Free Queen of Shadows by Dianne Sylvan Page A

but no longer—too much had happened, stretching all the way back to that day at the café when she’d made strangers cry. Her life had become a furtive hell that had fireballed into ash, and there was nothing left. She had nothing to go back to, and no reason to care.
    They should have killed her. Maybe she could persuade the vampires to drain her dry. If she left the wing and ran around the house, would she find someone willing to kill her?
    A few minutes later a metallic clanking sound startled her, and she looked up in time to see the shutters closing over the window. Mystery solved: They must be on a timer with the button as an override.
    She sat and stared at the unlit hearth, cold gradually seeping back into her bones though the room’s temperature hadn’t changed.
    She must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes again her legs were asleep and her ribs and her palm hurt unbearably. The pill had worn off. She groped at the side table for the bottle and succeeded in knocking it onto the floor with her bandaged hand. As she tried to reach for it, her back seized up, and she slid face first off the couch onto the rug.
    It hurt so much to move, she started crying. Finally the dam seemed to break and she wept into her arm, sobs racking her body like a child’s, the hoarse sounds torn from her throat echoing in the empty room.
    A thousand miles away she heard footsteps, and a shadow moved over her, a glowing presence kneeling at her side.
    Warmth surrounded her in the form of a fuzzy blanket, and a light touch of energy tapped on the back of her mind, seeking entrance. She didn’t know how to refuse and was too weak to try. The “hand” touched her, and soothing heat flooded her body until her muscles went totally limp.
    She felt herself lifted, felt herself carried. Bed, sheets, comforter; he tucked her into feather pillows and fine linen, and she had time to notice that the bed smelled different before sleep claimed her.

    The nightmares came thick and fast all that day. She struggled against dozens of assailants, saw dark water rising up toward her face. She tasted blood. They laughed at her as they bucked their hips at hers, bit her breasts, used her hair like reins.
    Fanged monsters joined in, tearing holes in her throat. Her whole body itched as blood slicked down over her skin, and when she tried to run away she slipped and fell into the black water. Hands grabbed her legs and pulled her down, down into the darkness . . .
    But once again, there was a flash of red light, and everything stopped.
    She ought to have been used to nothing making sense by now, but when she opened her eyes this time, the world had changed again.
    Another bed, not her own and not the one in her apartment. This one was far larger, surrounded by curtains that were open partway at the foot to reveal a magnificent fireplace alive with heat and golden light. The sheets over her had to have a thousand thread count.
    On the far side of the room she could hear a rapid clicking noise. Typing?
    She felt relaxed and recognized the blurry after-effects of the Vicodin. She’d had another pill at some point. When?
    Miranda lifted the blankets from her legs and scooted down toward the foot of the bed, where she could see the rest of the room. Instantly she recognized her surroundings—even before she saw the figure sitting at the desk.
    He spoke without turning around. “Esther brought you something to eat.”
    She saw a tray on the coffee table, and her stomach lurched painfully with hunger. She could have asked for help, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself off the bed and to her feet, biting back a cry. She felt bruised all on the inside even through the drugs.
    It took several minutes to reach the couch, but she did, and fell onto it the way she had the one in her room earlier. Huffing and puffing from the exertion, she rearranged herself and managed to get the lid off the tray.
    Tantalizing smells wafted up to her nose. There