Shadowstorm (The Shadow World Book 6) Page 2

  “I just have so much trouble concentrating…” Even as he said the words Nico’s voice became slightly slurred with sleepiness, and he became a greater weight against David’s shoulder. Some nights were better than others, but often it seemed almost like the Elf had been drugged. Tonight, he all but crawled into David’s lap, desperate for warmth and connection, and murmured, “Stay a little while…please.”

  “Of course I will. You rest. Let me move all of this off the bed.”

  He twisted so he could lay Nico down and then gathered up the books and set them on the bedside table where they usually were when not in use. David stretched out next to him, pulling him close again.

  “I’m sorry,” Nico murmured.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for, caraia.”

  Nico smiled, eyes closed. “Your accent is getting better.”

  “I’d be learning a lot faster if you didn’t distract me.”

  “Distract you how?”

  The Prime laughed quietly. “You should have warned me Elvish was so sexy.”

  “You have very interesting predilections, my Lord.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  David waited about twenty minutes after Nico had fallen asleep to gingerly untangle himself and leave the room. He told himself the delay was to make sure the Elf was all the way under, but he had learned the hard way not to deny having feelings for someone, and he had a lot…God, did he have a lot…for Nico.

  He certainly hadn’t owned up to it until Miranda had informed him quite bluntly that he wasn’t fooling anyone, not even himself—but he admitted openly now that he was…what was the word the Queen had used? Twitterpated.

  The realization had left him terrified, no longer knowing how to act around the Elf, or how to talk to Miranda about it. This kind of thing simply wasn’t in his wheelhouse—he’d learned a lot from his Queen about the heart, but his own was still a willful little bastard who spoke one of the few languages he didn’t. Miranda hadn’t been upset about his flirtation with Olivia—but his feelings for the Elf were much, much worse than mere attraction. That was a whole different beast, and not one he’d anticipated they would have to deal with yet. Sex could be negotiated, could be fit into a structure of rules; love, however, was its own master, and the master of all it lay down with. He couldn’t deny it, especially not to the strongest empath on the planet.

  Miranda had been right when she’d predicted his relationship with Olivia would stay at an affectionate friendship level, with neither really inclined to push things. They had the kind of close friendship both Primes desperately needed, and talked on the phone at least twice a week. He had missed that kind of friendship so much since Faith had died…but he had also learned from his mistakes, and had laid his attraction to Olivia out on the table as frankly as he could, insisting on mutual honesty.

  He only wished he could have done the same with Faith—pushed for open discussion, gotten things out, so that they could have dealt with them together and grown stronger as friends. It had worked with Olivia.

  He’d asked Miranda if she thought the same would happen with Nico.

  Miranda had snorted and gone back to her guitar.

  Those first few weeks before Nico’s strength had faded, David hadn’t really been aware of any growing attachment to the Elf, so he’d missed the opportunity to act on it. Nico no longer had the energy for sex…but that was just fine with David. He didn’t have to worry about things moving too quickly, and there was plenty of time for the Pair to figure out how they were going to deal with it.

  Before he left, he added another log to the fire and another blanket to the bed, and kissed Nico on the forehead. A smile flickered on the Elf’s lips, but he didn’t stir. For a centuries-old being, he looked so young and vulnerable. David let his index finger follow the line of the tattoo on Nico’s face, then moved away with a sigh.

  Then he returned to his own suite, where Miranda was awake and dressed. He had to pause and watch her for a moment before she acknowledged he was there—over their brief span of years together he’d seen her covered in blood and sweat after a battle, flushed and trembling after five hours of intense lovemaking, fierce and mesmerizing on stage with her guitar...but one of his favorite Mirandas was this one, freshly showered and wearing one of his t-shirts, wet hair held back in a large pronged clip that looked like it was on the verge of running for the hills. Her face was caught in concentration as she stared down at her laptop, the light from the screen making her green eyes glow. She always bit her lip when she was reading. Everything from her expression to the curve of her back made his heart turn somersaults.

  Next to her was the cat she had rescued two years ago, whom she was rubbing absently with her purple-polished toes. The grey tabby, no longer tiny and adorable but rather enormous and ill-tempered, ignored everyone but the Queen, though she acknowledged David on occasion if she was feeling magnanimous. They had a sort of détente in which he pretended not to notice when he woke up with a cat on his stomach, and the cat pretended not to know how she got there and walked off in a huff, digging her claws in when she jumped down for good measure.

  David hadn’t been thrilled when Miranda brought the cat home—even knowing how she had come to do so. The Queen hadn’t been able to heal anyone again since; that power seemed to be partly asleep, much the way Nico was constantly partly asleep. Once David explained that he didn’t really like cats, but if she really wanted the sorry little creature he’d learn to live with it as long as he didn’t have to deal with the litter box, Miranda had let him name the cat as a peace offering.

  She really should have known she’d regret it. She now had a cat named Jean Grey.

  “You can’t keep that shirt,” he said with a grin as he closed the door behind him. “It’s part of my fictional educational institutes collection.”

  Still looking at her screen, she smiled. “I know, I know.” She glanced down at the shirt, which boasted the crest of Ravenclaw House, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. “This one, the Jedi Academy, Starfleet Academy, Top Gun, Sunnydale High, Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters...oh, and the University of Gallifrey, which doesn’t exist.”

  “Well, none of them exist, that’s the point.”

  “You know what I mean, you dork!”

  He laughed, but his frustration from earlier crept into the sound. Miranda looked up, saw his face, and cringed sympathetically. “That bad?”

  He sighed and dropped into his chair. “I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “He’s strong,” she said. “He’ll make it through this…something has to give, and I don’t think it’ll be him.”

  “I don’t know where you get that much optimism.” He sat forward and leaned elbows on knees, shaking his head. “I want to think things can get better, but…I know Deven. He doesn’t get over things. He’s his own archenemy…and you know what he’s like in battle.”

  “Then we need to try something different,” she said. “If there’s any part of him that’s still alive on the inside, there has to be a way to reach it. Now that it’s been a few months since we tried, we might catch him off guard. Even if all we do is make a tiny crack, create a weak spot, maybe he’ll do the rest.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?”

  Miranda set aside her computer and pulled the cat onto her lap, who promptly rolled onto her back and stuck both back feet in the air, demanding belly scratches. “I don’t know,” she said. “We can start by figuring out what he’s doing every night. I know he’s going into town—Chris is driving him. She says he gets out at the same place every night, but knowing him he has her drop him off a long way from where he’s actually going. We can track his com from that point.”

  “And then we follow him?”

  “I will. Whatever he’s out there doing I want to get an empathic read on it. That might tell us where to go next.”

  “You’ll need to do it soon,” he pointed out. “You’ll be awfully busy after this wee
k.”

  Miranda’s second album had debuted at #1 on the charts and stayed there for weeks; her management had all but begged her to tour, so after a good deal of discussion she and David had decided she would go out for three weeks, playing in small intimate venues where security could be easily handled, with quick runs home every few days so they could rebalance their bond when necessary. The new jet was extremely fuel-efficient, so it wouldn’t be as impractical as the idea had been last time around. She’d stop off in the Haven cities of each of their territories while she was out and make her presence known. David had done much the same earlier in the year, but this would be the first time she’d been to all four.

  It was going to be arduous for them both, but Miranda was determined to do it for her fans, she said, the people who had given her such an amazing career. He had about a thousand misgivings, of course, but how could he argue with that kind of love?

  Needless to say she would have guards. Lots of guards. Every sword he could spare. The whole thing would be tightly coordinated from start to finish.

  Miranda grew silent, thoughtful, hands absently attending to the cat but her eyes on the fireplace, attention somewhere else. The last two years had been hard on her, though that deep inner well of strength she had found had yet to run dry, and despite the fact that her empathy should have made every moment torture, she seemed to be weathering the storm better than any of them.

  A chill ran through her, and she came back to the room. “What are you working on tonight?”

  “The new com system. I think it’s ready to road-test; I’ll just need volunteers.”

  Now she grinned—it was a rare enough expression these days that he felt warm from the inside out—and said, “Oh, sure—‘Who wants to be injected with a microchip like a pet poodle?’ You’ll have them lining up.”

  He grabbed the pillow they always threw at each other and mimed a toss, not wanting to risk the cat clawing Miranda’s thighs in fright. “Just wait. The idea of not having to wear a wristband anymore will appeal to them.”

  She held up her own wrist. “I don’t know...I’ll kind of miss it. But you’re right, it’s time for an upgrade…plus there’s something satisfying about using Morningstar’s transmitter technology against them.”

  “How about you? You’re home for the night, right?”

  A nod. Jean Grey stood up in the Queen’s lap, arched her back Halloween-cat-style, and hopped down onto the floor, taking a moment to weave around David’s legs and leave hair all over his pants before heading off to cushier napping pastures. Miranda, meanwhile, stretched as well, hands clasped and arms above her head. As she lowered her arms the clip fell out of her hair.

  “I need to work on the new arrangement for ‘Last Words.’ Oh, and I have a sparring session with Avi.”

  “You’ve had a few with him now—what do you think?”

  Miranda considered. “He’s good. Very good. He’s quiet, but the others respect him implicitly. He’s not the kind of leader who barks and bitches; a few words and everyone falls in line. As a teacher he’s not quite as solid, because he doesn’t really give enough feedback for beginners, but I think if he’s training more advanced warriors he’ll do fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. His technique is a thing of beauty. It’s enough like our style to fit in, but still his own. I heard such fantastic things from the Mossad I had to at least give him a shot.” David toyed with his Signet and asked, “Do you get anything from him empathically that we need to worry about?”

  “He’s got expert shielding. Apparently he’s run into empaths before; he’s actually trained to block out all but the most superficial sensory sweeps. But if you want my gut reaction...we need to keep him.”

  “Second material?”

  “Maybe.”

  It would be a tremendous relief to finally have a new Second. David had his eye on a woman who had joined the Elite only a couple of months before Avishai Shavit had shown up out of nowhere a year and a half ago with an impeccable resume and blown everyone in his training group out of the water. Extensive background checks were performed on all incoming Elite, but Avi received nothing but glowing praise from all of his references, most of whom were high-profile and not given to exaggeration. Once Avi and the other candidate had both proven themselves for a few months on patrols and other routine duties, David had promoted both to instructors—one of the best ways to know if someone was equipped for leadership was to watch them try to teach.

  If there was any hope of that, however, David needed to spend more time with both candidates. He knew finding another Faith was unlikely; she’d been a confidante as well as a right arm. But he had to at least trust his Second’s character as much as her skill. He needed to get to know them better.

  No time like the present. “I think I’ll drop by Intermediate Training and have a peek. I need to talk to him about heading up your security detail on the tour anyway.” He rose, bent to kiss the Queen on the forehead and nose. She smiled and nipped his lower lip.

  “You might want to change clothes,” the Queen pointed out. “I don’t think that outfit says ‘scary-ass megavamp and the boss of you’ so much as it says ‘yes I can fix your printer.’“

  David looked down at himself: barefoot, jeans, and a moderately ratty t-shirt emblazoned with ‘If you’re telekinetic and you know it, clap my hands.’ “Point taken.”

  Just like the Elite, his work clothes were black from head to foot, including the coat that was finally seasonally appropriate. The main difference was style and quality; everything he wore was hand-tailored, and a lot of his wardrobe was custom made. Miranda had laughed about him having a closet full of bespoke blue jeans until she’d had a pair made for herself. He’d always been something of a clotheshorse, but he hadn’t realized the full value of dressing the part until he got involved with the Signets.

  The ritual of arming himself was so old and familiar he could do it in his sleep…and had, a couple of times, when an emergency hauled him out of bed.

  He could feel the Queen’s eyes on him, and turned to her with a smile. “Better?”

  She gestured for him to come closer, and pulled his mouth down to hers. Kiss achieved, she reached up and ran her hands through his hair. “There. Scary and hot as hell.” Then, as he turned to go, she slapped him on the ass. “Now, go get ‘em, tiger!”

  Luckily for his image, he managed to stop grinning by the time he reached the training center.

  *****

  He tried everything.

  Drinking was unreliable. The intake had to be constant, yet not enough to pass out; it required too much supervision to stay drunk particularly when one had an Irish constitution and a vampire’s metabolism.

  There were places in every city where their kind could get high and stay that way for as long as they wanted, provided they could afford it. What he was looking for cost nearly five thousand dollars a night…but what was money for? What purpose did keeping it serve? There was always more to be made when one was a murder pimp. He was already a billionaire; five grand in a night was pocket change.

  Inquiries at the Black Door directed him to a place with no name, run by a woman who was called simply the Doctor.

  Having known David Solomon for decades the first thing that came to mind when he heard her title was “Time Lord,” but no matter—whatever she really was, the Doctor knew her patients’ needs and tended to them diligently.

  An unmarked door off a downtown alley led into an unadorned, dimly lit waiting area, where a bored vampire with tattoos all over her face signed patients in and alerted the Doctor to their presence. The Doctor, or one of the other trained staff, beckoned to whomever was next, leading him or her down a long hallway lined with curtained rooms—cubicles, more like, as they were about the size of a typical urban clinic exam room.

  Passing each room, there was no telling what sort of sounds one would hear. There was a marker at the doorway with three designations—one for vacant, one for private, and one
for “open to guests.”

  His kind of money earned a private room. Regardless, he was always stared at when he bypassed the waiting area; he kept his Signet hidden, but even here, addicts weren’t a sophisticated or particularly hygienic lot. They were trying to escape reality, deny the physical world; there weren’t just a whole lot of junkies wearing John Varvatos, and even fewer who walked like a Prime.

  He took the same room every time, on the end at the left. It was mostly taken up by a hospital bed draped with disposable exam paper. There was a small fridge with various beverages to combat dry mouth or sobriety, a sink, and a low cabinet containing basic medical supplies, but other than that, the only other furnishings were an IV stand and volumetric pump.

  The Doctor had a businesslike manner and wasn’t much on conversation, which pleased him. She carefully pulled back the tape that kept the cannula in his arm from dislodging—he kept it concealed beneath his sleeve when he had to be back at the Haven. A human couldn’t keep an IV in the same place for more than three days, but a vampire could go for up to two weeks before the body pushed it out.

  She hung a bag of what was labeled saline, and was mostly saline, on the stand and entered a time and rate on the pump. The Doctor and her associates—a network of chemists, dealers, and clinicians—ran a large and high-tech lab creating purified solutions specifically for the Shadow World, and they were very, very good at their craft. Within a few moments of her switching the pump on, he could feel a slow but steady drizzle of vampire-grade heroin snaking its way through his veins.

  It was a delicious high, near-total oblivion. One bag would last nearly six hours.

  For months, it worked perfectly. For most of the night, depending on how long it took to get through Austin traffic to and from the Haven, he could simply…stop. Occasionally he’d hand his credit card to the Doctor and stay all day too, but she warned him against doing that often; vampire systems acted the same way human systems did, gradually needing more and more of the drug. Her recommendation was to take a night off every week to ten days, let the needle wound close, and then start over.