Then he seized the vampire around her collar and hauled her along with him off the street, leaving the Elite to restore the flow of traffic.

He threw the girl into the wall and waited for her to stop sniveling. Around him, the rest of the patrol unit had gathered, and Faith was waiting, too. They were inside an empty storefront with boarded-up windows; there would be no interference from the local cowboys.

"Ariana Blackthorn," David said, staring down at her. He gestured and the Elite produced shackles. Considering the helpless-damsel number she'd been going for, she fought like a tiger until she was securely chained.

Finally, she seemed to understand she wasn't going anywhere and slowly forced herself to stand up straight and face him head on.

Disgust and hatred were all over her otherwise pretty face. She spat at him, but he'd been expecting it and moved out of the way. They always liked to spit, for some reason. Next came the insults: demon, devil, accusations of bestiality for his known appetite for humans, and on and on.

The Blackthorn had created of him the perfect Antichrist. They had him set up to enslave and destroy all of vampire kind. He had to admit it was flattering.

Faith joined him, panting and sweaty, and muttered, "You couldn't have just teleported and caught her before we'd all run ourselves into a coma chasing her?"

"I told you," he said mildly, eyes still on the girl. "I don't teleport. It's a quantum-level shift that involves loosening the bond among all my molecules, and it requires so much energy that it's advisable only in emergencies."

"Like tonight?"

"No. Tonight I jumped down off a building and onto a car. Can we focus, please?"

He returned his attention to Ariana Blackthorn, who regarded him with utmost loathing. "I'm going to kill you!" she screamed, flinging herself forward to the end of her chains, then falling back against the wall. "I'm going to kill all of you! And that little Happy Meal bitch of yours in the city!"

David felt his blood run cold, but he clamped down on the reaction that he knew she'd want to see. "Keep ranting," he said. "We have all night."

He held his hand out to the left, and one of the lieutenants handed him a sheaf of papers. "Ariana Blackthorn," he read. "Youngest of the Blackthorn women, not deemed suitable for an arranged marriage until lo and behold, an unattached Prime came into power here in the South. Your father made a deal to sell you to Auren, if not as a Queen then at least as a whore, in exchange for hunting grounds in his territory and safe harbor if the California war went badly, which of course it did. So your loving patriarch sent you to the bed of a psychopathic killer, and you weren't heard from again."

Ariana strained against her chains again. "I loved my Prime," she spat, "and he loved me. We were a Pair, even if his stupid Signet didn't understand. All I had to do was get stronger. My father didn't like his women strong. So I waited. And I grew."

"And when I killed your one true love, you ran and hid," David finished for her callously. "For fifteen years you've scuttled around the underworld like a cockroach instead of facing your Prime's killer. Then you were contacted by James Wallace, formerly of Auren's Elite, and he helped you build your syndicate and then, quite conveniently, met his end."

"I wanted justice," she said. "I wanted to watch you suffer as you made my Lord suffer. I wanted to see everything you care for bleed and die and then bleed you myself."

"I appreciate the honesty." David replied. "Now perhaps you'll favor me with a little more, Ariana. My Elite have the location of your headquarters, and as we speak they are infiltrating it and subduing your guards. We'll have possession inside ten minutes. Now, unless you can give me a compelling reason not to kill every last soul I find inside, the whole building will burn. If you make sure I know where all your splinter factions are, I can promise you not to kill certain individuals, perhaps family, who might be dear to you."

Ariana laughed, a high, eerie sound that was in no way sane. "Kill them all, I don't care," she answered. "And make sure you get my sister, too. She's a race traitor just like you are, Sire, and since I swore to my father I wouldn't kill her, you can do it for me. You owe me that much after you murdered my lover."

"Here's what I owe you, Ariana." David took a step back and drew his sword. Two of the Elite took hold of her arms and forced her to her knees as he said, "I am sorry for your broken heart, or at least your thwarted ambitions. Ariana Blackthorn, you are hereby under an order of execution for conspiracy to murder thirty-two humans within my territory as well as seven of my Elite."

"Do I get a last request?" Ariana asked with false sweetness.

He lifted his chin.

Her voice came out as a feline hiss. "I want to see the look on your face when they drag your precious little princess dead from the lake. I want you to hurt like I hurt when I held Auren's lifeless body in my arms. I want to see your world come to an end."

He stared into her eyes for a moment, then said flatly, "Request denied."

Then he cut off her head.

An hour later Harlan pulled the car into an affluent suburb of West Austin, down a long street lined with the homes of the well-to-do. None of them approached the grandeur of the Haven, of course, but then, they weren't built to house a hundred vampires. There was new growth in many of the front flower beds that would probably die in the last freeze that usually hit just before Easter. For now, though, the exultant breath of spring was in the air, even while the nights were still cold.

They stopped at the end of the street in front of an ordinary-looking two-story house where Faith and half the Elite were already waiting for him. Any human family could have lived there, but the lawn didn't look like it had been mowed recently, and the curtains in the front windows were flat-they had been nailed up with boards behind them to block out the sun while still appearing mostly normal from the street. Considering their hatred for humans, the Blackthorn had been living very close to them, but it was a sound strategy for staying off his radar.

Or, it had been, until the sensor network was up and running long enough for his analytical eyes to discern a pattern among the movements of the vampires that lived here. They covered their tracks well, but not well enough.

"The property is secured," Faith said as he got out of the car. Her voice was oddly strained. "We found twenty-six inside along with . . . Well, see for yourself."

He could smell it before he entered the house. The insurgents had done their killing in the city, but they had done much of their feeding here. Not two days before, almost as an afterthought, he had run a search on missing persons in the Austin area and confirmed his suspicions about how a gang as indiscreet as theirs could stay fed. They left only select bodies in obvious places for him to find-where were the rest?

Now he knew.

There were shallow graves in the backyard. Inside the house were cages.

The entire gang had been taken into the backyard to await execution, and all that was left inside was the amassed garbage of beer bottles and three corpses, each covered with bite marks and left to rot in the closets.

By his count, there should be ten more buried out back. Three were children. Managed with even minimal food and water, a dozen humans could keep the gang fed for weeks as long as they were given a few days to recover in between feedings. Eventually they would weaken and their bodies would give out, but in the meantime all the insurgents had to do was pluck the homeless off the streets and they had an unlimited supply of human blood that no one would miss.

"What did that bitch promise her followers?" Faith asked, walking with him from room to room to survey the damage to the house.

"Freedom," David replied. "Can't you tell? They were free to live in filth among the dying. I'm sure she promised that after the revolution they would all be counted high in her own Elite and have license to feed on every throat they could reach."

"We found the sister. She's alive, but . . . not well. They had her in one of the cages-she's marked, too. I think Ariana was feeding on her exclusively."

"Blood is still thicker than water," he said. "Show me."

She led him to the back of the house and the one bedroom that seemed to show signs of only a single inhabitant. The rest of the building had the cramped energy of a barracks, and beds had been created on every available flat surface, but still, they had to have slept in shifts.

Inside the room several Elite stood guard over a blond woman dressed in rags, her neck and shoulders covered in puncture wounds in various stages of healing. She was barefoot and filthy, skeletally thin, her clavicles standing out sharply.

"Here," one of the guards was saying, handing her a bag of hospital blood. The girl took it and began to suck greedily at the tube, whimpering with hunger.

David went to her and knelt, placing his hand on the bag. "Slowly," he said. "Sip. You'll make yourself sick."

She looked up at him, shaking, and he was struck by the intense blue of her eyes. She saw the Signet and stared but didn't shy away; she was simply too weak to react.

"Have you got anything out of the others about her?" he asked Faith.

"No. They were under orders not to talk about her. In fact, we can't get a damn thing out of any of them about what went on here-she trained them well, Sire. They're all as insane as she was."

He returned his attention to the girl. "What's your name?"

She paused in her drinking long enough to whisper, "Bethany."

"Well, Bethany Blackthorn, my name is David. We're going to take care of you."

She nodded, still shaking, still sucking on the tube. The bag was already half empty.

He stood up. Faith caught his arm and drew him away, saying, "Sire . . . you aren't thinking of taking her back to the Haven with us, are you?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinking, Faith. Where else is she going to go?"

"We don't know anything about her. We have no record of her in the Blackthorn case files. These people are out for your blood and you want her in our house?"

"Look at her," he said. "She's too weak to be a threat, and if there are more of them out there in hiding in the city, we'll need information from her. We take her back, we put her under guard and find out who she really is."

"Doesn't this seem a little suspicious to you? They could be playing on your sympathies-face it, Sire, you are a little softhearted when it comes to crazy girls."

"Duly noted, Second."

"Wait . . . you're not thinking of putting her in Miranda's room, are you?"

He rounded on Faith. "It isn't Miranda's room anymore," he snapped. "And no, I don't want her anywhere near me. Put her in one of the visiting-dignitary suites and make sure she doesn't so much as take a piss without it going on record. Now if you don't mind, Faith, I'm going to go watch twenty-six people die."

He started to walk away, then thought better of it and said, "On second thought, bring the girl outside with us. Make sure she sees everything. If she's her sister's enemy, she'll appreciate the opportunity. If she's not, she'll have fair warning about her own future."

The house went up in flames just before midnight, with the bodies of the insurgents stacked inside.

David waited long enough to be sure the Austin Fire Department and police had arrived and they understood their role in things: keep the blaze from spreading to the surrounding houses, keep passersby clear of the scene, but make no move to extinguish it until everything inside was reduced to ash. There would be no arson investigation. It was clear that faulty wiring was to blame.

According to APD, who had been briefed on the situation by Faith, the house had belonged to a family of four. Two of the dead the Elite had found inside were its original inhabitants; the other two were probably buried in the backyard along with the family dog and nine other humans.

He stood out by the car half a block away watching the blaze, the twin smells of gasoline and smoke brutally overwhelming the scents of a rainy night. Neighbors were out on their driveways, huddled together in clumps asking each other worriedly if the Larsons were okay, if they'd been home when it happened, if anyone was hurt.

He felt a moment of uncharacteristic tenderness for them. They were ignorant of the horror that had lived in their midst all this while; they were simply coming and going, working and sleeping, playing with their children. One street over there were children dying in pain in a cage. If they'd known, they would have banded together and gotten the police involved . . . and probably gotten themselves all killed. This was the kind of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone's business and for the most part all cared.

They were so innocent. They had no idea what real darkness was.

Faith was conferring with her unit nearby. An operation like this required a massive cleanup, coordination with the city authorities, and further investigation to find the rest of the gang before they had time to regroup.

"Everything's running smoothly," the Second said, standing to his right. "We can take it from here, Sire, if you'd like to head back."

He nodded. "Have there been any new developments from the network?"

"Not yet. I'm sure they're out there, but tonight they're running scared. We probably won't hear a peep out of them for a week or more."

"Keep me informed."

He directed Harlan to take him out to hunt, making sure they took a tour through the Shadow District on the way. The whole street was dead silent and empty, and several of the bars had already cut their losses and shut down for the day.

Sixth Street was a marked contrast. On a Thursday night the clubs were doing a brisk business-for college students the weekend started early. There were attractive young women and men lined up half a block from the Signet-owned club the Black Door; he could hear the thumping bass even through the supposedly soundproof window glass of the car.

He disembarked and instructed Harlan to return in fifteen minutes, then bypassed the line, garnering both appreciative stares and complaints about cutting in line. He took the steps up to the double doors, where an enormous bouncer-human-stepped in front of him.

Without speaking, he held open the neck of his coat so the man could see the Signet. The bouncer practically leapt back out of his way, unfastening the velvet rope to let him in. He gave the man a nod as he passed and received a sketchy, nervous bow in return.

Once inside, he took the side stairs up to the catwalk, where he could survey the crowd and choose what he wanted; the employees all recognized the Signet, and they either bowed slightly or, in the case of waitresses with trays of drinks, smiled broadly and winked so they wouldn't lose their balance. He didn't especially care if the humans acknowledged him here, but they had been carefully schooled by their managers to show him the kind of respect they would their best customer-which he was. Aside from paying their salaries and making sure they were unmolested by their vampire clientele, he was a generous tipper.

The music pulsed all around him, and down on the dance floor bodies surged in time to it, young skin glistening with sweat. He envied them their abandon; all they had to worry about were condoms and designated drivers, followed by hangovers and embarrassing sexual escapades to retell at the next sorority meeting.

Standing there watching them, he felt more removed from humanity than he ever had, and consequently, his heart felt like it was about to break beneath the enormity of what he was. There had been times over the years when he had balked against responsibility, wishing he could go back to California when he was only a lieutenant and followed orders instead of giving them. Being the pinnacle of the food chain was lonely, and there were moments that he hated it.

He thought back to California again, this time remembering the phone call he'd received from Deven months ago just after Miranda had left him. The Prime understood what David was feeling. He had felt it, too. They all felt the burden of the Signet, and deep down they all knew there was a way to share that burden, to lighten the weight of the world.

He leaned forward on the catwalk rail, putting his head in his hands. He was being foolish again, dreaming of destiny when there was only reality. He had no Queen, no Consort. He was alone. And the only person . . .

The note he had found hidden in the Shakespeare book echoed in his mind. Come to me. Come to me, she had said, and he wanted to so badly . . . in theory it was safe for now, with the leadership of the Blackthorn syndicate dead and the rest of their recruits scattered all over the city in chaos.

But Ariana Blackthorn had threatened Miranda . . . and they had already tried to kill her once. The reality was that it would never be safe, not as long as any of the insurgents still lived. And as soon as one threat was put down, another would rise. As long as Miranda lived in his territory . . . as long as she lived . . . because of him, she would be in danger.

He stood there for a long time, staring sightlessly at the crowd, feeling empty and alone, until a waitress spoke up from his elbow: "Can I bring you something, Sire?"

He sighed and scanned the dance floor again. "I'd like a gin and tonic, and the redheaded woman at the bar drinking the Grey Goose martini. I'll be in my booth."

"Right away, Sire."

He made his way toward the back of the club's second level and sank tiredly into the leather seat; a moment later a second waiter appeared with his drink. He sipped it listlessly until the waitress returned, a wary young woman at her side.

"Here you are, Sire," the waitress said. He handed her a twenty.

The girl regarded him with narrowed eyes. "They said the owner wanted to see me?"

"Yes," he replied. "Sit down, please."

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't even know you," she pointed out. "And frankly you're not my type."

He looked her over, smiling. Very few humans were openly defiant of him; he liked it. He also liked the spark in her aura, and the flash of her hazel eyes. She was tall-she'd top him by a good three inches if he were standing up-and a little thinner than he liked, but overall quite a beauty, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five years old. Graduate student, no doubt. She had a more East Coast than Central Texas accent, one he'd place around Maryland.

She was also a lesbian. Part of him was disappointed, but really, he wasn't in the mood to play the game. It did, however, explain her immunity to his charms.

"That's all right," he said. "I'm not after your ass, Miss . . ."

"Sandy."

"Very well, Sandy. Please sit." He reached toward her with his mind and pulled gently, wrapping the fingers of his power around her will. She was a strong girl, but he was far stronger, and she blinked twice, then sat down next to him, confusion on her face.

He leaned in and brushed the loose strawberry hair from her neck. She trembled at the touch of his fingers, and not from fear-he had her, whatever her preferences were, and if he wanted to, he could arouse her so thoroughly that the continued effort of a dozen women would do her no good until he gave her release.

He wasn't interested in subverting her desires, though. If she didn't want men, he wasn't going to force himself on her. But neither did he want her to fight him, or to be afraid. He fed just enough energy into her body to relax and soothe her, then tilted her head to the side and quickly pierced her skin. If she had struggled, she could have caused his teeth to hit an artery. This way she was safe.

Safe. What did the word even mean in this world? He drank, his hand around her throat as if he were simply kissing her, and she moaned, her hands seeking something to hold on to and grasping his shoulders. Meanwhile the other humans in the bar walked past the booth, not even noticing.

He withdrew, satisfaction flooding warm and complete through his body, and held her steady for a few minutes until she began to regain her equilibrium.

"Shit," she murmured, sagging forward. "I've had one too many."

"I think you have," he agreed. "Can I call you a cab home?"

"Yeah," she said. "Thanks."

As the waitress led her out of the club, he finished his drink, holding the alcohol in his mouth to cleanse his palate. She had tasted healthy and strong, intelligent, and so young . . . an undertone of cherries and tobacco, suggesting she smoked the occasional cigar.