They were all standing around the steel bars staring down at her. She could feel their disgust, their loathing—to them she was human-shaped vermin they were entitled to exterminate. They watched her with all the compassion of a collector pushing pins through a dead butterfly.
Now that she was finally in the same room as they were, she could feel the difference between them and ordinary humans; the magic on them that gave them the ability to fight vampires had a signature to it sort of like a scent and sort of like heat, but not quite either.
She wanted to fight. She wanted a chance to save herself. But the longer the stakes held her wounds open, the weaker she felt; wood itself would no longer kill her, but no wound could heal if there was still something in it. She was bleeding slowly onto the dirt. It took a while to kill a vampire with exsanguination but it was possible, depending on the size of the wounds and the time involved. Right now it was a race to see how she would die: by blood or by fire.
The murmur of conversation rose and fell around her. She tried to pick out individual sentences, any kind of information she could save for later, but her mind was simply too addled to make sense of it. Their sense of triumph was obvious, though, as was their anticipation. They were excited about watching her die.
Finally she heard someone speaking English quietly off to one side: “Why aren’t we using this one?”
And another voice: “The Shepherd says she’s part of the Circle; they’re too much of a threat.”
“Too bad. It’s kind of hot, now that I look at it—if we had a party before dawn the Shepherd would never know.”
Miranda’s entire body went ice cold.
“Shut up,” the other snapped, then said in a low voice, “You start saying shit like that and they’ll call you a sympathizer—and when it comes time to kill all of
them
off, you’ll be first in line.”
“Yeah, whatever. What are we supposed to do with the woman and the kid?”
“Orders are to kill them as soon as it’s dead. The only way to be sure we destroy them for good is to wipe out the bloodlines.”
Strange . . . as she listened to them talk, trying with all her will to hang on to their words so she could remember them because she knew they were important, feeling her body growing weaker with each passing minute, feeling the first hint of dawn touch her skin and redouble her fear, she felt something happening . . . in the corner of the room, behind the two men, something was . . . wrong . . . no, not wrong, just . . . strange . . .
It felt almost as if the air and the earth in that spot were turning to water, and then into light. Behind her closed eyes she could see a soft glimmer beginning to build, first just around the edges of an oval-shaped space in the shadows, then expanding, like someone slowly swinging a door open.
There was a blast of wind—cool, damp wind, scented with evergreen and the faint taste of the ocean—nothing like the air around her. The light grew absolutely blinding; then, as quickly as it had come, it faded, and the night was as it had been.
“Did you feel that?” one of the two men asked.
The second started to reply, but all Miranda heard was a sputtering, gurgling sound. A few seconds later she heard the telltale heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.
Her consciousness was fading in and out, but she heard a familiar voice snap, “Cover the child’s eyes.”
The next few minutes were a cacophony of men yelling, weapons being drawn, and the silvery swish of a blade—through the air, against other blades, and into flesh. Miranda managed to turn her head toward the noise and saw steel catch the light, moving so fast the humans barely had time to get their hands on their own swords before they were down.
They had clearly not been expecting an attack, believing their location secret and that there was no possibility another vampire could try to rescue her in time.
Within minutes, they were all dead.
She heard chains rattling and then falling to the ground. “Get out,” the voice she knew came again. “Room two twenty-one at the Verde Inn—you’ll be safe there.” Then, a child’s cry of fear, and footsteps running away—one adult, carrying a lighter burden.
Miranda lifted her head slightly. She had to know what was happening.
Something struck the gate and it flew off its hinges, slamming into the far side of the cage.
A shadow fell over Miranda, and a glowing green light caught her eyes. Her relief was so profound she laughed weakly, the sound strangled by tears.
“Be still,” Deven said gently, kneeling beside her. “This is going to hurt.”
“Where’s . . .” she panted.
“He’s four hours away. Dawn is coming—we need to get somewhere dark.”
The first stake came out and she screamed, back arching against the pain. It felt like it was flaying her open from the inside. The second nearly made her black out. By the time it clattered to the ground, she was sobbing.
She had been staked and shot before, but it was nothing like this—these were thicker, rammed deep into the ground, and the wood they were made of had barely even been sanded. It scraped against the inside of the wounds and left a fire of torment in its wake.
“Breathe . . . just breathe.”
Desperate for something to cling to, she wrapped her fingers in his coat and held on for dear life. If the stakes in her wrists were agonizing, the ones in her legs were beyond that; she hadn’t known her body could feel that kind of pain without dying. They had been rammed in at an angle, through her calves. Worst of all, there were still more—several of the crossbow bolts had been left in her, though they’d been broken off in back.
“I can’t . . .” she half panted, half sobbed.
“You can, Miranda. I promise you can.” Deven carefully lifted her shoulders up off the ground and leaned her against him. With one hand, he reached up and unsnapped the studded leather collar he was wearing. “Here,” he said, tilting his head, offering his neck. “Bite down.”
She didn’t have time to question it—he didn’t give her time. He started pulling the bolts, in rapid succession, getting it over with as fast as possible. On top of everything else, the crossbow bolts had barbed heads.
Her teeth tore into the skin in front of her, dark blood spilling into her mouth, ripping deeper with every stifled scream. He didn’t even flinch.
The last bolt came out, and he put his hand on the back of her head, encouraging her to drink. Vampire blood wouldn’t do her much good physically, but just the act of feeding helped soothe some of her panic. She had never fed on her own kind, except for David, and that had only been either to turn her into a Thirdborn or in the course of sex. It surprised her how similar to David Deven tasted—like two vintages of the same wine.
“We need to get out of here,” he said, looking up at the sky, which continued to lighten. She watched the holes in his neck—not the neat punctures they usually left, but ragged tears from all four teeth—close up and disappear.
“Sorry . . . about that,” she said.
Deven kissed her forehead. “Barely a scratch.” They had perhaps an hour before the sun was high enough to hurt them. “I think we’re on the edge of town—we might be stuck here for the day. Let’s see if we can find someplace a little more comfortable.”
“You don’t have a car?” she whispered. She didn’t have the strength to summon her voice.
“No . . . I’m on my own. I was the only one who could get here fast enough.”
“Wait . . . how
did
you get here? There’s no airport.”
“I’ll explain later.” Straightening, he picked her up off the ground and carried her out of the pen. Just getting out from under the open sky made her feel far less afraid.
The next quarter hour or so faded in and out, but when she opened her eyes again, she could smell hay, and the same earthy animal stink as in David’s stables. Here, though, the smell was old and faded, just like the machinery smell in the other building. Nothing but owls and mice had lived here for a long time.
Miranda looked around curiously; most of the barn was far below. They were in a hayloft. Usually a place like that would have gaps in the planks that let sunlight reach in, but up here, whoever had built the place had taken extra care to keep the wind and rain out to protect the hay, and it was comfortably dark, especially since Deven had found a faded canvas tarp and was basically making them a hay fort to block out any remaining sunlight.
Miranda couldn’t lie there and not help; she forced herself up and grabbed a small bale, stacking it near the entrance. It looked almost like a little house, or like the stable in a Nativity, the thought of which would have made her laugh if she hadn’t been so tired.
“We need three Wise Men,” she said.
He lightly squeezed the back of her neck, a surprisingly reassuring gesture. “We’ll have to settle for two badass Signets. Go inside and get comfortable. I’ll get a look at what our defenses are and whether there’s an animal or, if we’re really lucky, a human around we can get you fed on.”
Miranda had to move slowly; the wounds were still deep, and without feeding she couldn’t heal them completely and stay conscious. She knew as soon as Deven had made certain their defenses he’d come to her aid; they didn’t have time for her to lie around whimpering. She spread another tarp over the floor of their tiny hideaway and pushed and shoved the hay beneath into something resembling pillows, then sank back into it with a grunt.
“We’re on an abandoned farm outside town,” Deven said, returning from his recon. “According to my phone there’s nothing for miles—I’m barely getting a signal. If there are any Morningstar left on the property, they’re biding their time. I called David,” he added before she could ask, reaching down to pull off her boots. “He knows you’re all right. He may have already tried to call you. I persuaded him to stop at a motel and come the rest of the way close to sunset—otherwise he’d be stranded in the car for twelve hours losing his mind. Now, just relax . . . let me take care of this mess.”
He held his hands above her body, moving them slowly over her; she felt healing energy sighing softly into her, bathing each wound in warmth and leaving a slight vibration behind. As the pain abated she was able to watch him more closely, and the difference in his energy from the last time they’d met was amazing. He was clearer, even stronger, and his power flowed almost effortlessly where, back when he’d healed Kat, it had taken twice as long and had knocked him out for most of a day. He had, since she’d last seen him, tapped into something fathomless.
She remembered what Jonathan had said about the “Weaver” who had helped them. Whatever this guy was, he was powerful . . . frighteningly so.
They settled in together to wait out the sunlight, Miranda’s head resting on his shoulder. The barn creaked softly in the wind, and though she could feel the sun burning outside, she felt protected; the quiet, broken by the droning of insects and the passage of birds overhead, coupled with the warmth to take some of the horror of the night away.
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me how you got here so fast.”
“A really big slingshot.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m guessing it had something to do with your new friend,” Miranda said.
“How did you . . . never mind.” Deven sighed. “Yes. He has the ability to create portals from place to place. It’s hard work, though, and doing it on such short notice to an unfamiliar location wiped him out. I’ll have to take a plane back.”
“Does this miracle worker have a name?”
“Nico.”
She reached up and touched his Signet, silent for a moment, before saying quietly, “You really were dying, weren’t you.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because you couldn’t have done anything . . . and because I don’t think I really wanted to get better.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “If Nico hadn’t appeared out of nowhere determined to help, I probably would have just given up.”
“Even if it meant taking Jonathan with you?”
“I didn’t want to punish him, too, but by then, all I wanted was for it to end. I would never have killed us on purpose, but if I could just lie back and let it happen . . . you have to understand . . . after everything I’ve destroyed, it was no less than I deserved.”
Miranda felt tears burn her eyes. “You can’t really believe that.” She knew, though, that he did, and the hollowness of such a thought, along with the memory of a time when she’d have been perfectly happy for him to die, filled her with such sadness, when she was already feeling hurt and vulnerable, that she turned her face into his neck and wept.
She heard an affectionate chuckle. “Don’t cry, love . . . you can’t be rid of me that easily.”
She lifted her head. “It’s not just that. It’s been a really shitty day, and . . .”
“You wish David were here.”
She nodded, sniffing. “I never should have come here. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was stupid.”
Deven used the hem of his shirt to wipe her eyes. “Seeking love is never stupid. No one is immune to missing those they’ve lost.”
They were silent for a while; Miranda knew she should sleep, and her body was craving it, but her mind wouldn’t be still. She kept remembering the terror of waking up staked to the ground . . . of feeling the sky lighten overhead, knowing that she couldn’t free herself . . . thinking that after everything, she might die alone on a filthy floor and never see David again . . .
“You’re projecting, my Lady.”
“Sorry . . . I’m just so tired of this constant feeling of impending doom hanging over my head. I just want a little time to pass without fighting for my life or being afraid of whom I’ll lose next.”
“I wish I had comforting words for you, but . . .”
“I know. It’s far from over. I just have to suck it up and deal. It just . . . it hurts.”
“If you dwell too much on your sorrow and fear, you’ll end up on the ground with a dying heart,” Deven said. “Trust me, Miranda . . . you don’t want that. Just deal with what’s in front of you, and trust your own strength. Take solace in what you love.”
“I am,” she said, tightening her grip on his hand again. “Take your own advice.”