Miranda, or possibly one of the Elite, was going to strike her down at any second for what she intended to say. “I . . . I need your help, Lady Queen. I want to leave my Master’s house, where he keeps me as a slave to his lusts. If I do not get away from him, I will die like all the others do. I want . . .”

She looked around helplessly, waving her pencil-thin arm weakly as if to take in the Elite, the Queen, and everything around her. “I want to be free of him.”

Miranda took a deep breath. “Come here, child.”

The Elite helped Cora approach the dais, close enough that Miranda could lean forward and look directly into her eyes. “Are you here of your own free will?”

Cora was taken aback by the question. Apparently the thought had never occurred to her, but slowly, she nodded. “Yes.”

“Be still a moment, please.”

Miranda extended her empathic power toward Cora, who seemed not to feel the intrusion at all; she wasn’t shielded, but as weak as she was she probably had no need for psychic protection. If she had any gifts, they were buried under years of hunger, fear, and shame . . . but something was there, some barely shining potential struggling to be released. Miranda held the girl’s mind and heart in her palm, looking her over, trying not to be harsh in her touch. She knew how it felt to have one violation piled on top of a mountain of others. There was no need for that.

Miranda clamped down on the immediate reaction of her body, which was to charge into the guest suites and rip Hart’s dick off and feed it to him. Right now she had to think of Cora . . . who had risked her life and everything she knew to crawl toward something better. That simple courage sparked something fierce and protective in Miranda.

She would not allow Hart to hurt Cora again. If David didn’t understand, he would just have to, as Kat would say, put on his big-girl panties and deal with it.

“Very well, Cora.” Miranda stood and walked down from the dais to stand eye to eye with her. The girl shrank back, but Miranda caught and held her gaze. “If it is your will to leave Prime Hart’s . . . employ, then as Queen of this territory, I offer you asylum here at our Haven until such time as you are safe and strong again, after which you may choose your own fate. As a refugee you bear the same concomitant rights and responsibilities under the law as any other vampire under the mantle of our authority. Do you accept?”

Cora was shaking hard, tears running down her face, and her relief was like rain coming to the desert. “Yes. I do.”

Miranda nodded. “Then welcome to our Haven, Cora. Let’s see what we can do for you.”

The Queen looked over at Faith. “I want her in one of the suites nearest our wing, with twenty-four-hour guard as long as she’s here. She’s not to go anywhere without a bodyguard and is to be restricted to the gardens and common areas for now. Have the Elite medic look her over, then see to it that she has as much blood as she needs, and for God’s sake, find her some clothes.”

Faith bowed. There was satisfaction in her face. “As you will it, my Lady.”

Cora was still crying, swaying back and forth, but she looked up and met Miranda’s eyes.
“La ringrazio,”
she whispered.
“Grazie mille.”

Miranda smiled.
“Prego.”

Just then, the doors opened and David walked in, his expression grave; when Cora saw his Signet and realized who he was, she all but melted into Miranda’s side, trying to hide from him.

The other Elite parted to let him pass and he came up to them, silent for a moment as he stared hard at Miranda.

She stared right back. “Go ahead,” she said. “Look Cora in the face and tell her she has to go back to him.”

David shook his head in exasperation, but when he turned to Cora, his expression softened, and he spoke in a low voice, in perfect Italian that, Miranda had to admit, made her insides shiver a little.

“Welcome to our Haven, young miss,” he said—the Elite translator leaned closer to Miranda and told her so. “I am Prime David Solomon, and I would like to assure you that you are safe here for as long as you need sanctuary. Please allow the guards to escort you to your room.”

She stammered a question, and he smiled. “No, you will not have to share it with anyone. You’ll have a bed of your own and your own bath as well. Once you’ve fed properly, you’ll feel much better.”

He gestured to the guards, and Elite 62 bowed politely to Cora, then took her arm and slowly led her away.

Then he faced Miranda. “She asked for asylum?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Completely of her own volition. I don’t know what motivated her to do it, but I looked into her as deeply as I could, and she’s clean. Innocent. And broken.”

David’s eyes followed the girl and the guards out the door. “Well, she’s safe now.”

“What about Hart declaring war?”

The Prime crossed his arms, giving her an unreadable look. “I told you. Going in and taking the harem would be a declaration. She came to you. That’s different. Cora is a refugee. Under the law we can take her in and Hart has no recourse against her or us. Any action he takes against us therefore becomes an act of war and he’ll have the full Council to deal with.”

“What about the other girls?”

“Unless they ask for asylum as well, things are exactly as I said before. But depending on how he reacts when he finds out about Cora, he might tip his hand and give us the opportunity to take the rest—we’ll just have to see how—”

“Where is she?”

David’s com chimed a second after the voice roared in the hallway, and one of the Elite said,
“Sire . . . incoming.”

Prime James Hart flung open the double doors of the audience room, scattering the Elite who were still in attendance as he shoved his way past them toward the dais. “I demand an explanation for this!” he thundered. His eyes were pure silver, practically glowing, and his teeth pressed downward, though not quite enough to impair his speech as he yelled, “You will return the girl this instant!”

Miranda wasn’t afraid of Hart, but the sheer strength of his rage almost made her take a step back. She stood her ground at David’s side, and the Prime crossed his arms and regarded Hart coolly.

One of these days she was going to figure out how to do that.

“Be very careful, Lord Prime,” David told Hart. “You are not in your home territory and there are now four crossbows pointed at your back.”

Miranda kept her eyes on Hart, but she heard the creak of wood from the corners of the room, where four Elite had appeared and were now awaiting the order to shoot.

“This is an outrage,” Hart ground out, towering over David, who merely looked up at him with a completely neutral expression. Hart was a tall man, imposing, used to intimidating people, but he couldn’t intimidate David. It simply wasn’t possible. “Give her back.”

“No.”

“This is an act of—”

“Say it, Hart,” David hissed, eyes narrowing, their blue going silver at the edges. “Say the word and I’ll have you shot before you take another breath. Start a war between us right now and it will be finished right now.”

Hart snarled, “You had no right to steal what rightfully belongs to me.”

“I stole nothing. Cora came to my Queen and asked for asylum. She has exposed your cruelty and your participation in illegal slavery—and we’ll see what the Council has to say now that we have evidence to back up the rumors.”

Hart turned on Miranda. “You did this, then. I should have known. You stupid little whore—no woman takes what’s mine. I’ll teach you—”

Hart raised his arm to backhand her, and Miranda felt David start toward them, but finally, Miranda’s rage and hatred toward this sick excuse for a man had an outlet, and she let it fly, drawing up her power and
pushing
—

Hart flew backward, thrown hard across the room, and the sound of a body hitting the far wall and the crunch of breaking bones caused the Elite to freeze where they stood, staring with huge eyes at their Queen . . .

. . . their Queen, whose palm was outstretched toward where Hart had been standing.

She was breathing hard, but her body sang with pleasure and satisfaction, and she knew she was smiling.

David crossed the room to stand over Hart, and she heard him say very quietly, “You have exactly one hour to leave my Haven. If you stay one moment longer, you will die. You are to leave the other three women here. Now, go.”

He turned his back on Hart and returned to where Miranda stood; the armed Elite converged upon Hart and waited while he got to his feet, one arm sticking out at an unnatural angle, and limped away with the four crossbows still trained on him.

Miranda lowered her hand, grounding herself, letting the excess power drain out of her. When she looked up at David he was staring at her, and to her amazement, he looked completely dumbfounded.

“That was you,” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. I know; I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

“No, Miranda—it was
you
. You threw him.”

“So?”

“With your
brain
.”

She frowned for a minute before she understood what he was saying. “Oh.”

“How did you do that?”

Miranda’s heart was pounding. “I . . . I don’t know. Is that . . . not normal?”

“No . . . it’s beyond not normal. Pairs share power, but they don’t share talents. That’s not possible. How could you suddenly be telekinetic?”

David had all the answers. The thought that there was something that baffled him this much, and obviously worried him, worried her even more. “I don’t know. But I didn’t know I was prescient, either, until that thing with Kat yesterday.”

“Every Queen has that talent to some degree. It usually doesn’t fully develop until after she takes her Signet.” Seeing her distress, and moreover feeling it, David took a deep breath, then came over and put his arms around her. “It’s all right, beloved. I’m sorry I overreacted—there must be an explanation. I’ll see what I can find out. Maybe it is normal; I’ve never heard of gift transfer, but I’ve never had a Queen, either.”

She leaned into his shoulder, suddenly exhausted by the whole evening, wanting nothing more than to climb into bed with him and shut the world away. “And you’re not angry at me over Cora?”

“No. You did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

“Good,” she said. “I was afraid I was going to have to kick your ass.”

He sighed. “You don’t really think I’m a heartless bastard, do you?”

She chuckled in spite of herself. “I think you know a lot more than I do about all of this, and we’re going to butt heads a lot until I figure it all out. But if you can be patient with me, I’ll be patient with you, and it will all work out.”

“I hope so,” he said, holding her tightly. “I hope so.”

A little over an hour later Faith followed the frantic call of Elite 18 to the guest suites. One of the servants had gone into the rooms that Hart had abandoned to start what would no doubt be an arduous cleanup, and her scream had brought the guards running.

Faith stood in the doorway, gripping the frame with one hand, the other on her sword hilt.

Hart had destroyed his own room, dumping books from shelves and knocking over furniture. He had thrown anything breakable he could get his hands on onto the wall, and there were bits of broken glass and ceramic all over the wood floor. Nothing appeared to be missing, just smashed and torn.

Faith, however, was in the doorway to the smaller bedroom, which reeked of sex and blood. The only thing in the room that had been broken was a single wooden chair. Three of the legs had been snapped off.

Each leg now protruded from the chest of a naked woman.

Hart had stripped them, murdered them, and then thrown them into a pile, their long bony limbs splayed out on the floor of the bedroom.

Faith had seen a great many dead bodies in her life, mostly from violence without warning. So many faces had been marked with horror and fear at the moment of death. Here, on the other hand, she saw girls whose dying expressions had been utter indifference to fate, and one was even smiling.