Shadowbound by Dianne Sylvan Read Free Book Online Page B

“We knew there would be consequences. We both accepted them to regain our life together.”
    She sat with her face in her hands for another minute, and he could feel her trying to balance two impossible lives, asking herself if the heavier one was worth its weight.
    Finally she lifted her head. Her face held sadness, but also the beginnings of determination—she was Queen. She would do what had to be done to fulfill her role in their world. Death had never stopped her before and it wouldn’t now. “Will you come with me? I don’t want to be alone.”
    “Of course I will.” He put his hands on her face and looked into her eyes, letting her see how much better he felt, how much better she would feel. They had work to do—work that might save far more lives than the two of them could end—and they couldn’t do it if they starved themselves into rabid animals. If it got to that point she would no longer know herself, or him; she would lose everything that made her Miranda and become a twisted thing with only one goal: to kill, over and over, until someone put her down.
    She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Okay.”
    He leaned in and kissed her, then reached over to hit the buzzer and ask Harlan to stop the car.
     • • • 
    Searing pain—a hot iron this time. “Confess!”
    He could hear the ragged ruin of his own voice, hoarse from screaming: “I’m not a demon. I never hurt anyone. I’m not a demon . . . please . . .”
    As the long hours passed and he still maintained his innocence, they grew impatient. Those hours, and the days and days before of torment and blood, were nothing, nothing, compared to the day they began crushing his hands . . . one finger at a time, then the palm . . . that was what would cause the systemic infection that only becoming a vampire could save him from. It was a kind of pain that would never leave him; seven hundred years later he would still wake screaming from phantom agony in both hands, and they would ache for hours afterward.
    “Confess!”
    The horrible, dull crunch of bones slowly breaking—
    Deven fought his way out of sleep with a cry of terror, striking out with all his strength . . . but the assailants were invisible, made only of memory.
    He’d been having nightmares about the past for seven centuries, but over the years they’d become more vague, events blurring into each other as the memories became less distinct. Having the Elf mucking about in his psyche had triggered something, though, and brought those memories roaring back. Usually having Jonathan next to him helped immeasurably; the Consort’s presence soothed him, gave him distance.
    Tonight Jonathan wasn’t in bed. That was a bit odd; Jonathan had been very diligent about staying with him as much as possible while he slept after the healing sessions. There must have been some sort of disturbance that called him away.
    Sunset had passed an hour ago, leaving the air in the Haven soft and faintly ocean-scented as the wind blew in from the coast. The metal shutters covering all the windows stood open, bathing the bedroom in a gentle blue light. Gradually, the cool air and peaceful silence carried away the nightmare.
    Finally, he climbed out of bed and found clothes. Most likely Jonathan had been roused by one of the Elite; he had been running himself ragged managing the territory while Deven slept off repeated Elf hangovers. Luckily Jonathan was an excellent organizer, leader, and strategist. Really, when it came down to the night-to-night work of the Signets, Deven was a bit on the useless side; he had always preferred . . . to . . .
    He paused, frowning, shirt halfway on.
    Something was different. Something . . .
    He held up his hands, rubbing them together—they felt different. They were stiff from clenching them hard in his sleep, and they felt . . . they felt .
    The fugue state he’d been walking around in had given way to sudden clarity: After weeks of feeling