He started to walk away, then thought better of it and said, “On second thought, bring the girl outside with us. Make sure she sees everything. If she’s her sister’s enemy, she’ll appreciate the opportunity. If she’s not, she’ll have fair warning about her own future.”
The house went up in flames just before midnight, with the bodies of the insurgents stacked inside.
David waited long enough to be sure the Austin Fire Department and police had arrived and they understood their role in things: keep the blaze from spreading to the surrounding houses, keep passersby clear of the scene, but make no move to extinguish it until everything inside was reduced to ash. There would be no arson investigation. It was clear that faulty wiring was to blame.
According to APD, who had been briefed on the situation by Faith, the house had belonged to a family of four. Two of the dead the Elite had found inside were its original inhabitants; the other two were probably buried in the backyard along with the family dog and nine other humans.
He stood out by the car half a block away watching the blaze, the twin smells of gasoline and smoke brutally overwhelming the scents of a rainy night. Neighbors were out on their driveways, huddled together in clumps asking each other worriedly if the Larsons were okay, if they’d been home when it happened, if anyone was hurt.
He felt a moment of uncharacteristic tenderness for them. They were ignorant of the horror that had lived in their midst all this while; they were simply coming and going, working and sleeping, playing with their children. One street over there were children dying in pain in a cage. If they’d known, they would have banded together and gotten the police involved . . . and probably gotten themselves all killed. This was the kind of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone’s business and for the most part all cared.
They were so innocent. They had no idea what real darkness was.
Faith was conferring with her unit nearby. An operation like this required a massive cleanup, coordination with the city authorities, and further investigation to find the rest of the gang before they had time to regroup.
“Everything’s running smoothly,” the Second said, standing to his right. “We can take it from here, Sire, if you’d like to head back.”
He nodded. “Have there been any new developments from the network?”
“Not yet. I’m sure they’re out there, but tonight they’re running scared. We probably won’t hear a peep out of them for a week or more.”
“Keep me informed.”
He directed Harlan to take him out to hunt, making sure they took a tour through the Shadow District on the way. The whole street was dead silent and empty, and several of the bars had already cut their losses and shut down for the day.
Sixth Street was a marked contrast. On a Thursday night the clubs were doing a brisk business—for college students the weekend started early. There were attractive young women and men lined up half a block from the Signet-owned club the Black Door; he could hear the thumping bass even through the supposedly soundproof window glass of the car.
He disembarked and instructed Harlan to return in fifteen minutes, then bypassed the line, garnering both appreciative stares and complaints about cutting in line. He took the steps up to the double doors, where an enormous bouncer—human—stepped in front of him.
Without speaking, he held open the neck of his coat so the man could see the Signet. The bouncer practically leapt back out of his way, unfastening the velvet rope to let him in. He gave the man a nod as he passed and received a sketchy, nervous bow in return.
Once inside, he took the side stairs up to the catwalk, where he could survey the crowd and choose what he wanted; the employees all recognized the Signet, and they either bowed slightly or, in the case of waitresses with trays of drinks, smiled broadly and winked so they wouldn’t lose their balance. He didn’t especially care if the humans acknowledged him here, but they had been carefully schooled by their managers to show him the kind of respect they would their best customer—which he was. Aside from paying their salaries and making sure they were unmolested by their vampire clientele, he was a generous tipper.
The music pulsed all around him, and down on the dance floor bodies surged in time to it, young skin glistening with sweat. He envied them their abandon; all they had to worry about were condoms and designated drivers, followed by hangovers and embarrassing sexual escapades to retell at the next sorority meeting.
Standing there watching them, he felt more removed from humanity than he ever had, and consequently, his heart felt like it was about to break beneath the enormity of what he was. There had been times over the years when he had balked against responsibility, wishing he could go back to California when he was only a lieutenant and followed orders instead of giving them. Being the pinnacle of the food chain was lonely, and there were moments that he hated it.
He thought back to California again, this time remembering the phone call he’d received from Deven months ago just after Miranda had left him. The Prime understood what David was feeling. He had felt it, too. They all felt the burden of the Signet, and deep down they all knew there was a way to share that burden, to lighten the weight of the world.
He leaned forward on the catwalk rail, putting his head in his hands. He was being foolish again, dreaming of destiny when there was only reality. He had no Queen, no Consort. He was alone. And the only person . . .
The note he had found hidden in the Shakespeare book echoed in his mind.
Come to me. Come to me,
she had said, and he wanted to so badly . . . in theory it was safe for now, with the leadership of the Blackthorn syndicate dead and the rest of their recruits scattered all over the city in chaos.
But Ariana Blackthorn had threatened Miranda . . . and they had already tried to kill her once. The reality was that it would never be safe, not as long as any of the insurgents still lived. And as soon as one threat was put down, another would rise. As long as Miranda lived in his territory . . . as long as she lived . . . because of him, she would be in danger.
He stood there for a long time, staring sightlessly at the crowd, feeling empty and alone, until a waitress spoke up from his elbow: “Can I bring you something, Sire?”
He sighed and scanned the dance floor again. “I’d like a gin and tonic, and the redheaded woman at the bar drinking the Grey Goose martini. I’ll be in my booth.”
“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?”