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 was soup, bread, and a bowl of sliced strawberries.
“It’s vegetarian,” the Prime said, his eyes still on the laptop screen.
“How did you know—”
A smile in his voice. “You don’t smell like an omnivore.”
For the life of her she couldn’t decide if that was interesting or deeply creepy, so she focused on the food. She’d barely eaten in two days, and it was all she could do not to inhale it.
“Does someone around here cook?”
“It was delivered. There’s a kitchen on the first floor but I don’t think it’s ever been used.”
“What time is it?” she asked around a mouthful of bread.
“Four thirty in the afternoon.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”
“I had some work to finish.”
She tried to get a look at the screen, but all she saw was a window full of arcane strings of characters. He appeared to be editing it, and he stopped periodically to consult a notepad covered in precise handwriting.
She thought of the pen she’d seen earlier and resisted the urge to ask what kind of degree he had, and where from. Best not to admit she’d been poking around in his bedroom. A safer route was, “How does a vampire end up a computer geek?”
He stopped working and swiveled the chair to face her. “When I first became involved with the Signets, most Primes were still relying on outdated radio technology for intra-Elite communication. Our security system was obsolete, and there was no network among the Signets to share information. We tend to be . . . slow in evolving. I decided that in order to survive as a society we had to adapt.”
“Why not hire someone to do all the technical stuff, then? Clearly money’s not a problem around here.”
“I don’t trust anyone else. It only takes one slipped password to bring a network down. I’m the only person with full access.”
“Where did you get these thingies?” she asked, holding up her arm, where she’d snapped the wristband on earlier.
“I developed the first version five years ago. This is the third. The original design was more like a wristwatch with a keypad. I reverse-engineered the touch screen technology of the iPhone and combined it with voice recognition software. The fabrication is subcontracted to a private firm via the Department of Defense, which was happy to make the coms in exchange for limited access to my designs.”
“Um . . . did you go to school for this sort of thing?”
He inclined his head toward the wall, where she saw for the first time a framed diploma: a doctorate in engineering . . . from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
“MIT? Are you serious?”
Her amazement amused him. “Of course. My dissertation was on voice recognition technology and its applications in security and defense. That was twenty years ago, though—the research is Paleolithic now.”
Twenty years ago, she’d been seven years old. He didn’t look any older than she was. “When were you born?”
His smile faded. “1643. I was born and raised in northern England.”
After everything she’d been through and heard in the last forty-eight hours, finding out he was over 350 years old barely even fazed her. She just nodded, and commented, “You don’t sound British. Or Jewish. Isn’t Solomon Hebrew?”
He nodded. “When you live for more than one human lifetime, it pays to reinvent yourself from time to time. When I left England behind, I also left behind my birth name.”
“What was it?”
This time the smile was faint and held a bit of an admonishment, and she realized she had no business asking, and that he’d intimated he wouldn’t tell her anyway. “Sorry,” she muttered, trying to think of something less personal to ask. “Where did you go after that?”
“Valencia, for a while. Then Lyons, Rome, and Edinburgh. In 1920 I moved to the States and lived in California until 1989. I finished my postgraduate studies and then moved here.”
Her stomach was getting full, and combined with the narcotics it was making her drowsy. She replaced the cover on the tray and sat back, appreciating how comfortable the couch was—not as comfortable as his bed, but still, it was soft enough not to hurt, and felt like reclining on a cloud. She rested her hands on her belly and asked a bit sleepily, “What did you do in California?”
“I was the Prime’s second in command.”
“Why didn’t you stay there and be Prime, then?”
She heard him rise, and a moment later a lightweight blanket was placed over her, possibly the same one he’d wrapped her in before. His voice was as soothing as the couch was comfortable, although what he said was hardly comforting. “The Prime of California is a friend of mine,” he told her, moving her about like a rag doll, bending her knees and putting a pillow beneath them to ease the strain on her back and pelvis.
“So?”
“The only way a Prime can lose his Signet is if he dies.”
Her eyes shot open. “Does that mean you killed the old Prime here?”
He nodded. There was no triumph in his face, really, just resignation. “You and I are not so different. We both dealt death in the name of justice.”
She made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Justice had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to live.”
“Liar,” he chided gently.
“They’re going to lock me up,” she murmured as she began to drift off again. “They’ll put me in the crazy house . . . I’m not just crazy now, I’m a killer.”
Her eyes were already shut, but she heard him say, “Like I said . . . we’re two of a kind.”