Shadowflame Part 35

Distantly Miranda heard something pounding on the wall, but neither she nor Ovaska allowed herself to be distracted. This time, with both of them injured, it was a more evenly matched fight. They fought across the broad expanse of Sophie's studio, Miranda backflipping out of her reach then diving back in again, Ovaska spinning in midair to add more momentum to her arm. Miranda felt the sword almost alive in her hand, as if her entire body were a weapon, and she let herself slip into the s.p.a.ce that Sophie had shown her, between present and future, drawing on a strength beyond herself until she almost knew what Ovaska would do next- Miranda dropped low, swiping out with her foot, knocking Ovaska off balance as Miranda struck her injured leg. Ovaska tumbled backward, wheeling her arms to regain her equilibrium, but she lost her guard just long enough for Miranda to kick her again, this time in the stomach, sending her to the ground.

The Queen sprang back up and went in for the kill.

Ovaska scooted back, and instead of beheading her, Miranda's blade opened her chest, blood gus.h.i.+ng out in its wake. Ovaska pushed herself backward again, and as Miranda brought the blade down a second time Ovaska reached down and pulled the stake from her leg, using all her remaining will to thrust it upward.

Miranda felt the wood penetrate her rib cage, but she, too, had one last burst of strength to give, and as Ovaska fell down onto the ground again, Miranda's sword flashed, and Ovaska's neck parted, her body striking the concrete floor . . . followed by her head.

Ovaska's arm fell outstretched, her sword landing beside her with a loud clang.

For just a second Miranda heard nothing but the hoa.r.s.e sound of her own breath, and the world was held suspended, the Queen's eyes on the fallen body of Marja Ovaska, the floor stained with their mingled blood.

Miranda heard another thunderous pounding, and it shook her enough to make her remember . . . she wasn't finished yet.

She bent over Ovaska's body and stuck her hand in the a.s.sa.s.sin's pants pocket, retrieving the ring with the keys to the bas.e.m.e.nt room and cell doors.

Miranda stumbled back the way she had come, her entire body begging her to fall, her strength finally failing her, in so much pain she couldn't think-but she didn't need to think. She just had to walk.

She held on to the rail as she half fell down the stairs, her vision swimming black and gray, her breath nothing but wheezes; the stake had collapsed her lung. She absently reached up and pulled it, but she didn't even feel the wood leaving her body. She had to keep going. In just a minute . . . in just a minute she could lie down . . .

The Queen fell against the cell door, swinging with it into the cell itself. Her fingers were numb around the keys, but she used the bars to support herself and put one foot in front of the other, forcing herself to keep going.

"Sweet Jesus," she heard someone whisper. "Miranda, sit down . . . you're going to kill yourself . . ."

Stubbornly she shook her head and sagged into the back wall, trying to focus her gaze on the keys enough to figure out which one went to the shackles.

"Miranda-stop."

She could barely move, but she lifted her head and met Deven's eyes.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," he said softly.

She started to protest, but he held her eyes. She could see how tired he was . . . so tired . . . she understood . . . she just wanted to sleep . . .

"Put your hand on my shoulder, Miranda," he repeated.

Shaking too violently to speak, she obeyed.

"It's all right," she heard him say. "I'm ready."

Miranda felt power, more than she would have believed he still had, lifted into her, a gentle current of energy that stemmed the flow of blood from her wounds, eased her pain, and helped her slide slowly to the floor instead of falling.

The keys fell out of her left hand, the sword out of her right.

"There," he whispered. "We can both rest now."

Miranda smiled, nodded, and closed her eyes.

Before the Elite even had the door open all the way, David and Jonathan both raced inside the building, into a scene of blood and death, Ovaska's headless body sprawled on the ground, her lifeless face caught in a moment of eternal shock.

David had been able to feel Miranda for a few minutes, but she was gone again-back into the s.h.i.+elded room, he knew. She was hurt . . . badly hurt . . . dying . . .

So was Deven. Jonathan faltered, gasping, his hand flying up to his Signet. "Dev . . . no, baby, don't . . ."

"Over here!"

Faith was pointing at an open door in the corner. David grabbed Jonathan's arm and hauled him along into the stairwell.

Prime and Consort burst into the room, and David made it to Miranda's side in a heartbeat, falling to his knees beside her and pulling her into his arms, knocking Deven's sword out of her lap.

David was already weakened, but he didn't care; he opened himself to her fully, letting the energy between them return to balance, giving her everything he could spare to heal her at least enough to make it home safely . . . but to his surprise she wasn't as bad off as he had felt she was even a moment ago, and her wounds had already stopped bleeding.

He looked up in time to see Jonathan lowering Deven's body from the wall where he had been chained, the two of them sinking to the floor together.

It didn't look like Deven was breathing . . . but Jonathan was still alive. There had to be some hope . . .

He felt the same tide of power between the Pair that had pa.s.sed between him and Miranda. Jonathan held Deven close, breathing hard, his eyes full of anguish, waiting . . . but Deven hadn't just given all his energy to Miranda, he'd given her everything, even his life force, the base energy that held the body and soul together . . . and Jonathan simply wasn't strong enough to replenish that.

Desperate, David extended the connection between himself and Miranda to Jonathan. He wasn't sure if the Consort would know what to do with it the way Deven would, but Jonathan seemed to have learned a few things from his lover; he "caught" the line of energy and drew from it, his grat.i.tude echoing along the line to David. Then, with the four of them joined as they had been that night to heal Kat, Jonathan poured the energy into Deven as gingerly as he could . . . and again they waited, afraid to even breathe, afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium they'd managed to cobble together for the Prime.

Finally, finally, David saw the Prime's lip tremble. Deven's eyes fluttered open, pupils dilating until they focused on his Consort.

Jonathan smiled, so relieved he half sobbed, and kissed Deven everywhere he could that wasn't covered in bruises or blood.

Deven returned the smile weakly and murmured something in Gaelic too low for David to interpret, but that made Jonathan laugh; then, with a sigh, Deven turned his face into his Consort's chest and pa.s.sed out.

David withdrew from the connection, s.h.i.+elding himself and Miranda off again. He felt Miranda stir in his arms and looked down into her face. Blood had run down her forehead from a cut and was drying on her cheek, but her skin was unmarred, and her eyes were exhausted but full of life as she blinked up at him.

She started to cry. She could barely speak, but she was determined to be heard as she whispered raggedly, "David . . . Deven . . . he's . . ."

"Shh . . ." He laid a finger on her lips. "He's alive, beloved. He's alive."

Miranda was still crying, but she broke out into a smile and nodded with relief.

Then she said, "Blood. Shower. Chocolate. You. Now."

He laughed quietly, kissed her, and replied, "As you will it, my Lady."

Nineteen.

Texas didn't have much of a winter, but what it had was wet and bitter, and autumn was already headed that way, a line of storms from the north driving freezing rain into the Hill Country with a vengeance.

Esther had built a roaring fire for the Queen, clucking over her still-pale cheeks like a mother hen before leaving the suite warm and cozy and smelling faintly of herbs and candle wax.

Miranda leaned her chin on her guitar and stared into the flames, absently plucking a string here and there. Despite Esther's worries, she was feeling better tonight, just shaky and tired; for the past three days she'd slept more than she'd been awake, and she hadn't left the Haven even though she was due back at the Bat Cave for a follow-up session to rerecord a couple of problematic tracks.

She had told Grizzly she had the flu. Because it was going around in this nasty weather, he had no reason to doubt her.

She paused and reached up to touch her Signet. Part of her wanted to cancel the entire project and give up on the idea of performing. So many people had been hurt . . . but in the end, she couldn't be anyone but who she was, and as she had told Faith, music was a part of her she wouldn't surrender unless there was no other choice. She'd find a way to make it work . . . tomorrow.

Tonight, she just wanted to be warm and safe and comfortable, with the rain falling outside and the firelight soothing her inside. But her heart still ached, and her body still ached, and it was hard to feel comforted knowing how many of her friends had suffered at the hands of Marja Ovaska. It was hard not to feel guilty-for not stopping Marja sooner, for letting Sophie get killed, for a hundred things Miranda couldn't have antic.i.p.ated and couldn't change even if she had. There were still questions that needed answering-chief among them, who was Ovaska working for? What did that client want with a Signet? Miranda was afraid to even contemplate that.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called.

When she looked up, she was surprised, and said, "Deven."

The Prime closed the door quietly behind him. He, too, was still drawn and tired looking, moving a little more slowly than usual. He hadn't even regained consciousness until last night. Even Jonathan's power combined with David's and Miranda's almost hadn't been enough to save him-Jonathan wasn't a healer and didn't have Deven's skill to direct the raw power as a healer could. He could only push the energy into Deven and hope it kept him alive. It was something of a miracle Deven had survived at all. It would take a while to fully recover from that, even as strong as he had been.

David had apologized to Miranda a half-dozen times for taking the liberty of offering their energy . . . before she reminded him that Deven had given his own life to save her and had been the one to s.h.i.+eld her from the explosion before that. She had no regrets about having to sleep an extra day or two if it meant that Deven was still alive . . . and that was something she'd never expected to hear herself say.

Deven came to the couch where she was sitting and held something out to her.

Miranda frowned. "What is this?"

He smiled. "It's a sword, Miranda."

"I know that. But why are you giving it to me?"

"Because she's yours."

Miranda set aside her guitar and took the blade he offered; it was the one he had worn here, the one David had said was new. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and she felt a stab of recognition-she had fought Ovaska with it, not with Sophie's sword. This one felt natural in her grip and was perfectly balanced, as if it had been created for her arm.

"I had her made for you," Deven explained. "Not by Volundr, though, don't worry. Call her a wedding gift, or perhaps a peace offering."

She drew the blade partway from the sheath, admiring the carving along the steel. "It's . . . she's beautiful . . . thank you."

He nodded and took a step back, intending to leave, but she said, "I've been thinking."

"About?"

Miranda went on. "I was thinking that . . . maybe you and David should see each other again."

He didn't bother-or perhaps didn't have the energy-to hide his surprise. "What?"

"I don't want to be the reason that David is unhappy," she said. "He loves you. So maybe you could meet sometimes, like a weekend every couple of months, no questions asked. We could make some kind of arrangement that would work for all four of us."

Deven stared at her for a long moment. Then he smiled and shook his head. "No."

"Wait . . . you're saying no?"

"That's right."

"But . . . why?"

Again, the smile; a touch rueful, a touch enigmatic, a touch wry. "Because I don't want to be the reason you're unhappy."

"But . . ."

He reached over and touched her head as if in benediction. She felt a light energetic pulse, as if he had stroked her hair, though his hand didn't move, and it made her feel warm and safe . . . the way she had craved to feel for days. "It's time for him to be with you, Miranda. You have the right to grow together as a Pair without me interfering. Life is going to be hard enough for you already in the next few years. Perhaps one day later on we can talk about it. But for now . . . Jonathan and I are going home, where we belong."

This time he did walk away, but as he opened the door, she glanced down at the sword in her hands, then looked back up and called, "Deven."

He paused in the doorway without looking at her. "Yes?"

She held up the blade. "David said you name your swords, and that's what this carving is."

"It is indeed."

"Well . . . who is she? What do I call her?"

Deven smiled at her over his shoulder. "Shadowflame."

The stables were heated, of course, but David still fretted over the horses' comfort in such ghastly weather, so he visited them every night for at least a few minutes. As far as he could tell, neither one was at all perturbed at being cooped up inside-the forecast called for a few days' clearing before the next front, so he hoped he could take them both out tomorrow night, but in the meantime both seemed content to be coddled.

He ran his hand down Osiris's nose. The Friesian flicked his ears toward David and whuffled his hair affectionately.

"Here you go," David said to the stallion, offering him a cookie from his pocket.

Osiris munched contentedly on the cookie and nosed David for more, but David shook his head and chuckled, admonis.h.i.+ng the horse. "Don't be greedy."

"He can't help it," came a voice. "You're irresistible."

David turned toward the sound; he hadn't felt anyone approaching, but it wasn't that surprising given who it was. "You should be in bed . . . and certainly not walking through the cold to get here."

Deven shrugged. He was bundled up in his coat, with a scarf and gloves; he looked a hundred times better than he had even the night before, but still weary, even with his usual wardrobe, jewelry, and eyeliner perfectly in place. For once Deven looked older than a teenager, and it made David want to drag him into the house and tuck him back into bed whether Dev liked it or not.

"Our steward called," Deven said. "The jet's been cleared to leave tonight. There's a car on the way to pick us up."

"You're . . . you're leaving? Now?"

"We've been away too long." When he saw the uncertainty in David's expression, he added, "I'm fine to travel, dear one. I need a few days' rest yet, but I'll sleep much more soundly in my own bed."

"With your own Consort," David said-almost blurted-before he could stop himself.

Deven gave him a searching look. "So that's why you were angry at me," he mused. "It wasn't just for keeping the Red Shadow secret from you . . . it was for keeping it from you but telling Jonathan."

David started to make the expected denial but couldn't. He also couldn't meet Deven's eyes. "You're right."

"He's my Consort, David. I don't say that to rub it in your face . . . it's just the way things are. He knows me, and loves me, in a way you can't . . . and vice versa. Each of you is a part of me, and that will never change."