The boy ran along some kind of dirt path and was swept up into the arms of a woman waiting for him; she wore a muted dress with a high collar and her hair was pulled back in a stark knot, but her smile was warm, and beneath the dull-colored clothes she was young and beautiful, with sparkling brown eyes.
The scene began to fade, and Miranda smelled something, or rather, remembered the smell of something: smoke, and the acrid stench of . . . something burning. She heard a cacophony of shouting and wailing, and terror gripped her; she turned and ran, taking the path back from where she’d come, but there was nowhere to go, nothing but fire . . .
“Miranda?”
She flailed out at the men who tried to seize her arms—they were going to kill Thomas, she had to hide him before—
Someone shook her gently, and she gasped, her vision clearing as suddenly as it had appeared.
She was backed up against the bedroom wall, and David was standing in front of her, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders. He was pale, even for him, and looked more worried than she’d ever seen him. His eyes were an even deeper blue than usual, smoky.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “The light was on and I didn’t . . . didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shook his head and guided her back to the couch. “What happened?”
She had no idea where to begin. As long as she’d been cursed with voices, they’d been just that, or feelings; she’d never seen things before, especially not random events that could have been history, or just brain garbage.
“Wait,” she murmured. “Were you dreaming just now?”
He looked away. “Why?”
“I saw a little boy, and a woman. Then there was fire.”
David looked at her sharply. “What?”
“They were kind of . . . colonial, I guess. I don’t know history that well. But they both looked so happy. Then it’s like I was her, and I was afraid they . . . somebody was going to hurt the little boy.”
The expression of suspicion on his face faded into recognition, and then something like sorrow, and he looked away from her again. “Yes. Somebody was.”
“What did I see?”
He sat back, eyes on the ground, and crossed his arms almost nervously. “You saw my wife.”
“And the boy . . .”
“Our son.”
“Do you . . . do you dream of them often?”
“No,” he answered, still not looking at her. “Not often.”
A thousand questions whirled in her head, but she knew she was prying and was fairly sure it wasn’t a subject he would feel comfortable talking about. Whatever drove a person to become a vampire, it couldn’t be pretty. She couldn’t imagine what would persuade her to give up her humanity that way . . . the thought made her feel queasy. She couldn’t even look at the needle when she got a shot.
“Oh, come now,” he said, picking up on the thought with genuine amusement in his voice. “It’s no more disgusting than the things you humans eat.”
“Not me,” she returned with a grin. “Vegetarian, remember?”
Now he was definitely smiling. “Cheese is the coagulated lactation of a ruminant mammal. It’s not even made from human milk, which would make far more sense. Eggs are essentially the menstrual period of a chicken. Honey is mostly bee spit. Shall I go on?”
She grabbed a throw pillow and threw it at him. “Oh, gross!”
The tension of the moment was effectively broken, thank God. She knew better than to revisit the subject. There were some things . . . no, a lot of things . . . she didn’t need to know.
“How are you tonight?” he asked. “It’s been a few days.”
“Not awful.” She drew her legs up under her chin; it no longer hurt to do so, and a few of her more visible bruises were fading. Her ribs and back still ached if she stayed in one position too long, and one of her wrists throbbed if she tried to play guitar for more than half an hour—not that she had, really. She’d picked at the instrument here and there when she was bored, but nothing else. “I think I might be ready to start lessons again.”
An eyebrow quirked. “Are you certain?”
“I think so. I’ve got grounding down pretty well, and I’ve been working on moving energy around.”
“Very well, then. Tomorrow night.”
She eyed the array of files on the coffee table. “Do you need help with whatever this is?”
“No.” He leaned forward and started compiling the papers into a single stack. “I was just looking over old patrol reports and field notes from my time in California. It wasn’t getting me anywhere.”
“So you still don’t know who’s behind all of this.”
He raised a curious eyebrow. “How much do you know exactly?”
She shrugged, and replied, “I know what you’ve said, and Faith has hinted. And I get these . . . feelings . . . sometimes, not exactly voices but impressions that tell me things. I think it’s bleed-through from the shield you have around me.”
David looked confused, frowning. “That shouldn’t be possible. Shields like mine don’t leak.”
Miranda felt him reaching through the shield, and it surprised her, but didn’t scare her; she held still to let him do whatever it was he was doing. To her mind’s eye it was as if he ran a hand along the outside of the shield he was holding up around her, and then along the barrier between her and himself, checking for flaws. She envied the way he made it look so easy, but then, if she’d been doing it for 350 years she might have been that good, too.
He shook his head, speaking almost to himself. “No leaks . . . and the barrier between us is thinner than it would be between me and an outside person, but still, there shouldn’t be any crossover.”
“Do you get stuff from me?” she asked.
“Occasionally, but that’s to be expected since I’m the one holding the shield. Sometimes you think loudly,” he added with a smile. “You’re easily as strong a projector as you are a receiver, which is how you can both sense emotions and manipulate them. We’ll work on honing your projective skills as soon as you can keep yourself separate from the rest of the world.”
He finished his inspection and withdrew to the other side of the barrier. “I should have asked first,” he said with chagrin. “You don’t need anyone poking around in your aura right now.”
Miranda shrugged again. “It doesn’t bother me. Anyone else it might, but I guess I’m used to you.”
She knew it was strange. Two days ago she had been out walking in the garden and tripped over a stone, and Terrence had appeared beside her to grab her arm and steady her; she’d wrenched away from his grasp and nearly decked him, settling for a mild panic attack. His hand had been too big, his grip too firm. She’d apologized for the freakout, and he’d apologized for the liberty. She didn’t want anyone touching her. She’d always been a rabid defender of her personal space, but now the minute anyone—especially anyone male—got within ten feet, her heart started to pound.
David was different. The only thing she could figure was that having his mind bordering so closely to hers day and night made her instincts accept him as nonthreatening. Perhaps it was because every time he’d physically touched her, she had gotten the psychic sense of him asking for her consent, never assuming. Perhaps it was because nothing about him reminded her of . . . those others. Of everyone in the Haven, she was the least afraid of him.
She was well aware how ironic that was, considering he was by far the scariest bastard she’d ever met.
“Well, I’m glad you’re used to me,” he said, and then seemed to regret saying so; she hadn’t been looking for any sort of subtext in the statement but . . . had there been? Was it her imagination, or did he actually look a little embarrassed?
The two weeks she’d been at the Haven she had been trying to make up her mind about David Solomon. At times she wished desperately to hate him for trying to save her, and in almost the same minute she wanted his approval; other times he terrified her. Still others, she found herself wondering if, in another time and place, if he were human, maybe . . . but part of her mind had still been trying to settle on an opinion, until now. The ever-so-faint sheepish undertone in his voice swung the jury. Yes . . . I like you . . . fangs and all. If someone asked me who you were, I would say, “My friend.”
“Do you want to tell me about what’s going on?” she asked then. “Maybe I can help.”
He rose, and for a second she thought he was going to kick her out of the room, but instead he walked over to the corner by the desk and opened a cabinet. The lamplight picked out the edges of a row of bottles and another of glasses. He filled one, then turned to her with a questioning look.
“Got any margaritas?”
“No,” he replied, “but I can call for some if you like.” She shook her head quickly. That’s exactly the sort of thing someone who was used to having servants would do. “No, that’s okay. What about Coke?”
“With or without rum?”
“With. Lots.”