As she rushed outside to the car, the sunlight blinded her and she dropped her purse. A middle-aged man passing by on the street stopped to help her. She muttered her thanks.

"You okay, darlin'?" he asked, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

The touch made her cry out and leap back. Hands in the dark . . . laughter . . .

She dove into the car and trembled like a leaf the entire way to the apartment complex.

It was a high-class place in South Austin, right off the bus route up Lamar that would take her to all her old haunts; she stopped at the office long enough to pick up the keys and sign the lease, then let herself in, barely acknowledging the friendly driver who carried her bags for her.

Once inside she shut and locked the door, and there she stayed for most of the month.

At first she told herself she was busy unpacking. All her possessions from the old place had been boxed and transported for her, labeled in neat black letters as to what room its contents had originated from; they'd put her furniture in a logical arrangement, but she didn't like it and spent several hours moving things around until it felt right.

The apartment was gorgeous and way out of her normal price range. It had two bedrooms, a huge bath, and an open floor plan that flowed from kitchen to living room. The living room boasted half a dozen windows and a patio. Molding crowned the walls, and the doorways were arched. The carpet was plush, the walls a creamy color that went with everything, the appliances top-of-the-line stainless steel.

She hated it.

There was too much light. She could no longer sleep with light coming into the bedroom, so she had to hang what curtains she had over the two small windows in there, leaving the living room exposed except for the wood blinds, which she kept shut all the time. She could never get the temperature right-she was used to cool air and warm fires balancing each other. Her new apartment didn't have a fireplace.

She even missed her dark, cheap little one-bedroom from Before. She missed the crack in the wall.

She worked her way from one box to another, trying to remember where she had acquired many of the things she owned and what they were for. The kitchen especially confounded her. Had she ever really used a toaster? Why did she have so many wineglasses and so few plates?

Whoever had moved her stuff had thoughtfully stocked both fridge and pantry with the same kinds of food she'd eaten at the Haven. Everything was bright and shiny and new. It should have pleased her, but it only made her sad.

There was too much noise in the city. All day and night there were cars, sirens, people walking by outside talking and laughing. People slammed doors, and apparently her upstairs neighbors were into indoor bowling.

Every time there was a sudden sound she nearly jumped out of her skin. For three weeks she was constantly afraid . . . her nightmares returned with a vengeance, so while it rained torrents outside, she cried torrents in her bed.

One evening at the end of the third week of October, she decided to try walking down to the corner store for a Coke. She'd been living off Chinese delivery and pizza for more than a week, having stretched her groceries as far as she could to the point of eating crackers with butter for dinner, but she couldn't bear the thought of a supermarket yet. Best to start small. She could walk two blocks to the Shell station and get a soda and maybe some chips.

She poked her nose out her front door for the first time since she'd moved in. It had been pointless trying to change her sleeping habits, so it was just after sunset and the air was rapidly cooling down. Somewhere in the time she'd lost hiding under her bed, fall had begun.

Miranda bolstered her shields, then did it again after she closed the door behind her. Every time someone walked past her she strengthened them even more, but not so much as an iota of external energy reached her.

You know what you're doing, remember? You can do this. Just keep walking. Don't panic. Breathe in, breathe out. You know how to do it.

If anyone noticed her unkempt appearance, they paid it no mind. She hadn't brushed her hair since waking, and though she wasn't as pitifully thin as she'd been Before, there were huge dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept through the day since she'd come back to Austin.

She needn't have worried. Out here, in a metropolitan area of 1.6 million people living out their lives and wrapped up in their own mortal concerns, she was nobody again, invisible.

It was so strange being able to see her reflection. She'd stared at herself for long minutes in the hotel, and again in her new bathroom, trying to make sense out of her features. Was this really who she was? Were those her green eyes? She had a scar on her forehead just below her hairline from that night. She'd had no idea until she saw it in the mirror.

She made it to the store and bought a twelve-pack of Coke and an armload of junk food. She handed her Visa to the clerk and signed the receipt without speaking, though she was pretty sure he was trying to flirt with her. She didn't know how to react to that.

On the walk back she took a moment to notice the weather; there had been a break in the rain, and the air was clear and crisp, a few stars peeking out of the darkening blue of the sky. What day was it? Friday? No, Thursday.

Once home, she expected to have to fight off a panic attack, but she felt remarkably calm taking the chips and candy out of her bag and stowing the soda in the fridge.

"Well now," she said to herself. "That wasn't so bad." She popped the top on a Coke and took a bag of Doritos to the couch to watch reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

The next night she took out the trash. When she got back, she turned on her computer and checked her e-mail. Once again, Kat had written trying to find her; after thinking about it for a minute, Miranda wrote back.

TO: Kat (katmandoo@freemail.net) FROM: Miranda Grey (mgrey82@freemail.net) SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: MIA?

Hey Kat, I'm back in town. I moved to a new place. Want to come over for pizza tomorrow? Let me know.

~M.

Five minutes later she had a reply. It was only two words long: HELL YES!

"Rehab," Kat said around a mouthful of cheese. "I had a feeling it had to be something like that."

Miranda picked a black olive off her slice and dropped it in the box lid; Kat immediately scooped it up and stuck it on her own. "Yeah."

"You were looking like a junkie when I last saw you. Thank God you've gained some weight back-you'll be hot shit again if you keep it up, although the Doritos and Pizza Hut Diet might not be the way to go."

Miranda took another bite and said, "I know. I've just been kind of a shut-in since I got back. I'm going to the grocery store for some real food in a day or two. It's hard to adjust to the real world after . . . all of that."

"But you're feeling better, right?"

"Yes," she said hastily, trying to believe it herself. "Much better. I'm going to be okay, Kat, I really am. It just . . . things got bad. Really bad. So it's going to take some time."

Kat nodded, tucking a stray dread behind her ear with her non-pizza-laden hand. "I've seen it a lot with my kids in the program. Sometimes they have to totally hit bottom before they realize there's a way back up." She reached over and squeezed Miranda's arm, looking worried when Miranda flinched. "Just promise that if I can help, you'll ask. Okay?"

"Okay."

She wanted to tell Kat the truth. She wanted to tell someone.

Most of all she wanted to talk to Faith, and she wanted to see David. She wanted to go back to her cozy little bedroom and watch the seasons change from a second-story window overlooking the hills. Her windows here overlooked the parking lot.

"So you said in your last e-mail you were staying with friends," Kat mentioned. "Does that mean you met somebody at the clinic?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Someone special?"

Miranda threw a pillow at her, and Kat laughed. "Oh, come on," the blonde said. "Plenty of people hook up in rehab. What else is there to do if you don't smoke? Besides," Kat added, "you're blushing. That must mean I'm right."

Miranda shook her head. "No, it's not . . . I mean . . . there was somebody . . . well, maybe. But it wasn't like that. We were just friends, or . . . well, more than that, but . . . I don't know." She took a swig of her beer, trying to find words, but how on earth could she explain any of it without saying too much? "Let's just say I met someone, and he helped me get better. But nothing was ever going to happen."

"Why not?"

She smiled ruefully, ripping the corner of the label off her Corona bottle. "We're from two very different worlds."

Kat's smile turned mischievous, and for a moment she looked a lot like Faith. "If you're not going for it, then, I know somebody you should meet. He's a music teacher-dark hair, blue eyes, smoking-hot ass."

"No, thanks. I don't think I'm up for that kind of thing right now. It's too soon."

"Why? You went in to get off drugs, not porn."

Miranda shuddered inwardly at the thought of some man, smoking-hot ass or not, touching her, trying to get his hands in her pants. She thought about being naked with someone, spreading her legs, having someone invade her body, fingers pushing into her, the sound of a zipper . . . suddenly cold, she groped for a throw blanket that wasn't there.

"What's wrong?" Kat was asking. "Mira . . . that look on your face just now . . . is there something you're not telling me about all of this?"

God, is there ever . . .

She hated lying, even when there was no other way. "Before I went in, something . . . the night you came to see me play, I was walking home, and . . ."

Kat's mouth dropped open, and her eyes filled with tears as the pieces came together. "Oh, fuck, honey . . . fuck, I'm so sorry . . ."

She pushed herself off the floor and put her arms around Miranda, who didn't shrink away from the hug, but couldn't quite return it.

"It's okay," Miranda reassured her. She could feel the guilt radiating from Kat's whole body. "It wasn't your fault. Don't blame anybody but the people who did it, okay? I'm all right."

"But why didn't you call me? Why did you just disappear like that? I could have done something-we could have gone to the police. You should still go to the police. It's not too late."

"Yes, it is. Please, Kat . . . let's just not talk about it anymore."

"But-"

"Please." Miranda silently willed her not to press; she even risked leaning on Kat a tiny bit with her energy, just to change the subject. The less Kat knew, the better; there was always a chance that even here Miranda wasn't safe, and she wasn't going to risk Kat, too.

She squeezed Kat around the middle, finally returning her hug, saying, "It's okay. It's . . . it's all over with now."

There were not enough redheads in Austin to make him forget her.

There were not enough redheads in Houston, either, or New Orleans, or Oklahoma City. There weren't enough in all of Georgia.

In early October he essentially went on tour, visiting the major cities of his territory, greeting new Elite, upgrading various systems, and making his presence known. Most other Primes didn't bother with that kind of hands-on involvement, but he had learned from the best as well as the worst. Pretending there was only one city in the South allowed gangs to build up strength in other places, and Auren had barely kept up with the onslaught even at his peak.

It was the same everywhere. Arrive, meet, confer; hunt, fuck, leave.

There was no relish in any of it.

On the other hand, being home was no better.

He had closed and locked the door of the mistress suite and not set foot inside it since; he'd done the same to the music room. He'd entered the latter long enough to turn out a light Miranda had left on, and her presence was still palpable, her scent lingering in the air strongly enough to drive him to the bottom of a bottle of Jack. The next night he'd gone into the city and torn into the first auburn-haired woman he could find, drinking her so deeply he nearly killed her.

He wanted to call. He didn't call.

Forget her. Forget her and move on.

Forgetting was one thing vampires simply couldn't do. They had extraordinary memories that made their life spans seem interminable; he supposed it was an apt punishment for cheating death.

After the man who attacked Miranda-Elite 70, who had been working for him for three years and had an impeccable service record-was disposed of, his blood-drained corpse dumped in the Shadow District to wait for the sun, the attacks in Austin came to an abrupt halt.

David didn't trust the tenuous peace. Perhaps being thwarted in their attempt on the human had made them wary, or perhaps they were planning something even bigger. Either way, he concentrated on the citywide sensor network he was creating and kept the doubled patrols active until further notice. He wasn't about to get sloppy like Arrabicci and Auren had.

There had been absolutely no evidence of perfidy in Elite 70's quarters. He shared his room with Elite 25, who was as shocked as the rest of them were. David had tracked 70's movements back six months over the com network and found nothing untoward. Elite 70 hadn't ever separated from his unit, had never wandered off alone to meet anyone. His com signal had never wavered.

There had been a thorough search and interrogations throughout the Haven, but David still had no idea if 70 had kept in contact with his masters, much less what he had revealed about operations at the Haven. Elite 70 was of low rank compared to Helen and didn't have access to much sensitive information, but he might have been there as a pair of extra hands for her. Unless they found another traitor in their midst to question, it was too late to find out why 70 had been at the Haven.

David hated being played. That was exactly what these people were doing: making him suspect his allies, baiting him, making him expose his underbelly to their tiny poisoned spears.

He stopped his work long enough to make his journey around the territory, but as soon as he was back in Austin, he threw himself into the sensor network again. More than once Faith had to remind him to feed and sleep.

As a plan, creating the network was doable. As a distraction, it was woefully inadequate.

Every place, every corner of the Haven reminded him of her. Even in town, lying between the thighs of another nameless human woman waiting for her to finish coming while her blood sang through his veins, he thought of Miranda-her lips, the one time he'd tasted them . . . her hair, wound around his fingers . . . her bright laugh, so rare, that brought life into what now felt like a tomb instead of a home.

One night he made the mistake of sitting on the couch and leaning back into a pillow, releasing a wave of her scent. He had buried his face in it for half an hour, then thrown it in the fireplace.

At this rate he should buy stock in Jack Daniels.

He was in his workroom a few nights later, painstakingly wiring a sensor into its weatherproof housing, when his phone rang. His first inclination was to ignore it, but he glanced over to see who it was and decided he had better not.

"Yes?"

The voice wasn't British, and it wasn't cheerful like Jonathan's; it had, in fact, the faint lilt of an Irish accent and was gentle, if grave. But he could feel the same power and energy echoing from it even hundreds of miles away. "David, have I told you lately that you're an idiot?"

He put down his screwdriver and sat back. "Nice to hear from you, too, Sire. How are things in the Golden State?"

"I have two lectures prepared for you: one on the perils of ignoring your destiny and the other on gluttony, specifically related to drinking your weight in Jim Beam every night."

"I'm not drinking."

He could practically hear Deven roll his eyes. "I'm intimately acquainted with your vices, David."

"It's Jack, not Jim."

"Fine. Which lecture do you want first? I have a conference call with Western Europe and North Africa in fifteen minutes, so I'd like to move this along."

David rubbed his forehead, where a headache was forming-he'd been having a lot of them lately. "Deven, your own Consort told me to send her away or she'd be killed. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Jonathan reacts to these things emotionally. I'm sure if he'd realized you were in love with her, he would have thought differently. Besides, you know as well as I do that the future is malleable. Did you try letting her touch the second Signet?"

"Why would I do that? She's human!"

"Return to earlier point in conversation regarding you as idiot."

"You think I should have brought her across," David said. "After everything she's been through, and knowing the life she would face, I can't believe you of all people would say that."

"What I'm saying," Deven told him firmly, "is that I know how you love, how we all love. It's not just going to go away. The longer you fight it, the more misery you bring down on both of you. Trust me, dear one. What if the vision comes true, and she does die? Every moment you didn't spend at her side will haunt you forever. We all know how long forever really is."

David leaned his head in his free hand. "How about the second lecture?"

He could hear Deven rolling his eyes over the phone. "If you're going to become a drunk, at least spring for the good whiskey. Jack Daniels? Honestly. Have I taught you nothing?"

"Anything else?"

"Yes, one more thing, or rather, an addendum to the first. Consider it the official diplomatic recommendation of your oldest ally.'