"Granted."

"You're an asshole," she said, and hugged him.

He returned the hug, saying, "Let's get back to work."

Miranda had known pain in her life, but not like this. For days she writhed on Kat's bathroom floor, her fingers clawing at the tile, her entire body scalded from within. Fever gripped her, washing her with unbearable heat one second and freezing cold the next. She held the pillow to her mouth and screamed when she couldn't stand it.

Kat pounded on the door more than once, asking if she was okay, but she couldn't answer. She had locked Kat out-no one should see her like this.

It felt like every bone in her skeleton snapped and knit itself over and over again. Her cells seemed to have turned to acid and were eating their way out of her skin. The worst part was her stomach-her bout with salmonella in college had in no way prepared her for the torturous cramps and nausea. She retched almost constantly for the first day, at first water, then nothing but air; her thirst was so great she stuck her head in the sink and drank from the faucet, then threw it up, and drank again.

It went on past the point when she thought she could endure no more. It went on past when she prayed to die. Every few hours she passed out, only to be driven awake again by a fresh punishment, thousands of knives in her gut or a vise grip around her head.

At one point she was aware that she had bitten her tongue and it was swollen and raw in her mouth, bleeding from two holes. The taste of her own blood made her insides twist so hard she would have wailed, but she had long since lost her voice.

I'm alone . . . I'm dying and I'm alone . . . I can't do this. It's too much. It hurts so bad . . .

She lay on her back, sweat pouring from every pore of her body, so worn out she could hardly breathe, and for a moment a strange sort of peace descended over her.

She thought of the night she had been raped, and of the raw power that had taken hold of her. She thought of all the nights before that when she had let her psychic abilities use her. She had been beaten, and violated, and murdered. She'd had everything taken from her by force. Her illusory crown had been stripped away. There was no music to hide in, no Haven to run to, no Prime to show her the way back. There was only Miranda, and one final decision.

She could die here, a sad broken heap on a bathroom floor . . . or . . .

Another stream of thoughts, or rather feelings: the ecstasy that filled her when she performed. The joy of turning music into emotion and sharing it. The pride of getting up one more time when she fell down and picking up her sword. The heat of beloved hands on her skin and a body meeting hers. The possibility . . . the endless possibility. Power, and love, and belonging were all hers, if she could find the will to reach out and take them . . . no . . . to reach in.

Miranda pulled her attention back to her breath, then followed it, as Sophie had shown her, down into the shadow coiled inside her. It was waiting for her to let it finish its work. If she fought it, she would die. If she took its hand . . .

She smiled into the darkness . . . and chose.

"I'm glad you're here. I don't know what to do."

"Is it drugs?"

She heard the voices so clearly it took a minute to realize they weren't in her head.

Voice one: female, mixed race, approximately thirty years of age. Southern drawl evident on vowels. Voice two: male, slightly younger, Caucasian undertone but accent from farther north than Texas.

She opened her eyes and blinked at the unexpected light. At first she thought it must be daytime, but a scent of the air told her otherwise; it was about eight o'clock. The overhead fixture was not switched on. The room was bathed in watery blue and gray shades, and she could see every detail down to the spidery cracks in the grout.

She felt out along her body, curious. No pain. She felt light, buoyant. She lifted her hand and looked at it, amazed at how distinct its edges were, how strong it seemed; she curled it into a fist, admiring the feeling of muscle and tendon sliding over each other. She lowered her hand to her body, running her fingers down the length of one arm, then over her breasts and belly. The sensation was so exquisite that she lay there for several minutes touching herself, every inch alive.

A light knock at the door interrupted her exploration. "Miranda?" the female voice called. "Can you hear me?"

She spoke, and her voice was a wonder: it had the same smooth golden timbre as always, but now there were layers of nuance and meaning to even the simplest of words: "Yes."

"Honey, Drew's here. We want to take you to the doctor. Will you let us in?"

She focused on the door, and on the two human figures beyond it. She breathed in, and could smell them both. They both worked with children. One of them had varnish under his fingernails. The other used cocoa butter on her hair. They had had sex recently.

The male smelled lovely, like old books and rosin, yes, but underneath were the mingled scents of sex and masculinity. He was healthy and bright. An occasional meat-eater, active, had smoked pot at some point in the last month.

Her teeth pressed into her lower lip.

Slowly, she turned over onto her stomach, then rose, allowing her body to unfold as gracefully as a deer rising from the brush. She extended a hand and unlocked the bathroom door.

"Thank God," she heard the woman say. "Mira, you've got to . . . holy shit."

They stared at her, the woman's mouth open as she lost the sentence, the man's eyes huge. They were both very attractive; the woman had power, and she knew it, and the man was caring, kind. Both of them were very worried about her.

Why?

She lifted her hands again and ran them down her sides, looking down to see what she was wearing. Sweat-pants and a sweatshirt. It was absurd. Her hair was a tangled mess. What were they staring at?

She tilted her head to one side, watching them watch her.

"Um . . . Miranda . . ." the man said hesitantly, "Are you feeling all right?"

Miranda. Yes, that was her name. And his was Drew; the woman's was Kat. She knew them. They were her friends. He had tried to kiss her, once.

"May I borrow your comb?" Miranda asked.

Kat stuttered something and gestured back behind her; Miranda turned toward the medicine cabinet, opening the door and taking out a large-toothed comb. When she shut the door, she realized what Kat was motioning at.

The door of the cabinet was mirrored. She could see, behind her, the two people framed in the bathroom doorway.

She couldn't see herself.

She shrugged inwardly and pulled the comb through her hair, wincing at the tangles. It took several minutes of careful work to get it all under control again. Even after she was finished, they were still staring.

"What's happened to you?" Kat asked softly. Her voice was quaking.

"I told you," Miranda said. "I was sick. I'm better now."

"But . . . Mira . . . you're so pale . . . you don't even look human!"

She considered that, looking down at herself, then back at them. Well, it was obvious, wasn't it? "I'm not."

"What do you mean?"

She met Kat's eyes, and Kat took a step back.

"Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." Then she added, "Unless you run."

She fixed her gaze on Drew. "I'm hungry," she said. "I need you."

Drew turned adorably pink and exchanged a look of alarm with Kat. "But you said . . ."

"Stop talking."

His mouth snapped shut.

"Come to me."

He was about to protest, but she took careful hold of his mind and brought him into the room, walking like a dreamer toward her. She let go enough that he could talk, wondering if he wanted to run, but to her surprise, he didn't. She released his mind completely, and he stayed where he was.

Kat made a faint mewling sound of horror, but Drew said, "It's okay, Kat. She's not going to hurt me. Are you, Mira?"

"Of course not," Miranda replied, cupping his face in her hand, then tilting his head to the side. "You have something I need, Drew. I know you want to help me."

"I do. I'm your friend. So is Kat. We'd do anything for you."

"I know . . . and I promise I'll never ask again."

She leaned into him, inhaling deeply of the warmth and pulsating life before her. She nuzzled his neck, earning a groan, and studied the veins for a moment, trying to choose a place that wouldn't injure him. The veins branched like a tree, and she knew not to open the trunk.

The smell of him drove her hunger to a fever pitch, and she sighed against his skin, feeling the delicious itch of her teeth sliding down over her lip.

He didn't flinch when she bit down, or when she sucked. Even without the influence of her power he was willing.

She whimpered and held on to him, drinking deeply, the taste assailing her senses as the need began to fade one swallow at a time. She felt his heartbeat wild against her breast, and as her own began to come into sync with it, she knew by instinct when it was time to stop.

Miranda lifted her mouth and let him go. He slipped silently to the floor at her feet.

She licked her lips, almost drunk with heady satisfaction. Her teeth withdrew to a more manageable length.

Kat had shrunk back against the hallway wall. She was crying.

Miranda stepped around Drew, who was breathing hard and trying to conceal his erection by staying on his knees facing away from Kat.

She left the bathroom but stopped beside her friend, who refused to look her in the eye.

"I have to go," Miranda said. "I'm putting you in danger if I stay here."

She walked past Kat and through the house. It seemed so small and confining. She craved the freedom of the night air.

"Wait," she heard, and paused.

Kat hadn't left the hall, but said through her tears, "Where are you going?"

"I have work to do."

"Are you . . . are you ever coming back?"

Miranda smiled. She knew what Kat meant. "No," she said. "But I will see you again."

With that, she walked out the duplex door, leaving the mortal world behind her.

Nineteen.

It was going to be difficult to mount an assault on the enemy without shoes.

The full moon already hung in the sky, and she knew there was no time to waste, but there were things she needed: one, shoes; two, weapons; and three, some kind of plan.

A slightly less trailer-park outfit might be nice, too.

She tried to remember what part of town she was in. There was a bus route a block away that would take her close to where she needed to go, but she didn't have any bus fare . . .

She laughed to herself. Money was not going to be a problem.

When the bus pulled over, she stepped up into it, surveying the other passengers and deeming them harmless. The bus driver cleared her throat and nodded at the fare box.

"I have a pass," Miranda said, and bent her mind toward the driver's.

It was almost too easy. "Oh, okay," the driver said. "Sit down."

Miranda took the only free seat, one in the middle. The minds of the others started to lean on hers, but she added more energy to her shields and it was quiet in her mind again. There had been a time when such a simple act would have exhausted her or at least given her a migraine. Now it was as effortless as breathing.

As the bus bounced and rattled, she looked around at the humans traveling with her and felt the stirrings of pity. They were so sad. Some were homeless, and others were just as lost even though they had someplace to go. Perhaps three were genuinely happy and lived with purpose and passion. She had been one of the others, once. She had been a wanderer with a homeless heart.

Now what was she?

She would know tonight, once and for all.

A couple of the humans were staring at her, and she couldn't blame them, really. Without knowing it they saw her kind every night, but probably never this close, and probably never someone so new to the shadows, her fledgling power mantling around her like the still-wet wings of an infant butterfly.

She knew that this, too, would change. She was already starting to feel a bit more grounded, her true personality settling back a few thoughts at a time. She reviewed her memory of the last few days and was relieved she hadn't caused more damage-she could have killed Drew, or Kat, or both. The sheer horror on Kat's face had been heartbreaking . . . but it could have been worse.

She needed to call Kat as soon as this was over. Kat might never speak to her again, but she owed her friend an explanation, and a long one. To hell with secrecy. Kat had saved her life. She deserved better than an enigmatic farewell and her boyfriend left on the floor with a raging hard-on.

Although that had been kind of funny, now that she thought about it.

Miranda leaned her head forward on the back of the next seat. She was still tired. She felt like she could sleep for a week . . . but not yet. There were miles to go.

"You okay there, young lady?"

She lifted her gaze to the grizzled old man across the aisle. "Yes, sir. I've just . . . had a long day."

"I know what you mean." He was reading a newspaper, something she'd never been able to do in a moving vehicle, and nodded down at the headline: AUSTIN GANG VIOLENCE ESCALATES. "World's getting scarier, isn't it? People burning down buildings, gangs . . . Wasn't that long ago Austin was a safe place to let your kids play outside."

"It will be again," Miranda said, sitting up. "I'll make sure of it."