He was, in fact, about an hour late in leaving—between their last round of lovemaking, which actually became two once they got in the shower, and the hunt for scattered clothing, and the longing not to leave her side, he left Harlan waiting at the rendezvous point until almost eight P.M.
They stood at the doorway embracing one more time, neither wanting to let go. “Do I have to make you promise again?” she asked into his neck.
“No,” he answered. “I’ll come back. It may be a few days, but . . . Miranda . . .” He chuckled, almost panicked at the certainty he felt. “I couldn’t stay away from you now if I wanted to.”
“Is there anything I should do, or watch out for? Should I stay out of the sun?”
“It won’t hurt you, but until the blood has burned out of your system you’ll probably be extra sensitive to light and maybe even to sound. Your senses will be more intense at times, and at times normal. Just stay grounded, and by the end of next week you’ll be fine.”
“No,” she said, tilting her head back to meet his eyes. “I’ll be normal, but I won’t be fine. I won’t be fine until I wake up next to you every night.”
He hugged her even more tightly. There was no use denying it. She would get what she wanted from him, and he would yield gratefully to her will. He could fight it for eternity and condemn them both to misery, or he could listen to the part of him that knew, deep down, he belonged to her. Perhaps the Signet would accept her, perhaps not . . . but one way or another he would have Miranda by his side for as long as she was willing to stay with him. “I know. Just . . . give me a little time. Let this pass, while I make sure the Haven is safe for you. Then I’ll bring you home.”
“All right.” She nipped his ear lightly, and it was all he could do not to throw her back against the door and take her again—he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He’d spent an entire day drunk on her body and he was already an addict.
They kissed again, deeply. When he took a step back, trying to break contact long enough to walk away, he said, “In the meantime . . . say your farewells to the sunlight.”
She grinned. “The sunlight can go to hell.” She moved forward and kissed his forehead, then his lips, then the hollow of his throat. “I’ll see you again soon.”
He squeezed her hands, then let go, and bowed to her. “As you will it, my Lady.”
Fifteen
Faith was already grinning as she strode down the hall to the workroom, and when she entered, she had to stop herself from laughing out loud.
The Prime was in his chair going over network reports, but even with his astounding psychic protections, the edges of his aura were leaking out, and the entire room was saturated with how he was feeling.
She had to double the thickness of her own shields to keep herself from getting so turned on she dragged Samuel off to the broom closet.
“Sire? You wanted to see me?”
He looked up from the computer, saw her face, and frowned. “Something on your mind, Second?”
She gave up and burst out laughing.
The Prime shook his head, looking aggravated, but only on the surface. He was clearly having trouble keeping the lazy satisfaction out of his expression. “Go ahead,” he said, more good-naturedly than she’d ever heard him. “Get it out of your system.”
“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. “I trust you’re feeling . . . refreshed this evening?”
An eye roll. “I don’t suppose you kept this to yourself.”
“I didn’t say a word to anyone,” she insisted, “but, Sire, you’ve never stayed out all day before. People were bound to talk. You know how this place is—and half the Elite has had a betting pool going on how long it would take you two to sleep together, so . . .”
“You are joking, right?”
“Partly. It wasn’t a betting pool exactly but Elite Fifty-One owes me twenty bucks.” She sat down, noticing that while he was working his feet were propped up on a second chair, something else he never did. He was also looking a tad rumpled instead of his usual pressed-and-tailored.
“I want doubled security on Miranda’s apartment,” he said. “I have no reason to believe I was followed there, but I’m not taking any chances.”
“As you will it.”
“Also I’m not happy with the sensor performance in sector twenty-eight-G, so get a team assembled to go out tomorrow night and replace several of the units. It will take me until then to get the last two built. Do you have anything new to report?”
“No, Sire. The city’s been quiet since the raid.”
“What about Bethany Blackthorn?”
Faith wanted to voice her protests again, but didn’t; one thing she knew about him was that he hated being nagged, and that he always listened the first time, even if he didn’t agree. He could quote word for word conversations they’d had years ago. Repeating herself would only annoy them both. “She’s up and moving around but hasn’t made any move toward wanting to leave. The guards say she’s a little spooky, but no trouble.”
He nodded, his eyes back on the monitor. “I’d like to request a personal favor, if I may.”
She kept her surprise to herself. “Yes, Sire?”
“I’d like you to go by Miranda’s and make sure she’s all right, perhaps even several times this week. Let me know immediately if she’s exhibiting any potentially dangerous symptoms.”
“Dangerous? Dangerous how—oh.” Faith nodded, understanding. “You traded blood.”
“More than we should have. I’m concerned that she may have a stronger reaction both because she’s so outstandingly psychic and because I’m, well, me.”
“I’d be happy to check on her,” Faith agreed. “I was going to anyway so I could get all the juicy details.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“Damn right.”
A few hours later when Faith got off duty and went into the city to hunt, she doubled back afterward and presented herself on Miranda’s doorstep, trying not to look as smug as she felt.
Miranda didn’t answer on the first knock, and when she opened the door, all of Faith’s humor drained out of her.
“Good God,” Faith said. “You look terrible.”
Miranda beckoned her inside and returned to the couch where she’d been camped—she was dressed in faded Mickey Mouse pajama pants and a black tank top and had several empty water bottles and a pizza box on the coffee table in front of her. The lid was open enough for Faith to see she’d taken one bite.
“All right, you have to eat,” Faith informed her sternly. “You need protein and iron or you’re going to feel worse by the end of the night. Do you have any multivitamins around here?”
“Bathroom,” was the vague reply.
Faith fetched the bottle and pressed two capsules into Miranda’s hand. She took them without protest. Then Faith went into the kitchen and dug through the fridge until she came up with half a leftover giant burrito from Freebird’s. It was loaded with beans, rice, and vegetables and wouldn’t be as hard on her stomach as all that cheese. Luckily it seemed to be only about two days old, and a minute in the microwave restored it to something of its former glory.
“Here. Eat this. Small bites.”
Miranda seemed relieved, for a change, at having someone tell her what to do. She nibbled at the edges of the tortilla and then managed a few larger bites.
“He wasn’t kidding when he said you exchanged too much,” Faith observed, shaking her head. “Another few ounces and you’d be in real trouble. He shouldn’t have left you here like this.”
“I don’t think he knew it was this bad,” she murmured. “I was fine when he left. I went back to sleep and when I woke up I had the worst hangover of my life.”
“That’s one hell of a hickey you’ve got there. Eat.”
Miranda’s hand moved up to touch one of the bite marks on her neck, and a dreamy sort of look passed over her face before it was replaced by an acute pain that made her cover her eyes. “That’s not the worst part,” she said. “Earlier when I got out of bed . . . I felt so . . . depressed. Like I didn’t even want to breathe anymore. I still feel that way, just not as bad. If I knew how to get to the Haven from here, I’d have walked barefoot.” She wiped at her eyes. “I did something stupid—look.”
Miranda stuck out her tongue, and Faith saw a bright red cut. “How did you do that?”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a familiar knife—carved into the shape of a bird of prey with an ebony handle and a folding blade serrated along its lower half. Miranda flicked her wrist and the blade snapped out, shining and lethal.
“There was blood on it,” she explained. “I licked it.”
Faith stared at her. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t even realize what I was doing. I saw the blood, and I just . . . needed it.”
“And how did you feel after that?”
“Aside from the fact that my tongue was bleeding? Wonderful, for a minute. Then I got freaked out and took a Xanax.”
“Can’t say I blame you. Look, Miranda, I know you feel like hell now, but as long as you eat and rest you should be much better tomorrow. You’ll probably feel better than you have in your life.”
“Does turning into a vampire suck like this?”
“Oh, it’s much worse. But if it’s done right you’re not aware of most of it. Right now the problem isn’t that so much as whose blood you drank—for one thing, the stronger your sire, the faster and more intense the change. For another, the two of you already had a connection, so this deepened it, and now you’re going through withdrawal.”
“God, how pathetic,” Miranda muttered. “I’m pining. I’m actually pining.”
“It could be worse. Some of us aren’t lucky enough to be turned by someone who loves us. Imagine if your sire forced you, then abandoned you, without even telling you the rules you had to live by.”
Miranda’s eyes widened in sympathetic horror. “Is that what happened to you?”
“No. That’s what happened to David.”