Not quite. Fifteen years ago, a blade had swung, and after that everything went wrong. Now killing humans was a capital offense.

Wallace had no use for such bullshit, and he wasn't alone. There were others who resented the new order, and the time was fast approaching when the old would be new again. He'd planned to be at the head of the pack, reclaiming his place in the world, but somehow he'd been found and followed.

He listened intently for a moment, expecting footsteps but knowing there would be none. The Prime's inner circle of warriors, the Elite, were silent hunters with no desire save dispensing the Prime's particular version of justice.

Half-drunk with fear, he looked around. It was as good a place as any to die. They'd be here any minute, and his blood would spatter all over the concrete.

"Good evening, Wallace," came a sickeningly familiar voice.

He raised his head, dragged himself to his feet, and smiled.

He was surrounded. Half the Court had turned out to execute him. It was kind of flattering, but then, if you pissed off the Prime you tended to be flattered by the grandeur of your own death.

A woman stepped forward: petite, Asian, with that frail-looking build that was almost convincing until her hands closed around your throat. She fixed her almond-shaped eyes on him, dispassionate.

"Evening, Faith," he replied hoarsely. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Are you finished running?" she asked. She, like all the rest of the Elite, traveled armed, but the gleaming steel blade at her hip stayed sheathed for the moment. If she wanted him to die quickly, she could have had him shot with a crossbow. If she had wanted him dead already, she could have walked forward and parted his head from his shoulders with her sword. It was the standard form of execution.

She did neither of those things. She stood and waited.

By the time Wallace realized what she was waiting for, the crowd was already parting, and any thought of bribery or clemency vanished. He was well and truly fucked.

"Sire," Wallace said tiredly. "Glad you could make it." A man in black emerged from the darkness as if it had birthed him, and the Elite stepped back to a respectful distance.

The ninth Prime of the Southern United States was perhaps the most terrifying creature in the world to have standing over you at the moment of your death. He regarded Wallace through those impossible blue eyes, his expression cold and calculating. He was as always dressed impeccably, in black from head to foot, except for the heavy silver and ruby amulet that hung from his neck. In the darkness the stone glowed menacingly: the Signet, the Prime's badge of office. Few who saw that stone lived to testify that yes, it really did emit light. The myths about the Signets, and their bearers, went back thousands of years.

The most frightening thing of all was the dense aura of power that churned around the Prime like the storm clouds overhead. A vampire that strong could conceal it completely when he wanted to, and Wallace knew the display was for his benefit . . . and it had the desired effect. Wallace's heart pounded into overdrive, and he clutched the wires of the fence, desperately looking for an escape, any escape.

"James Theodore Wallace," the Prime said, his voice low, just loud enough to carry, though the psychic energy that underscored the words could probably be felt in the Panhandle. "You are under an order of execution for the murder of Patricia Kranek."

"Come on, Sire," Wallace began, trying to think of anything that could prolong the inevitable. "It was an accident. You know how it is-you get used to killing them, and then all of a sudden you're not allowed, and it's hard to know when to stop. Humans are so fragile."

"The law was established fifteen years ago, Wallace," came the reply. "You know it as well as every vampire in this territory. Hunt where you will, feed on whom you will-but a life taken, whether theirs or ours, demands a life in return."

"A fucking human! A cow! They're nothing to us!"

"Enough." That single word sent bone-chilling fear into Wallace's spine, and he pressed himself harder into the fence as if he could melt through it to the other side.

The Prime glanced over at his second in command and nodded once. A wicked smile spread over Faith's features, and she drew her sword and made a gesture to the others.

Beheading, then . . . but not until the others were done with him . . . assuming there was anything left to behead.

The crowd swarmed past their leader, their collective roar cutting off Wallace's weak protests. As they descended on him, he caught a glimpse of the Prime, who stood with his eyes closed, unsmiling, as if in pain.

The Texas Hill Country was the last place anyone would ever think to look for vampires, and that was precisely why it was ideal.

The Haven stood nestled in an oak-blanketed valley like a bird in the hands of a saint, its dark wood and brick edifice rising three stories from the surrounding gardens, stables, and other outbuildings that were all kept perfectly tended by a fleet of humans during the day. They came and went without entering the house, not caring who they worked for as long as they were handsomely paid. In the two centuries since the Haven was first built, perhaps a dozen humans had set foot inside; in his entire tenure, there had been none.

Until very recently.

The car slid around the circular drive, coming to a halt before the main entrance. One of the Elite jumped out of the front seat and came back to open the door for him.

As he emerged, the second car, carrying Faith and her patrol unit, pulled in behind. A moment later she fell into step beside him up to the heavy oak doors, which sailed open at his approach. His two personal bodyguards took the traditional seven steps back as they entered the building.

"Report," he said to Faith as they crossed through the Great Hall to the two grand staircases and headed for the second floor and his private wing of the Haven.

"The city is a tomb," she replied. "Word has gotten out about Wallace, and the entire Shadow District has shut down for fear that there will be more executions. I had the body moved to a field where it'll get full sun exposure in the morning."

"Good."

"I dropped the week's patrol reports onto your server as well as the data sheets on the new Elite recruits. You'll also find an updated version of the map showing the locations of the attacks around the territory in the last ninety nights."

"Including the most recent?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Good." He thought of the images the patrol unit had beamed back of Patricia Kranek's body, her eyes open and staring up at the night as if she were simply stargazing. Seeing Wallace's head tumble onto the ground had not been nearly satisfying enough, especially knowing that there were more where he came from, and that without more evidence to lead to the source of the attacks there would probably be more deaths.

The unrest in the city could not be allowed to escalate into full-out war. That was unacceptable.

"Sire . . . about your . . . guest?"

He didn't speak until they had entered the East Wing. The woman stationed at the wing entrance bowed, and he nodded back to her; each member of the Elite guard that they passed did the same, and so did the lone servant making the rounds of the empty rooms with her feather duster. She had the wide-eyed look of a recent hire and was faintly awed at the sight of him; he knew she would tell her friends in the staff quarters that she had seen him, in the flesh, as it were.

The doors at the end of the hall opened into his suite. It, too, had its own guards. They bowed, and the one on the right, Samuel, held the door open for him and Faith to enter.

Once inside, he paused to remove his coat and hang it by the door. It was his second favorite. His favorite had been soaked with so much blood and filth that the only thing to do was throw it in the fireplace.

No matter. Clothes were easily replaced. A woman, on the other hand . . .

He took his usual chair and beckoned for Faith to take the other. "Now," he said, "go on."

She had managed to hold on to her professionalism, but now that they were alone, she shook her head and dropped her brisk demeanor. "With all due respect, Sire, you're completely off your nut."

"Tell me something I don't know." He leaned back, hands folded.

"How could you bring her here? She needs a hospital, a real doctor. She might have had internal bleeding or broken bones."

"Two ribs," he replied. "No bleeding. Did she wake at all while you bathed her?"

"No."

He nodded. That was his own doing; he'd kept the woman essentially in a coma until she was clean and safe, unwilling to risk her waking up naked under the hands of a stranger. He had instructed Faith to take care of her, and she had done so reluctantly, but without complaint.

The only thing he had helped with was the woman's hair; Faith had wanted to cut it off, as it was matted and caked with blood and God knew what else, but something in him had rebelled at the thought and he had worked for over an hour with a comb and half a bottle of conditioner, gingerly separating the long curls and scrubbing them clean. A few strands had been ripped out during the attack, but he salvaged the rest. He suspected that Faith's lowered opinion of his sanity had formed then.

"Come," he said, rising.

Faith followed him across the main room of the suite, to the adjoining door, which led into the small bedroom where their guest was currently sleeping. The room was normally empty. His predecessor, Auren, had kept a mistress there, as he had never taken a Queen.

It was an ideal place to house an injured woman. He could keep an eye on her and know that she was safe. The Haven was home to more than a hundred vampires at any given time, and though they were all in his employ and therefore carefully screened and monitored, he wasn't about to bet her life on their character.

He eased the door open, finding exactly what he expected: darkness. She had slept for an entire day and all of that night even after he lifted the compulsion that kept her so far under that she wouldn't even dream. She was sleeping naturally now.

He stood over the bed. She looked so small with her hair fanned out over the pillows. Her face was bruised, her lower lip cut, but he imagined that when she wasn't emaciated and battered, or terrified and despairing as when he'd first seen her, she was beautiful.

"I still think this is a bad idea." Faith sighed-she was used to her advice appearing to go in one ear and out the other, though he always listened.

They'd known each other a long time, he and Faith. She had come here with him from California when he had taken the Signet. Only she, of all the Elite, was familiar enough with him to voice her opinions freely, and did so practically every day. He was thankful for that-it was easy for someone in his position to believe himself invulnerable, above reproach, and that was what got them killed.

That was in fact what had gotten his predecessor killed fifteen years ago.

"Why are you shielding her?" she asked, frowning.

"This is why." He dropped the energy barrier he'd been holding around the woman's mind, and he knew Faith could sense the consequences-the woman moaned aloud, clapping her hands to her ears, trying to block out the emotions of everyone in the Haven . . . a hundred creatures whose histories were the fodder for nightmares anyway.

He restored the shield.

"Shit," Faith said. "An empath?"

He nodded. "A mothering-strong empath, and a minor telepath, for starters. She picks up thoughts and memories attached to feelings. It's tied in to her musical talent-she manipulated the crowd's emotions as easily as you or I would wield a sword. As soon as the music stops, she loses control."

"And she used it to kill those . . . men."

"Yes."

"I still think-"

He kept the edge out of his voice, but only just. "Faith, what do you think will happen to her if human doctors get their hands on her? Assuming she survives, she's going to need training far more than medical care. She certainly doesn't need more men jabbing at her and police officers dragging the details out of her. You know very well what happens to women like her."

Faith looked away. She did know. "Cheap shot, Sire."

"But on the mark."

"You always are." His second in command crossed her arms, staring down at the world of trouble in the bed before them. "How did you find her?"

"By chance," he replied, smiling a little at the memory. "We were in line at the grocery together."

"Meet-cute," Faith said, smiling back at him in spite of the situation.

"Not so cute. She was terrified of me, but that's normal. I saw right away that she was gifted and deteriorating quickly. She didn't know that while she was receiving, she was also projecting. I saw flashes of her memories, including the bar where she plays, and went back there last night . . . morbid curiosity, I suppose. I intended to follow her afterward. . . ."

"But I called you," Faith said, realization dawning on her face, along with guilt. "We needed you at the crime scene. God-if I hadn't done that-"

"This is hardly your fault."

"I know, but . . ." Faith shook her head. "So you looked for her after we finished at the scene, and found . . . them."

"Yes."

Another smile, this one grim. "How lucky for her, I suppose, that the most powerful vampire in the Western Hemisphere happens to have an ice cream addiction. A pint of Ben and Jerry's saved her life."

He sat down in the armchair beside the bed. "She saved herself first, Faith. She would probably have died if I hadn't found her, yes, but she was the one who stopped those bastards. I stanched the bleeding and brought her here to heal. She may not thank me for it." Over on the chest of drawers, he saw that Faith's team had delivered the human's guitar as well as the gathered belongings from her purse. By some miracle, the instrument was intact.

"Thank you, Faith," he said. "You can clock off now if there are no more loose ends."

She didn't look happy about leaving, but she bowed. "As you will it, Sire. Did you hunt tonight while you were out, or should I send in a bottle?"

He thought of the woman he had fed on before joining the hunt for Wallace. He had unconsciously selected a redhead from the teeming mass of youth and music downtown. She, however, had had blue eyes. He knew from a second's glimpse that the woman in the bed had clear green eyes the color of sunlight on leaves.

It had been more than three centuries since he had seen sunlight, but it was the sort of thing his kind never forgot.

Faith departed, closing the door quietly behind her, leaving him alone with a broken young woman who, he recalled, liked Snickers bars.

That was about all he knew of her. She was extraordinarily gifted, completely untrained, and had a singing voice like dark honey touched with cinnamon. She had green eyes that never left the ground. She drank Shiner Bock. He hadn't even had a chance to learn her name-it was something Grey, he remembered from the sign at the bar, but he had assumed, perhaps foolishly, that he would speak to her afterward and find out the rest.

There was nothing to do but wait. He didn't want her to wake alone in a strange house with no idea what was happening or who had claimed her from the streets of Austin.

He sat back and pulled the phone from his pocket to read Faith's reports . . .

Well, perhaps after a game of Tetris.

Everything was different when she woke.

She was warm, and comfortable. There were smells, but not blood and garbage; she smelled a wood fire, fabric softener . . . almonds, faintly, in some form of body wash or shampoo.

The air on her skin was clean and so was she. Soft fabric covered her, just the right weight, and it was warm . . . so warm.

Warm and silent.

Had she been more alert, the silence in her mind might have panicked her. Her thoughts seemed thin and stringy alone in her head, and didn't fill the space. It felt like being onstage solo in a concert hall meant to seat thousands.

She tried to move, but pain coursed through her body, a dull throbbing from a dozen epicenters. Her muscles were so weak they wouldn't respond to her commands, though with effort she could move her head and open her eyes. She half expected to wake to the storm-smudged sky back in that alley, bleeding to death in the dirt, but her vision gradually focused on what was above her-a ceiling.

She blinked, trying to make sense of it. Dreaming . . . oh, God, she'd been dreaming. The whole thing was a dream. Even her dingy apartment had all been the invention of her imagination; the bedroom there had a ceiling fan, and this one didn't. She was somewhere else, somewhere safe and far away from the nightmare . . . where?

Her mind barely had time to register the immense relief of it all before reality began to settle back around her, heavy as a shroud.

Her body hurt. The left side of her torso sent pain through her every time she inhaled. Her face was swollen, the hand that had been cut with Gordon's knife pulsing with her heartbeat. When she shifted her hips slightly, an arc of white-hot agony tore upward between her legs.

She whimpered softly. Relief gave way to the yawning pit of desolation.

There was a sound to her right, and she turned her head-too fast, it turned out, as another wrenching pain seized her neck and shoulders. The room swam in her vision for a moment before righting itself.

She stared, everything else momentarily forgotten.

He was sitting beside her bed in a plush-looking armchair, his slender body as unconsciously regal as a cat's, reclining as if the chair-no, the world-had been created for his own particular use. As before he wore all black, perfectly hand-tailored to show off an almost inhuman grace. Raven hair fell into eyes that almost seemed to glow in the merry flicker of the fireplace at the far end of the room. He could have been a runway model-or, better yet, one of the gorgeous gay yogis she'd met during her brief stab at spiritual development a few months before everything went to hell. Everything about him was so perfect he might really have been something cooked up by her imagination. At the grocery store she had thought of him, vaguely, as handsome, but she was so focused on running away that the extent of his beauty had obviously failed to register.