"We're fighting for our freedom. The Shadow World is rising up against tyranny. You think I'm going to tell you anything? This is worth more than my life."

David nodded. "Righteousness is satisfying, isn't it? Sometimes having a cause to believe in is what makes this all worthwhile. But then you have to wonder: When it comes right down to it, are you really willing to lay down your life for a creed, especially one given to people you've never seen?"

Rollins looked up at him, baffled.

"Let me give you what you want, then, Rollins. Release him."

The guards clearly thought their Prime had lost his mind but did as they were told, stepping back from the kid to let him stand.

David straightened. "Here's your chance," the Prime told Rollins, holding out his hands. "Be a hero. Kill me, if you can. Everyone else, stand back."

The boy's eyes narrowed, understandably. "This is a trick."

"No trick." David pulled back his coat and drew his sword, handing it hilt first to the nearest Elite. She held it like it was Excalibur. "Hand-to-hand combat to the death. Show me how strongly you believe. Kill me and take the Signet back to your masters. I'm sure the rewards will be great."

Rollins stood staring at him, thunderstruck, trying to gather his wits and his courage; he had to know how ridiculous the idea was, but at the same time, if he really did buy into what these "freedom fighters" were selling, he couldn't pass up the chance. There had to be some kind of standing order to slay the Prime on sight.

The minute stretched out interminably as Rollins panted, his eyes wide, his hands fisting at his sides. David simply waited, letting his power-aura expand to show the boy exactly what he was facing: the full complement of darkness and death that bent only to the Prime's will. The Elite watched on full alert. They were ready to pounce on the boy the second he twitched if it looked like he might actually harm their leader, although it would hardly be necessary. Even if he did try to attack, it would take a much greater vampire than Rollins to defeat a Prime in anything like a fair fight.

Finally, Rollins lowered his eyes. Fear choked him and he shook his head dumbly.

David smiled, this time without any trace of compassion. Rollins went even paler at the nastiness of the expression. "Kneel to your Prime, boy," he snapped.

Instantly Rollins dropped to his knees.

"Now tell me what you know."

Rollins took a shaking breath and stammered, "They . . . they don't tell us much. Just what the next mission is. There's a woman in charge of my group. I don't know her name but I heard one of the others call her Black . . . Black something. We meet in a warehouse on East Nineteenth. It used to be some kind of downtown hippie commune or something. There's paint everywhere and it stinks like pot. Please don't kill me . . . please. I told you what I know. Please."

"Thank you, Rollins. That will do." David turned to the Elite, who gave him back his sword; the guard gave him a questioning look, and he nodded silently back, then turned and walked away, sliding the curved blade back into its sheath inside his coat.

Behind him, he heard a faint scuffle and a whimper, then the swing of steel and the thump of something heavy hitting the street.

"Star-three," he said into his com.

"Sire?"

"Faith, I need a search run on any female Blackthorn of rank within the syndicate, whether they're presumed dead or not. Cross-reference with the list of Auren's known supporters and see if there are any commonalities. Also have a unit run recon on the old Austin Art Collective warehouse on Nineteenth. The insurgents may be using it as a meeting point for their lower-level enforcers. Have a scan run for heat signatures while you're at it to see if anyone's living there."

"As you will it, Sire. I'll send the scan results in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you. Star-one, out."

He walked up the street to one of the less seedy bars in the Shadow District, and as he passed he heard movement in the alleyways, footsteps retreating as he neared.

Yes, let them run. Let them creep back under their rocks. He was going to have a drink.

The bartender at Anodyne knew him, of course, but unlike a great many others he didn't so much as bat an eye-lash at the Prime's arrival. There were a few places where David never deigned to set foot, but this one was frequented not only by him, but by most of the off-duty Elite.

The businesspeople who understood the bigger picture knew that running a vampire bar in a Signet-controlled city was a wise idea; if they were on the Prime's good side they never had to worry about violence or intimidation from gangs battling for the district. Their patrons could drink in peace. That was one reason why Haven cities tended to have much greater concentrations of vampires, and the Signets focused most of their resources on those; he had to worry about vampire crime a lot more in Austin than, say, Little Rock. The only other city in his territory he was often compelled to visit more than once a year in person was New Orleans. Vampires plus voodoo tended to be a treacherous combination.

Inside, the bar catered to three of their kind's favorite things: darkness, privacy, and beverages. Most of the room was cordoned off into booths, only a few of which were populated on a night like tonight.

The bar itself was empty except for a single man who saw the Prime approach and immediately decided to take his drink to a booth.

David took one of the stools while the bartender came over. "Evening, Sire," he said, his accent a familiar comforting combination of Hispanic and Texan. "What can I get you?"

"Good evening, Miguel. I'll have a Black Mary."

"Top shelf?"

"Stoli, please."

Miguel measured vodka into a shaker, then retrieved an opaque bottle from the fridge marked O NEGATIVE and filled the glass the rest of the way. He glanced over at David and asked, "You want Tabasco or Cholula?"

"Cholula."

He slid the drink over to David, who took an experimental sip and said, "Perfect."

He smiled to himself, thinking how Miranda would react if she saw-or better yet, smelled-what was in his glass. He could picture the face she would make.

His smile faded. That very reaction was the proof of how impossible it all was. He could think about her all he wanted . . . and he had been unable to stop for the past few days . . . but in the end, she was human. Even if by some miracle she was ever interested in sex again, and even if that interest were to turn to him, the fact was, it was doomed before beginning. She would grow old and die. He wouldn't. He was a predator. She wasn't.

He could tell himself that all he wanted, but it apparently made no difference to his body. He had caught himself staring at her, his eyes following the sweet line of her neck and shoulder, remembering the sight of her fingers on the guitar and wondering what it would feel like to have those fingers ghost over his skin. Every time she spoke, the curve of her soft lower lip occupied his thoughts for hours.

He had to fight with himself every night not to seek out her company, and he tried to be content with the time before and after their training sessions when they sometimes just talked for a while. He hadn't known anyone since Lizzie who could make him laugh so easily. Miranda was far smarter than she gave herself credit for; there were times when she offered an insight into something weighing on his mind that made everything crystal clear. She made him laugh, she made him think, and she made him want desperately to tear the clothes from her body and taste the sweet flesh of her thighs . . . and her mouth . . . and the copper-cinnamon of her blood.

It was slowly driving him mad.

"Rough night, Sire?"

Thankful for the distraction, he looked up at Miguel. "You could say that."

"I hear there's a war coming. Bad for business."

"That depends on who wins," David replied wryly. "I don't suppose you've heard anything about these bastards."

Miguel shrugged. "Their kind don't come in here. They don't mess with me, I don't mess with them. They know your people are my best customers."

"I figured as much."

He had to get back soon. Miranda was expecting him for another session. After almost another week she still wasn't progressing nearly well enough for his peace of mind, although she had finally stopped having a panic attack every time she tried to shield. He wondered if perhaps, subconsciously, he was trying to sabotage her efforts by setting the bar too high, trying to keep her with him longer; but surely his subconscious wasn't that stupid? The longer she stayed at the Haven, the more danger she was in. Before long the enemy would know all about her, and she would prove another vulnerability. Networks could be upgraded, but Miranda's life was a risk he wasn't willing to take.

"Another?"

"No, thank you, Miguel."

The bartender raised an eyebrow and said casually, taking his empty glass, "Why do I get the feeling like you've got something on your mind more important than war?"

"What's more important than war?"

Miguel laughed. "Everything you're fighting for, Sire. But most of all: women."

"Women."

"Damn right. You got woman trouble?"

"Women are always trouble."

"I'll give you that. But if you've got a woman, what are you doing here?"

"I don't have a woman," David told the bartender, tossing a folded twenty on the bar and standing up, "but I'm afraid she has me."

"Shit! Lost it."

Miranda fell back against the cushions, gasping for breath, sweat pouring into her eyes. She reached for the bottle of water beside her chair and resisted the urge to pour it over her head instead of drinking it.

"That was better," David said. "Now tell me why it didn't work."

"The back. I put too much into the front and it got unbalanced. Again. Fuck."

She cursed a lot more when they were in the training room. She didn't especially care if she offended David's delicate sensibilities. He had yet to complain.

Despite her failure that first night-and her continued failure-David hadn't let up on her. In fact he seemed more determined than ever that she master her powers, and though his methods weren't nearly as relentless as they had been at first, he still drove her every night, sometimes for an hour and sometimes two, until she was so exhausted she wanted to cry, and often did.

But she was getting better. She could get her energy into the shield, though keeping it up was proving the bigger challenge. Shielding demanded 360-degree awareness, and she had no idea how she was supposed to manage that and do anything else at the same time. David had promised her that once she got the trick of it, it would become second nature. She tried hard to believe him.

After another forty minutes of brain-frying effort, he called a halt, and she sagged in her chair with her water bottle in her lap and her hair falling out of its ponytail.

"Drink," he reminded her. "Remember the headache you got last time."

She shuddered inwardly. A psychic overexertion migraine plus dehydration had added up to a truly miserable morning that two Vicodin had barely eased. Thankfully the rest of her body was mostly healed except for the cut on her hand, which still bothered her after she'd been playing guitar for too long. She hoped it would heal by the time she left here; if she decided to go back to performing, she'd have to be able to handle more than a couple of songs.

That was still a pretty big if at this point, but she had decided not to rule anything out just yet. The future was too big and terrifying to contemplate, so she focused on here and now, and the twin tasks of learning to shield and trying not to smack her teacher.

She finished off her water and capped it, staring at her hands. They didn't seem quite as useless as they had Before.

To her surprise, David asked her, "What are you thinking about?"

She raised her eyes. "Do you think I'll ever have a real life?"

"Define real."

"You know . . . a job, a family, a house, stuff like that."

He laced his fingers together. "Is that what you want?"

"I don't know. I used to think the idea of normal was awful, but maybe that was just because I never thought I could have it. If I can really do this, and I go back to the world and can live like other people . . . I don't know."

"Well . . . I don't want to disappoint or frighten you, but it's been my experience that powerful people are rarely left alone." There was something odd in his eyes as he said, "You're a bright flame, Miranda. Flames attract others to their warmth and light. You can hide it all you want, but even a blind man could see you."

"I always wished I could just disappear." She picked at a loose thread in the arm of her chair for a minute before asking, "Have you ever wished you could be human again? Live a normal life?"

"No," he replied. "I accepted what I am a long time ago. This life is where I belong. But there have been times when I've wished for . . . things that could never be. It does nothing but hurt to dream of the impossible."

"How do you know what's impossible? Can't things always change?"

"Some can. Some can't. For all that humans are limited in life span, you have more choices than we do . . . and you don't have to live with those choices, or your mistakes, nearly as long. You can take a risk and fall on your face, but if I hurt someone, or lose someone, I have to live with it forever."

She could hear that loss in his voice, and it made her chest hurt; on those rare occasions when he showed genuine emotion, it always affected her. It was a consequence of being so close to his energy, she was sure. "Are you thinking about Lizzie?"

He met her eyes. "No."

She broke contact first, feeling a bit disarmed and not sure why. "I think you're probably right. I don't really see myself in the suburbs with a husband and two point three kids. I think I'm probably too damaged for that."

"I don't think damaged is the word," David said.

"Then what is?"

He was smiling at her; she could tell even without looking. "Extraordinary."

Damn it, her face grew hot, and she smiled at him, her heart squeezing a little at the affection in that single word. "Thanks."

They held each other's gazes until David abruptly looked away, saying, "We should head back. I'm expecting an update from Faith and this room screws with the com reception."

As usual they walked back down the East Wing hall together, but Miranda paused after a few minutes and said, "Did you say there was a piano around here?"

He gestured at one of the doors and unlocked it for her.

Miranda took one look inside the music room and nearly fainted. All her exhaustion vanished into thin air.

It was even more wonderful than the library had been. A full-sized grand piano occupied its center, and chairs and benches were arranged around for small performances, but there were also shelves and shelves of sheet music, both bound and loose in folders. There were reams of staff paper ready to write compositions on. Everything was meticulously organized and kept scrupulously clean, even though she knew no one had used this room in years and only the servants had been inside.

The acoustics of the room were so perfect she couldn't wait to bring her guitar in here. Her fingers positively itched for that piano.

"I could spend every night here," she breathed, her neck craning up to see the carved ceiling. It reminded her of the salons where great composers previewed their newest works of genius for select arts patrons.

"Let me see your com," David said.

She held up her wrist, and he took it in one hand, the sudden contact of his fingers on her skin doing something weird to her stomach. With his free hand, he took something out of his coat.

"How many pockets do you have in that thing?" she asked.

"Why do you think I wear it?" He attached the small device to her com, then ran a short cable from it to his iPhone. "Give me twenty seconds."

She was used to him doing random geeky things by now and just stood still while he used the phone to perform some sort of technomancy on her com. His mind continually fascinated her; she never knew, when he was staring off into the fireplace, if he was thinking about patrol reports, an upcoming conference call with the Signet outposts in other cities, how to increase the efficiency of the solar panels that provided the Haven's electricity, the 400th digit of pi, or the new flavor of Haagen Dazs.

"There." He unplugged and stowed both phone and device. "Now you have access to all the doors in this wing instead of just ours and the library. That way you can come here whenever you like."