Miranda shrank back, falling into the creek again, her knees hitting the bottom hard enough to bleed.

The attacker was struggling up out of the water, but David was already on him; he dropped on the figure like a striking hawk, and she heard her attacker's agonized cry. A few minutes later, there was a loud splash as the Prime dropped the body in the water.

The rain let loose. Lightning flashed again, and she saw blood on David's mouth. They stared at each other in the darkness.

Miranda let the rock fall from her hand.

Turning away, David bent, lifted a handful of water and washed the blood from his face, then demanded of her, "What the hell are you doing out here?"

Her anger flared again. "I'm fine, thanks. Bleeding, but that's always awesome."

Faith's voice interrupted. "Um . . . Sire?"

"What?" he snapped.

"Where are you? I turned around and you were gone."

"At the Haven," he answered. "Get back here immediately. There's been another security breach and there are two Elite down."

"Yes, Sire."

Miranda was aware, then, of the fact that she was soaked, and that her entire body hurt like it had been beaten. She sagged against the bank, heedless of the mud. "Where's Terrence?" she asked.

"Dead," was the terse reply.

He stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, not that it did much good; but at least it kept the rain off her face. "How did you find me?" she asked.

"Terrence's signal stopped, sending up an alarm. As soon as I heard it I began listening to the entire network. I intercepted the traitor's transmission-he knew too much about us, but not as much as he thought, or he would never have spoken to you over the coms." He scanned the bank, then looked at her. "Come here. I'll have to carry you out."

She wasn't happy with his tone, but there was no time to argue; she was beginning to tremble from the chill, and she was bleeding in several places that were going to need attention. She stepped into his outstretched arm, and he lifted her up and held her to his chest, his other arm reaching overhead to grab a root that hung over the creek.

Even in the situation they were in, she marveled at how casually strong he was. She wasn't a big or heavy woman, but he lifted her one-handed and climbed out of the creek without appearing to exert any effort at all. Once on land again, he set her down to test her ankle, but there was no way she was going to be able to pick through the woods without falling and making it worse.

Sighing, he picked her up again, this time with both arms, and carried her straight out of the trees to the garden, where the full brunt of the storm hit them once they were out of the shelter of the wood. Neither of them made any attempt to speak until they'd made it to the Haven.

Once inside, several guards appeared, along with a cadre of servants, to offer their assistance.

"Retrieve Terrence's body from the forest," David ordered. "Bring in the traitor's corpse as well, then gather whatever evidence you can from the scene before this weather erases everything. Be careful. Have Terrence prepared for the standard Elite funeral tomorrow night, with honors. Esther, is Miss Grey's dinner in her room? Good. Draw her a hot bath and stoke the fire, as well as my own. As soon as Faith gets here, send her directly to my suite."

Miranda was rocking back and forth on her unsteady feet, unsure whether she was going to pass out or just throw up. The noise and fuss happened around her, not to her; dimly she noticed herself being picked up again like a sack of old potatoes, borne down the long hallway and into the comfort and safety of her bedroom.

But how safe was it, now? They had come for her at the Haven, when she was supposed to be under guard. Was anywhere safe?

She knew the answer to that, and it was breaking her heart.

He sat her on her bed, removing his coat and tossing it carelessly on the ground, where it clanked as the concealed sword inside struck the marble floor. She let him examine her, his hands rough and clinical, deeming her wounds superficial and her lucky to be alive.

Esther, the lead servant for the East Wing, came in and made a beeline for the bathroom, where Miranda heard her turning on taps and laying out towels.

The normally cheerful little woman emerged with Miranda's comb. "I thought Miss Grey might want to get those tangles out first," she said diffidently. "And maybe I bring bandages for your knees?"

"Thank you, Esther," Miranda said before David could speak for her. He was never unkind to the servants, but the mood he was in would probably result in hurt feelings. "I think bandages are a good idea. It's nothing serious, but it never hurts to be sure."

Esther nodded and gave Miranda a motherly smile and pat on the cheek. "We don't want our reinita getting hurt," she said, and departed on her errand.

Miranda looked up at David. "Reinita?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Little Queen."

"Is that . . . is that what everyone thinks?"

"I don't give a damn what everyone thinks."

"Then what do you think?"

He stood facing the fire, which had been obligingly stoked so that it cast its merry warmth around the room. He didn't seem to feel the cold that had to be down to his bones by now; they were both soaked, and his fine linen shirt was pasted to his torso, stuck to the muscle she knew was there, outlining his body. She hadn't realized just how well built he was.

Through the wet shirt, she could barely make out the edges of what looked like . . .

"Is that a tattoo?"

He sighed again, and without answering, unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it on top of his abandoned coat. He turned back toward the fire, allowing her a full view of his back and shoulders.

His entire back was inked in the stylized shape of a bird of prey: a black-and-red hawk. Its wings spanned his shoulders, its tail reaching all the way down past his waist.

"That's beautiful," she breathed. One of her hands couldn't help but reach out, wanting a chance just to touch the lines of ink, to see if they were smooth, or raised like Braille. If it was in Braille, could she read him then, with her fingers, and learn all the mysteries? Or would the story end too soon?

"Do you need help getting in the bath?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can manage."

"Good. I'm going to go change."

He grabbed his shirt and coat off the floor and stalked off to his room, the curves of the tattoo shifting as he moved.

Miranda got to her feet carefully and hobbled into the bathroom, yanking off her sodden clothes on the way, grumbling to herself the whole time. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her like she'd done something wrong, when she'd nearly been killed?

She lowered herself painfully into the steaming tub, thanking whatever deity might be listening for Esther, who knew exactly what temperature she liked. Right away the hot water began to soothe both her injured ankle and her wounded pride. She washed the scrapes on her knees and elbows and then lay back for a while, closing her eyes and trying to stay grounded.

But the reality of her situation made grounding hard. Terrence was dead because someone wanted to get to her, which meant that the insurgents not only knew she existed but considered her a threat, or at least worth killing. She was in danger and unless she spent every moment with the Prime they were probably going to try again, and again. Worst of all, her attacker had been one of the Elite. Any of them could be Blackthorn, and that meant that the Blackthorn could find the Haven.

It was supposed to be hidden, all signals monitored coming and going. There were no unauthorized radios, computers, or other forms of communication-the security system could detect them. New Elite recruits were brought in from Austin unconscious so they couldn't trace the route back, and learned the location only once they were initiated and, supposedly, trustworthy. So little was left to chance . . . but that little was going to cost her her life.

She looked up at the bathroom walls in the midst of scrubbing stubborn bits of dirt from her arms and legs. She'd taken a lot of long baths in here, and she loved the muted tile with its mosaic accents. She'd gotten used to not having a mirror-there were mirrors in the real world. She'd have to look at herself again . . . and she'd see the sun. The prospect should have pleased her.

She levered herself up out of the tub, yanking the stopper with her good foot, and dried off, toweling her hair and letting it dry down over her shoulders. She dug out her old yoga pants and a T-shirt from Book People that read KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD, and took a moment to smear some of the antibiotic ointment Esther had brought onto her knees and elbows and a nasty scrape on her forearm. Only one knee really needed a bandage and felt badly bruised beneath the laceration. She was probably going to be black and purple all over tomorrow.

She stared at the array of possessions on the chest of drawers, then with numb hands took her backpack from a drawer and began to pack.

She didn't have that much. A couple of journals where she'd jotted ideas for songs; her phone, her iPod, and her computer, which all went into the laptop bag; miscellaneous toiletries; clothes. Her guitar was already snug in its case. There were a few books that needed to go back to the library and a folder of sheet music she'd taken from the music room to study. She stacked them up carefully.

Her hands closed around the spine of Shakespeare's comedies, and she lifted the book and pressed it to her chest.

After a moment she set it down and dug a pen out of her purse, opening up one of her journals; she took a deep breath to steady herself and wrote a few lines, then ripped the page out of the journal and folded it.

As she was sticking the note inside the book, she heard the door to the suite open.

"Faith has volunteered to drive you back to town," David said. "I've arranged a hotel room for you while your new apartment is being prepared."

"What's wrong with my old apartment?" she asked without looking up.

"It's not safe for you to go back there. Don't worry-all your things will be packed and moved for you in the next few days."

She wanted to protest, but she didn't have the energy. What difference did it make where she lived, anyway?

"I'm scared," she whispered.

He came to her and put his arms around her, and she buried her face in his neck, trying to breathe in the solace that wrapped her in its protecting wings. "You're going to be fine," he said. "I know it."

"Will I ever see you again?"

He didn't answer at first, and when he did his voice was full of pain. "It would be best if you didn't."

"Screw what's best," she said. "Promise me I'll see you again."

She stared into his eyes, willing him to understand, and he said softly, "I promise."

Miranda nodded, satisfied, and reached down, unhooking the clasp of her com and placing it in his hand. "I guess I don't need this now."

"You have my phone and e-mail, if you need anything. And this is for you . . ." He fished something from his pocket: a Visa card.

"I don't need money," she tried to say, but he interrupted.

"Take it. I'm the reason your life is being uprooted again. I couldn't keep you safe here. Let me do what I can for you, Miranda. Please."

She lowered her eyes, accepting. "You've already done so much for me," she said softly. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

She laughed a little. "Liar."

He smiled faintly in return. One of his hands came up, fingertips brushing the line of her jaw, and for once she let herself really feel the ache that arose at the touch.

There was a knock, and Faith said, "Sire, we're ready to go."

"Have Samuel take Miss Grey's things down to the car," David told the Second. "She'll be there in a moment."

"I'll be waiting outside," Faith replied.

Miranda picked up her purse and her guitar; Samuel spirited away everything else, leaving her to gather the strength to walk out of the little bedroom and not come back.

David was still standing beside the chest, his hand resting on the book, when she said, "Good-bye, Lord Prime."

She barely heard his answer. "Good-bye."

Miranda shut the door behind her and followed Faith down the hall, giving the servants and Elite she passed a small wave and what she hoped was a brave smile. Any of them might be in collusion with the enemy, but only the Prime and Second knew where she was going; all the others would know was that she was gone.

The rain had slackened enough that she didn't make a mad dash for Faith's car. She had to grin-the Second drove a sporty red Honda hybrid with California plates. Samuel was stowing the last of her handful of bags in the trunk. Miranda thrust her guitar and purse into the backseat, then opened the passenger door; Faith was already in the driver's seat with the engine running.

Miranda turned back to look up at the Haven one last time, half-expecting to see David's silhouette in the bedroom window, but the room was dark.

She started to get into the car, but then the Haven doors opened. The Prime emerged, pushing past the door guard's surprised expression, and hurried down the stone steps to the driveway.

Miranda gasped as David came to her, drawing her to him, his heartbeat thundering against her chest; his hands wrapped around her waist and the back of her neck, and before either of them could summon a denial, he covered her mouth with his.

She barely had time to return the kiss before he broke away, releasing her and stepping back, his hand lingering on the side of her face for just a second before he turned around and walked away.

Miranda didn't call after him. She sank into the seat of the car, tears running down her face. Samuel shut the door for her.

Faith offered her an encouraging smile and pulled away from the Haven, taking the long road back to Austin in the rain.

PART TWO.

The River Styx.

Ten.

October was hell.

For a week Miranda remained cloistered in her room at the Driskill, sitting in the darkness with cable TV and room service. She didn't even go down to the world-renowned Driskill Cafe for dinner, despite the fact that everything was paid for. She stammered her order into the phone and waited with her eyes averted for room service to come and go.

The minute the waiter or the maid or anyone came into the room, she curled up in a chair in the corner and focused so hard on her shielding that inevitably she got a splitting headache as soon as they were gone. She split her last bottle of Vicodin into half pills and doled them out only when the pain was unbearable. She was terrified of losing her protections; there was no one to help her now.

There was no one to help her. No one asked after her welfare. No one came to visit her. She was alone.

She tried to keep herself company with her guitar, but once again, the music had left her. So she watched movies, she nursed her bruises, she slept, and she waited for news.

Finally, six days into her stay at the hotel, a messenger came to her room to let her know that her apartment was ready and a car would be there in the morning to take her to her new home. She sat up all that night, her bags already packed and by the door, and come dawn she bolted down to the lobby without stopping, avoiding the elevator just in case she got stuck on it and had to speak to someone.