Jonathan’s words replayed over and over through David’s mind as he left the bank tower and directed Harlan to return him to the Haven. He grunted noncommittally when Harlan asked if he’d had a good hunt; he was too preoccupied for conversation. The whole trip back, as the city’s bustling nightlife gave way to the scrolling central Texas hills, he thought about it, unable to banish the knowledge that arose from his very bones as much as it had from the Consort’s gift.
He was going to get Miranda killed. The longer she stayed at the Haven, the more danger she was in. One way or another she had to learn to shield, and fast. He already had the lives of enough innocents burned into his soul; he wouldn’t have hers, too.
The problem with visions was that they were born from a single instant in time. As soon as they were seen, the universe began to change around them. They showed what was most probable if the course of events went unaltered, but they weren’t set in stone. Jonathan had told him, and because of that, he would make one choice or another, veering closer to or further away from the vision itself. Right now, the deck was stacked against Miranda’s life. He had to do everything in his power to change those odds.
That meant getting her back to Austin. It also meant stopping the war before it escalated further.
Of course, Miranda being back in the city might be what got her killed; there was no way to know. So he would make sure she was safe in her mortal world until he was confident that she didn’t need a guardian. That would be easy enough.
It might be better if she left his territory entirely. He could arrange that, and it wasn’t as if she had a full life here to miss. The Blackthorn wouldn’t lower themselves to chase after a mere human, assuming they even knew she existed.
That thought did something strange to him, though. The idea of Miranda leaving Austin set off a dull ache, and a kind of wild desperate clawing in his throat, as if he were holding back a cry of pain.
He shut his eyes and rapped his forehead lightly against the car window, feeling like a fool.
By the time he was back at the Haven and had taken the usual patrol reports and updates from Faith, it was nearly dawn, and he had a splitting headache. Every time he exerted a tendril of energy to ease it, it returned moments later; if he left it alone it would be gone in an hour, but in the meantime he had to put up with it, and that left him snapping at Faith and acting generally bitchy toward everyone else.
“Sire?” Faith said at the end of the patrol meeting. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Since when do you ask for permission?” he scoffed, forehead planted firmly in his hands.
She ignored the statement and said, “Sire, go the fuck to bed before I have to kill you.”
For once, he did as she said without protest and tried not to look at anyone he passed lest he scare the servants.
He paused with his hand on the door to his suite, suddenly dreading the prospect of finding Miranda still asleep on the couch. He thought back to that ache he’d felt in the car and had half a mind just to bed down in one of the other rooms in the wing, but that smelled strongly of cowardice to him, and he was willing to have just about any vice except that one.
To his surprise, she wasn’t in the bedroom. She must have woken and returned to her own bed. Relieved, he stripped off his coat and poured himself another drink. He needed a shower; it was hot in the city, and though vampires didn’t sweat easily, he still felt coated by the humid air.
A sound reached him, and he stood with the bottle of bourbon still in his hand, listening.
It was coming from the adjacent room: music.
Hypnotized, he set down the bottle and followed the sound to the door, which stood ajar by an inch or so. Light was coming through it. He leaned to the left to see in without moving the door.
“Strange how hard it rains now . . .”
She sat on the edge of the bed, the light of the fireplace outlining her silhouette and catching her hair as it had at the window once before. Her guitar, a black acoustic he remembered from the night he’d brought her here, gleamed, and her fingers danced slowly over the strings while her bare foot tapped lightly on the side of the bed as her legs weren’t long enough to reach the floor.
Her curls were falling into her eyes, but that didn’t matter; she played with them closed, concentration on her heart-shaped face. The bruises had all faded, though there was still a cut healing on her forehead. What was truly remarkable was her expression: As she sang, the dark sweetness of her voice wrapping like a lover’s hands around the lyrics, she was smiling, completely at peace in a way he hadn’t thought she was capable of.
He wanted so badly to back away, but he couldn’t. Without even trying she had caught him in her spell.
Oh God. No, no, no.
She wasn’t working energy consciously, and a halfhearted check of the shield showed it as strong as before, but she didn’t need power for this. Perched on the bed, dressed in a threadbare Austin Celtic Festival T-shirt, she was, he suddenly realized, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“But I’m still alive underneath this shroud. . . .”
It took more effort than he would ever have thought possible, but he pulled his eyes away and shut the door, fighting the urge to lock it.
Then he proceeded to the liquor cabinet and drank himself to sleep.