She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Miranda, are you okay? What—”
All around her she could hear things falling off shelves. Her shields were starting to crumble. One of the girls cried out.
She pulled the energy back in, forced the barriers back up, but the fall continued in her mind, a hammer falling, shards of scarlet thrown in all directions, one last breath, she felt it . . . she felt it . . .
The world grew very still. Everything went completely silent, allowing her words to be heard, to make the impossible, the desolation, real.
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “David is dead.”
Grief took her body in great racking sobs, and all she had to grab on to were the arms that wrapped around her, one pair, then two . . . human and fragile, perhaps, but strong enough to hold the broken heart of a Queen.
* * *
Jonathan woke with a start, his eyes on fire with tears, and struggled to straighten himself from the position he had slouched into in the armchair.
He had to fight with all his strength not to break down weeping—the sorrow was overwhelming, so deep it felt like his soul had been rent in two.
The book on his lap fell onto the floor. The noise was jarring enough to throw him out of the trance . . . and trance it had to be, because he felt almost exactly the same way when he came out of a precog episode. But this . . . this was different . . . this was something happening
now
.
The door of the suite flew open, and Deven stumbled in, ghostly pale. He fell back against the door as it shut, and Jonathan saw he was shaking, breath coming in tortured gasps.
He felt it, too.
Just like that night, by the car, when they—and across the ocean, Jacob and Cora—felt David die.
Only this time . . .
Prime and Consort’s eyes met, shared pain yielding to shared realization, and they both spoke at the same time:
“Miranda.”
* * *
Stella had never seen the look on Lark’s face before, and she didn’t say anything about it until they had helped get Miranda into Stella’s bed and the Queen had collapsed into an exhausted sleep. Stella pulled the bedroom door shut, confident that even with the sun up outside the bedroom was in near-total darkness.
Lark sank onto the couch. She was staring off into nothing.
“Is it too early for tequila?” Stella asked, attempting a smile.
After a moment Lark reached into her bag and pulled out an Altoids tin; inside was a lighter and half a joint. She shot Stella a questioning look.
For once, Stella just nodded. Now was not the time to argue with her.
Stella went into the apartment’s microscopic galley kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, ignoring the stink coming from the living room. She’d never been a big fan of marijuana, mostly because of the smell; it reminded her of dirty gym socks, which was why she didn’t usually let Lark smoke at her place. The only time she’d ever enjoyed it was in brownies, but she and Lark had gotten the munchies and ended up eating half the pan, so she was sick as a dog for days. After that she’d lost her appetite for the stuff.
She stuck her favorite mug directly under the coffeemaker’s spigot to catch the first strong cup. Foxglove had given it to her last Halloween; it was painted to look like a cauldron and said
Witches’ Brew
on the side.
In here, everything was so normal. Stove, fridge, microwave, pictures of her and Lark stuck to the fridge door, an empty can from the wet food she’d fed Pywacket last night as a treat. Poor cat . . . he wasn’t too keen on having a houseguest.
The sense of normalcy vanished.
Miranda had cried until she lost consciousness, utterly wrung out. By the time she was too tired to go on, it was morning, and Stella and Lark were both frayed to the nerves from trying in vain to comfort her.
There was nothing they could do but be there. Still, it seemed to be enough; Miranda’s shields held except for that one tense moment when things started falling over, and even once she had fallen asleep she maintained control. She was suffering, yes, more than Stella could imagine—but that was the amazing thing. Stella could only
imagine
it. Miranda wasn’t projecting it onto her. The amount of strength it must have taken to hold that much together was almost inconceivable.
She dumped sugar into her cup and mindlessly drank the entire thing in a couple of swallows, then filled it back up.
By the time she returned to the living room Lark had put her joint away and looked, if not better, at least less like she was going to have a nervous breakdown.
“Thanks for your help,” Stella said, sitting down. “I mean it . . . thank you for staying with me through all that.”
Lark shook her head. At first she didn’t speak, but then she said, “I always used to be so jealous of you.”
“Why?”
“You’re psychic,” Lark replied with a shrug. “You have a bona fide gift. Most people can do magic if they get the training—it’s natural energy. We’re part of nature. You just have to learn how to tap into it. But you . . . you have the Sight, and that’s different. It always seemed so . . . special. Kind of romantic, you know? But if that’s what happens . . . if being that powerful means you fall apart like that and take half the world down with you . . . no thanks. I’ll stick to being a regular old Witch.”
“It’s not always like that. When I was younger, before I got training, I had some . . . bad things happen. I couldn’t control what I Saw, and sometimes I found out stuff I didn’t want to know. But what she has . . . it’s not the same.”
“Well, I know that—it’s empathy, not Sight. Feeling, not Seeing. But still—”
“No, I mean it’s
different
. She’s not human. She’s got the gift, yeah, but there’s way more going on than just empathy. She was pulling power from something . . . I don’t even know what to call it. She’s hooked up to some kind of battery bigger than any one person should be able to control. I don’t think she even realizes it yet. Whatever happened to her out there . . . I don’t know how she’s even coherent.”
“She’s not, at the moment.”
“But she will be. She’s freaked, understandably so, but she’s got the power under control. Nobody can do that, Lark.”
“Like you said . . . she’s not human.”
Stella’s eyes fell on the bedroom door. “To tell you the truth I’m not really sure
what
she is.”
* * *
The hunger saved her.
She barely moved until Friday; it wasn’t so much that she was too mired in mourning to go on as that she simply didn’t know what else to do. She had fought her way back to her body, chosen to live . . . but she didn’t know how to live. She didn’t know how to take that first step into a life alone.
Miranda had never thought of herself as the kind of woman who would fall apart without her man, but then, she had never expected to be a vampire with a mystical bond to her soul mate, either. For three years David had been her partner, her friend, her lover—but more than that, he had been her balance, and now she was tilted precariously off axis, staring down into that endless darkness and trying to regain some sort of equilibrium.
In the end she didn’t have to decide . . . she had to feed.
Vaguely, she heard Stella say that she had to go to work, and she was leaving a key in case Miranda needed to go out. The thought occurred that Stella was an extraordinary human—the trust she had placed in Miranda would have seemed foolish to most people, but Miranda and Stella were not most people. Miranda didn’t know much about Stella’s gift, but she knew that it had a similar flavor to her own, and that meant Stella could read the truth of someone and judge whether that person was worthy of her trust very quickly, if not instantly.
Slowly Miranda became aware of her body: her upper jaw hurt, her mouth was dry, her stomach wrapped around her spine and cried out against its ill treatment. She felt like her entire body was coated with dust on the inside . . . and that dust was rapidly forming sandpaper in her veins.
When had she last fed? It must have been Monday, when she first woke and bit Stella.
One thing was certain. Whatever she had suffered, whatever pain the future still held, she was still a vampire.
Her joints felt stiff and achy as she stretched and climbed out of Stella’s bed. Her legs were weak and shaky . . . no, this would never do. She would not waste away like a Victorian widow. Not today.
Cautiously, she poked her head out the bedroom door, sniffing the air to discern the time of day. Late evening. The sun would be down in half an hour.
The blanket was still pinned up over the window, and though the watery edges of waning daylight wouldn’t burn her skin, just looking at the window made her head begin to pound.
Miranda tottered around the apartment for a while, distracting herself with the novelty of Stella’s home. It was clean but cluttered, shabby salvaged furniture draped in Indian print bedspreads and fabric remnants. The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, and it was oddly comforting. There were a lot of books.
She felt eyes on her back and turned in time to see a bushy tail vanishing into the bedroom.
She ventured into the kitchen and found herself staring at the fridge door, where Stella had hung snapshots of herself, Lark, and other people Miranda didn’t know, all caught in various stages of laughter or affection. In one, Stella posed with an older woman in some kind of shop; in another she and Lark were dressed as Halloween witches, each with a plastic pumpkin full of candy in one hand, middle finger of the other extended toward the camera. Miranda smiled.
It occurred to Miranda she was going to need clothes, unless she wanted to hunt in Hello Kitty pajamas. She returned to the living room and found where Stella had piled her belongings. The Witch had thoughtfully laundered Miranda’s clothes, even the shirt full of rips and tears, and everything was folded almost reverently.
She thought about taking a shower but decided to wait until after her hunt; she would return sweaty and possibly bloodstained, so she might as well wait.
Even with her body commanding her to hurry, Miranda took her time getting dressed, trying not to think about why her shirt was ripped or what had happened the last time she’d worn that pair of pants. Finally she picked up Shadowflame and, with shaking hands, buckled the sword onto her belt before wrapping her coat around her.
By the time she was ready, the sun was well set. She found the key where Stella had said it was and, with a deep breath, took a step outside.
The world spun around her. Groaning, she bolstered her shields and tried to breathe, leaning back against the door for a minute until she felt strong enough to take another step.
She concentrated on figuring out where she was. She pinpointed the neighborhood easily enough and decided to head for a small park she knew was nearby where there would most likely be joggers at this hour. People in Austin learned to be comfortable going out in the dark; the summers were so hellishly hot that some activities, like working out, were simply not possible at midday.
The world was so quiet. Her boots were unnaturally loud on the sidewalk, and she started at every noise. The urge to run back to the safety of the apartment was overwhelming at times, but she gave in to the older, more pressing urge and followed her senses toward the park, concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other. She didn’t have to make sense of the world right now. She didn’t have to think about anything. She just had to hunt.
In the end she didn’t make it to the park. She heard footsteps approaching, rubber soles striking the ground rhythmically. Miranda stepped back off the sidewalk into the shadows and waited.
The young woman who crossed the Queen’s path had expertly highlighted hair pulled back into a swinging ponytail. She was a seasoned runner, judging by her muscle tone. The earbuds she wore, blasting techno, kept her from hearing the soft step up beside her.
She squeaked faintly as Miranda’s hands closed around her neck and hauled her off the sidewalk. In a single fluid motion Miranda spun her back into the vine-covered fence, pinning her, and as the hunger swept up over her, she snapped forward, her teeth striking the girl’s flesh so quickly the pain wouldn’t even register for a few seconds.
The girl struggled fitfully, but Miranda was stronger; she seized the human’s mind and held her still, pressing against the girl as if they were lovers, hot, coppery blood filling her mouth and, swallow by swallow, easing the burning inside her, calming the tremors.
Don’t fight. I won’t hurt you if you don’t make me.
When she was sated, she lifted her mouth from the girl’s neck. She stared at the wounds for a moment, tempted . . . so tempted . . . to dive back in, to take the rest, to fill herself so completely that all thought and emotion drowned in the fever . . . but only beasts lost control. She was of a higher breed.
The girl ran on, remembering nothing.
Miranda stood there for a while, leaning on the fence, breathing in the night around her while her body healed itself from the effects of five days of deprivation.
By the time it was done she was hungry again.
She reached out in her mind, looking for signs of life, and found another human walking along the opposite side of the street, her energy full of purpose and anger. The woman had just left a fight with her boyfriend and needed a walk “to clear her head.” It was the same old thing—he swore he wasn’t interested in that slut in the marketing department, but she didn’t believe him . . . not the way he checked out her ass every time she walked by his desk . . . it was only a matter of time, men always had to fuck everything they could get their hands on, they were like dogs . . .
Miranda slipped across the street and stood on the leeward side of a tree, waiting, her eyes going silver with hunger.
Moments later, the woman stumbled, eyes dazed and hand to her throat.
“Are you all right?” Miranda asked, taking her arm to steady her.
“Yeah, I . . .” She looked around. “I guess I got a little lost there for a minute. Thanks.”