"Oh my God, Mira! Thank God! I've been trying to find you-are you okay? Were you hurt?"

Miranda half laughed, half cried. "Please, Kat . . . I need you to come get me. I'm at the Newman's Deli on South Lamar, by the Zach. Please hurry-and bring a blanket."

"But-"

"Please," she begged. "I'll explain everything later."

"I'm on my way," Kat said breathlessly. "Hang on, honey, I'll be there in five minutes."

Miranda was sitting on the curb outside when Kat pulled up in her battered old Corolla. Miranda pushed herself to her feet and all but fell into the car, taking the blanket Kat offered and wrapping it around herself until every inch of her skin was covered.

"Hurry . . . I have to be inside before the sun is up."

For once Kat didn't ask any questions. When she saw the state of Miranda's clothes and hair and the way she was shaking, she simply floored the accelerator and drove them to her place at twice the legal speed limit.

She bundled Miranda into her rented duplex and sat her on the couch. "Okay, start talking."

"Not yet." Miranda poked her nose out of the blanket. "Are there any windows in your guest bathroom?"

"No, but . . ."

Miranda shook her head and stood back up; Kat made a noise of impatience but helped her into the bathroom.

There, Miranda stripped off the blanket and heard Kat gasp.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Kat asked. "Your shirt!"

She looked down. There was a hole over her heart, and her T-shirt was stained with the blurry remains of the blood that had gushed from the stab wound. Miranda touched the hole, the memory threatening to engulf her.

"Someone tried to kill me," she said.

"Jesus, Mira . . . first your apartment, now this-you've got to tell me what's going on."

"My apartment? What do you mean?"

Kat leaned on the bathroom door, looking utterly mystified by the whole situation. "It was all over the news last night. Someone burned down your complex. There are at least ten people dead-weren't you there?"

Miranda sat down hard on the closed toilet lid, putting her head in her hands. "They burned it. They burned it. All those people . . . everything . . . was anything left?"

"I don't think so. The fire started in your building."

Miranda was crying again, out of rage and loss, thinking of all her things-her guitar, her computer . . . her mother's picture, framed and hanging on the living room wall. She had nothing, not even her wallet left, only the rags she had had on when she crawled from the lake.

"Can I borrow some clothes?" she asked in a small voice.

Kat's eyes were wet, and she nodded. "You take a shower. I'll get you something to put on." She wiped her eyes and said, "It's going to be okay, Mira. We'll figure this out."

Miranda pulled off her T-shirt and the sodden, muddy jeans, added her underwear to the pile, then gathered it all up and shoved it in the trash. She ran the water as hot as she could stand it and stood beneath the spray for a long time, scrubbing at dirt that couldn't seem to come clean.

By the time she got out, she was on the verge of losing consciousness. She had to sleep. Something was happening to her body, and she was losing what was left of her strength rapidly. Her belly hurt unbearably, as if something were twisting her intestines and squeezing them hard; if there had been anything in her stomach she probably would have lost it. Her head was throbbing, and the roof of her mouth felt like it was on fire.

Her vision was swimming and she fell back against the bathroom wall, sliding down until her butt hit the floor.

Kat opened the door. "Here," she said. "This should fit-it's just sweats but I thought you'd want something warm."

"Thank you," Miranda managed, struggling into the unfamiliar garments. The legs and arms were too long, but they were dry, and soft, and smelled like fabric softener.

"What else do you need?"

Miranda stared at her hard, her eyes traveling over her friend's face and down to her neck. She could see the tributaries of Kat's veins flowing into the greater river, and how it pulsed.

"Oh, God," Miranda moaned, doubling over. Realization hit her as the pieces flew together.

I died. Ariana killed me. And then I woke . . . and now I'm . . . changing . . . it's not over yet. It's only just beginning.

"I need someplace to stay for a few days," she whispered. "Someplace dark. Does your guest room have windows?"

"Yeah, it does-and I'm asking again, what the fuck is going on? Why do you need dark? Miranda, we have to call the cops. Somebody tried to kill you. You just said so."

She smiled sadly. "The police can't help me now."

"You said you were going to explain, Miranda. Don't I deserve that much?"

"I'm not sure you'll believe me," Miranda told her. "I'm going to have to stay here . . . do you have spare blankets? Maybe a pillow?"

"You're going to sleep in the bathroom?"

"I don't know what's going to happen to me. The bathroom might be the best place." She grabbed the blanket she'd arrived in and folded it, laying it out on the floor as a pad. "Kat . . . whatever happens . . . thank you. I couldn't ask for a better friend than you."

"Just tell me, damn it-"

"Okay." She tried to find words, but her head was hurting so much she could barely think; she lay down on her side on the folded blanket, not caring that the floor was hard and her hair was wet. "I'm sick, Kat. I'm going to be sick for a few days. The sun will kill me. I just need to be in the dark and safe until it passes. Then everything will be fine."

Kat was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind, and really, she wasn't far off. "Miranda, tell me right now. Are you back on drugs?"

Miranda laughed out loud at that. "No. I promise you it's not drugs. It was never drugs. I want to tell you . . . you don't know how much. I've wanted to tell you since you came to see me play last summer. I just don't know how."

"Let me take you to the hospital, then."

"No hospitals. No police. Please, Kat . . . if you want to help me, bring me some more blankets, then shut the door and stay away until I come out. I don't want to hurt you."

Kat stormed off and returned a moment later, practically throwing an armload of linens at her. "You know, you are really stretching the whole 'above and beyond the call of friendship' thing. You call me at five in the morning asking for help, and I come and pick you up looking like you've been dropped in the lake, and now you say you need to sleep something off in my bathroom-I ought to throw you out on your ass!"

Miranda tried to organize the blankets into something like a bed, but her arms weren't cooperating. She couldn't seem to get up, though she tried and nearly cracked her head open on the clean white tile. Tired . . . so tired . . .

Kat saw her struggling and, with a sigh, knelt and started tucking and arranging things around Miranda's body. "You owe me big-time," she muttered.

"Turn the light off and lock the door on your way out, please," Miranda said, closing her eyes.

When he returned to the Haven, he shut the world out of his suite. He went into the bathroom and showered, washing the soot and smoke away, and put on clean clothes. He added another log to the fire.

Then he lay down on the still-made bed, curled into a ball, and closed his eyes.

He didn't move again for three days.

He was aware, from a great distance, of movement around him. Esther came in and tended the fire; Faith tried to talk to him. He heard voices from his com and he heard his phone ringing, but he didn't stir, didn't even bother silencing the noise.

Outside the sun rose and set, rose and set. A rain shower passed during the afternoon. The gardeners came and trimmed the hedges. None of it mattered.

He was so cold. There was nothing but cold, ice forming inside him, the fire dying in the room beyond. With a thought he could have made himself warm again, but he didn't. There was no reason to.

The city might have fallen apart. It might all be burning. Every human in the territory might have had their throats torn out by now. The world might have come to an end.

Let it.

He might have slept, or not; he didn't notice. His body might be craving blood. It might already have died of starvation.

If only. If only he could let go, break free of his flesh, and with it shed the weight he had taken on his shoulders. He had been fool enough to want it, for a while. For a while, there had been the possibility that he might not have to bear it alone.

But the vast emptiness in his heart was proof against even the most mindless optimism. Whatever had been there, whatever tenuous bond had been forming, it was no more. He hadn't even realized it was there until too late, when the soft kiss of her presence was abruptly torn from him. How long had it existed? Much, much longer than a week. It had perhaps formed the night he laid eyes on her. Some part of him had always known.

He heard the door open again, and ignored it at first, but there was something strange . . .

A presence he hadn't felt in years moved through him, settling on the bed at his side. A hand touched his arm.

He opened his eyes and looked up.

"Sire," he said, his voice hoarse and thin from disuse.

The Prime of the Western United States regarded him through his gentle lavender-blue eyes. "I can't stay long."

"What are you doing here?"

"Faith called me. I came as soon as I could."

"Where's Jonathan?"

"Out in the hall. He was afraid you might blame him."

David didn't answer; his strength seemed to have failed. Failed . . . the word had a thousand new meanings to him now.

"I can't do this anymore," David whispered.

Deven had been about seventeen when he became a vampire, and his face was still young, with a touch of the fey about it. Dark, shining brown hair fell straight around his shoulders, and he had always made David think of a renegade angel content to be cast out of paradise, especially when he had a sword in his hand. He bowed his head beneath shared pain and said to David, "Yes, you can. And you will. Millions of people depend on your rule. You took up the Signet, and there is no putting it down."

"We're supposed to die when this happens," David said.

"I know."

"I don't know what to do."

Dev's hand moved up to his face. It had been a long, long time since David had felt that touch. "You're going to mourn her, and then you're going to go on. You have work to do yet, my friend, and you must do it as much for Miranda as for all the others. Don't belie her faith in you. Stand and fight."

"I don't even know what I'm fighting for anymore. It isn't as if it matters anyway-if I die, there will be someone else. There's always someone else."

The Prime gave him a wryly affectionate smile. "Believe me, there will never be another you. I don't think the world could take it."

David felt his resolve to remain numb breaking beneath waves of despair, and he knew there was no holding back the tide. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and out of instinct he tried to ward them off.

"Don't," Deven said. "She was worth your grief."

He opened his arms, and David fled into them, buried his face in his friend's shoulder, and wept.

He let the sorrow pour out, knowing he was with one of the few people who wouldn't judge him for it, the rare strength of a Prime the only thing that could understand, and withstand, such pain. Deven didn't speak, but he offered solace that meant far more than mere words ever could.

Gradually, one shuddering breath at a time, he felt himself grow calmer. The emptiness was still there, and it still felt like it was dragging him down with it, but at least, for the moment, he could think a little more clearly.

He sat back. "Thank you for coming," David said, trying not to sniffle like a child. Deven lifted a corner of the comforter and wiped David's eyes, causing him to smile in spite of himself. "Thanks, Mom," he added.

The Prime chuckled. "I wish we could stay longer."

"It's all right. I understand. And you're right . . . I have to finish what I've started. They're still out there, and if I don't stop them, this will never end."

"That's my boy." Deven rose, taking David with him; David was a little unsteady on his feet, and Dev grabbed his arm to hold him up. David felt an inrushing of energy, strength into strength. He took it gratefully and brought himself back to center.

"I'd recommend a shower," Dev said, "and a shave. You're starting to look like my pedophile uncle."

"Your uncle was a bald Irish monk who weighed two hundred fifty pounds."

"It's the facial hair," the Prime replied. "I hate facial hair. Now, go. I want to see this sensor network of yours before we leave."

David was used to giving orders, but even he knew when to do as he was told.

Clean and dressed and feeling a little more like himself, David accepted the wineglass of blood that Deven pressed into his hand when he emerged from the bathroom but didn't take the time to savor it; there was no more time to waste.

He left the suite to find Faith standing outside with Jonathan, the two of them in conversation that stopped as soon as the door opened. Neither of them looked entirely comfortable with seeing him.

"It's all right," he told the Consort. "I don't blame you."

"Damn right you don't," Jonathan retorted, though he was grinning. "You didn't give me credit when you got your Signet. Don't blame me for this."

They shook hands, and when Deven came out of the suite Jonathan immediately stepped to his left side. They were an odd couple, to say the least; the Consort was twice his Prime's size, but it was Deven who traveled armed, a sword beneath his coat and half a dozen knives concealed over his seemingly delicate frame.

David turned to Faith, who wasn't looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have shut you out. I know you're hurting, too."

Faith nodded. "Permission to speak freely, Sire?"