He shut the door and hung his coat on its usual hook, removing his blade to hang beside the door and running his hand along the sheath with a sigh. He’d had many weapons over the years, but this one—a gift from the Pair of California the year he had taken the Southern Signet—was his favorite. It was shorter than those used by the Elite, with a slight curve, exquisitely forged and polished like a diamond. The edge had never once gone dull, and it was perfectly balanced. Over the years it had parted dozens of treacherous heads from shoulders. He didn’t know all that much about metallurgy, but he was aware that it was worth a small fortune.
He glanced over at the fireplace, where another sword, much older, hung, still gleaming even in its retirement. It was about the same size but heavier, made of a lesser grade of steel back in his lieutenant days in California. The last thing he had used it for was to kill Prime Auren.
He remembered that night well, a mere blink of an eye past for his kind. He had taken the Prime by surprise, but that was no guarantee of victory. Auren was a skilled warrior. The fight had gone on for almost an hour, but David had been watching him for months, learning his weaknesses in battle.
The crowd that gathered to see him take the Signet from the body had stared in openmouthed bewilderment. No one had expected Auren to die. His reign was supposed to last for centuries.
David walked over to pour himself a drink, digging out the new bottle of Jack he’d had Esther bring up—to hell with what Deven thought.
As he drained the first glass and started working on a second, he crossed the room to a wood cabinet set back in the corner and unlocked it.
Remnants of his past were kept inside: Lizzie’s wedding ring, stolen from her newly dug grave; a handful of letters; a silk scarf that still smelled softly of jasmine; a few valuable items from his travels that he couldn’t quite give up but didn’t want to look at every day; the first clumsy circuit board he’d ever built.
He reached up to the top shelf and removed a black metal lockbox; inside that was another box, about six inches square, hand carved from ebony with the Seal of the Southern Prime worked into it. Each Prime had his own Seal, but it was a variation of this one, a stamp of his identity as well as his territory.
Carefully, he opened the wooden box, revealing a large red stone set into silver and hung on a heavy chain. It was almost identical to the one he wore, though just a shade smaller; and where his stone glowed faintly from the touch of his power, this one was dark, the mystical force inside it asleep as it had been for many years.
David put the outer box back in the cabinet and locked the doors, taking the Signet with him to the sofa, where he sank down into the cushions, staring at the dormant bloodred stone.
No one alive knew for certain where the Signets had come from or who had made them. He had asked, in the beginning, but was met only with silence as his answer. Somehow over the centuries that knowledge had been lost, and as far as he could tell no one cared all that much what the truth was. Only David seemed to understand that any force powerful enough to create the Signets had to be stronger than a Prime, and that meant they weren’t at the top of the food chain the way they believed themselves to be. Somewhere, at some time in history, there had been a greater power at work among vampire kind. It may even still exist.
He had seen a Signet choose its bearer at least twice before his own. He thought back to the last night of warfare in Sacramento, when they had taken over the base of operations where the Blackthorn were hiding out, recovering Arrabicci’s stolen Signet and returning it to the Haven where it belonged. He had handed the Signet to Deven for safekeeping, and the stone inside it had blazed to life, the light flashing like an alarm until it was around his neck. He could still remember the stunned look on Deven’s face when he realized he had been chosen, and he remembered the enormous surge of power that had swept through the whole building, wrapping itself around the new Prime.
Only a few months after that, a chance meeting in a bar had led the Prime to his Consort. As soon as the Signet recognized Jonathan it began to pulse again, and later they found the second one doing the same safe in its box at the Haven. The two vampires had known each other for all of ten minutes, but the second the Signet flashed, they both smiled like the moon coming out from the clouds. They could feel the connection between them instantly, and it was, as were all Signets, a perfect match.
David had spent his remaining years in California happy for his friend and yet insanely, poisonously jealous. Leaving had been a relief.
He touched the sleeping stone with one finger, and a drowsy flicker of light appeared in acknowledgment. It knew him, of course. The stones weren’t exactly sentient, but they definitely had a will. He could feel his like a quiet murmur of energy in the back of his mind, never invasive, but always with him. Again, he wondered who could have created such a thing.
Only a vampire could wake the Signet, but it was possible, however unlikely, that contact with someone who could potentially bear it might do . . . something.
And if he had shown it to Miranda, then what? What if he took the leap of faith and changed her, and the Signet didn’t respond? Was she supposed to live in the mistress suite for all time on condition that he never found his true Queen? He knew she would never be content with that, and he wouldn’t ask her to become a vampire unless he knew for sure he was hers.
What were the chances of that? There were a million vampires at last census, and of those only one could possibly be his match, assuming she was even born yet. Assuming circumstance ever led them to each other, it could be a hundred years from now.
He slammed the box lid shut and put it on the coffee table. This was stupid. He was torturing himself, and for what? Let the others go on about destiny all they liked. Destiny was just a way of denying responsibility for one’s own actions. People lived and died by their choices, regardless of what a blinking rock had to say about it.
There was no time to wallow in self-pity, not with so much at stake. People could be dying in the city while he sat here moping over things that would never be.
She wasn’t coming back. She had her own life to live, and he had his.
Enough was enough. He had work to do.