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  “Which would indicate they know you’re supposed to be the general of our little army. Lucky you.”

  “I don’t like any of this. I don’t like being the one in the dark.” David didn’t add that was exactly what Deven was doing to him, but he was pretty sure the sentence’s double meaning was clear.

  “Trust me . . . there are some things you’re better off not knowing.”

  Finally David couldn’t stand it anymore. “What the hell is going on over there, Deven? Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

  A pause. Then, “Would you believe me if I told you I was dying of ennui?”

  David rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

  “Yes, it’s hysterical. I have to go . . . kiss Miranda for me.”

  “Deven, wait—”

  “Good-bye.”

  David had to resist the childish urge to throw the phone. He dropped it on the sofa cushion and put his head in his hands.

  He could hear amusement in Miranda’s voice. “So . . . tell me again: Which one of you is the unstoppable force and which is the immovable object?”

  “I’ve never known anyone so frustrating in my entire life.” He ran his hand back through his hair. “Have I ever thanked you for not pissing me off every time we’re in the same room?”

  “You two must have been very entertaining as a couple.”

  “Mostly when we weren’t having sex, we were killing people or beating each other up.”

  “Oh, now, I know that’s not a hundred percent true. It might make you feel better to think of it that way, but he left you way too screwed up for it to have been that simple.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But still, we did spend an awful lot of time angry. That’s one of the many, many things that sets you apart—you and I have fought, but usually over things that matter, not just because you’re a contrary little dick.”

  Miranda chuckled, closed her computer, and walked across the room to sit down next to him. “I’m worried about him, too, but . . . you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” she said, pulling his head to her shoulder and leaning back into the cushions. He sighed and lay against her chest, listening to her heartbeat for a moment with his eyes closed.

  “This is what I’m supposed to lead,” he said tiredly. “You and I, who don’t even know what can kill us anymore. Jacob and Cora, who don’t have a single outstanding psychic ability between them. Olivia, who doesn’t have a Consort and therefore leaves an empty space in the Circle for however long she’s on her own. Jonathan, a precognitive who keeps everything he sees secret. And Deven, an assassin in desperate need of Prozac. We’re doomed.”

  Miranda chuckled. Her fingers wound through his hair, rubbing gently, energy moving through her to help soothe the headache she knew he had. “Don’t be such a drama Prime, baby. You know this whole mess has barely even started. We’ll get there.”

  “I hope so.” He surrendered to her talented hands, saying quietly, “I just wish I knew what we’re supposed to do, or when, or why . . . or anything.”

  There was a smile in her voice, but it had an edge to it. “Be careful what you wish for,” she said.

  • • •

  Jonathan was standing in the doorway, watching as he ended the call. “What was that about?”

  Deven reached over to the nightstand and left his phone there, sighing. “Jeremy Hayes is dead.”

  “Well, yes, we figured that.”

  “No, I mean he’s dead. They found his body. Morningstar made sure David saw it. They left his broken Signet so we’d know how Jeremy died.”

  “Damn,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “And we still have no idea what that Widget he took from Hart was really for.”

  “I have a feeling it didn’t conjure kittens and cotton candy.”

  The Consort laughed. He looked the Prime up and down and said, “You look a little better tonight. How long have you been awake?”

  “About three hours.” Deven looked over at him and saw that he was holding a glass of blood in one hand and a foam takeout cup with a straw in the other. “Is one of those for me?”

  “Both. Room service,” the Consort answered with a grin. He held up the glass. “Fresh tonight, O positive.”

  He took the glass and Jonathan stood beside him, one hand resting reassuringly on the back of the Prime’s neck, while he drank it slowly, fighting off intermittent moments of dizziness. It did help—by the time he was done he felt more alert, and the spinning had stopped.

  Deven gestured at his other hand. “What’s in that one?”

  Jonathan smiled and held it out. “A slightly melted but nonetheless delicious peanut butter hot fudge milkshake from Goodall’s. I considered using it to extort sexual favors, but you’ve had such a rotten week I changed my mind.”

  Deven shook his head, smiling in spite of himself, and reached out with both hands to grab the cup; he drained half of it much faster than he’d drunk the blood.

  “Slow down or you’ll get brain freeze,” Jonathan told him.

  “What’s the situation out there?” Deven asked between slurps.

  “Dull as tombs, thank God. I spoke to Murdoch earlier tonight; there was a bit of a territory skirmish in Los Angeles between the Blood Kings and the Silver Bullet gang. They’re going to be a problem eventually, but their recruitment rate is so low it could be a year before a significant incident.”

  The Prime nodded through his weariness, trying to concentrate. “The Blood Kings are like cockroaches; once they’ve infested the area they’re damn near impossible to eradicate without nuking the site from orbit. But Murdoch knows that, so if he can’t manage it he’ll call for more swords.”

  “Agreed. Regardless, we’ve probably got a few months before anything breaks there. Now, assuming things go tonight like they have been, is there anything you need me to take care of while you’re down?”

  Deven thought about it and shook his head, but then said, “There is one thing I need.”

  “What?”

  “Kiss me.”

  Jonathan smiled, thrilled at the rare request, and sat down next to him on the bed, pulling him close and enthusiastically doing as he’d been asked. “How’s that?” he gasped as they pulled apart.

  Deven leaned on his shoulder, inhaling deeply; he wanted to wrap himself up in Jonathan’s smell—whiskey, cigars, leather-bound books—and hide from everything. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  Jonathan kissed him on the nose. “You taste like a Reese’s cup.”

  There was a soft knock at their suite door, and Deven tensed. He and Jonathan exchanged a look.

  “Are you ready for this?” Jonathan asked.

  “No. But what choice do I have?”

  Jonathan rose and went to the door; Deven braced himself, for what he knew was coming.

  Their houseguest stood in the hallway, waiting patiently to be admitted, the door guards on either side staying as far away from him as possible without actually leaving their posts.

  He wore an odd hybrid sort of outfit that was a little modern, a little medieval, and would probably pass unnoticed out in the city unless someone looked closely. His auburn hair was once again braided, leaving most of it to fall in a shining curtain down his back but keeping the rest out of his fair, gentle face.

  Those dark violet, luminous eyes seemed to see past edges and walls, and into everything. No one in the Haven was able to make eye contact with him for more than a second; they were all afraid of what he would see.

  Deven was no exception.

  The Elf swept into the room and bowed to the Pair. “Good evening, my Lords.”

  And again, as happened every time Nicolanai came into the room, Deven couldn’t breathe for a moment, and something in the sound of the Elf’s low, musical voice made a tremor crawl from his heart outward. The Elf had a strange effect on everyone, though, whether Elite, servant, or Signet.

  “Have you noticed any changes from the last session?” Nico asked, getting right to
business, removing the outermost layer of his outfit—a long coat made of some slightly sheer fabric whose sleeves and lower hem almost shimmered like water—and draping it over a chair.

  Deven shook himself out of whatever the hell it was that kept happening whenever he saw the Elf, and said, “No. Nothing.”

  Nico nodded, turned to Jonathan. “And you?”

  The Consort moved to his usual chair by the bed, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Actually, I have—from this end of the bond he seems more stable. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

  “Good.” Nico approached the bed, and Deven moved over. “I must warn you: After tonight’s session there will be much greater alterations.”

  “What exactly are you doing?” Jonathan wanted to know. “You haven’t been very forthcoming with the details so far.”

  Deven had to smile at his tone; Jonathan was not enjoying watching any of this and didn’t entirely trust the purple-eyed stranger who had shown up promising to fix whatever was sucking the will to live out of his Prime . . . especially since so far there had been no visible results and the process was, to put it mildly, unpleasant.

  “You have not asked,” Nico replied reasonably, moving into the position he’d taken last time, sitting cross-legged up on the bed near the pillows. “Think of the universe as a giant interconnected web of energy. Each person consists of a smaller web within it, its threads connecting with many others. Among my people I am known as a Weaver—I have the ability to see and manipulate those threads.”

  “Then how would you describe what’s wrong with Deven?”

  “Entropy,” Nico said frankly. “A vampire’s soul is different from a human’s, but it was made from a human’s, and one characteristic both share is a limited life span. You simply aren’t made to live this long. Essentially the Prime is falling apart as if he had already died, but he hasn’t, and the dissolution is driving him mad. In most deaths the body and mind die together. Not so here.”

  “So what’s the cure?”

  “I have been sifting through his life thread by thread and, at each intersection, welding him back together. But all of this work will be for naught if there is insufficient energy flowing through the web to hold it together. Because he is already connected to you, I am hoping to open that connection a little wider, so that he can draw more energy from you—enough to support the matrix I have created.” Nico paused, then said, “I assumed you would not object.”

  “No, I don’t object,” Jonathan said, at the same time Deven asked, “What will it do to him?”

  Nico smiled slightly. He was a very serious . . . person . . . not given to a lot of laughter, though he did have a quick and occasionally cutting wit when he allowed it to show. Deven found himself contrasting the Elf with Jonathan, who was nearly the polar opposite; Jonathan loved to laugh and smiled more than anyone Deven knew, even after being stuck with Deven for sixty years. That was part of why their Pairing worked despite its obvious issues—Jonathan knew how to make his Prime smile.

  “I cannot say for certain,” Nico said. “It will not be a great drain on him—as a Pair you already share much of your energy, after all. He may barely even notice, or it may make him feel weak for a while. Once the flow settles in and you are both used to it, you should be relatively unaffected.”

  “Wait . . . have you done anything like this before?” Jonathan asked.

  A fluid shrug. “Yes and no. My people do not have bonds like yours, and we are not subject to age—even though your bodies do not age, your hearts clearly do. But we do have our own similar problems, and I have repaired many of those.” He saw the doubt on Jonathan’s face and added, “This is what I do, my Lord. I am among the most powerful of my kind. I promise you I will not leave this house until I am sure your Prime will survive.”

  Nico hadn’t referred to the other Elves much in the ten days he had been here, and Deven was dying to ask him all the questions that he’d been carrying around since he was a child . . . but after the Elf was done with him he slept for at least two days without moving, and on the third day he was so emotionally raw that he didn’t even want to leave the bedroom.

  “Let us begin,” Nico said.

  Deven took a deep breath. “All right.” He cast another glance over at Jonathan, who gave him an encouraging smile.

  You can do this. Think of Jonathan . . . if you live, he lives. It’s not so bad. You’ve hurt much worse . . . many times.

  He lay down on his back with his head in Nico’s lap. For a moment the proximity overrode his dread, and he stared up at the Elf, taking in his breathless beauty. Deven had never seen anything like Nico—he almost looked human, even forgetting the ears and eyes, but everything from the way he walked to the curve of his lower lip held some starlit mystery that reminded Deven that while vampires had once been human, Nico had never been; he had been born what he was, a species that didn’t even live on this plane.

  “What are you looking at, my Lord?” the Elf asked quietly, and to Deven’s surprise there was a spark of mischief in his eyes that was, goddamn it, insanely attractive.

  “Um . . . the . . . I . . . that vine-looking mark next to your eye,” Deven finished lamely, gesturing up at Nico’s face. “Is that henna?”

  “You mean, is it temporary? No.”

  “You got a tattoo on your face?” Jonathan asked, amazed. “You’re tougher than you look.”

  Now Nico did smile. “If that was a compliment, thank you. It is the mark of my mother’s family. We are matrilineal. Once there were a hundred in our family line; now there are three: my mother, my brother, and I.”

  “You have a brother?” Deven asked, surprised.

  Nico placed his hands on Deven’s temples, pressing lightly, eyes drifting closed as he began to pull power from wherever it was Elves got theirs. “I do indeed, a twin. Now, try to relax . . . I will do my best to minimize the discomfort.”

  Deven shut his own eyes with a sigh that turned into a pain-filled gasp as the Elf took hold of the frayed threads of Deven’s being and began to pull them apart.

  • • •

  He’s dead. Hart is dead.

  She had been saying it, both aloud and in her head, for more than a week now, and it still had not sunk in. In fact, the more she said it, the less sense the words made.

  Cora was glad it had been Miranda. She remembered the night of the Council ball, asking Miranda if it was easy to take a life, and Miranda’s answer that there were things worth dying, and killing, for . . . That night had been on Cora’s mind a lot in the last ten days. It was much more satisfying, if that was the word, that Hart had been killed by someone who understood the depravity of his crimes and would know exactly the kind of monster she was destroying. Just any assassin wouldn’t do.

  Cora really had no idea what to make of how she was feeling. Jacob, too, had been concerned about her. He told her if she wanted to talk, she need only say so, but if she didn’t, he understood.

  She had smiled, her heart gone warm with love for her husband.

  She thought about the last time she and Jacob had attempted lovemaking—they had succeeded several times since returning from Texas, each time a little easier for her, but just as often, she froze in the midst of things, flashbacks running rampant in her mind, causing her to strike out, screaming. That had happened many times in the last three years. She had spent decades as a slave to Hart’s lusts, and those decades had taken their toll. She had feared when she first met Jacob that she would never be able to bear his touch at all; they had made a lot of progress.

  She wanted her husband to touch her. She wanted it more and more every night, and things were getting better . . . but now . . . would it be easier, knowing Hart was no longer out there raping young women to death? She had never been afraid that she would end up back in his clutches, not really, and yet . . . just knowing he existed, somewhere across the ocean, crouching like a toad behind fortified walls . . . as long as he was in the world she could never fully let o
ut her breath.

  His harem had been freed not long before by the traitorous Jeremy Hayes. She would probably never know if they had all survived, or if they had any chance at healing. She doubted many of them had the blessing of a man like Jacob or the friends she had found to help them learn to live with what they had endured.

  She had spent a lot of time at prayer and on her yoga mat lately—more than usual—asking for God’s help for those girls, and trying to make sense of things.

  “Why am I not happy about this?” she asked God one night, sitting in her cozy yoga studio in front of the altar she had built. Taking inspiration from Lali, her first teacher, she had set up the room as a place of prayer and meditation as well as physical activity.

  She didn’t expect God to speak back, of course. If God were in the habit of doing so, he would have answered her when she lay on the floor of the harem freezing and starving, the constant terror of what would happen again over and over carving ragged gouges in her heart.

  She could not know the mind of God. If she had been released from the harem at any other time she might never have met Jacob. She certainly wouldn’t have been in Austin at the precise moment she needed to be to find inspiration in Miranda Grey, to stand up on her own two feet and walk out of that room. She might not have become the person she was becoming, and Cora had found that she liked that person, and her life, very much.

  She had seen what happened when someone of deep faith endured years of misery and turned his back on God. It was not a fate she would ever have desired.

  She thought of Prime Deven, who suffered more from the death of his faith than he ever had at the hands of others. She could feel, sometimes even across the ocean, the pain he was in—a consequence of the strange connection among them all, she guessed. She wished she could sweep the Prime up in her arms and promise him that God had not abandoned him—that Deven had closed the door, and only Deven could reopen it. She had to get through to him before it was too late.

  She pondered calling him, just to see how he was. He probably wouldn’t confide in her—she was fairly certain Deven had never confided in anyone—but she had to at least offer. They had spoken a few times since he gave her her Nighthound Vràna, so it wouldn’t be entirely novel for her to call now. She could perhaps use the pretense of asking his advice about the dog. As thorny and cold as he could be, every time she had ever called, he had stopped whatever he was doing and given her his full attention.