Free Shadowflame by Dianne Sylvan Page B

nerves. “Okay.”
    Miranda nodded. “Good.” She pushed her hair back from her face, seeming a little nervous about the whole thing, but when she spoke again it was with conviction. “No matter what happens, Katmandu, I’m here for you. We’ll figure this out.”
    Kat mustered a smile for her. As weird as Miranda’s psychic fade-out had been, there was still something incredibly comforting about having gotten the truth out—just knowing someone else knew was a load off her shoulders. If it had been a year ago, Miranda’s reassurance wouldn’t have been very reassuring, because she had been batshit insane and teetering on the edge of oblivion, but now . . . Kat might not know much at the moment, but she knew that if Miranda said something would happen, God himself would buy a ticket to watch it go down.
    She was the Queen of Shadows, after all.
     
    A woman’s duty was to serve her man. She must be quiet and dutiful, obedient, accommodating. She must defer to him in all things, for he knew best, as was ordained by God Almighty when Adam first bade Eve to lie beneath him in the Garden.
    Cora stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the Haven while Prime Hart grunted and swore above her, her mind in the soft dark corner she had long ago created for it, a place where she was dimly aware of what her Master was doing, but it was only her body that he was invading, and she, Cora, was safe, watching from far away. There was only so far she could go, but every inch of distance was a treasure to her, and there she waited once again while he shuddered and burst hot and cruel into her body.
    Sated, he rolled off her, and the cool air of the room intruded; she felt it most on her damp thighs and the forever-trembling skin of her fingers. All the girls shook. They shook because they were weak . . . because they were women, and women were weak. Cora imagined Eve trembling as Adam ground his hips into hers, wondered if the first woman had felt the shame of it as she gathered her scattered fig leaves and stumbled to the stream to wash that first fallen seed from her. Did she feel dirty afterward, as the earth was dirty, fallen, made of dung and the sticky leavings of men?
    There were nine women—girls, he called them, and not ever by name, only as “you” or “girl” or “whore”—in Hart’s harem, and they had been gathered as thoughtfully as a collector might gather works of art; each one was chosen for specific attributes, so that when he wanted a buxom blonde, he had one, and when he wanted an exotic African slave girl, he could dress Naomi in silks and make her dance for him.
    Cora had been chosen for her dark hair and her olive skin, neither of which she really had anymore. She remembered, sometimes, the feel of the Italian sun on her arms, the wind lifting her hair as she ran, laughing, through her father’s fields, past the lemon trees, among the twisted olive branches.
    So long ago.
    Hart pushed himself up off the bed and walked out of the room without a parting word. He had his own room for sleeping and came into the smaller room of the suite only when he wanted a girl. He had brought four this time, and though the servants at his Haven acted like it was some kind of honor, all the girls who got to stay behind were relieved and grateful for a few days’ peace.
    Cora wasn’t certain they all understood what they were. They were so young when he brought them in, and he forced his will upon their memories as he forced himself into their bodies. Few of them remembered where they had come from. All they knew was the stabbing pain of penetration, the burn of knees too long on the floor and a jaw cramping from being held open too long. They knew pulled hair and bruises, bite marks, whips, costumes. Hart was creative in his lusts. He’d dressed her as a nun more than once and defiled her while she recited the Hail Mary to him.
    She turned onto her side for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the furtive movements of