Cora felt her rage rising up through her body, and she welcomed it. She let it wash through her, and
pushed
, screaming,
“NO!”
The Shepherd burst into flame.
He shrieked, trying to bat the flames out on his clothes, but they leapt up over him too fast, and the fire consumed him. The Signet tumbled out of his hand and hit the floor.
Cora felt the men behind her drop their grip, and she spun around toward them,
pushing
.
All four ignited at the same time. They ran for the exits, screaming, but didn’t reach them before they were completely immolated. Meanwhile all of the other soldiers were shoving each other, fighting their way out of the room in a panic, while each pew went up in flames as they cleared it.
The more she pushed, the easier it was, and soon she was surrounded by fire, the intense heat like balm on her skin. She breathed in the heat, loving how it felt, what it promised.
“Cora!”
She turned to see Jacob trying to jerk his arms hard enough to break the chains. She came back to herself and ran over to what remained of the Shepherd’s body and, not far away, found a ring of keys he had dropped next to his knife, and Jacob’s Signet. The latter she shoved into the pocket of the coat she still had on, and she kept the knife in her hand as well while she unlocked the shackles.
Unchained, Jacob sat up but wavered; he’d lost a lot of blood. It was a pity he couldn’t just drink it back and be fine again—he would need a live human.
But she was not about to leave that bowl there for them to use in their unholy games.
One last push, and the blood began to burn.
“Come on,” she said, shouting to be heard over the din of screaming and the roar of the flames. She pulled Jacob along with her, past the crowd of soldiers trying to organize themselves to put out the fire, down the hall, running until she saw an
Exit
sign in one of the corridors.
Jacob threw himself at the door, and it shuddered and opened. Thankfully, it was dark out—the whole escape would have been cut very short if it were still daylight. In the distance, as they ran, she could hear sirens approaching the building.
They ran as fast as they could until Jacob’s blood loss caught up with him and he had to stop and rest. She helped him sit down on a bench and started looking around for suitable prey.
She felt his eyes on her and looked down into his face.
“What the hell did you just do?” he asked. He was staring at her like she had become some new, wild creature . . . and in fact, she felt like a wild creature. She was thankful he wasn’t afraid of her. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“I do not know,” she answered, sitting down next to him. “I was angry . . . they were hurting you. I wanted them to stop.”
“Does that always happen when you get good and pissed off?”
She smiled a little. “No . . . I do not remember the last time I was good and pissed off . . . at least, not enough to hurt people.” She took his hand. “No one has ever tried to harm you in front of me before . . .” Something new and strange had taken root in her, and she concluded, the fire now in her voice, “. . . and no one ever will again.”
The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and she began to wonder herself:
What had she just done?
Suddenly, she remembered her recurring dream . . . the raven woman . . . those last few words:
You guard the heat of a will on fire . . . just let it burn.
• • •
So Cora was a firestarter.
That was a new one.
David set his phone aside and put his face in his hands for a moment, sweet relief breaking through the storm clouds. At least something had ended well.
Aside from reeling at Cora’s gift suddenly waking up, and grieving when David told them what had happened in Sacramento, they were completely unhurt. The California Elite searching the city for them also found Vràna—the Nighthound had returned to where her mistress had been taken and was, apparently, sitting there the entire time, waiting for her to return.
Olivia was the only one of the Circle who had gotten home without incident. He could tell she felt guilty. When he told her the news, she had offered to come to Texas and do . . . whatever she could, which unfortunately was nothing.
There was nothing anyone could do.
His phone rang, and he leaned back with a sigh. “Lieutenant Murdoch—report.”
“Most of the territory is quiet, my Lord Prime, except Los Angeles—two warring gangs have taken advantage of the situation and are tearing each other apart all over the city. Our numbers simply aren’t great enough to put them all down.”
“Are these gangs only fighting each other, or have they become violent toward the local population?”
“Only each other so far, my Lord.”
“Well, then, let them kill each other. If the conflict spills out into the Shadow District as a whole or threatens the human citizens, I’ll pull more swords from Seattle—work on keeping it contained, and let me know the second anything changes.”
“As you will it, Sire.”
After they hung up, David rubbed his forehead wearily. He rose from his chair and left the workroom without doing whatever it was he’d intended to do when he got there. There wasn’t much point—he couldn’t focus. Neither of them could.
It’s only been a few days. Give it time.
He returned to the suite and hung up his coat. It had been a long night, after a sleepless day; aside from fielding phone calls from half the Council, he was trying to coordinate cleanup and recovery efforts, and there was also the little matter of having become, essentially, Prime of half the United States.
The West and the South were adjacent, so for the time being, he had taken control of all of it. That way the West wouldn’t degenerate into all-out war; he kept the Elite organized like they already were, reallocating a few of his own from some of the less populated areas of the South and putting them under Lieutenant Murdoch’s command. His reputation would hold things together . . . for now.
That was what most of the calls were about. The Council didn’t care who had died; they just didn’t like what he was doing. They considered the Western Signet dead. He should by their rules let the West descend into chaos until a new regime arose. Instead, he was breaking the rules, presuming that he had the authority to simply claim someone else’s territory and, in their words, create his own empire.
He had told them, one by one, with the exception of those two or three whom he still respected, to fuck off in no uncertain terms. After all of their denials, even with the evidence staring them in the face, they still refused to believe that mere humans could be a real threat. Even though Jacob Janousek was well liked in the Council, they pretended not to hear that he had been attacked, nearly killed. One of the most powerful Pairs on the planet had fallen, and they looked the other way.
It was a losing game, and up until now it was one he’d been willing to play.
He was done playing.
When Tanaka called with his condolences, David told him, “I’m sorry, old friend . . . if you ever need my help, you need only ask . . . but I hereby sever all ties with the Council. They’re on their own. They’ve made their bed . . . now they can die in it.”
Tanaka hadn’t been surprised at all. David sensed that a full-blown dissolution wasn’t far away, and that it might just be Tanaka himself who declared it. Even without Morningstar attacking them all directly, the Council was falling apart. He might have been impressed with how vampire history was unfolding if he could have summoned the energy to give a damn.
David crossed the room and knocked lightly on the far door. Rather than a verbal reply, the door opened a few inches by itself, and he slipped into the dark little room, closing the door behind him.
“Any change?” he asked.
Miranda shook her head. She was sitting on the bed, and surprisingly, Stella was with her. The young Witch was staring intently at the sleeping figure in the bed—doing something with her Sight, he realized.
David joined them, taking a spot at the foot of the bed. Miranda reached for his hand.
They had agreed as soon as they got home that the best thing would be to put Deven in the mistress suite for now. Neither of them wanted him to wake alone.
Miranda had hardly left his side all week. David knew it was as much guilt as it was worry. Jonathan had all but held a gun to her head, but still, she had chosen to act on her visions and do the unthinkable. She knew that she was violating Deven’s free will—he wanted to die, and denying him that when his Consort was dead was utterly monstrous. She knew what it was like to be left behind, her soul torn in two, but that hadn’t stopped her . . . and David was glad it hadn’t.
Stella opened her eyes, shaking herself a little. “Jesus,” she muttered. “I mean, just . . . Jesus.”
“What did you See?” Miranda asked.
The Witch looked down at Deven. “The matrix that Nico guy built . . . it’s beautiful. I’ve never seen magic like that in my life. The power it would take to make something like that is staggering. I don’t know how a mortal could possibly control that kind of power. It’s so elegantly crafted, it’s breathtaking . . . or, it was.”
Miranda nodded. “I figured as much.”
“The way it was designed, it ran on a sort of low-voltage current of Jonathan’s energy. But now . . . when you . . . when the bond broke, the matrix fractured and fell apart. There are pieces of it left that could possibly be repaired, but for the most part, it’s gone. So everything that was wrong before is wrong again—and his soul mate is dead. The kindest thing would be to kill him, but you can’t.”
“But we can’t go on like this,” David said. “He’s sucking both of us dry.”
“That’s mostly because of the shattered matrix—it’s still drawing power, but since it’s busted that power is leaking out all over the place. I think the first priority would be to plug those leaks; from there we can figure out your options.”
“Can you do that?” Miranda asked. “Plug them, I mean.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before. But I have to try, otherwise this is going to kill all three of you.” Stella stood up and stretched. “Let me do a little research—as soon as I have a useful idea I’ll let you know.”
“Stella . . .” Miranda looked reluctant to say anything but went ahead anyway. “Do you know anything about Speaking Stones?”
“I know that they’re used for a kind of benign blood magic, where the person doing the calling anoints the stone with blood, and it calls out to anyone with similar blood. Witches mostly use them for finding family members. It’s nearly impossible to do if you don’t know the person you’re calling. Why? Oh . . . right. You want to call Nico.”
“We know you can help,” the Queen told her. “But when it comes to actually fixing the bonds themselves . . .”
“You want to bring out the big gun. I totally agree. I’m not going to claim I can do more than I can do—like I said, I can probably stop the two of you from energetically bleeding to death, but you’re going to need a lot more firepower to fix the real problem.” Stella gave them a reassuring smile. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said. “I’m not giving up on you guys.”
She left, and he and Miranda just sat for a while. David kept searching Deven’s face, looking for any hopeful sign; he looked like he was in such pain, even unconscious.
Finally, she unfolded herself from her cross-legged position, groaning at how stiff she was. “I’ve got to get some sleep,” she said. “Would you take over for a while?”
“Of course.”
She kissed David gently and headed back into the suite for a shower and what he hoped would be a long nap. He was worn out, too, and if he was going to stay in here, he might as well try to rest.
He stretched out on the bed next to Deven and closed his eyes, laying one hand on Deven’s chest to feel his heartbeat. Once, long ago, they had slept that way every day—without intending to, each had sought out the other’s pulse, and they slept with palms against chests, hands curved around wrists or throats. An outsider would likely have thought they were trying to strangle each other. The irony hadn’t been lost on David.
He didn’t realize he’d drifted off until he felt something against him shift; his eyes snapped open, and he propped himself up on his elbow, looking down, watching for something, anything.
He hadn’t imagined it. One of Deven’s hands twitched. A moment later, his eyelashes fluttered and very slowly opened partway.
David’s heart clenched. Deven’s eyes were lifeless, lightless. He didn’t seem to know where he was at first, but eventually he turned toward David, who offered a tentative smile.
After what felt like an eternity, Deven managed to speak in a harsh whisper.
“Kill me.”
David looked away, eyes burning.
“If . . . if you really love me . . . don’t make me live like this. I’m done . . . I want to die. Please just let me die.”
David met his eyes again. “I can’t.”
“Please . . .”
“I can’t, Deven. You’re bound to us now. If you die, we die. We’re trying to find a way to fix it, but for now, at least . . . you’re ours.”
“But how . . . how could you do this to me? How could she . . . after what happened to you . . .”
“It wasn’t her idea,” David replied as gently as he could. “But how could either of us deny a last request, especially if it meant saving you?”
“Last request . . .” His eyes closed, tears starting to fall. “Oh God.”
“I’m sorry.”
David thought he was about to break down again, but after a moment he said, “Go away. Leave me alone . . . please just go away.”
“Dev—”
“Go!” Lightning seemed to flash in Deven’s eyes, and David knew what was coming before he saw the extended hand—a massive shove of power slammed into him and threw him off the bed, across the three or four feet of open space and hitting the wall hard enough to crack vertebrae.
“I’m not asking,” Deven snarled. “Get out.”
David pushed himself up off the floor, barely able to move through the pain in his back, but it was already healing as he got to his feet, retreating toward the suite door. He paused, wanting to say something—wanting to say so many things—but there was nothing he could say to make any of this better.