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Authors: Dianne Sylvan
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several days. It was a blond, Caucasian, about 30 years of age, healthy looking—except of course for being disembodied underneath a tree.
“Look at his ear,” the Elite suggested.
The human’s left ear had been punctured and hung with a metal tag, just like those used by cattle ranchers, but instead of a number, it was etched with a symbol.
Each Prime had an official Seal. The tag in the human’s ear bore the Seal of Auren, the Prime before him.
Apparently the old boy still had friends.
He straightened, clamping down hard on the rage boiling up his spine and the instinctive urge to spill blood. “Now we know who we’re dealing with,” he said. “I want a trace run on anyone connected with Auren’s Court who survived the war. Allies, Elite, servants, everyone. Anyone you find, bring in for questioning. Anyone who resists, rip their heads off.”
“Yes, Sire. I’m on it.” The warrior seemed a bit surprised at his vehemence, but turned away to call the Haven and have one of the administrative support staff get started on the search.
He walked back up the path, feeling every year of his age and more, anger gradually giving way to frustration and then to weariness. In the last three months there had been seven murders by vampires who were making no effort to hide their crimes. Up until now in his tenure there had been occasional attacks, but nothing on this scale. It had taken a decade and a half for Auren’s followers to organize themselves.
Harlan, the driver, bowed. “Sire. Back to the Haven?”
“Yes.”
Harlan opened the door, his eyes on the white van pulling into the parking lot with the city coroner’s logo emblazoned on the side. “These people must be barking mad to declare war on a Signet,” he noted.
The Prime smiled grimly. “The bastards have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
“Obviously not, Sire. Or perhaps they believe all the legends about you are just that, legends.”
He settled into the seat. “They’ll learn better. Auren did.”
As Harlan pulled away from the scene, easing the car into traffic, the Prime sat brooding, his fingers curled around the Signet he had plucked from Auren’s headless corpse fifteen years ago.
No matter how many allies he had, no matter how much power and money and influence, there were always those waiting in the shadows for their turn at glory. Assassination attempts usually started before the old Prime’s ashes were even scattered. The old regime and the new battled for control, sometimes for years. His Elite had taken ruthless hold of the territory inside two months.
Auren had been charismatic and strong and held a complete disdain for human life. Those who followed Auren were the dregs of the Shadow World: murderers, rapists, and thugs. If they had a new leader, they would be tough to put down. They would be after his blood, and soon, if they weren’t dealt with, would make a play for the Signet.
He smiled into the darkness.
Let them try.
Miranda listened to Faith speak, peppering her with questions but mostly just . . . staring at her.
Her brain was stubbornly refusing to process anything the guard was saying. Thoughts looped through: These people are insane. I have to get out of here. This isn’t possible. These people are insane. Wait, what about garlic?
Faith was matter-of-fact. Garlic: myth. Coffins: myth. Crucifixes: myth.
About thirty minutes into the discussion Miranda had to ask for a glass of water and a Vicodin. The damage to her body was draining what little resolve she had to run away. Assuming she made it to the door and assuming she could find her way out of this place, fatigue and pain would send her to the ground before she made it fifty feet.
So she let the painkiller dull her senses and let Faith talk, as if any of it were believable.
Vampires. She was in a house full of vampires. They had their own society, their own government, and their president slept in the next room.
Miranda held a cushion in her
“Look at his ear,” the Elite suggested.
The human’s left ear had been punctured and hung with a metal tag, just like those used by cattle ranchers, but instead of a number, it was etched with a symbol.
Each Prime had an official Seal. The tag in the human’s ear bore the Seal of Auren, the Prime before him.
Apparently the old boy still had friends.
He straightened, clamping down hard on the rage boiling up his spine and the instinctive urge to spill blood. “Now we know who we’re dealing with,” he said. “I want a trace run on anyone connected with Auren’s Court who survived the war. Allies, Elite, servants, everyone. Anyone you find, bring in for questioning. Anyone who resists, rip their heads off.”
“Yes, Sire. I’m on it.” The warrior seemed a bit surprised at his vehemence, but turned away to call the Haven and have one of the administrative support staff get started on the search.
He walked back up the path, feeling every year of his age and more, anger gradually giving way to frustration and then to weariness. In the last three months there had been seven murders by vampires who were making no effort to hide their crimes. Up until now in his tenure there had been occasional attacks, but nothing on this scale. It had taken a decade and a half for Auren’s followers to organize themselves.
Harlan, the driver, bowed. “Sire. Back to the Haven?”
“Yes.”
Harlan opened the door, his eyes on the white van pulling into the parking lot with the city coroner’s logo emblazoned on the side. “These people must be barking mad to declare war on a Signet,” he noted.
The Prime smiled grimly. “The bastards have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
“Obviously not, Sire. Or perhaps they believe all the legends about you are just that, legends.”
He settled into the seat. “They’ll learn better. Auren did.”
As Harlan pulled away from the scene, easing the car into traffic, the Prime sat brooding, his fingers curled around the Signet he had plucked from Auren’s headless corpse fifteen years ago.
No matter how many allies he had, no matter how much power and money and influence, there were always those waiting in the shadows for their turn at glory. Assassination attempts usually started before the old Prime’s ashes were even scattered. The old regime and the new battled for control, sometimes for years. His Elite had taken ruthless hold of the territory inside two months.
Auren had been charismatic and strong and held a complete disdain for human life. Those who followed Auren were the dregs of the Shadow World: murderers, rapists, and thugs. If they had a new leader, they would be tough to put down. They would be after his blood, and soon, if they weren’t dealt with, would make a play for the Signet.
He smiled into the darkness.
Let them try.
Miranda listened to Faith speak, peppering her with questions but mostly just . . . staring at her.
Her brain was stubbornly refusing to process anything the guard was saying. Thoughts looped through: These people are insane. I have to get out of here. This isn’t possible. These people are insane. Wait, what about garlic?
Faith was matter-of-fact. Garlic: myth. Coffins: myth. Crucifixes: myth.
About thirty minutes into the discussion Miranda had to ask for a glass of water and a Vicodin. The damage to her body was draining what little resolve she had to run away. Assuming she made it to the door and assuming she could find her way out of this place, fatigue and pain would send her to the ground before she made it fifty feet.
So she let the painkiller dull her senses and let Faith talk, as if any of it were believable.
Vampires. She was in a house full of vampires. They had their own society, their own government, and their president slept in the next room.
Miranda held a cushion in her
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