“Right away, Sire.”
He made his way toward the back of the club’s second level and sank tiredly into the leather seat; a moment later a second waiter appeared with his drink. He sipped it listlessly until the waitress returned, a wary young woman at her side.
“Here you are, Sire,” the waitress said. He handed her a twenty.
The girl regarded him with narrowed eyes. “They said the owner wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Sit down, please.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even know you,” she pointed out. “And frankly you’re not my type.”
He looked her over, smiling. Very few humans were openly defiant of him; he liked it. He also liked the spark in her aura, and the flash of her hazel eyes. She was tall—she’d top him by a good three inches if he were standing up—and a little thinner than he liked, but overall quite a beauty, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five years old. Graduate student, no doubt. She had a more East Coast than Central Texas accent, one he’d place around Maryland.
She was also a lesbian. Part of him was disappointed, but really, he wasn’t in the mood to play the game. It did, however, explain her immunity to his charms.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I’m not after your ass, Miss . . .”
“Sandy.”
“Very well, Sandy. Please sit.” He reached toward her with his mind and pulled gently, wrapping the fingers of his power around her will. She was a strong girl, but he was far stronger, and she blinked twice, then sat down next to him, confusion on her face.
He leaned in and brushed the loose strawberry hair from her neck. She trembled at the touch of his fingers, and not from fear—he had her, whatever her preferences were, and if he wanted to, he could arouse her so thoroughly that the continued effort of a dozen women would do her no good until he gave her release.
He wasn’t interested in subverting her desires, though. If she didn’t want men, he wasn’t going to force himself on her. But neither did he want her to fight him, or to be afraid. He fed just enough energy into her body to relax and soothe her, then tilted her head to the side and quickly pierced her skin. If she had struggled, she could have caused his teeth to hit an artery. This way she was safe.
Safe. What did the word even mean in this world? He drank, his hand around her throat as if he were simply kissing her, and she moaned, her hands seeking something to hold on to and grasping his shoulders. Meanwhile the other humans in the bar walked past the booth, not even noticing.
He withdrew, satisfaction flooding warm and complete through his body, and held her steady for a few minutes until she began to regain her equilibrium.
“Shit,” she murmured, sagging forward. “I’ve had one too many.”
“I think you have,” he agreed. “Can I call you a cab home?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”
As the waitress led her out of the club, he finished his drink, holding the alcohol in his mouth to cleanse his palate. She had tasted healthy and strong, intelligent, and so young . . . an undertone of cherries and tobacco, suggesting she smoked the occasional cigar.
There was no honey in her blood, and no cinnamon. No music.
David closed his eyes. It was no use. He could drink every redhead in Texas, and until he tasted Miranda he would never be full. Until he felt her life pulsing beneath his lips, her breath catching as her body shivered around his, her hair tangling around his fingers, he would thirst, and thirst . . . and die wanting.
He left the club and found Harlan waiting at his usual spot; the people still in line outside stared openly as he walked by and got into the sleek black car, probably wondering who he was—old money? New money? A music producer? A model?
“Where to, Sire?” Harlan asked.
David stared out the window. He knew what he wanted to say. But it would be dawn in a few hours. He had to meet with the patrol leaders and network managers and put in a call to the fire department and the mayor’s office. Again, that weight; again, the longing.
“Home, please,” he answered.
Then, he spoke into his com: “Elite Eighty-Six.”
Lindsay’s surprise was evident; he never spoke to her directly, preferring to leave the whole subject to Faith. “Yes, Sire?”
“Is Miss Grey home tonight?”
As far as he knew, Lindsay kept an eye on all of Miranda’s comings and goings, but reported back only when something aroused her concern. He had instructed Faith to keep the guard out of the way and above all not to peep through windows or anything creepy; for one thing, Miranda would know, and for another, he already felt guilty enough about spying on her even indirectly. Still, he had said he would keep her safe, and making sure there was an Elite within safe range was the best way he could think of.
“Yes, Sire. She got home at one A.M. and hasn’t left again.”
“Home from a show?”
“No, Sire—from a date, I believe. There was a young human male with her.”
He was aware that his breath had suddenly become shallow and pained. “This male, did he stay?”
“No, Sire. They seemed friendly but not particularly affectionate. I have images of his face in case we needed to run a trace on him—would you like me to?”
“No,” he said hastily. “But do you know what her schedule is like tomorrow night?”
“She usually has a gig at Mel’s on Fridays, but this week it was canceled, something to do with the owner having to spray for termites. It was in the paper. Tomorrow night she’s going out with friends instead. She mentioned to one of them that she would be back home before midnight.”
“Thank you, Lindsay.”
“Yes, Sire.”
He leaned back in his seat, trying to force himself to ground; there was no reason to lose his calm. Miranda was entitled to have lovers. She was entitled to whatever she wanted. He had no claim over her, and they hadn’t even spoken for nearly six months. He had no right to feel jealous.
He could have laughed at himself. He was jealous. Poisonously, shamefully jealous. He wanted to find this boy and snap his neck.
It was only right. She should be getting on with her life, doing all those things that made human life so precious: falling in love, finding herself, even starting a family. Those things had been out of her reach before, but now she was strong and could have whatever she wanted . . . anyone she wanted. She was beautiful and talented, and he wanted her so badly he came very close to telling Harlan to turn the car around.
He should stay away from her. He should put her out of his mind for good, or at least pretend such a thing was possible, for her own sake.
He knew that.
He also knew where he was going at midnight tomorrow, and he knew that nothing, no war or fear or misplaced sense of righteousness, was going to stop him.
“Did you hear about that house fire over in Westlake?” Drew asked.
“Yeah, it was on the news,” Kat said. “They said the whole place burned to the ground—the fire department barely kept it under control. They’re lucky the whole neighborhood didn’t go up, with all those trees around.”
Miranda listened distractedly, poking at her ravioli. The cute little pasta pockets had been appetizing at first, but she’d sat staring at them so long that they’d gone cold and jiggly, turning a bit gray in the café’s lights.
“Earth to Mira,” Kat was saying, tapping her on the arm with her fork.
She looked up. “Oh, sorry.”
“Where are you tonight?” Drew asked with a concerned smile. He was always so solicitous of her welfare; sometimes it was endearing, and sometimes it made her want to hit him with her purse. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She mustered a smile. “Just kind of distracted. I’m used to being onstage on Fridays.”
Kat blew her straw wrapper at Miranda. “Sorry we’re not a huge adoring crowd cheering your name,” the blonde said. “If you want, Drew will throw his underwear at you.”
> Drew’s ears went bright pink. “Jesus, Kat.”
Miranda laughed. “It’s okay. I’m just in a weird mood. Have you ever had a feeling like something was about to happen?”
“Of course,” Kat replied. “It’s called PMS.”
“No, I mean . . . never mind.”
“Do you want dessert?” Drew asked. “I’m buying.”
Miranda shook her head. He and Kat exchanged a look. It was unlike Miranda not to have cake—she only ever ate sweets when they went out, and she looked forward to them all week. But tonight she wasn’t hungry; she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread in her stomach that was taking up all the space. Even the few bites of pasta she’d had were sitting there like a rock.
Kat drove them all back to Miranda’s apartment; the weather in March was unpredictable, and the forecast called for rain, but with a cold front coming it might end up snowing; one could never tell. In a way, she was grateful that her show had been postponed. She’d had to slog home in sleet and mud before, and she’d nearly broken her leg slipping on icy patches on the sidewalk. The winter had been so cold and wet this year that she had been itching for spring since January.
“What’s on your mind?” Drew asked from the front seat.
Miranda’s gaze was fixed on the city out the window, but she said, “I can’t believe how fast time goes by. It seems like it was just summer.”
“Yep,” Kat said. “Before you know it people will be bitching about the heat again instead of the cold. I love Texas.”
Miranda let them into the apartment gratefully, feeling the blast of heat from inside with a smile. Speaking of bitching, they complained every time they came over about how warm she kept her house, but since she’d come back to the city she had lost a lot of her cold tolerance and had the heater running full blast almost all the time. Kat and Drew both stripped off their outerwear as soon as they crossed the threshold.
Just as she was about to follow them in, she felt . . . something. She turned, peering into the darkness, eyes narrowed, and swept the view with her senses. Nothing was amiss.
Shrugging, she went inside.
Kat had excused herself to the bathroom, leaving her alone with Drew. He sat on the couch, smiling a little awkwardly. Miranda had made a point not to spend much time with him without Kat to run interference; she knew very well how he felt about her and didn’t want to encourage him. It didn’t seem to help. But he was a great guy and fun to be around when he wasn’t making moon eyes at her.
“So, Miranda . . .”
She held back a sigh. “Do you want a beer or something?”
“No, I . . . I was kind of hoping we could talk.”
She tried to joke off his earnest tone. “Well, talk fast—Kat pees like a speeding bullet.”
“I’m serious,” Drew said, standing up. “I mean, I know we agreed just to be friends, but . . . Miranda . . .” He reached down and took her hand, not noticing how stiff she was at the contact. “I really, really like you. I think we’d be great together. Could you just please think it over? Last night was a lot of fun, and it was nice to spend time with just you. I’d really like to do it again.”
Miranda sighed aloud this time. She knew last night had been a mistake. Kat had dropped out of their movie plans last minute due to some sort of emergency with her at-risk kids, but she’d insisted Miranda and Drew go on without her. Miranda had a sneaking suspicion that Kat had planned the whole thing.
“Drew, I told you. I’m not ready for a relationship right now. You’re a sweet guy, and very attractive, but—”
Three things happened at once:
One, Drew took hold of her arms and kissed her on the mouth, causing her entire body to go rigid.
Two, Kat emerged from the bathroom and said, “Oh! Sorry, guys!” and started to duck into the kitchen.
Three, there was a knock at the door.
Miranda twisted out of Drew’s grasp and barely, just barely, kept from punching him in the face. She stumbled backward, torn between terror and rage, and snarled, “Don’t ever do that again.”
Drew was blushing crimson, and she almost relented at the obvious shame on his face as he stammered his apology. Instead of replying, she turned away and, so rattled she didn’t even remember to look out the peephole, flung open the door.
She froze. The earth and time itself abruptly stopped turning.
There, on her front porch, looking exactly as she remembered him down to the buttons of his long black coat, stood Prime David Solomon.
Before she could speak, he leaned slightly to the left to look over her shoulder. His deep blue eyes fastened on Drew. Miranda heard Drew swallow hard.
David looked back at Miranda, and there was a ring of silver around his irises as he asked calmly, “Do you need me to kill him?”
Fourteen
“Oh my God,” Miranda breathed. Then she came back to herself long enough to say, “No, it’s okay. He’s okay.”
Behind her, Kat cleared her throat loudly.
She half turned, looking from Kat to David and back again, her heart and mind going in a thousand directions at once and her insides threatening to explode from her skin. “Oh . . . um . . . guys . . . here, come in.”
Her legs felt like Jell-O, but she moved back out of the way to let the Prime in. He stepped through the doorway and all the air went out of the room; God, she’d forgotten that he did that. His energy overwhelmed the apartment even as tightly shielded as he always was. She might have been the only one who felt it, but still, everything from the way he stood to the unnatural brightness of his eyes set him apart from her friends.
Kat’s eyes were wide and speculative, looking David up and down with obvious appreciation for his hand-tailored attire, and no doubt also for his magnificent build. “Hi there.”
He took his gaze off Miranda long enough to size up Kat. Miranda could see the calculation in his face: human, female, harmless. “Hello.”
He gave Drew a disdainful glance and, after that, barely allotted him the notice he would give a troublesome insect. Miranda found that weirdly hilarious.
“This is David,” she said. “He’s the friend I mentioned from when I was away last summer. David, these are my friends Kat and Drew.”
He nodded to them. Miranda’s addled mind found it a little offensive that they didn’t bow.
“So you’re Rehab Guy,” Kat was saying, having recovered her aplomb. She strode forward to shake David’s hand; for a second he stared at it like an alien object, then took her hand and kissed it, causing Kat to turn pink at the ears and stammer just a tiny bit.
In another time, when her worlds weren’t colliding quite so violently, Miranda would have laughed at that, too. Kat was never shaken up by attractive men. Her apparent lack of interest in the male gender was what got her so much sex.
David looked over at Miranda. “Rehab Guy?”
Miranda shrugged. She felt behind her for something to lean on and came to rest on the couch.
“Were you a counselor at the clinic or something?” Kat asked. “Mira says you helped get her back on her feet.”
Now David smiled, turning again to Miranda. “Mira,” he said. “I like that.”
She nodded, unable to meet his eyes just yet, though she could feel every inch of his gaze traveling over every inch of her. “My mom used to call me that. Snow White was my favorite fairy tale when I was little—she’d say ‘Mira, Mira, on the wall . . .’ you know how it goes.”
“This was before Shakespeare, I assume.”
She smiled. “Yeah.”
Kat looked from him to her and back, then over at Drew, then back at Miranda. Kat wasn’t psychic, but she was no fool either. “I think we should get going,” she announced. “Drew, honey, grab your coat. Miranda, maybe we’ll see you later this weekend? I’ll e-mail you.”
She grabbed Drew by the arm and practically dragged him to the door, despite his protestations. As they passed by the couch, Kat said in a loud whisper, “I want d
etails.”
Miranda rose to lock the door behind them and paused a minute with her hands on the deadbolt, trying to steady her breath. When she turned back, David was standing by the hook where her coat was, his hand touching the scarf that Drew had left that she kept forgetting to give back.
There was a moment of tense silence before David said, “He seems nice.”
She snorted. “Sure.”
He let go of the scarf. “What?”
“Nice. He seems nice. You said it like you’d say ‘nice’ to a light blue tuxedo or a case of genital warts.”
He frowned. “Are you angry at me?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Well, what do you think? You haven’t called or e-mailed or acted like I exist for six months; now you show up on my doorstep and, what, want to go out for coffee?”
“Something like that,” he replied.
She stared at him. He stared at her.
“Fine,” she said.
His eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
She yanked her coat from its hook. “Yes, really. Come on.”
“I don’t . . . actually drink coffee,” he said, sounding a little thrown by her behavior. “Caffeine makes me jittery .”
“That’s not where we’re going.”
To his credit, he didn’t protest, but let her haul him along behind her out the front door and into the night.
Perhaps no one else in the city would get the novelty of a psychic musician and the most powerful vampire in Texas sitting together in an ice cream parlor, but Miranda’s creeping sense of the absurd had plenty to take in tonight.
Amy’s Ice Cream was the foremost chain of its kind in Austin, staffed by the young and hip—smaller versions of Kat, for the most part, and teenage boys with floppy hair and sleeve tattoos. It was decorated with cartoon cows and piped punk and metal over the loudspeakers, a study in contrasts that was typical of their fair city.
It was the only ice cream chain open past midnight, and also the only one in town that had a rotating selection of alcoholic flavors as well as the standard, mashed up with your choice of toppings from chocolate-covered Gummi Bears to granola.
Queen of Shadows Page 26
