She was already sweating by the time he peeled the tight T-shirt from her torso, exposing the flat plane of her belly and the swell of her breasts to his mouth. Too flat, almost . . . he would have preferred she were softer, with more curve at the hip, perhaps fuller lips . . . but she tasted like summer, like a woman who had never seen death or deliberately caused anyone pain, and he drank in that innocence, then drank her blood.
His teeth found purchase in her throat, and to distract her from the pain, he opened her legs again and entered her, the combined pleasure of it almost too much to bear for them both. She wrapped her legs around his waist and lifted her hips to meet his, and thank God, she didn’t bother with the theatrical moaning most human women did. It would take a far greater fool than he not to recognize a faked orgasm.
The real thing, though, was almost as good as blood. Life energy was their true nourishment, and the most usable form for his kind was the blood, but there were other forms that, though lacking in staying power, were far more enjoyable.
He lifted his lips from her throat and licked delicately at the wound to speed its healing, his senses reeling with satisfaction. Everything else simply melted away.
He was so grateful that he brought her twice before finishing himself, then again before releasing her. Women, he had always felt, had gotten a raw deal sexually speaking. It was so easy for men, but women took work, and they put up with a lot from the dicked gender. The least he could do was make it worth their while.
She was breathing hard, the last tiny tremors still running through her body, her eyes shut tightly. Neither felt the need to speak . . . but as he lay on top of her, supporting himself with his arms, he looked down and realized for the first time that she had red hair.
Six
“I want to go for a walk, please.”
The new door guard, a dreadlocked man named Terrence, still seemed a bit bewildered at his sudden promotion, not to mention nonplussed as to how to handle his charge. He never knew whether to smile at her or bow or what. She found it oddly endearing.
Samuel grinned at her. He’d never been rude, but after Helen’s arrest, his attitude toward Miranda had gotten much warmer. She wasn’t entirely sure why, but as with so many other things here, she just didn’t ask.
“Terrence here can accompany you,” Samuel said.
Miranda sighed, but she knew there was no way around it. They were under orders not to let her venture out alone. All the stubbornness in the world on her part wouldn’t persuade them to disobey their Prime. “Okay. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
She went back into the bedroom and put on her shoes and cardigan, then pulled her hair back into two quick, slightly puffy braids. When she opened the door again, Terrence bowed, then let her lead the way out of the Prime’s wing.
Things had changed in the week since Helen’s death. Miranda had woken from her nightmares with something new fluttering weakly around in her heart. She didn’t know what to call it, but it got her out of bed and drove her to practice grounding even though David had decided not to push her for a while. He’d told her to practice whenever she felt up to it, and to let him know when she was ready to learn more. That sudden kindness after the way he’d come at it the first time made her wonder about him, though she wasn’t sure what exactly to wonder.
After that he’d disappeared. She barely saw him for days. Whatever was happening had apparently gotten much, much worse, and the Court simply didn’t have time for her anymore. There was a tension in the Haven she could practically taste even through David’s shield.
It hadn’t taken her long to start exploring. A guard followed her everywhere, but they kept their distance as long as she didn’t try to get herself in trouble or wander off somewhere forbidden. None of the Elite had a clue what to make of her, this battered little woman with her frightening power. Those who had seen what she did to Helen had passed on the story, and now she had a reputation.
Miranda couldn’t decide if having a reputation here was something good or bad, but as the days went on, she decided she liked it. She felt safer knowing that she made them nervous.
At first, their deferring to her the way they did to the Prime bothered her, but after a few days it became second nature to her. So did inclining her head at them in acknowledgment of the bow . . . which was exactly what David did.
“Why are they treating me like this?” Miranda asked Faith one night as they took a stroll through the gardens. Faith had come to see her several times, checking on her welfare and then, to Miranda’s surprise, engaging her in conversation, trying to learn more about what made the Prime’s new pet tick.
Faith knew exactly what she meant and glanced over at the guard who had been shadowing them on their walk. “Promise not to freak out over what I tell you?”
“I promise.”
They took the long path that looped around the garden perimeter and over toward the stables, an area Miranda had not yet ventured toward. It was another hot night, but not blisteringly so, and signs pointed toward an early fall this year. The end of the summer was apparently quite a celebration among their kind—longer nights and a decline in the crime rate made life easier for the Shadow World.
Faith walked alongside her, her eyes on the splendid riot of color that surrounded them—all shades of green, all depths of shadow, the ethereal whites of the night-blooming flowers that released their heady scents into the warm wind as they passed.
“There’s a rumor,” Faith went on. “After word got out of your abilities, people began to talk. You shouldn’t make anything out of it, Miss Grey—”
“Miranda, please. Miss Grey sounds like I’m a substitute math teacher.”
A smile. “All right, Miranda, you mustn’t give these rumors any more credit than exactly what they are, the idle gossip of a houseful of vampires where you are now living in the mistress suite off the Prime’s bedroom.”
“The mistress what now?”
“Your room. The last Prime to live here had no Queen, but he kept a series of mistresses in that room throughout his tenure. The last one was reported to have been showing signs she might become more than a mistress.”
“I’m sleeping in the Slut Suite of Whore Manor?”
“You can see, then, why rumors might fly. Add to that your abilities, and . . . the most popular theory now is that you’re being groomed to take the Queen’s Signet.”
Miranda flopped down on a bench, astonished. “But I’m human!”
“Rumor has it it’s only a matter of time.”
Tonight, Miranda followed those thoughts almost against her will as she followed the path that she and Faith had taken along the outermost edge of the gardens.
Ridiculous. It was the sort of wild speculation that surrounded the British royalty or the latest talentless Hollywood celebutantes. Surely the people here had more important things to worry about than what she was doing here. Gossip was usually a mindless distraction from a far too serious world. Clearly the same forces were at work here.
If it was so mindless, then, why was she angry about it?
Miranda shook her head and took the path back toward the Haven, determined to practice her shielding tonight. They were going to keep talking as long as she was still here. She could deal with the stares and the bowing, but she’d always hated being whispered about.
Had David heard the rumors? What did he think of them? Probably nothing. He had to be used to the chatter; that was part of how Primes built their empires, using their reputations to bolster their power. She’d seen that much already. Faith had told her a few of the stories that surrounded him—he could vanish into thin air, move faster than darkness, and probably breathe fire and turn people into gerbils. Given what Miranda had seen him do so far, it was probably easy to foster such legends beyond the Haven’s walls.
She took the stairs back to the second floor, pretending not to notice the Elite behind her, and gave the guards a nod of thanks before shutting and locking her door.
Miranda took a minute to work a bit more antifrizz goop into her hair; the humidity had been high for Austin this year, and she could only imagine how wild she looked . . . not that she could be sure. She was looking forward to having a mirror again.
A mirror, and a life would be nice, too. Strange that she was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, she might find the latter someday.
The time before the Haven had already become a blur of pain and fear—this place was so far removed from the day-walking world that she didn’t even feel like herself anymore. That horrific night in the alley had broken her heart into a thousand pieces, but it had broken her life neatly into “before” and “after.” It had been so long since she’d had her mind, so long since she’d felt any tiny flicker of hope for the future . . . all she had to do was get strong enough to shield for herself, and she could return to Austin, and . . .
What, exactly? Go back to performing? Would that be safe? Could she even play without relying on the emotions of others for fuel? If not, what would she do, get a job like a normal person?
She stood for a moment with her brain reeling. Normal. She had no idea what that even meant anymore. Yes, there was hope . . . and that hope brought with it a new kind of fear that she simply wasn’t equipped to face right now.
As if fate knew she needed the distraction, she noticed that there was a light coming from under David’s door.
That was unusual this early in the evening. He was almost never there until nearly dawn. Curious, she ventured over to the door and opened it a crack to peek in.
She expected to find him at his desk working some sort of technological wizardry, but when he wasn’t, at first she thought he’d just went off and left the light on. Then she caught sight of his dark head at the end of the couch—he was lying down.
Miranda opened the door a little wider and crept over the threshold just to make sure he was okay; it wasn’t like him to be here this time of night, let alone to relax in any form at any time. Something had to be wrong.
Inching closer, she got a better look. He was, indeed, stretched out on the couch, in casual clothes like he’d worn the night he’d shown her how to ground; the coffee table was spread with papers in tidy piles, and there was an open file folder over his stomach, one hand holding it down. She smiled when she saw the empty ice cream carton on the corner of the table: Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.
He was asleep. She’d never actually seen him sleep before. It made him look younger, less grave, almost . . . cute.
She wondered if he’d ever been happy, if he’d ever smiled . . . if he’d ever been young. She remembered her grandmother saying once that she was a sad child, born old. She had a feeling that David had been born that way, too.
She started to retreat to her room, but he shifted slightly, startling her so that she froze like a rabbit under the gaze of a snake. The faint touch of peace on his face hardened, his brow furrowing, and he shook his head slightly, one hand flexing on the couch cushion. His lips moved, almost a tremor, words barely audible.
“Lizzie . . .”
Miranda held her breath and listened, her heart in her throat as she leaned closer, straining to hear.
“Lizzie, take Thomas . . . hurry . . .”
In that moment pain flashed through Miranda’s head, and she stepped backward involuntarily, clapping her hands over her ears the way she once had to try to block out the voices. This time, though, it wasn’t a voice invading her thoughts, it was an image: a little boy with brown hair down to his collar, running with his arms outstretched, giggling. He wore some kind of Pilgrim-looking costume that was stained around the hems, and he was barefoot, his skin nut-brown from the sun.
The boy ran along some kind of dirt path and was swept up into the arms of a woman waiting for him; she wore a muted dress with a high collar and her hair was pulled back in a stark knot, but her smile was warm, and beneath the dull-colored clothes she was young and beautiful, with sparkling brown eyes.
The scene began to fade, and Miranda smelled something, or rather, remembered the smell of something: smoke, and the acrid stench of . . . something burning. She heard a cacophony of shouting and wailing, and terror gripped her; she turned and ran, taking the path back from where she’d come, but there was nowhere to go, nothing but fire . . .
“Miranda?”
She flailed out at the men who tried to seize her arms—they were going to kill Thomas, she had to hide him before—
Someone shook her gently, and she gasped, her vision clearing as suddenly as it had appeared.
She was backed up against the bedroom wall, and David was standing in front of her, his hands lightly resting on her shoulders. He was pale, even for him, and looked more worried than she’d ever seen him. His eyes were an even deeper blue than usual, smoky.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “The light was on and I didn’t . . . didn’t mean to wake you.”
He shook his head and guided her back to the couch. “What happened?”
She had no idea where to begin. As long as she’d been cursed with voices, they’d been just that, or feelings; she’d never seen things before, especially not random events that could have been history, or just brain garbage.
“Wait,” she murmured. “Were you dreaming just now?”
He looked away. “Why?”
“I saw a little boy, and a woman. Then there was fire.”
David looked at her sharply. “What?”
“They were kind of . . . colonial, I guess. I don’t know history that well. But they both looked so happy. Then it’s like I was her, and I was afraid they . . . somebody was going to hurt the little boy.”
The expression of suspicion on his face faded into recognition, and then something like sorrow, and he looked away from her again. “Yes. Somebody was.”
“What did I see?”
He sat back, eyes on the ground, and crossed his arms almost nervously. “You saw my wife.”
“And the boy . . .”
“Our son.”
“Do you . . . do you dream of them often?”
“No,” he answered, still not looking at her. “Not often.”
A thousand questions whirled in her head, but she knew she was prying and was fairly sure it wasn’t a subject he would feel comfortable talking about. Whatever drove a person to become a vampire, it couldn’t be pretty. She couldn’t imagine what would persuade her to give up her humanity that way . . . the thought made her feel queasy. She couldn’t even look at the needle when she got a shot.
“Oh, come now,” he said, picking up on the thought with genuine amusement in his voice. “It’s no more disgusting than the things you humans eat.”
“Not me,” she returned with a grin. “Vegetarian, remember?”
Now he was definitely smiling. “Cheese is the coagulated lactation of a ruminant mammal. It’s not even made from human milk, which would make far more sense. Eggs are essentially the menstrual period of a chicken. Honey is mostly bee spit. Shall I go on?”
She grabbed a throw pillow and threw it at him. “Oh, gross!”
The tension of the moment was effectively broken, thank God. She knew better than to revisit the subject. There were some things . . . no, a lot of things . . . she didn’t need to know.
“How are you tonight?” he asked. “It’s been a few days.”
“Not awful.” She drew her legs up under her chin; it no longer hurt to do so, and a few of her more visible bruises were fading. Her ribs and back still ached if she stayed in one position too long, and one of her wrists throbbed if she tried to play guitar for more than half an hour—not that she had, really. She’d picked at the instrument here and there when she was bored, but nothing else. “I think I might be ready to start lessons again.”
An eyebrow quirked. “Are you certain?”
“I think so. I’ve got grounding down pretty well, and I’ve been working on moving energy around.”
“Very well, then. Tomorrow night.”
&nbs
p; She eyed the array of files on the coffee table. “Do you need help with whatever this is?”
“No.” He leaned forward and started compiling the papers into a single stack. “I was just looking over old patrol reports and field notes from my time in California. It wasn’t getting me anywhere.”
“So you still don’t know who’s behind all of this.”
He raised a curious eyebrow. “How much do you know exactly?”
She shrugged, and replied, “I know what you’ve said, and Faith has hinted. And I get these . . . feelings . . . sometimes, not exactly voices but impressions that tell me things. I think it’s bleed-through from the shield you have around me.”
David looked confused, frowning. “That shouldn’t be possible. Shields like mine don’t leak.”
Miranda felt him reaching through the shield, and it surprised her, but didn’t scare her; she held still to let him do whatever it was he was doing. To her mind’s eye it was as if he ran a hand along the outside of the shield he was holding up around her, and then along the barrier between her and himself, checking for flaws. She envied the way he made it look so easy, but then, if she’d been doing it for 350 years she might have been that good, too.
He shook his head, speaking almost to himself. “No leaks . . . and the barrier between us is thinner than it would be between me and an outside person, but still, there shouldn’t be any crossover.”
“Do you get stuff from me?” she asked.
“Occasionally, but that’s to be expected since I’m the one holding the shield. Sometimes you think loudly,” he added with a smile. “You’re easily as strong a projector as you are a receiver, which is how you can both sense emotions and manipulate them. We’ll work on honing your projective skills as soon as you can keep yourself separate from the rest of the world.”
He finished his inspection and withdrew to the other side of the barrier. “I should have asked first,” he said with chagrin. “You don’t need anyone poking around in your aura right now.”
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