Part 12 (1/2)
She stared out, hand to her mouth.
It was so beautiful.
The hallway was on the second floor, looking out over a garden labyrinth and beyond it, a forest. The stars were burning in their diamond finery, and by the half-moon's light she could see deer picking at the outermost shrubs. The garden was full of night-blooming flowers, and though she didn't know their names, some were familiar, whispering to her of a long-lost life lived on gra.s.sy hillsides, punctuated with youthful laughter and the sound of cows lowing in the distance.
Cora stood there staring at the world, her mind whirling, her heart so full it hurt, for a long time. She watched owls swoop down from the trees to s.n.a.t.c.h small creatures from the gra.s.s. She watched a buck with gleaming silver antlers make his regal way along the edge of the wood. She watched the stars turn, and she wept with silent joy.
She was so absorbed in witnessing the night that she didn't hear footsteps, but she felt someone move up beside her.
She shrank back, turning, ready to run-or try to run, whatever her body would let her do.
”Don't be afraid,” he said softly. ”I won't hurt you.”
Now, instead of staring at the window, she stared at him.
He was a young-looking, slender vampire, stranger than anything she had ever seen at the Master's Haven. He had an angelic face run through in several places with silver rings, and his hair was dark; he wore a short-sleeved s.h.i.+rt that showed tattoos covering both of his arms from wrist to shoulder. On one side was an angel with a sword; on the other, a winged demon holding a dove.
She saw the amulet around his neck, this one glowing faintly emerald green, and she swallowed hard around her fear, dropping painfully to her knees.
”Forgive me, Sire,” she whispered.
”For what?” he asked curiously.
”I did not avert my eyes.”
He made a disgusted noise and muttered something about a d.i.c.kless b.a.s.t.a.r.d, then gently lifted her chin with his hand so their eyes met. ”Never avert your eyes to anyone, Cora,” he told her. He spoke nearly flawless Italian save for the lingering traces of some lilting accent. ”Now, get up.”
She obeyed, wiping her eyes.
He joined her at the window, looking out as she had. ”This place is magnificent,” he said, maintaining his distance but speaking to her casually. ”I wish my own Haven had a tenth of its beauty.”
Cora swallowed again and asked, haltingly, ”Where do you live, my Lord?”
”California. I think you'd like it; our home reminds me a lot of Italy.”
”How . . . how did you know my name?”
He smiled. ”I heard all about you from Prime Solomon and his Queen. Your room is down the hall from ours.”
”Your Queen is here with you?”
”My Consort,” he corrected. ”His name is Jonathan.”
”Oh . . .” She suddenly knew who he was; she had heard the Master ranting about him, his deviant ways, his perversions . . . he had made him out to be some kind of twisted monster, not . . . like this. ”You are Prime Deven.”
”I am. It's a pleasure to meet you, Cora.”
He took her hand and kissed it lightly, and she blushed. It was the most courtesy a man had ever shown her. She had been so afraid of the Prime of the South, but this Deven was different; she knew by instinct that he had no interest in doing the things to her that Hart had done, no interest in touching any woman out of rage or l.u.s.t. It was comforting.
”My Master hates you,” she said.
Deven chuckled. ”I know. It gives me such pride, as does knowing I could tear his limbs off with one hand. He likes to think he's strong, but if he were half as powerful as he claims to be, he would have laid me low long ago. He knows he can't. And, Cora . . . he isn't your master now. You are a free woman, your own master.”
Cora digested this for a moment, but it left her feeling shaky in her stomach, panicky. ”What am I to do?” she whispered.
”Nothing, for now,” he told her. There was such caring in his eyes, which in the darkness glittered like amethysts. ”For now, concentrate on becoming strong and healthy. The Pair will let you stay as long as you want to, no questions asked. You're safe under their care.”
”Why is everyone here so kind to me?” she blurted, then felt her cheeks growing even more scarlet. ”I'm no one. I don't matter to anybody.”
Deven put his hand on her face, and she felt warmth and strength flowing into her body that helped her stand a little straighter and get her tears under control.
Standing there with his palm touching her skin, she felt something . . . something stirred in her, and an image flashed in her mind's eye: She saw a young man with deep violet eyes and auburn hair, standing at the edge of a wood with one hand on the trunk of a tree, smiling at her . . . no, not at her . . . at Deven. The image was gone as soon as it came, and she had no idea how to interpret it, or if it was in any way real.
”You matter,” he said, startling her out of her mental tumble. ”I a.s.sure you, you do. As to why . . . well, I can tell you that the Prime and Queen are both good people, very protective of those who cannot protect themselves. At heart that is why the Signets exist, but most of us have forgotten that. And, Cora . . . I don't have the level of sight that my Consort has, but I know one thing: You have work to do in this world. I know it.”
She was shaken by what she had seen-and all the more by his words-but she had a feeling, deep in her belly, that she shouldn't speak of it. Not yet. ”You do?”
He smiled again. ”Yes, I do. Now . . . will you be able to find your room again, when you're ready to rest? It's just around this corner, five doors down on the right. And if you go another two doors and cross the hall, you'll find us. We'll be here a few days, so if you need anything, you need only come ask.”
Sniffling, she nodded. ”Thank you, Sire.”
He stepped back and bowed. ”Good night, young one.”
Cora wiped her eyes one last time on the sleeve of her jacket, then turned back to the window, where she stayed until her legs could barely hold her up, then made her slow way back to her room, smiling.
”Wait, wait . . . you're telling me David had a boyfriend?”
Miranda nodded. ”More like a husband, really. And he's a total jacka.s.s.”
”Wow.” Kat leaned back in her chair, watching Miranda wriggle into the black vinyl corset top, shaking her head in disbelief. ”That's crazy. I mean, yeah, he's a little swishy, but-”
”You think David's swishy?” Miranda asked, pausing, a bit out of breath from trying to get the d.a.m.n thing zipped. ”I never noticed that.”
”It's nothing in particular, just a . . . quality.”
”Well, I had no idea. The whole thing completely caught me by surprise.” Miranda pulled the top into place, then leaned over to wiggle her b.r.e.a.s.t.s into it properly. ”Is it wrong that I feel weird about it?”
Kat made a face. ”Mira, of course you feel weird. Think about it: In relations.h.i.+ps we form concepts of people based on their behavior and what we know about their histories. Those concepts can be accurate or not, and they can be healthy or not, but regardless, if something shakes them, it shakes us, too. You knew David one way, and it turns out that way wasn't entirely on target, so now you have to adjust. Given how close you are, that makes it even harder.”
Miranda faced her friend. ”Well?”
Kat frowned, eyeing the outfit. ”I liked the first one better-the red lace brings out your eyes, makes the green more intense.”
Miranda wished for a moment that she could see herself; instead she was in a dressing room with a curtain pulled over the mirror and Kat there to critique her. She'd never really liked shopping, and she liked shopping for stage clothes even less. Luckily she trusted Kat's judgment. ”You're right. Let me try the other one with these pants-if I can get the pants zipped. Jesus, Goth girls are skinny. At least I've got an a.s.s.”
”And a killer rack,” Kat commented. ”Especially in that getup.”
Miranda ran her hands down over her torso to smooth the s.h.i.+rt, which wasn't a real corset; she couldn't wear a real one onstage and sing the way she did. There were also limits to the cleavage she could manage with a guitar hanging over her middle.
”I'll bet that there are much more disturbing things in David's past than a jerk boyfriend.” Kat returned to the subject, handing her back the first top. ”He's three hundred fifty years old, after all. And he probably didn't get where he is by being nice.”