She fully expected to find him dying, but amazingly, he was alert and leaning back against the trunk. He looked dreadful—though certainly not as bad as he should have after going through a windshield—but she could tell he was going to be fine.
“Thank . . . God,” he panted. “Couldn’t see you from here. Called for help—ours and theirs. There are two teams en route and the Prime’s on his way.”
“Just relax,” Miranda said. She smiled. “Consider yourself off duty for the night.”
In the distance she heard car doors slamming—a lot of car doors.
Mere seconds later David was at her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, pulling her into his arms. “I mean, I know you’re all right, but . . .”
“I’m okay,” she replied. “We need to get Harlan some blood and rest.”
“Mo’s on his way over—he stopped to check in on Stella since they’ve got her at the ambulance already.”
David knelt to make sure Harlan wasn’t badly injured; the driver was bloody and battered, but as Miranda had thought, he didn’t seem to have any truly grave wounds. “How the hell was he thrown clear?” David asked as he squeezed Harlan’s shoulder with a reassuring hand and stood back up.
“I did it,” she said. “I grabbed Stella and Misted but I couldn’t reach Harlan physically, so the best I could do was throw him through the windshield.”
“You didn’t throw him through the windshield,” David said, shaking his head. “I walked by the car on my way here. The windshield is shattered but still in place, no body-sized holes.”
“How is that possible?”
“You must have Misted him, the way I’ve done with bodies—it stands to reason you would be able to.”
Miranda swallowed hard. “I guess so.”
Mo and his team arrived and clustered around Harlan. Mo had come prepared; he had bags of blood for both of them. Miranda moved around the back of the tree where she wouldn’t be seen and drank half of her bag, letting the blood move through her and take care of the last few injuries. Then she gave the rest back to Mo.
“Give this to Harlan, too,” she told the medic. “He needs it way more than I do.”
Hand in hand, she and David walked back toward the limo, where a dozen or more police officers were already swarming. One of them started to command them to leave, but David raised an eyebrow at him and he went back to what he was doing without saying another word.
Miranda watched her Prime examine the wreckage; he didn’t touch anything but walked around the entire car, and she could see him analyzing every detail. At one point he bent and picked something up off the ground.
When he returned to her, she saw he had Stella’s purse. “Stella was on the passenger side, right?” he asked, handing her the bag.
Miranda shook her head. “Driver’s.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, why?”
David gestured at the driver’s side of the car, which was bent in at a scary angle. “That’s the side that got hit. Even if you Misted before the car rolled, she should have been at the very least badly injured or more likely killed.”
“She’s not hurt at all,” Miranda said, suddenly realizing how strange that was. She turned toward the ambulance, where the EMTs had Stella sitting on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her face, and walked over.
Stella gave her a thumbs-up, then lowered the mask and smiled weakly. “I’m okay,” she told Miranda before the Queen could even ask. “I don’t even have a bruise. They said it’s the damnedest thing they’ve ever seen.”
Yet another car pulled up onto the scene, one she recognized as Detective Maguire’s. Miranda smiled. The poor man—this was the third time he’d been called in to a disaster that his daughter was either involved in or witness to. As if, being a parent, he didn’t have enough to worry about without vampires getting involved.
Miranda returned to where David stood and told him the Witch’s condition.
“None of this makes sense,” he said. “Look at the tire marks here—whatever hit you was enormous, like a dump truck, and it kept pushing the limo until it flipped. But then it backed up and left the scene. Whatever it was, it hit Stella’s side dead-on at . . . forty-two miles per hour. With that much momentum she should have been squashed like a bug on impact, but she doesn’t have so much as a hair out of place.”
“Do you think it was Morningstar?” Miranda asked.
He looked confused, a rare and unsettling sight. “Why would they do this? They would have known a wreck was unlikely to kill you unless something sheared your head off or you bled to death before you could heal, and at your strength, in the middle of the city where help is always nearby, those are slim odds. Why do something so big and public with so little chance of success when they haven’t even tried attacking Austin with their new warriors yet?”
Miranda’s eyes fell on the stretcher again. “It wasn’t about me,” she said. “It was about Stella.”
“There are much easier ways to kill a human.”
She felt that little intuitive tug at her mind. Stella had been the channel for Persephone’s power at the solstice. She was growing progressively stronger. Persephone had told Stella that getting involved with all of this would change her life, and now Stella had not only survived what should have been a fatal crash, she had miraculously come through completely unharmed.
“They weren’t trying to kill her,” Miranda said softly. “It was some kind of test. They were watching . . . waiting to see if she was hurt. They know something that we don’t know.”
“I’m afraid they know a lot of things we don’t know,” David said, meeting her gaze. “I’ll go talk Maguire out of shooting us both.”
Miranda returned to the stretcher. Stella had been freed of the oxygen mask and was sitting wrapped in a blanket, her feet swinging back and forth while she waited for the paramedics to clear her.
The Witch saw the look on Miranda’s face, and her own face changed; for a moment she looked much older.
Stella’s voice was grim, but accepting. “I’m going back to the Haven, aren’t I.”
Miranda nodded.
The Witch sighed. “Damn,” she said. “Pywacket’s going to be so pissed.”
• • •
“This is Lieutenant Neelesh—emergency code four-two-four—my team is under attack! We have heavy casualties—I repeat, code four-two-four, the Pair is in imminent danger—”
A blade sang through the air and opened his side, sending him to the ground in a rush of his own blood. Around him he could hear the rest of his team trying desperately to fight their way to the Prime—but no one had seen this coming, no one had been prepared for an ordinary-looking group of mortals to suddenly fall upon them like demons. They had taken several of the attackers down, but more kept coming, putting themselves between the Elite and their Signet, cutting him off from aid.
Neelesh wrenched himself up onto his hands despite the agony in his side and tried to get back to his feet. He would not die in a pool of blood on the streets of Mumbai, not like this. He saw an opening and bolted for it, summoning all the strength he had left to reach the Prime.
He was close, so close, when he felt the stake bite deep into his back with such force that it knocked him back to the ground.
He could no longer think through the pain, but loyalty still drove him, and he tried, with unresponsive limbs, to rise again.
A pair of boots entered his vision, and he heard a sword being drawn.
The last thing he saw was the Prime falling back against the side of the car, a stake jutting from his chest . . . and just as the world went dark, he heard the desolate, wailing death shriek of the Queen.
Four
Australia was still in chaos, a dozen gangs ripping each other’s throats out to try and take charge. In the Mideastern United States, once ruled by Joseph Kelley, things weren’t much better: Someone had claimed the Signet only to die two days later, and now the continuous warf
are Kelley had battled his entire tenure had erupted into violence that was claiming both human and vampire lives.
And now, Varati.
In the sixty-plus years Deven had ruled the West, he had seen three Signets lose their bearers. In the past two months four Signets had died. McMannis, Hart, Kelley, Varati . . . five, if he counted David. All but one had been directly linked to Jeremy Hayes, but it was still alarming, and this last one . . .
The reports were still sketchy. All anyone knew for certain was that the Indian Pair and their entourage had been taken out in full view of the Shadow District of Mumbai, caught by surprise . . . by humans . . . and not the small group that had shown up in California, but more than a dozen, all of them faster and stronger than any average vampire, and able by sheer numbers and shock value to overwhelm the Elite bodyguards Varati had with him.
India’s warriors were not amateurs. They weren’t equal to Deven’s or David’s, but still, to overpower them would have taken a skill level far beyond most vampire gangs, beyond that of a great many lower-shelf Elite. Even accepting that it was magic, Deven couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Not once in seven centuries had he seen a human successfully attempt to fight an Elite—the average vampire Hunter was much smarter than that and worked within the limitations of the human race, using projectile weapons and traps rather than face-to-face combat. There really weren’t that many Hunters, and they usually worked alone, so most Primes ignored them unless they became a nuisance.
This was something altogether different.
India was still in a state of shock, and violence hadn’t erupted yet. Red Shadow intelligence was that a member of Varati’s Court was poised to make a move on the Signet but was waiting a few days to let any warring factions take each other out first.
Word had gone out to the entire Council about Morningstar and what they might be capable of, but the other Primes were proving themselves no smarter now than when they had met in Austin; some denied it was even possible, others insisted Morningstar had no reason to come after them. Only a few heeded the warning and increased security.
The others were in for a nasty surprise.
Sacramento was, as usual, quiet that Thursday night. For the first time in a long time, the Prime took to the streets himself. He generally preferred anonymity, remaining an unseen and whispered-about presence, but subtlety had flown out the window when Morningstar started attacking Primes in public. He knew better than to think his presence would scare Morningstar away, but hopefully at least a few of their thugs would recognize him and it would be made clear that they were being watched by the Signet. If nothing else he might learn something.
Jonathan had not liked the idea. Not a surprise. If Varati, his Queen, and a cadre of their Elite had been massacred by these people, a single Prime without any guards would seem an easy target.
Deven smiled slightly. A great many people far more powerful than these lunatics had fallen bleeding to the street because of such assumptions.
He was feeling remarkably well that night, which probably accounted for some of his bravado—he’d had another session with Nico, and this time instead of being drained for days, he’d immediately felt like another veil had been stripped from his eyes and every cell in his body had been infused with new life. Two weeks ago he might have been afraid to go into battle, but now he was out looking for trouble like a spry young vampire of 250.
Thinking of the Elf nearly made him falter, though. They were pretending nothing had happened that night on the balcony . . . but Nico haunted his thoughts, and it was all he could do not to seek out the Elf’s company, even just to talk. Deven tried telling himself they could be friends, and that friendship was better than nothing, but though Deven had many faults, lying to himself was not generally one of them. If he let himself feel any affection for Nico at all, it would only get worse. The Elf would be done healing him soon, and then he would leave, and Deven would never see him again. That was what he wanted.
Deven nearly snorted. So lying to himself was one of his faults after all.
There were few humans out so late, and even fewer vampires on the hunt. Word had gotten out about the strange new threat in town, and most were staying close to home until they heard from the Signet that it was safe again. At least so far Morningstar didn’t seem to have any interest whatsoever in humans . . . but just to be safe, Deven sent out warnings to all the mortals he was aware of who associated with the Shadow World. He knew a few weapons artisans, a forensic expert or two, and of course key members of every city and state government in the West.
As he walked the thought arose, unbidden, of the last time he had prowled the streets . . . the night he had fallen to his knees outside St. Anthony’s like a proper penitent . . . the night he had first looked up into those dark violet eyes that promised such peace. He had craved that peace so deeply in that moment . . . but now what he craved from the Elf was a little less peaceful and a little more elemental.
Damn it . . . stop thinking about him. Stop.
He was near one of his favorite spots in Sacramento, a large dance club similar to the Black Door in Austin; it was a hunting ground established by a member of the Court in order to create a safer space for feeding, for both vampire and mortal alike. Having some form of regulation over public hunting was key when it came to keeping a territory quiet; the vampires felt free to drink from humans, but the clubs were an attractive place to find healthy specimens without the risk of exposure.
It was well known that the Prime hunted there, which made it that much more popular among law-abiding vampires. He frequently partook of both the local cuisine and the local Ecstasy.
He was about five blocks from the club, deep in the dark heart that beat within every city, when he heard something.
He paused, looked around, analyzing. Empty street corner, three-story buildings on all sides, one streetlamp, two alleys that dead-ended. Well within range of the nearest motion sensors, and four minutes from the nearest patrol route, where a team would pass by in approximately two minutes. Depending on the situation it would be possible to run either back the way he’d come or straight ahead. The best way to escape, however, would be to Mist.
He stood right where he was and waited.
They emerged from the darkness, all dressed in black, and he watched them curiously for a moment as they emulated, but didn’t come close to matching, vampiric grace or menace. They were all armed much as the Elite would be, with swords and stakes, knives of various kinds.
Deven let them surround him, looking from one to another, calculating their relative strengths and weaknesses; strangely, they all had very similar facial expressions, not quite blank but not entirely there, either.
Theory: The magic that gave them their strength put them in some kind of trance or otherwise worked its will over theirs. Who, then, was their puppeteer?
Finally, there were twelve Morningstar surrounding him . . . but they didn’t make a move. They were waiting for something.
“Good evening,” came a deep male voice.
Deven turned toward the sound slowly, one hand on the hilt of his sword.
A man emerged from the alley, and right away his appearance set off warning bells in Deven’s head; he was dressed as a priest, all in black with a clerical collar. Short, fine brown hair crowned his head, over a pale, somewhat sickly-looking face with calm, intelligent brown eyes. Aside from the outfit he was perfectly ordinary, not at all threatening, the very image of an approachable and sympathetic clergyman.
Deven said nothing but continued to wait. The human would keep talking; they always kept talking.
“You must be the Prime of this territory—O’Donnell, is it? Of Irish descent.”
Deven held back a snort. “You got Irish from O’Donnell? Genius.”
“I hear you were once a man of the cloth like myself.”
Deven smiled slightly. “I suspect it was a different kind of cloth.”
His smile was returned. Again, Deven wa
s surprised; he had expected anyone associated with Morningstar to be a raving lunatic, but this man was perfectly composed, even friendly. Usually a human who knowingly faced a vampire—let alone a Prime—was either craven or crazy, trying to escape or seized with suicidal bravado. “I am called the Shepherd,” he said.
“Are you the leader of this Order, then?”
The Shepherd shook his head. “I am one of many around the world guiding our soldiers to their destinies.”
“What destiny would that be, besides pissing me off?”
Another smile, smug; this Shepherd thought he had the upper hand, whether through knowledge or numbers.
It was cute.
“Surely you understand that vampires have to die,” the Shepherd said reasonably. “It is our sacred task to wipe the stain of your existence from the earth. Your Circle, however . . . we have something very special in mind for you.”
“I’m flattered,” Deven said. “But Varati wasn’t one of our Circle.”
“That was a test run. We will eventually destroy the entire Council, felling them one by one.” The Shepherd walked in a slow circle around Deven, perhaps to be intimidating. “But beyond the fact that you are all deviants, sodomites, and idolaters—”
“Deviants and sodomites?” Deven asked, feigning incredulity. “I have no idea what you mean.”
The Shepherd obviously heard the sarcasm but started to say, “Leviticus—”
“Oh, fuck Leviticus,” Deven said. “Get creative. Come on, I’ll help you—I promise I’ve done much worse things than suck cock. I’ve killed hundreds of people. I’ve tortured, done a bit of maiming. I’ve cursed the name of God more times than I can count. I helped a man commit adultery—great big gay adultery, at that. That should be worth an honorable mention, shouldn’t it?”
The Shepherd clearly had not been expecting the conversation to take this particular turn, but he didn’t react until Deven stopped talking. “Beyond the fact that you are all deviants, you are also the only thing standing between our holy work and the destruction of the demon you call Persephone.”
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