Shadowflame Part 5

And despite everything she'd seen, Kat still wasn't totally sure she believed it.

She'd seen Miranda change . . . seen her teeth . . . seen her bite Drew . . . and she'd felt the change in her friend from some deep place in her gut that knew a predator when it saw one. She'd watched David from across a table, all the tiny alien things about him making a disturbing kind of sense. And yet . . .

Vampires? Really?

Kat hung out in the wings as she often did during Miranda's shows, leaning sideways against some kind of rigging, one hand steadying her and the other resting on her stomach. Funny how having a vampire Queen in her life made all her own problems seem a bit smaller.

That wasn't comforting.

Something had Miranda fired up, though, and not in the same way as she had been that night months ago-then she had been emerging from years of slumber and shaking off her old life to find herself powerful. Tonight she was just plain old p.i.s.sed off. Kat could see it. She didn't have to be an empath to read her best friend.

Kat didn't bring it up until after the encore, after Miranda had stalked off the stage to her dressing room and changed, after the house lights were out and the applause was no longer making Kat's ears ring.

When, finally, they were sitting in the cafe-at the same table where Kat had squared off with David, it turned out-Kat stirred sugar into her decaf and said, "Okay, spill it."

Miranda was no longer fuming but she was still gravely irate, and she lacked her husband's ability to put on a poker face. "It's nothing."

"Oh, bulls.h.i.+t."

Miranda smiled. "Yeah, okay."

"Come on, Your Majesty." Kat took a drink of her coffee and made a face; without caffeine it just wasn't the same. "This is a no-c.r.a.p zone, here at this table. I am officially your No-c.r.a.p Friend."

A sigh. "I told you about all the other Pairs coming to visit, right? The one that's here now is a complete d.i.c.k. He has slave girls, Kat-what do I do about that?"

"Slave girls? For real?"

"Yes. They're being kept against their will-at least Faith thinks so. I could offer them asylum, but that could cause a rift between the South and the Northeast, and David says that would come back to haunt us-this b.a.s.t.a.r.d has powerful friends. But I can't just sit back and do nothing, can I?"

"Wow." Kat sat back, staring at her friend. "Your life is just f.u.c.king weird now, you know that?"

She grinned. "Yes, I do. And I have this feeling it's just going to keep getting weirder."

"I can guarantee that," Kat replied, slowly turning her coffee cup in her hand. "Look, Mira, I've counseled run-away teens and battered wives. I've taught English to Afghani women fleeing the Taliban. But when a vampire Queen comes to me and says some vampire b.a.s.t.a.r.d is keeping slaves, I have to be honest: I have no idea what to say."

Miranda chuckled and shook her head. "Remember when the worst thing that could happen was getting knocked up at a frat party?"

Kat swallowed hard, looking down at her cup, her insides knotting up before she could force her emotions back down again. d.a.m.n it, if- Too late.

"Hey," Miranda said, staring at her keenly, "what's wrong?"

Kat still didn't meet her eyes. "Quit doing that psychic thing on me."

"I'm not. I promise. I've just gotten a lot better at reading people. It's . . . part of the job, I guess. You've been weird all night, not just now. It's your turn to spill it."

"It's not important," Kat said, surprised at the spark of anger in her own voice. "Just a human problem."

Miranda didn't snap back at her or even show that she heard the last statement. Kat remembered what she'd said about being empathic, that words didn't always matter and she could feel the truth underneath them, even without trying. It was what had driven her crazy before.

Miranda reached over and grabbed Kat's hand, then sucked in a breath. "Holy s.h.i.+t."

Kat s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand back. "I told you not to do that!"

"I'm sorry," Miranda said. "I just wanted to be sure. I keep myself s.h.i.+elded and I'm not used to picking things up from mortals, but you're different. You're my friend."

Kat did something completely out of character and also completely embarra.s.sing. She burst into tears.

She felt Miranda s.h.i.+ft from the opposite side of the booth to sit by Kat and offer her shoulder. Kat buried her face in Miranda's neck, and Miranda murmured to her, stroking her back. It was as if she were putting off gentle waves of soothing heat, and if that was part of her mojo, well, Kat wasn't going to argue with it right now.

"Does Drew know?" Miranda asked.

"Not yet. He's in Beaumont at a conference. Due back in a few days." Kat wiped her eyes on her napkin and sat up, but Miranda stayed where she was, a solid presence that Kat wanted desperately to cling to until she wasn't so scared of drowning. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

Miranda didn't say anything at first, and Kat went on, "I have an appointment at the women's clinic Thursday for a consultation. I can go back a week later for the big suck . . . but . . ."

"You aren't sure," Miranda said. "Kat . . ."

"I mean, I have a house, and I've got money from Dad's estate-not piles of it, but I do okay. And Drew might be a good dad. But I'm . . . G.o.d, Mira, how could this happen? I'm on the f.u.c.king pill!"

Miranda had an odd look on her face, at once gravely attentive and miles away, as if she were listening to two conversations at once. Her fingers were still curled around Kat's arm, and they were suddenly hot as she stared off into s.p.a.ce.

"Kat . . ." she said softly, "cancel the appointment."

"Wait, I'm not just going to-"

"I'm not telling you to keep it." Miranda cut her off gently but insistently. "I'm saying wait. Give it two weeks. Talk to Drew. You've got a little time to decide . . . I know what you've always said you'd do, but just wait. Just a little while. I promise it will be okay."

Kat gaped at her, her panic momentarily forgotten. "What the h.e.l.l are you looking at?"

Miranda's eyes cleared, and she blinked and took her hand away. She looked, and sounded, as rattled as Kat felt. "I don't know. Nothing like that has ever happened before."

She moved back across the booth, and Kat was able to breathe again. "Well, it was creepy."

"Yeah." Miranda looked a little dizzy and leaned her forehead in her hands for a minute before looking up at Kat. "But take my advice, Kat. Wait. n.o.body's going to force you to do anything you're not a hundred percent sure about . . . but make sure you're a hundred percent sure."

Kat swallowed and nodded, grabbing her gla.s.s of water and gulping down half of it out of sheer nerves. "Okay."

Miranda nodded. "Good." She pushed her hair back from her face, seeming a little nervous about the whole thing, but when she spoke again it was with conviction. "No matter what happens, Katmandu, I'm here for you. We'll figure this out."

Kat mustered a smile for her. As weird as Miranda's psychic fade-out had been, there was still something incredibly comforting about having gotten the truth out-just knowing someone else knew was a load off her shoulders. If it had been a year ago, Miranda's rea.s.surance wouldn't have been very rea.s.suring, because she had been bats.h.i.+t insane and teetering on the edge of oblivion, but now . . . Kat might not know much at the moment, but she knew that if Miranda said something would happen, G.o.d himself would buy a ticket to watch it go down.

She was the Queen of Shadows, after all.

A woman's duty was to serve her man. She must be quiet and dutiful, obedient, accommodating. She must defer to him in all things, for he knew best, as was ordained by G.o.d Almighty when Adam first bade Eve to lie beneath him in the Garden.

Cora stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the Haven while Prime Hart grunted and swore above her, her mind in the soft dark corner she had long ago created for it, a place where she was dimly aware of what her Master was doing, but it was only her body that he was invading, and she, Cora, was safe, watching from far away. There was only so far she could go, but every inch of distance was a treasure to her, and there she waited once again while he shuddered and burst hot and cruel into her body.

Sated, he rolled off her, and the cool air of the room intruded; she felt it most on her damp thighs and the forever-trembling skin of her fingers. All the girls shook. They shook because they were weak . . . because they were women, and women were weak. Cora imagined Eve trembling as Adam ground his hips into hers, wondered if the first woman had felt the shame of it as she gathered her scattered fig leaves and stumbled to the stream to wash that first fallen seed from her. Did she feel dirty afterward, as the earth was dirty, fallen, made of dung and the sticky leavings of men?

There were nine women-girls, he called them, and not ever by name, only as "you" or "girl" or "wh.o.r.e"-in Hart's harem, and they had been gathered as thoughtfully as a collector might gather works of art; each one was chosen for specific attributes, so that when he wanted a buxom blonde, he had one, and when he wanted an exotic African slave girl, he could dress Naomi in silks and make her dance for him.

Cora had been chosen for her dark hair and her olive skin, neither of which she really had anymore. She remembered, sometimes, the feel of the Italian sun on her arms, the wind lifting her hair as she ran, laughing, through her father's fields, past the lemon trees, among the twisted olive branches.

So long ago.

Hart pushed himself up off the bed and walked out of the room without a parting word. He had his own room for sleeping and came into the smaller room of the suite only when he wanted a girl. He had brought four this time, and though the servants at his Haven acted like it was some kind of honor, all the girls who got to stay behind were relieved and grateful for a few days' peace.

Cora wasn't certain they all understood what they were. They were so young when he brought them in, and he forced his will upon their memories as he forced himself into their bodies. Few of them remembered where they had come from. All they knew was the stabbing pain of penetration, the burn of knees too long on the floor and a jaw cramping from being held open too long. They knew pulled hair and bruises, bite marks, whips, costumes. Hart was creative in his l.u.s.ts. He'd dressed her as a nun more than once and defiled her while she recited the Hail Mary to him.

She turned onto her side for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the furtive movements of the others where they were all positioned around the room on the floor waiting to join her on the bed they would all share to sleep.

There was a routine to this. Hart came into the room and pointed at one of them. He gave his orders. The girl of choice did as she was told for however long he lasted, and when he was done, he would leave them alone. The others made sure she fed first when the bottle came around. They tended to each other, not out of any particular kindness, but because they were glad it wasn't them this time.

No one spoke of this. It was possible Cora was the only one who thought of anything more than the gnawing hunger that was as much a part of them as the length and thickness of the Master's shaft. Perhaps they even enjoyed it; she didn't know. They didn't talk about it. They didn't talk much at all.

She was making them uncomfortable lying there, not moving. More than once he had killed a girl and they'd had to wrap her body in the soiled sheets and lay her in the hallway for the servants to burn. But this was not their Haven, and the Master would be more discreet. There was something he wanted here.

Cora slowly, painfully climbed off the bed and drew herself erect, refusing to lurch and hobble. There was so little dignity for them, she clung to whatever shreds she could catch. There, too, she was strange to the others. She walked to the bathroom, coaxing her legs through the steps it took to get there, and closed herself in silently to wash away any trace of her Master.

The new girls usually cried the first few times. Not yet suffering the effects of having too little blood, they still remembered enough about life to know that they were being violated. No one offered them comfort; there was no point. They might as well learn to bear it. It was going to happen again, and again, in a hundred different ways, until they were so used up that they simply lay down and died. Cora had seen it.

In fact, she had seen it two days before they left their Haven. The long-limbed redhead, Shannon, had been there longer even than Cora, surviving continual starvation and abuse until one night when the Master had been dissatisfied with her and beat her until she was still. Cora had tried to feed her, but she refused to drink. Even so, it took two days for her to die, and the last day she was moaning, delirious with fever, her body rotting from within. Their kind could not sicken unless they were so incredibly weak that their healing ability shut down.

Cora cleaned herself up and brushed her once-abundant hair, which had started falling out this past year. She imagined that she had perhaps another decade before she followed Shannon. She could always stop feeding, but he would notice. The ones who died were permitted to do so because he was tired of them. He had yet to tire of Cora. In fact, sometimes it seemed he reserved a special kind of viciousness for her, as if he had noticed her strangeness and wanted to punish her for it.

She left the bathroom and took the garment that had been thoughtfully left for her on the chair by the door. The others had curled up on the bed. The bed here was larger than the one they had at home, with a mattress that was new and soft, comforting to joints that had no layer of fat to protect them. She curled up on her side again, running her hands over her body, cataloging how many ribs she could count, how far her hip bones protruded.

There was a knock at the door, and she watched the Master's servant, Jones, pa.s.s through the room. He was a eunuch, and mute-whether his silence was the result of a natural disability or the Master had cut out his tongue for some perceived offense, Cora would never know.

He opened the suite door and one of the Haven servants, a plump woman in the livery of this territory, smiled generously and said, "Good evening. I've brought the blood you requested . . . are you sure it's enough?"

Jones nodded and took the tray from her; on it were a single plastic bag of blood and four gla.s.ses. The servant looked perplexed but didn't make an issue of it, and left.

Jones was fed on a different schedule, and as a man, he was given more. He set the tray down and poured out their servings, then came around and handed each a gla.s.s.

The new girls always guzzled, but then they realized there was no more coming, and Cora watched the hunger drive them slowly mad until it simply ceased to matter. It was one way in which the Master brainwashed them; the haze of starvation was a mind killer. Sometimes if they performed well he would give them extra as a treat. The veterans learned to sip tiny bits over the course of an hour or more, savoring it, making it last.

Cora dipped her finger in her gla.s.s and touched the blood to her lips, then licked. It was human, which was nice. They didn't always get human. If the Master thought they were being too energetic, he switched them to rats for a while.

She looked over at Naomi, whose eyes were huge and white in her dark face. Cora remembered Naomi when she was new, before her eyes had sunken. She had been so beautiful. Stunning, even. Cora had stared at her for hours, just loving the way she moved and the liquid brown of her eyes. Twenty years later it was all gone and there was a skeleton left . . . all that remained after the girl had decayed.

Why am I different?

She'd first started seeing it about five years earlier. She'd begun to have thoughts . . . sinful thoughts, violent thoughts. Once, as the Master shoved his d.i.c.k into her mouth, she imagined biting down hard enough to sever it. She imagined him screaming in agony, and her stomach clenched with hatred. It had been so long since she had felt anything, she had been sick afterward.

She began to question things. She began to think about Adam and Eve. Had Adam beaten his helpmeet? Used her body whenever he'd liked-whether or not she was a willing partic.i.p.ant? That first creation of G.o.d . . . the truest example of what a man should be like, fundamentally, before culture and history had even come to be . . . had Eve been free to speak? G.o.d had commanded her to lie beneath him. But had he commanded her to let him grind her beneath his heel?

Cora knew another story.

Once, when she was a child, a man came to her father's house-her father had called him a Jew. He had told fanciful, even blasphemous stories to the children when there were no adults in earshot. The land he had come from was rich in stories, overflowing with stories, and she drank them deeply.

In his land there was another woman, one before Eve. She was flawed, sinful, proud. She refused to lie beneath her husband. She wanted him to lie beneath her. She left the Garden and became a demon, eating the souls of young boys, causing men to think l.u.s.tful thoughts. The Jews made signs against her, said prayers. She was evil and to be feared.

Cora liked her.

She had forgotten that story, and that wicked woman, for a great many years. But something had made her remember . . . only hours ago. Something had brought that story, the story of the Lilith, back to her.

No, not something. Someone.

Cora had seen the Lilith. She had beheld that terrifying beauty, mother of serpents. She had seen her walking the halls of this very place. She walked with purposeful steps, clad in black, and the wild snakes of her hair were the color of blood. She did not lower her eyes to men. She was not obedient or quiet. Men followed her, bowed to her.

Here, the Lilith was named Miranda, and she was Queen.

Cora had seen her for only a few seconds, but her image was burned into Cora's mind, a study in fire and iron.

Queen.

Every time Cora thought of her, she began to shake inside, sometimes so hard it made her head hurt. That thought made Cora remember those long-ago days in the fields, running, laughing, her muscles pumping hard and her cheeks rosy with health. What would this Queen do if the Master commanded her to lie down? Cora knew she would not obey. But how could that be? How could a woman simply . . . say no? Did her Prime let her feed whenever she wanted? How did she not go wild, then, and lose her soul to the devil?

Perhaps she already had. But d.a.m.nation, Cora realized with a spinning feeling in her mind, would almost certainly be better than this.

She would never know what changed. She would never understand how, in that moment, lying there with her finger in her mouth sucking the last traces of blood from beneath her nail, she would suddenly look around the room at the pathetic bones of what had once been sweet young girls and her heart would throw itself around the inside of her chest with so many emotions she couldn't breathe. She would never recall precisely what it was, what wanton thought pa.s.sed through her mind, that pushed her up off the bed, ignoring the screaming pain in her joints and muscles, and to her feet.

The others were staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. In a way that was true. They all so rarely looked at each other; it had taken her a decade to realize that Suzette had blue eyes. But they were looking at her now, frightened that her bizarre behavior would bring the wrath of h.e.l.l down on them.

Cora didn't stumble, nor did she hesitate. She went to the door and opened it.

There was a guard outside, a tall man with coloring not dissimilar to her own. He was dressed in the uniform of the Signet warriors of this territory, so different from the see-through wisp of gauze she had worn every day for eighty-one years.

"May I help you, Miss?" the guard asked in English.

She knew little of the language, but she had picked up enough from the other girls that she could say, haltingly, "Please . . . please help me. I . . . please . . . I must see the Queen."

Four.

When ordinary couples fought, they stood face-to-face in kitchens and living rooms. They started out discussing, then moved on to arguing, then shouting. Even in a reasonably healthy relations.h.i.+p sometimes tempers flared and things got broken: A dish might be slammed thoughtlessly on the counter, a pillow thrown into a vase, or, on rare occasions, a fist put into a wall.

When David and Miranda fought, swords were involved.

Faith watched the whole scene with a morbid fascination akin to watching Mt. St. Helens erupt on television in 1980. She was standing at a safe distance on the edge of the practice ring, and thankfully there weren't any other Elite hanging around this time. Usually at least a few liked to eavesdrop on the Prime and Queen sparring, to see if they were really as good as rumored to be.