The two insurgents looked amused at the sight of two small women spoiling for a fight. Miranda knew exactly what they were going to do—underestimate her.
One of them moved in, blade ready, and Miranda took him on, while Sophie took the other. Miranda fought hard, her sword arm already aching from overuse, but she lost as much ground as she gained until she remembered she had better weapons than a sword.
She lowered her sword, held out her hand toward the man, reached into herself for her power, and pushed.
He began to tear at his clothes, and his hair, and scream: “No, Daddy! No! I’m sorry! NO!” He dropped to the ground in a fetal position, head covered with his arms, his sword and the fight abandoned to a less visible but far more potent attacker.
Miranda walked over, put her booted foot on the man’s neck and pushed him flat on the floor, and with one swing took his head.
Sophie had already dispatched hers with the wooden stake she’d stuck in her jacket. The insurgent lay in a spreading pool of her blood, eyes wide open.
Miranda’s head already felt like it was going to split from that little stunt, but she grounded quickly—she was probably going to have to do it again. In fact, if only she could get control of more than one mind at once, she could take out several at a time, drown them in childhood fears or reliving the death of a loved one. She could choke them on their own histories while Sophie, by far the better fighter, killed them.
She remembered being skeptical that empathy would be useful in combat.
They stepped over the bodies and reassessed the situation. So far the Elite were still holding the stairs, but the insurgents were trying to get the doors back open, and there was no way to know how many might have found other entrances already.
“We need a way to disable all of them at once,” Miranda said, shouting to be heard above the din. “I don’t think I can work on this many. At that mental depth I have to do them one by one.”
Sophie started to speak, then looked up past Miranda and grinned. “What we need,” Sophie said, “is a really pissed-off telekinetic.”
Miranda’s heart nearly burst from her body, and it was all she could do not to jump up and run to him, but Sophie kept her firmly out of the way where they weren’t seen.
David Solomon stepped out onto the balcony where the two staircases met over the Great Hall.
He wore his long coat and was fully armed, but the thing that was most frightening—the thing that made the entire fight stop and the hall fall silent—was the churning cloud of wrath that surrounded him, the silver of his aura shot through with deadly black. His eyes were pure silver, the Signet ablaze at his throat.
He stepped up onto the balcony rail. Miranda saw the Signet’s light begin to pulsate—she’d never seen it do that before, but it made him look even more terrifying.
“Elite,” he said, “Stand down.”
As one, the Elite dropped whomever they were fighting, lowered their weapons, and stepped back to line the walls of the Great Hall.
The Prime jumped smoothly off the rail, landing twenty feet below and straightening to level a steely-eyed gaze on the insurgents, who were inching closer to each other and looking like they wanted to pry the doors back open and flee into the night.
Miranda rushed to the rail to look down. David slowly, deliberately drew his sword and stood with it down at his side, and when he spoke, it was with the same calm authority she had heard him use at the Elite trials. No one could look away.
“You have staged an open attack on the Haven of this territory in an attempt to assassinate me and claim the Signet. You have failed. The sentence for such actions is death.”
The blade of his sword tilted and caught the light. “I will give you a choice. If you hand over Ariana Blackthorn, you will die a quick and merciful death. If you face me now, you will die with honor in battle. If you try to escape, you will be cut down by my Elite and bleed to death on this floor.”
As if on cue, one of the insurgents broke free of the hypnotic hold David had over them and bolted for the doors.
David raised a hand, and the man fell to the floor, screaming, with the sickening sound of breaking bones. Blood spurted from the insurgent’s nose and ran from his mouth, and he twitched, still trying to get back to his feet and run.
Faith, at the ready, swung her sword and finished him, then bowed to the Prime.
He smiled. “Next?”
Seconds ticked by before the crowd parted near the doors. The invaders fell back respectfully as a woman stepped out from behind them. She was blond and had huge eyes, a gaunt face that might once have been beautiful, and was smiling that same cruel murderous smile she had worn when she stabbed Miranda through the heart.
She came out into the center of the room and stood facing the Prime without a trace of fear. Then she lifted her hand, and Miranda saw what was dangling from it: a carbon copy of David’s Signet, only slightly smaller. Its stone, too, was flashing rhythmically.
A gasp went up all over the room.
Miranda saw David’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. His face went absolutely white. “What’s going on?” Miranda whispered to Sophie.
Sophie, too, was astonished. “The flashing . . . that’s what happens when a Signet chooses its bearer. When the Prime finds his Queen, that’s how he knows.”
“Wait . . . it can’t be her!”
Sophie rolled her eyes artfully. “Well, now, who else could it possibly be speaking for?”
Ariana and the Prime stared at each other. Then Ariana said sweetly, “Looks like we get to call a truce, my Lord.”
He didn’t answer.
“Just think,” Ariana went on, “You and I, bound together for all eternity—how poetic. I had no idea, when I killed your little human whore, that this would happen. I thought I was merely inflicting the same pain on you that you had on me. But this is so much better.”
Miranda started to leap up, but Sophie again grabbed her arm and held her back. “Just wait,” she hissed.
Ariana, laughing, reached up and dropped the Signet’s chain around her neck.
The second it settled over her chest, the stone went dark.
David’s continued to flash, and he glanced down at it, frowning a little before looking back up at Ariana.
“You will never be Queen,” he told her. “You will never hold a Signet. You are a pretender to the throne, Ariana, and not worthy of these hallowed halls. I’ll cut you down the same way I did your Prime and you’ll die the way you lived—as nobody.”
Ariana’s face became a twisted mask of rage. “Kill him!” she shouted.
Her men rushed forward past her, roaring out their challenge, and surrounded the Prime, who stood waiting, a faint smile on his face.
As the first of the insurgents reached him, he brought up his sword and said to the Elite without raising his voice, “Attack.”
The insurgents, so intent upon following orders, had all run into the center of the room toward David and were now surrounded by Elite on all sides. The Haven warriors bore down on the insurgents, their swords slicing through the air, and the room was suddenly full of the sounds of battle once more.
Miranda pulled her eyes back to the Prime.
He met the first four attackers at once, his sword a liquid flame, his body a blur of motion as he kicked one in the head, spun in midair, beheaded the second man, and opened another’s throat on the follow-through stroke. The fourth avoided the first slash aimed at her, but was simply not fast enough—she tried to parry but couldn’t, and he punched her, then pulled a wood-bladed dagger from his belt and ran her through. By the time he’d gotten to her, more had come, but he didn’t lose a step; she could barely see him, he moved so fast, almost as if he were dancing, each movement graceful and deadly.
Sophie was laughing, a look of recognition on her face. To Miranda’s eyebrow, she said, “That style—I’ve only met one other vampire who fought like that. Come on—let’s go get messy.”
Miranda followed her from the balcony rail around to the staircase, and they ran down to join the Elite.
Miranda’s heart was pounding, but there was no time to think, no time to consider her actions. She simply had to fight. One of the insurgents closed on her, and she felt her awareness turning crimson again, her mind going deeper into the trancelike place Sophie had shown her before she crossed over. Now the power came through her like a breath, and she gave herself to it willingly.
Nearby she heard something crash, and then a scream; she disabled her opponent and rammed her sword into his neck, unable to avoid the spray of blood; it hit her chest and shoulders, and the thick smell of it only fueled her bloodlust. She glanced up toward the noise in time to see an invader fly backward into the wall, then another, and another; they were picked up off the ground and flung without anyone touching them. She jerked her head to the right and saw that David was fending off an attack with one hand and gesturing with the other.
She felt the energy moving through him up and out like a volcanic eruption, and another insurgent fell to the ground, screaming, clutching his head as his skull cracked.
Miranda fought her way toward the center of the room. She could hear Sophie laughing as she did the same—but then her laughter cut short, and Miranda whirled around toward her.
Sophie lurched forward, mouth open. The splintered end of a wooden stake protruded from between her ribs. She seemed to gather the last of her strength to round on her attacker and return the favor, sending the woman who had impaled her to the ground with wood in her own chest. Blood running freely from her body, she threw herself at the next wave of attackers, taking out three more before her strength failed her.
“Sophie!” Miranda cried, diving between warriors toward her teacher, who fell to her knees, then pitched forward onto her stomach.
She turned Sophie over gently. “What do I do?” she asked. “Do I pull it? Sophie—”
Sophie laughed again, weakly. Blood was trickling from her mouth. “Told you so,” she wheezed, coughing. Spasms racked Sophie’s petite frame, and something rattled deep in her chest.
Then she lay still.
Miranda’s eyes burned. She looked up; all around her people were dying. The stench of blood and the chaos were overwhelming.
She caught sight of Faith, still alive, still fighting.
Her opponent was Ariana Blackthorn . . . and Faith was losing.