Free Of Shadow Born by Dianne Sylvan Page A

what to do, Deven. What am I supposed to do?”
    He reached for her again, pulling her close, and again she was surprised at how safe she felt in his arms, above and beyond the thought that he could easily disembowel anyone who tried to hurt her without breaking a sweat. He just felt . . . something about him . . . she wished she knew what to call it, but the closest word she knew was holy . Strange that things between them had changed so much since they’d met.
    They settled into the pillows quietly, as morning rose from the ashes of the night, and between her absolute exhaustion and the gentle waves of energy he kept bathing her with, Miranda drifted off into sleep, feeling safe—not just that, feeling loved —for the first time in many days.
    * * *
    A week of nights seemed to float by in a watercolored blur. Miranda slept, woke, fed, and moved from one activity to another in a dream state, listening to Jonathan’s advice about reorganizing the Elite, letting Deven fill her in on what they’d learned about Jeremy Hayes, hearing the patrol leaders report on the continued quiet that held Austin in its fragile hands. She barely remembered, from moment to moment, what she was supposed to be doing and could hardly carry on a conversation for more than a few minutes without her attention simply . . . fading away.
    Deven and Jonathan watched her falter and decided between them, without even having to discuss it, that Jonathan would manage the military and Deven would manage Miranda herself. Back in California Jonathan was the one to whom their Second reported; Deven had to split his time between the Haven and the Red Shadow, so it was easier to let the Consort handle organization and leave things like weapons training to Deven.
    It would take Jonathan only a few days to establish a temporary new chain of command for Miranda that could run without a Second for the near future; the choice of a Second wasn’t something to rush unless a suitable candidate was already clear, and no one stood out in Miranda’s mind. For now, the best thing was to delegate the Second’s duties to the lieutenants and have them all report to Miranda every night in a group briefing. Once she got a better idea of who might work as a Second, she could shift back to the old way of running things.
    They were lucky David had organized everything so relentlessly; the outer cities of the territory could continue to run without any changes, except that they reported to the Haven lieutenants now instead of to Faith. David had structured his Elite with care so that they didn’t need micromanagement on his part, and as far as Deven could see he had chosen his second tier of lieutenants very well. If Miranda was very lucky, there wouldn’t be too much trouble.
    As the nights passed, however, Deven began to realize that lucky was not a word he would use to describe the surviving Queen . . . in fact, neither was survivor .
    Had she been a human woman, the loss of her husband so suddenly and so young would have likely destroyed her, at least for a year or more; she was entitled to her mourning, and no two people grieved on the exact same timeline. But she was Queen, and the Signet would not wait for her to recover.
    All Deven wanted was to be sure she could stand on her own. He couldn’t bring David back; he couldn’t ease the great emptiness that constantly threatened to suck Miranda down into its hungry mouth; all he could do was take care of her, offer her the kind of solace he knew she needed, and pray—pray! him!—that somehow, Miranda would make it through this.
    The next night he found her at her piano, her head bowed and resting on its shining lid, her fingers resting on the keys but not playing, her eyes closed but not sleeping.
    “Am I needed?” she asked when she heard him enter the music room.
    “No,” he replied. “Not just now.”
    He sat down next to her on the bench. “Were you playing?”
    She shook her head. “Sometimes