Shadowflame Part 13

It was all coming back now. The flash of Deven's smile, the softness of his mouth, the way he moved like a dancer and an a.s.sa.s.sin in one . . . the cold fire in his wide eyes that belied the molten pa.s.sionate core of him, a core that had only ever laid itself open for one man . . . and that man was not Jonathan.

For ten years David and Deven had been inseparable. From the night they first fell into David's bed, stripping off each other's Elite uniforms and pressing needy, sharp canines into each other's flesh, they had been bound by blood and s.e.x so tightly that neither of them knew their boundaries anymore.

Finally Prime Arrabicci had gotten wind of what was going on in his Elite and called the Second and his lieutenant into the Prime's office.

"I've heard some disturbing rumors regarding the two of you," Arrabicci had said tiredly, and David had known exactly who had been in here first, ranting and raving about the perverts in their midst. "Lieutenant Torvald has informed me that the two of you have been conducting some sort of horrible s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p."

David and Deven had stood side by side in front of their Prime, and Deven had said, "Sir, Lieutenant Torvald is, as always, mistaken. David and I are not conducting some horrible s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p. We are in fact conducting a f.u.c.king fantastic s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p."

Arrabicci had groaned and put his head in his hands. "Do you two see the position you've put me in here? Aside from any concerns about the two of you doing . . . whatever you do, the fact is we have rules about senior Elite consorting with their juniors. I could have you both thrown out of here on your a.s.ses."

"But you won't, Sire," David had pointed out. "You've said yourself we have the best record in the Elite. To toss us out just because we sleep together-off duty, Sire-would be strategically unwise."

"Rules are rules, Lieutenant. Therefore I have no choice but to promote you."

David had paused, frowned. "I'm sorry, Sire?"

"You are hereby promoted to co-captain and will serve at Deven's side. You aren't to be granted any privileges or pay raises before a six-month probationary period, just to make it clear that I'm not rewarding deviant behavior-I want everyone to see you've earned your place at the top, David. And as for your . . . relations.h.i.+p . . ."

David had braced himself.

But all the Prime had said was, "Obviously it's affecting your fighting abilities in a positive and useful manner. You've both gone from the best d.a.m.n warriors in my Elite to the best d.a.m.n warriors I've ever seen. So whatever you two are doing to each other in bed, keep doing it . . . just don't let me hear about it."

"As you will it, Sire," they had both said together.

Then they had left the office and walked with utmost dignity back to Deven's quarters, where they proceeded to s.h.a.g each other senseless for the entire rest of the night and the following day.

Deven had needed someone to bring him out of his darkness. David had needed someone who wouldn't die on him. At first it had been an ideal friends.h.i.+p, two very different lone wolves in search of a pack . . . but soon . . . a look began to linger; a touch seemed to happen of its own accord; and was there a softness in Deven's eyes when speaking of him? Neither had been looking for a lover, yet they had tripped and fallen headfirst in love like a pair of hormone-ridden teenagers.

They had spent ten years fighting gangs and making love. Their desire for each other thrived on combat. A victory in the streets meant they would be half naked and going at it in the car on the ride home. Their blood boiled and they tore into each other rabidly. David's entire world contracted to whichever bed they were in, the exquisite pleasure-pain of who was sucking or stroking whom, the sweetness of Deven's blood on his tongue.

And now, when things were so very different, his traitorous heart wanted to travel back in time, back before either of them knew the burden of a Signet, back when he had believed they had a future together.

No. It's over with. You're friends now. Nothing more.

It was understandable that seeing Dev again would cause old feelings, and old hurts, to bubble to the surface. The last time they'd seen each other, David had been lost in his grief for Miranda, so there was no time for any of that, only time for Deven to help bring him out of it, set him back on his feet, and leave him ready to go back to work. This time there were no such emotional distractions. Now, the Pair were here, and he was about to go to sparring practice as they had a thousand times, and either they would start airing some things out or their friends.h.i.+p was ultimately doomed.

Logical, yes . . . and about as appealing as a fireplacepoker lobotomy.

The bedroom door opened and Miranda walked in laden with several shopping bags and the expression of a woman who had just been victorious in an epic battle.

"Thank G.o.d that's over," she said breathlessly, dropping her plunder on her chair by the fireplace. "I'm set for a few months provided I don't acquire too much more muscle."

She came over and kissed him on the forehead. "Aren't you supposed to be in the training room beating up our houseguest? Whoa . . . what's wrong, baby? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She knelt in front of him. He leaned his forehead against hers. "In a way, I have," he managed. "I don't suppose you would come with me?"

She looked into his eyes, and he didn't bother trying to hide his feelings. It would be pointless.

Miranda laid her hands on the blade he was holding, projecting calm support, though if he were her he would be a bit perturbed at finding his husband in such a twist over an ex. "Tell me what you're afraid of."

David tried to find words. "I don't want to upset you."

"All the more reason why you should," she said. "If there's something you think you can't tell me, it must be important. No secrets, remember? Although . . . I can guess."

"Can you?"

"Of course. I'm not blind, David."

He rested his head on her shoulder. "What should I do? Force a confrontation? Go on pretending nothing's wrong?"

"I don't think that would work," Miranda told him. "It's just going to keep getting in the way-and if you want to stay friends you're going to have to get it all out in the open and just deal with it head-on."

"I hope you're not worried that I'll . . ."

"I trust you, David. I know you wouldn't do anything to jeopardize our relations.h.i.+p. Besides, I can sense . . . it was really intense between you, but intensity has a way of burning to ash in the real world."

"I don't know," he murmured, tracing her upper lip with his thumb. "I think things with you and me get pretty intense sometimes."

She smiled, and her tongue flicked out to touch his skin, sending electricity between them. "True, but I have a few distinct advantages over Deven."

"What are those, beloved?"

"One: I have a v.a.g.i.n.a, which statistically you prefer. Two: I'm prettier. Three: I'm not a total a.s.shole." She stood, pulling him along with her. "Now, come on. No hiding, remember? You go and cross swords-and I mean that in a martial arts sense, thank you-and try to get some of this angst out of your system. I'm going to take a shower, and then Jonathan has asked to hear me play."

"Are you sure you won't come with me?" He tried not to sound plaintive.

"I'm sure. You're the Prime of the Southern United States, baby. You strike terror into the souls of lawbreakers and tremors into the thighs of your Queen. There's nothing in your heart that you need to fear."

He smiled at her, kissed her, then said, "I am the luckiest b.a.s.t.a.r.d on this earth to have found you."

Miranda nodded. "I know."

Then she handed him his sword and ushered him out the door.

Gossip traveled with vampiric speed in the Haven, and by the time David reached the training room a sizable crowd of off-duty Elite, including Faith, had gathered to watch him go up against the Prime of the West.

Deven was already there, punctual as always, and David wished that Miranda had come-not because of his dread of the whole thing, but because she would have loved to see Deven out of his rock star apparel. Dev wore the same sort of black workout clothes as anyone else who practiced in the training ring; even without all the leather, though, he was still an impressive sight, as the s.h.i.+rt he wore revealed the full-sleeve tattoos he'd had as long as David had known him.

"You're late," Deven observed mildly.

"Prime's prerogative," David answered, shucking his coat and s.h.i.+fting his sword from its concealed sheath to one at his belt. Underneath the coat he, too, was dressed to fight. He gestured at Deven's tattoos. "Did you get the angel touched up?"

Deven glanced down at his right arm. "The color was fading in places. Ironically the other side hasn't changed at all."

David smiled. "I don't find that particularly ironic, Sire."

Dev flashed him a blinding grin. "Ready to have your a.s.s whipped?"

"Not in front of all these people," David fired back with an arched eyebrow. It was easy, so easy, to slip back into the mildly flirtatious banter that had been a hallmark of their early years. It even felt good-but s.e.x had complicated everything. It always did.

"You realize of course that you can't possibly beat me," Deven said, drawing his sword. The blade caught the light perfectly, and Deven raised it, then bowed, something he'd learned during his time in j.a.pan when, legend had it, he'd studied with the samurai.

"You may be surprised," David said, echoing the salute.

They circled slowly around each other for a moment . . . and then dove in.

David had no intention of losing easily, even though Deven was right-the Prime of the West had a number of advantages in this fight, even aside from his age and experience. Deven had two psychic talents, neither of which were terribly common: He had been born with healing ability, which differed from what Pairs shared in that he could use it on anyone, even humans; and he had a strange combination of telepathy and low-grade prescience that, coupled with his strength and agility, enabled him to antic.i.p.ate an opponent's moves. He had taught the technique to a few people, including David, but without the psychic gift itself there was a limit to how much one could learn.

David was not prescient-Miranda was, as Queen, but her talent was still new and undeveloped. If she were ever able to harness it, she might learn to power-dance the way Deven could. David, however, had to make do with his inhuman speed and grace.

The sound of sword against sword was sharp and rhythmic, the two Primes spinning around each other like twin stars, the training room's simulated moonlight catching the steel with every slice through the air. With his Elite watching, David refused to embarra.s.s himself; he threw everything into the match, letting his awareness of the room slip . . . then his awareness of himself.

Power flowed through him, liquid silver flame like the blade. He drank it in and poured it into his body. He could feel himself starting to tire, but he reached for more energy along the connection to Miranda.

Deven was clearly surprised at how much he had improved since they'd last fought, but he didn't miss a strike, moving so fast he would be practically invisible to a human and a blur even to the gathered Elite. David had been his apprentice for years and knew his style as well as anyone could.

The room disappeared. David felt something in himself fly open, and he blinked. Suddenly, his vision seemed to double, but the two images were different-in one, Deven was in front of him, and in the other he was a scant inch to the right . . .

David realized what he was seeing just in time to counter the move and, when Deven swung his sword around toward David's throat, David was no longer there.

The Prime's shock was obvious, but it didn't distract him long. Gradually they fell into a perfect rhythm, each knowing the other's actions a split second in advance, neither able to gain the advantage. It was as if they were fighting with themselves.

At exactly the same moment, they both spun away from each other and stopped.

Prime and Prime, both wide-eyed and breathing hard, stared at each other.

They continued to stare at each other as the crowd burst into applause.

Eight.

The worst part about unplanned pregnancy was that until she made up her mind what to do, Kat couldn't even get wasted and forget about it.

She couldn't think about anything else. Sitting at her desk, wrangling funding for the new family shelter, she pictured herself as one of the battered women escaping domestic h.e.l.l with a baby in tow. Talking to a teenage runaway-a pregnant one, of course-about her options, she was weighing those same options herself. Giving a talk on birth control to inner-city kids, pa.s.sing out condoms and info sheets on local clinics that provided low-cost contraceptives, she felt like an utter hypocrite. Here she was, with enough money and education to know where babies came from and keep them from happening, and she was no better off than the girls whose eyes were filled with fear of parents, peers, and the wrath of G.o.d.

Kat glanced up at the clock, then shut down her computer and put her head in her hands. She wasn't being fair. She was way better off than those girls-she had a stable home, a caring boyfriend, and the money to either keep or abort. She wasn't hamstrung by supposedly celibate male clergy claiming to understand a young woman's problems.

She was lucky.

If she decided to keep the baby, it wouldn't be because of religious guilt or cultural pressure; it would be because she wanted to raise a child, to be a mother.

Mother. She had thought that Queen was the most intimidating noun she'd ever come up against. Drew could be a great father, and would, if she'd give him the chance . . . but could she be a mother?

Drew seemed to think so. He already had stars in his eyes over the idea of them as a little family. Drew played five instruments and painted in his spare time; he was a music teacher and fabulous with kids. They were both bilingual and college educated. Kat had studied child psychology and development during her undergrad. They both had a lot to offer a child . . . even Miranda, who had the maternal instinct of a doork.n.o.b, had made noises that she thought having the baby was the right thing to do.

Kat's inner rebellious teenager balked at the feeling that it had been decided for her, but she had to admit that bit by bit the idea was scaring her less and less.

She ran her hand over her head; it was getting stubbly and needed another pa.s.s with the razor. She'd have to do that tonight when she got home. Five o'clock shadow on your head was kind of ridiculous looking.

Kat was the last one to leave the office most nights. Sometimes she was stuck doing paperwork, and sometimes the clients who came to see her could make it only after regular office hours. She didn't mind. She'd known when she left college that the reality of social work was gritty and thankless.

But today she had helped a fifteen-year-old decide to put her baby up for adoption and move into the shelter while her boyfriend was in jail. They'd lined up cla.s.ses for her to get her GED and go to trade school after the birth. The girl had cried and hugged her, thanking her in two languages; the hardest thing was always that feeling of drowning, without anyone to help. Kat's job was to throw the rope out and pull kids to the boat. Then she got to watch the best part: the drowning victim, armed with resources and with advocates on her side, saving herself.

Gritty, thankless, and worth every minute.

She switched off the lights and locked the office, then headed to her car, keys in her hand. East Austin at night could be hazardous for a lone woman, even if that woman was bald and tattooed and carried a gun. Austin was a relatively safe city-it beat the h.e.l.l out of Houston, Dallas, and El Paso-but bad things still happened. She was up to her eyeb.a.l.l.s in the aftermath of those things every day.

Unbidden, the thought of Miranda arose. Yes, bad things had happened to Miranda . . . and Kat hadn't even known until months later. She still ached thinking about Miranda dealing with it all by herself, out there in the middle of nowhere surrounded by all those . . . people. It was a miracle she had come through it with any semblance of sanity, which Kat grudgingly admitted was at least partly David's doing.

d.a.m.n it, she was starting to like him. She really didn't want to.

She looked around as she walked, staying alert, but also wondering: Were any vampires nearby? The whole city was teeming with them, apparently, which was part of why Austin was safer than other Texas cities . . . ironic. There were fewer unexplained murders because the vampires here weren't allowed to kill people. The Elite were under orders to intervene in human crime when they saw it, too, and although David had Elite outposts in all the cities and towns of his territory that had vampire populations of a certain density, it was safest to live in a Haven city, both for vampires themselves and for their human prey.

Not every Signet was so kindly disposed toward humans, though. Miranda had made that clear talking about that douchebag Hart and David's ex-boyfriend-boyfriend!-Deven.

They could be watching her right now.

Suddenly nervous, Kat picked up her pace. Her car was a block from the building; parking was at a premium down here, and always an adventure.

It was a cold, clear night, and a few brave stars even peeked through the urban haze overhead. The temperature had dropped early this year, which was fine by most people who lived in Austin. Texas was pure h.e.l.l in the summer and dreary in the winter, but spring and fall were gorgeous, with sunny days and brilliant blue skies . . .

. . . blue skies that her best friend could never see again . . .

Kat sighed as she walked. Her breath came out in a cloud. She had to stop worrying about Mira; she could take care of herself, obviously. Still, it was such a violent transition into such a violent world. Kat couldn't imagine dealing with it. It was hard enough to deal with one step removed.

She snorted to herself. She would much rather think about vampires than being pregnant. Awesome.

As she reached her car, she saw a shadow move across the lot and frowned, staring at it hard. It could have been anything, anyone; it was far enough away not to be a threat.

Right?

Kat unlocked the car and cast an anxious glance around her, her heart suddenly in her throat. Some instinct she couldn't name made her slide her hand into the flap of her purse and close around the grip of her gun.

Was something over there? Had she imagined it?

The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she broke out in gooseflesh. She should have worn a hat and scarf, this weather was bad for her scalp . . .

Were those footsteps?

Kat took a quick look in her backseat, then all but scrambled into the car and locked it, panting.