He straightened, clamping down hard on the rage boiling up his spine and the instinctive urge to spill blood. “Now we know who we’re dealing with,” he said. “I want a trace run on anyone connected with Auren’s Court who survived the war. Allies, Elite, servants, everyone. Anyone you find, bring in for questioning. Anyone who resists, rip their heads off.”
“Yes, Sire. I’m on it.” The warrior seemed a bit surprised at his vehemence, but turned away to call the Haven and have one of the administrative support staff get started on the search.
He walked back up the path, feeling every year of his age and more, anger gradually giving way to frustration and then to weariness. In the last three months there had been seven murders by vampires who were making no effort to hide their crimes. Up until now in his tenure there had been occasional attacks, but nothing on this scale. It had taken a decade and a half for Auren’s followers to organize themselves.
Harlan, the driver, bowed. “Sire. Back to the Haven?”
“Yes.”
Harlan opened the door, his eyes on the white van pulling into the parking lot with the city coroner’s logo emblazoned on the side. “These people must be barking mad to declare war on a Signet,” he noted.
The Prime smiled grimly. “The bastards have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
“Obviously not, Sire. Or perhaps they believe all the legends about you are just that, legends.”
He settled into the seat. “They’ll learn better. Auren did.”
As Harlan pulled away from the scene, easing the car into traffic, the Prime sat brooding, his fingers curled around the Signet he had plucked from Auren’s headless corpse fifteen years ago.
No matter how many allies he had, no matter how much power and money and influence, there were always those waiting in the shadows for their turn at glory. Assassination attempts usually started before the old Prime’s ashes were even scattered. The old regime and the new battled for control, sometimes for years. His Elite had taken ruthless hold of the territory inside two months.
Auren had been charismatic and strong and held a complete disdain for human life. Those who followed Auren were the dregs of the Shadow World: murderers, rapists, and thugs. If they had a new leader, they would be tough to put down. They would be after his blood, and soon, if they weren’t dealt with, would make a play for the Signet.
He smiled into the darkness.
Let them try.
Miranda listened to Faith speak, peppering her with questions but mostly just . . . staring at her.
Her brain was stubbornly refusing to process anything the guard was saying. Thoughts looped through: These people are insane. I have to get out of here. This isn’t possible. These people are insane. Wait, what about garlic?
Faith was matter-of-fact. Garlic: myth. Coffins: myth. Crucifixes: myth.
About thirty minutes into the discussion Miranda had to ask for a glass of water and a Vicodin. The damage to her body was draining what little resolve she had to run away. Assuming she made it to the door and assuming she could find her way out of this place, fatigue and pain would send her to the ground before she made it fifty feet.
So she let the painkiller dull her senses and let Faith talk, as if any of it were believable.
Vampires. She was in a house full of vampires. They had their own society, their own government, and their president slept in the next room.
Miranda held a cushion in her lap, the closest thing to a shield she could find between her and the crazy person on the other end of the couch.
“Metal shutters,” Miranda muttered, looking over at the window. “They block out the sun.”
“The windows are also coated with UV-blocking film. The shutters are a safeguard and for comfort—we have trouble sleeping unless the room is pitch black.”
She put her hands over her face. “This is just . . .”
“I know. It’s a lot to take in.”
“Hold on . . . if you drink blood, why was the Prime guy buying ice cream?”
Faith smiled. “We can digest human food in small amounts once we’ve built up a tolerance. It helps us pass for human. Naturally we have an easier time with liquids. Some of us have things we still love—a sweet tooth is most common.”
“But it doesn’t do you any good nutritionally, right?”
A male voice spoke up from the doorway. “Not unless Ben and Jerry start making Mocha Plasma Chip.”
Miranda looked up to see the Prime had arrived, silently opening the door between the bedrooms. He seemed to fill the entire room with his presence, as before, but tonight he looked a little worn around the edges, like he’d seen something horrible.
His blue eyes lit on her, and he smiled. “How are you feeling this evening, Miss Grey?”
“I don’t think that’s a fair question, Sire,” Faith replied for her.
“I’m fucked up on Vicodin,” Miranda told him, keeping the hysteria out of her voice by inches. “Otherwise there’d be a girl-shaped hole in that door.”
He leaned sideways against the door frame, still smiling. “I understand.”
“All right, screw this. Show me your teeth.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I’m sorry?”
“If you’re really a vampire, you must have fangs, right? Show me.”
He nodded and came over to the sofa. Faith jumped up, bowed, and moved aside so there was room for him to sit. Miranda started to say something about it, thinking it unfair that she had to get up just because he was in the room, but then she remembered who she was talking to.
The Prime opened his mouth, reached up, and ran a fingertip over one of his canines. Miranda watched with her heart ripping its way into her throat as the tooth stretched lazily down half an inch, extending like a cat’s claw, dangerously sharp. A few seconds later it withdrew, and she saw that even retracted it was visibly more pointed than it should have been.
Miranda glanced over at Faith, who was grinning a bit wickedly. The guard did the same as the Prime had, showing her teeth.
“Holy shit. Holy shit.”
“Don’t be afraid,” David said softly. “You’re safe here, perhaps safer than you’ve ever been in your life.”
“But . . . but you eat people.”
He chuckled at the phrasing. “In a manner of speaking. But we have laws against killing our prey.”
“Prey . . . oh God.” She shrank back as far into the corner of the couch as she could, causing her ribs to stab sharply, and gasped at the pain. Tears gathered in her eyes. “I don’t think I can take this.”
“Would you like us to leave you alone?” he asked.
“Please,” she whispered. Sobs were building in her chest. Distantly she heard the Prime tell Faith he needed to speak to her privately. Miranda curled around the cushion, burying her face in it, and listened as the door opened and shut.
When she glanced up, David was still there, but standing, halfway between the couch and the door.
“If you need anything, I’ll be nearby,” he said. “Just knock on the door, or call with your com.”
She nodded, unable to speak. He didn’t look like he wanted to leave, but he did so, closing the door behind him.
Miranda lowered her head back to the cushion and waited for the tears to come, but they didn’t. Instead she felt deadened on the inside, too overwhelmed for any one emotion to take precedence. Listening to Faith had kept the demons at bay for a while, just as it had distracted her from her injuries, 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.