Read Online Of Shadow Born by Dianne Sylvan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dianne Sylvan
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suite.”
As she had when she went out to hunt, she concentrated only on taking one step and then another until she was back at the door again; now there were guards outside the way there always had been, and she could see light coming from underneath the door.
This time she had to open it.
She stood for a long time just inside the threshold, so many emotions hitting her at once that she went temporarily numb. It was a blessing, really—the numbness enabled her to move, to cross the room to her closet and pull out a change of clothes. She stripped off her shirt and jeans with shaking hands that felt nothing. The shirt she draped over a chair so she could have it washed for Stella. She tugged one of her own T-shirts over her head, put on her well-worn old yoga pants . . . but once the chore was done, she stood still again, staring around her yet not really comprehending the room.
Esther had built a small fire, not so much because of cold as to cheer up the space; she had also tidied things up a bit and turned down the bed.
Everything was so normal . . . as though, if she could turn her head fast enough, she would catch a glimpse of David in her peripheral vision, sitting at his desk or dozing off on the couch. Any minute now he would walk in, shake out his coat and hang it by the door, unbuckle his sword and hang it on the wall . . .
Miranda sank down on the bed, the shaking in her hands spreading up her arms and into her chest. She was so cold all of a sudden. She groped for a blanket with one hand and a pillow with the other, pulling the pillow up to her chest.
Instantly the smell overwhelmed her. Almond-scented soap, warm skin, the scent of wild immortality like the earth itself . . . she gripped the pillow to her, wrapping herself around it, burying her face in it, and the tears finally came.
Her sobs turned to screams, muffled by the pillow, long wails of desolation, her abandonment so complete she could barely draw breath. The sound wasn’t human, was far past hysteria; she screamed, and screamed, her entire being pushed under black water of a new kind, drowning her, stripping everything away from her but a loss she couldn’t understand . . . that she couldn’t survive. She wasn’t supposed to survive it. That one hope of peace had been taken from her, after everything else had been taken . . . what was left?
Gradually, so very gently, she felt something at the edge of her awareness, an offer of warmth given with nothing but love and shared pain. She felt a kiss of energy against her forehead, and that warmth spread through her body, calming the shaking, quieting her sobs. It had a softness to it like a shadow cast in moonlight, and there was something familiar about it she couldn’t place . . . but soon it solidified, and changed subtly into something else she knew . . . healing energy . . . arms around her.
Miranda took a gasping breath. This time she smelled whiskey, cologne, a faint wisp of hair dye, leather . . . and that same immortal edge, only deeper . . . older . . . and infinitely sadder.
She blinked and looked up into the lavender eyes. “Deven?”
He was holding her close, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her tight and protective like nurturing wings. “Easy, love,” he whispered. “Just rest and let me work.”
She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. All questions of blame, of guilt, were meaningless now; they had both, she understood now, lost their great love, though in different ways, and no one walking the earth could possibly understand what that felt like except another Signet bearer. His power enfolded her, not taking the pain away—that wasn’t in his power to do—but gentling it, giving her enough distance that she could breathe. She would still have to face it, learn to live with the great emptiness inside her . . . but for now, it didn’t claw at her so badly, didn’t leave her bleeding.
She wept still, but the panic
As she had when she went out to hunt, she concentrated only on taking one step and then another until she was back at the door again; now there were guards outside the way there always had been, and she could see light coming from underneath the door.
This time she had to open it.
She stood for a long time just inside the threshold, so many emotions hitting her at once that she went temporarily numb. It was a blessing, really—the numbness enabled her to move, to cross the room to her closet and pull out a change of clothes. She stripped off her shirt and jeans with shaking hands that felt nothing. The shirt she draped over a chair so she could have it washed for Stella. She tugged one of her own T-shirts over her head, put on her well-worn old yoga pants . . . but once the chore was done, she stood still again, staring around her yet not really comprehending the room.
Esther had built a small fire, not so much because of cold as to cheer up the space; she had also tidied things up a bit and turned down the bed.
Everything was so normal . . . as though, if she could turn her head fast enough, she would catch a glimpse of David in her peripheral vision, sitting at his desk or dozing off on the couch. Any minute now he would walk in, shake out his coat and hang it by the door, unbuckle his sword and hang it on the wall . . .
Miranda sank down on the bed, the shaking in her hands spreading up her arms and into her chest. She was so cold all of a sudden. She groped for a blanket with one hand and a pillow with the other, pulling the pillow up to her chest.
Instantly the smell overwhelmed her. Almond-scented soap, warm skin, the scent of wild immortality like the earth itself . . . she gripped the pillow to her, wrapping herself around it, burying her face in it, and the tears finally came.
Her sobs turned to screams, muffled by the pillow, long wails of desolation, her abandonment so complete she could barely draw breath. The sound wasn’t human, was far past hysteria; she screamed, and screamed, her entire being pushed under black water of a new kind, drowning her, stripping everything away from her but a loss she couldn’t understand . . . that she couldn’t survive. She wasn’t supposed to survive it. That one hope of peace had been taken from her, after everything else had been taken . . . what was left?
Gradually, so very gently, she felt something at the edge of her awareness, an offer of warmth given with nothing but love and shared pain. She felt a kiss of energy against her forehead, and that warmth spread through her body, calming the shaking, quieting her sobs. It had a softness to it like a shadow cast in moonlight, and there was something familiar about it she couldn’t place . . . but soon it solidified, and changed subtly into something else she knew . . . healing energy . . . arms around her.
Miranda took a gasping breath. This time she smelled whiskey, cologne, a faint wisp of hair dye, leather . . . and that same immortal edge, only deeper . . . older . . . and infinitely sadder.
She blinked and looked up into the lavender eyes. “Deven?”
He was holding her close, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her tight and protective like nurturing wings. “Easy, love,” he whispered. “Just rest and let me work.”
She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. All questions of blame, of guilt, were meaningless now; they had both, she understood now, lost their great love, though in different ways, and no one walking the earth could possibly understand what that felt like except another Signet bearer. His power enfolded her, not taking the pain away—that wasn’t in his power to do—but gentling it, giving her enough distance that she could breathe. She would still have to face it, learn to live with the great emptiness inside her . . . but for now, it didn’t claw at her so badly, didn’t leave her bleeding.
She wept still, but the panic
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