A man walked by, and her head snapped up at the smell of him. Cancer. In his prostate. He would taste wrong. Gamy.

The couple across the street-the woman was pregnant. Twins. The man was fucking her sister. She could smell sex on him, and the woman he had been inside was related to his wife but not her. She was smiling, talking animatedly about . . . cribs. Their conversation was as loud as it would be two feet away.

Car exhaust. Garbage. Horns honking. A baby crying. Cigarette smoke. Music from a bar three blocks away.

Miranda tried to shield again, but this time it couldn't help; what she was feeling wasn't psychic, it was physical. Her hearing and sense of smell had quadrupled at least, and there was no way to block that out except to find someplace silent and safe.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. She was less than half a mile from home and there was no way in hell she was getting back on a bus. She'd just have to walk, and deal with it.

This was what it was like . . . this was what she had to look forward to. How long would it take her to get used to the overload? Was it just affecting her like this because she was still human and her body and mind were too weak to handle it?

She had to handle it. She wasn't going to change her mind. It was going to be hard, but she would deal. There was too much at stake to be defeated by these first baby steps.

Steeling herself and straightening her spine, she began the walk home.

"You know," Deven said, "my Consort is rather put out with you."

David leaned back in his seat, watching the night landscape out the car window. They would be back at the Haven in ten minutes or less. "Is he, now," he said into the phone.

The tone of Deven's voice suggested that Jonathan had been making an issue of his dire predictions for some time now. "He remains convinced that you're going to get this Miranda killed."

"That's exactly what I intend to do," David replied. "I'm going to bring her across."

The Prime on the other end of the line sighed resignedly. "I'll spare you reminders of what a huge responsibility that is, and how badly it went the last time."

"This is different. She's sure, and I'm sure. In fact, she won't take no for an answer. Besides, weren't you in favor of this last time we spoke?"

"I'm not against the idea by any means-just cautious. It isn't something to undertake lightly. Not to mention this woman is still fairly young, and you can be as dense as osmium sometimes. Love tends to blind us to practicalities."

"Was that a scientific reference? Sire, I didn't know you had it in you."

"I thought perhaps if I spoke your language you might actually listen once in a while."

David smiled. "I always listen. Then I do what I want. You know that."

"It is one of your more infuriating qualities. But I worry about you, David." There was a surprising earnestness in Deven's voice-he was almost always serious, but usually with a sharp, dry wit that was notably missing now. "I want your rule to last at least as long as mine-I've seen too many friends die, and you . . . I've always thought of you as if you were my own."

"I practically am."

"Exactly. So bring your love over to the shadows, but be careful, both with her and with your own heart. I helped put you back together once, and I'd prefer not to have to do it again. Are you listening?"

"I am, Sire. And I'll be careful. Believe me, I want to do this right."

"Call if you need help."

"I will."

David replayed the conversation in his head the rest of the drive home, wondering how seriously he should take it. Jonathan's vision hadn't changed, but it also hadn't recurred; and now that he knew what he and Miranda were facing together, he didn't find it nearly as alarming. Yes, she would die; and the next night she would awaken. The fire had already happened when the insurgent base burned. He had found Miranda's note in the book.

He thought back to his brief call to Miranda and felt renewed well-being at the memory of her voice. He would see her in a few days, and he was contemplating telling her that they should aim for the full moon to bring her back to the Haven. That would give her a week to settle her affairs for the time being. He was sure she'd want to be back onstage as soon as possible, but it would be two weeks, minimum, before he was comfortable with her going out into the city, even with bodyguards. Ideally he'd like to keep her close for a month to be sure she was strong enough. This was not something to take chances with.

Most vampires were born on a cruel whim or out of some romantic idiocy involving "eternal love," which tended not to last past the first decade. Real partnerships most often arose between vampires that were unrelated-that first blush of infatuation between sire and offspring was an ephemeral thing. Older vampires, especially Primes, almost never brought over a human for any reason; their power meant that their progeny had the potential to take Signets themselves, and they were usually loath to sire their own competition.

Harlan pulled the car up to the curb, and the Prime disembarked, looking, for a moment, up at the Haven, his home . . . her home. Even with her gone, the place had been stamped with her presence. Faith and several of the other guards of his wing had reported that, more than once, they'd been sure they saw her out of the corner of an eye.

One of the lieutenants met him at the doors as he entered. "Sire, the Blackthorn girl is asking for you."

"Thank you, Patrick. I'll see her now."

He took the right-hand staircase to the second floor instead of the left and made his way to the hallway of suites where the rare visitor from outside the territory stayed. Primes seldom left their realms, but once in a while a second in command or someone high up in another Court came to pay their respects. He'd had a constant stream of guests the first two or three years. Right now there was no one but Bethany Blackthorn.

Two guards stood outside her door; they bowed and stepped aside to let him enter.

He did the polite thing and knocked. There was no reason to start things off on the wrong foot.

"Come in," he heard.

He'd put her in one of the small suites-just a bedroom and bath with a sitting area by the fire, much like Miranda's but nowhere near as comfortable.

She looked small and out of place sitting in one of the chairs, her posture stiff, her dishwater hair hanging board-straight on either side of her face. She might have been beautiful once, but abuse had left her wraithlike, her eyes far too big for her face. Their unwavering azure was the only thing about her that seemed alive.

She sat with the pale spiders of her hands clasped between her knees, as unreactive to his arrival as she had been the night they'd found her, neither cowed by his power nor enraged by his supposed crimes. "Sire," she said. She sounded so young.

"Bethany," he replied, taking the other chair. "Are you feeling better tonight?"

"Yes." She stared down at her hands. "They're taking good care of me. I don't deserve it."

"Why not?"

She frowned and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I'm a Blackthorn. We're the enemy. Or you are. My father said you were the devil."

"I'm sure he did. What do you think?"

"I think he was probably right. But you saved me. And Ariana . . ." She swallowed at the name as if it stuck in her throat. "What do you do when the angel is worse than the devil?"

He folded his hands, elbows on the arms of the chair. "What can you tell me about her plans, Bethany? It's important that I know so I can stop the remaining members from killing anyone else."

She looked up at him curiously. "You care about humans," she said. "My father said that humans were put here on this earth for our use."

"But we all came from humans," he pointed out.

"That's right. We used their bodies and then we use their blood. Once we have what we need, they don't matter. It's God's will that we are superior."

He nodded. He'd heard this line of "reasoning" before, and as with any form of zealotry, there was no arguing with it. "Even if that's true, your sister's people were responsible for the deaths of our kind as well. And if they're allowed to reorganize, there will be more death. I cannot allow that. What can you tell me?"

She shrugged again. "Not much. I was a pet, not a member of the group. She hated me from the time we lived in California. I was Father's favorite-he wanted me to go to Auren, but she lusted for power. I think secretly she was glad that Father was murdered."

"Can you tell me why there's no record of you anywhere? Everyone from the original family has been accounted for except you."

She made a sound that might have been a laugh. "No, they haven't. There were others. Anyone who didn't want to become warriors for the cause, anyone who disagreed . . . we disappeared, over time. Father had a fondness for me, though, because I looked so much like my mother. He let me stay and kept me safe even though I was a traitor. As soon as he was dead, Ariana got her revenge. She was going to give me to Auren's Elite as a toy."

"I see. And you know nothing about her larger plans for the organization?"

"She had a plan?"

He couldn't help but smile at the unexpected touch of humor. "She did intend to kill me and turn the Signet over to someone."

"Not Ariana. She would have kept it for herself. She only acted demure while Father was alive." Bethany picked at the edge of her sleeve for a moment, then said, "They all believed in her. She pulled them together after Auren died. Without her, they're nothing."

"I wish I could believe that."

She looked up and met his eyes, her own suddenly full of pleading. "They're going to kill me," she said. "As soon as they find out I'm still alive, they'll hunt me down. They'll think I was in collusion with you."

"They won't lay a finger on you," he told her. "I have you under double guard and digital surveillance. No one comes in or out of the Haven without my knowing, even assuming they can find it in the first place. Don't worry, Bethany."

"But . . . what are you going to do with me?"

He rose. "I haven't decided yet. So if there's anything further you know, I would appreciate it greatly if you shared it soon. After all you've been through I don't want to cause you more suffering, but I will if it's necessary. Your family has its cause and I have mine. I'm sorry you've been caught in the crossfire. If you cooperate, I'll do what I can to ensure your safety."

She returned her gaze to her hands. "I believe you," she said.

He started to leave, but her voice called him back. "Thank you."

He turned and nodded to her. "It is my duty to protect those under my rule, Bethany, until they become law-breakers. As far as I know you've done nothing wrong."

"I didn't mean for that," she said, and for just a second he saw something burning in her eyes. "I meant thank you . . . for killing my sister."

Sixteen.

When Sophie opened the door that Tuesday night, whatever acerbic greeting she'd intended died on her lips. She stared for a minute, looking Miranda up and down.

Sophie shook her head. "Girl."

Miranda gave her the same eyebrow she often gave Miranda. "What?"

Sophie gestured for her to come in, as always, and for a while Miranda didn't think she was going to say anything else; she put Miranda through the usual warm-ups and basic sword drills with only occasional commentary on her form.

Then she took her own sword from the wall and without ceremony dove in for the attack.

Miranda countered, but in minutes she was disarmed. That was normal, but today it left her angry and frustrated. She'd been hoping that the changes in her senses would do . . . something. Help her move faster, maybe, or keep her on her feet longer. If anything, it hampered her; she was so busy being impatient that she kept getting knocked on her ass.

Sophie stood over her, the look on her face unreadable. "Get the fuck up," she snapped.

Miranda did so, but anger bubbled up in her throat. This time when Sophie attacked she was ready, or thought she was. She swung her blade hard, throwing her energy with it, but her carelessness cost her, and Sophie merely kicked her in the stomach and slapped the sword from her hand.

"Quit wasting my time," Sophie told her. "You think just because you've been sucking off a Prime that you're something special? I've got news for you, little girl. You're no better than you were a week ago. In fact, you suck as bad as you did the first time I met you."

"Fine," Miranda bit back. "What's the right way to do this?"

"I told you. Stop fighting like a human. If you want to be a vampire, you can't keep thinking like a meat puppet. Let it go."

"Let go of what, being human?"

"Yes, damn it." Sophie slammed her sword into its sheath and faced Miranda with arms crossed. "Becoming one of us is a gift. It elevates you beyond the limits of mortality. But it's not a game and it's not pretty. It's bloody and dark and dirty and it goes on forever. Once you cross this bridge, there is no going back. You're selling your soul to this life, Miranda. Are you ready? And moreover-are you worthy?"

Her eyes bored into Miranda's for the better part of a minute before Miranda said, quietly, "Show me how."

"Get up."

Miranda rose, gripping her weapon tightly. Her entire body felt like it was made of iron.

"Go into your Sight. Set your shields, set your stance." Sophie circled her, her pace deliberate and slow. "Now reach deeper into it. There's a power inside you you've never been able to access before. You still can't, not totally, but it's there, and you can touch it."

"Yes," Miranda said. She sought within herself and found what she'd experienced that first night with David, the sleeping shadow, waiting for blood to call it forth. "I feel it."

"Imagine it's air. Breathe it. Let it fill you up."

The energy crawled up her spine, scalding her, and she nearly lost her ground, but before Sophie could command her to, she hauled herself back under control.

The power of her senses from before was nothing compared to what she felt now. She could feel the entire room around her, stretching out from her own skin, the empty space connecting her to Sophie, to the floor, the ceiling, the walls. The sword in her hand was as light as a feather and felt like it had grown out of her palm.

"Good." Sophie fell into her own ready stance and said, "Now, stay in that place as you fight. Hold on to the shadow. Let it move you. Dance with it."

She raised her sword and brought it toward Miranda, where the blade hit its twin with a sharp clang. Miranda breathed in the darkness, and suddenly she could see Sophie as if there were two of her, the one before her and an afterimage. The afterimage was going to spin and kick- Miranda wasn't there to feel it. She stepped effortlessly out of the way and spun herself, driving her sword up in a graceful arc to meet Sophie's. For the next few minutes she lost herself completely in action and reaction, point and counterpoint, like two melodies merging into harmony.

It didn't last long, though. Soon her arm felt as heavy as lead, and exhaustion pushed her down to the floor, her sword falling uselessly to the ground. She was breathing hard and drenched in sweat the way she hadn't been since the earliest days of her training.

Sophie, still flawless and unruffled, said, "Now you know what it feels like."

Miranda couldn't speak, but when she looked up at her teacher, she was smiling.

Being friends with the hottest act in town had its benefits. Kat got to watch the whole show from the wings instead of out in the crowd, and she was doubly thankful tonight. The place was so packed that the heat in the room was as intense as a Texan July, and two people had already been taken out by bouncers to get fresh air.

If Miranda noticed, she didn't seem to care. She was on fire. Kat had never seen her so fierce. It seemed like her energy had ignited the audience, too, and they were dancing and jostling each other and it was a minor miracle a riot hadn't broken out.

The power in the singer's diminutive body was amazing. Her voice soared off the rafters and showed no signs of fatigue after two whole hours of solid performing.

It was a marked contrast to the last time Kat had seen her play, months and months ago. She'd been so sad back then, slave to whatever drug she'd been hooked on. She'd been a pale imitation of the Miranda Kat had first met back in college, the girl who caught everyone's attention with her razor wit and doll-like beauty.

Nowadays a doll was the last thing Miranda brought to mind. She was like a blade that had been tempered, purified in fire. Even her hair was aflame in the stage lights.