Part 35 (1/2)

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.