Eleven
Miranda’s to-do list for the week included finishing her set list, cleaning the bathroom, and murdering Faith.
She stood in front of the unmarked, unlit door in the side of a warehouse building that had tufts of weeds growing up along its foundation, checking and rechecking the card Faith had given her to be sure this was the right address.
Unfortunately it was. Faith had sent her to the scariest part of town on a bus after dark for this with the assurance that it would be worth the trip.
As soon as I learn how to kick ass, hers is first on the list.
Screwing up her wavering courage, Miranda knocked on the door and waited.
A minute later, just as she was about to give up and run back to the bus stop as fast as her feet would carry her, a voice demanded, “Password?”
Miranda took a deep breath. “Dingoes ate my baby.”
She heard the sounds of several heavy locks shooting back, and the door swung inward to reveal Faith’s “specialist.”
Miranda blinked.
To all outward appearances she was looking at a teenage girl with a doll-like face coated liberally with eyeliner and mascara. The girl’s maroon-painted lower lip was pierced three times with silver spikes, and so were her eyebrow and nose. She wore a surfeit of black leather, including enormous boots covered with buckles. She was even shorter than Miranda, and looked like a stiff wind would blow her over.
She looked Miranda up and down with a skeptical eye, clearly unimpressed, and shook her razor-cut black bob. Her voice was an icy soprano with a hard edge. “You better be glad I owe Faith money. Come on.”
Miranda followed her into the building, down a long dark hall that opened into a huge, mostly unfurnished room. The walls were lined with an astonishing array of edged weapons, and at the far end was a complicated-looking panel of switches and dials. It was the kind of room that Miranda would have expected to see lined with mirrors, but of course there were none, just swords, daggers, scary star-shaped things, and wall sconces.
“Um . . . you’re Sophie?” Miranda ventured.
“That’s me.”
“How old are you?”
Sophie rolled her wide brown eyes. “A hundred and forty-eight,” she replied. “I got to live back when women couldn’t vote, isn’t that awesome?”
“How old is . . . I mean . . . how old are you, body-wise?”
Another eye roll. “I came over at fifteen. Now shut up and let me look at you.”
Miranda’s mouth, halfway through forming another question, snapped closed, and she stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while Sophie made a slow circle around her with her arms crossed.
It hadn’t been obvious at first, but watching the vampire move, Miranda could see that her petite build was deceptive, just as Faith’s was; Sophie had real muscle on her compact frame and moved with the same uncanny grace as the Elite, a combination of poetry and precision. She brought to mind a lynx meandering through the forest, tail swaying lazily side to side.
“So I’m supposed to teach a human how to fight like a vampire,” Sophie said. “Am I wasting my time?”
“I don’t—”
“Stand up straight!” Sophie barked. “Only humans slouch.”
“But I am human,” Miranda pointed out acidly, bristling at the superior tone coming from someone who looked too young to drive . . . but standing up straighter nonetheless.
“Not while you’re here. If you want to fight vampires, you have to be more than human.”
“I don’t really plan on fighting vampires. I just want to protect myself.”
Sophie snorted rather indelicately. “What do you think you’re protecting yourself from, girl? You get mixed up with the Signets, they paint a target on your head. Anyone who wants to hurt the Prime will go after his people first. Angry little mortals in dark alleys are the least of your problems now.”
Miranda felt the familiar sweep of energy that meant Sophie was looking at her with more than just her physical eyes.
“Your shields are good,” the vampire noted, “but not good enough. I’m guessing you were taught by, what, a telekinetic?”
“How did you know that?”
“Some people think a shield is a shield. It’s not. Whoever trained you didn’t think you were going to use your gift in combat. All the gifts have their own flavors and need their own fine-tuning. I can tell your teacher was fucking strong, probably a guy, really old; if I had to be specific I’d say it was Solomon. I can see from the structure he’s got you using that he fights a lot, but the way the layers are set up make it easy to reach out to objects, not people. So he throws things.”
“I’m an empath,” Miranda said defensively. “How am I going to use that in combat?”
“How did you kill those bastards that raped you? It wasn’t with your hands, was it? Empathy can be even deadlier than telekinesis if it’s strong enough. You can snap a lifeline with it, sure, but you can also cause pain like no other on earth. People can be taught to withstand physical torture, but emotional torture is a whole different critter. Using it won’t replace good fighting skills, but it can make you that much more badass.”
“And you can teach me that?”
“Fuck yeah. You’re in pretty sad shape, but give me six months and I’ll have you taking out lower-shelf Elite at least. Give me a year and you’ll be able to give Faith a run for her money. You’re built like me and her, which is good. We rely on speed and agility, not brute strength. Humans think fighting is just hacking at a hunk of meat until it stops moving. Humans are slow and stupid. While you’re here, forget you’re human. It’ll just get in your way.”
Not knowing what else to say, Miranda nodded.
“All right. Let’s see how much this is gonna suck.”
“Could I ask you a question first?”
Sophie tilted her chin down and looked up at Miranda with barely concealed impatience. “What?”
“Is it a good idea for you to have all that metal in your face if you’re in a fight?”
Sophie actually smiled, the sharp points of her canines flashing. “Nobody hits me, baby. Now let’s get started.”