Part 1 (2/2)
Faith bowed to her, as did the others. Miranda nodded, then turned and walked off into the darkness.
The standoff took place in a back corner booth at Kerbey Lane Cafe.
A woman with a shaved head and multiple facial piercings stared down a blue-eyed man in a long black coat as he drank a Corona with lime and she ate a plate of black bean nachos. Around them the cafe bustled as always, the patrons blessedly ignorant of what might be unfolding among them.
They could have been any two people-albeit an odd couple-on a date getting to know each other over Tex-Mex.
”So . . . you're a vampire.”
He gave her a measured nod.
”And you're officially the most bada.s.s vampire in Texas.”
”The Southern United States, yes.”
Kat stared at him hard, and he couldn't help but be impressed; she wasn't afraid of him, at least not yet. Most humans could feel something of what he was, and it made them uneasy. Either she couldn't feel it, which made her as dumb as a bag of hammers, or she was strong enough to stand her ground.
His money was on the latter.
He knew he could terrify her if he wanted to. All he had to do was let his s.h.i.+elding slip or will his eyes to silver or his teeth to extend. He could fix her with a certain facial expression-that of a panther watching a deer from a tree overhead-and she would instinctively seek an escape, any escape.
He didn't do any of those things. This was too important for such childish play.
For the first time in a long time, David Solomon had something to prove besides how frightening he was.
”You turned my best friend into a vampire,” Kat said, her stare unwavering. ”Why should I have anything to do with you?”
”Because you care about her,” he replied reasonably, ”and you know that I'm not going away.”
”I know this story,” she told him. ”Hot mysterious guy sweeps in right when she needs someone, isolates her from her life, pulls her into something dangerous. You know how those things end up? In bruises and hotline phone calls. Restraining orders. Best friends with concealed handgun permits showing up at the guy's house and shooting his b.a.l.l.s off.”
He looked down at her messenger bag. ”Let me guess . . . a Sig P232?”
”Not the point, Count Pretty Boy.” Her eyes narrowed. ”Although, if I shot your b.a.l.l.s off, would they grow back?”
David smiled. ”I think you and I are going to get along fine, Kat.”
”Speak for yourself. Tell me what makes you the kind of guy that deserves Miranda.”
”I don't,” he said. ”But she and I are bonded and will be so until our death. Nothing can change that now. She's stuck with me . . . and so are you, if you want to keep her friends.h.i.+p, and I sincerely hope you do.”
”Why?”
”Because she's going to need you. In some ways she's as old as I am, but in others still so young . . . she still has ties to the mortal world that she wants to hold on to. Whether that proves possible will depend on the kind of support she gets from that world, namely you.”
”Then you're saying I'll help keep her human.”
”No.” He sat forward, holding her gaze. ”She isn't human, Kat. She never will be again. One day she'll watch you grow old and die, and she'll stay the same, ageless, eternal, until someone murders us both. What she is, is your friend, and the fact that she wants to stay your friend despite the pain inherent in loving a mortal speaks very highly of you. You should be honored.”
Kat nodded slowly, almost smiling. ”So should you.”
”I am.”
She nodded again, and then said, ”You're buying, right?”
”Absolutely.”
”Then let's talk about dessert.”
Five minutes before curtain-just as her agent, Denise, was about to have a coronary-Miranda Grey strode into the club with her hair tangled from the wind and her eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt.
She could hear the crowd on the far side of the stage, one low murmur of three hundred voices, their collective expectation a living thing crawling up the walls. She took the flight of metal stairs up to the wings with a grin on her face and drank in their emotions on a single deep breath.
She gave Denise a thumbs-up. Denise made a foreheadwiping motion of exasperated relief in return. Flipping her hair back and shrugging her coat into the tech's hands, Miranda turned toward the stage manager and nodded.
A hush fell as the house lights lowered and the spotlight trained on the mike and the single object behind it: her guitar, on a stand, gleaming black.
Applause erupted when they saw it.
Miranda smiled and walked out into the light.
There were three things that Miranda wanted after every show: blood, chocolate, and a hot shower.
Before she could have any of those, however, she had to get backstage and run the press gauntlet, then somehow sneak out the back to either drive herself or wait for Harlan to take her somewhere more private to hunt.
There were a great many vehicles at the Signet's disposal, but the one the Prime favored was the Town Car that Harlan piloted through the city streets; if he and the Queen needed to be in separate places or ran on different schedules, as often happened these days, they had to coordinate Harlan's trips or, as she preferred, she had to bring her own car into town.
Although David had serious misgivings about her being alone in the city, Miranda loved her car, and she loved taking the winding road that led up to the Haven through the Hill Country. She liked being independent. So most nights after she was finished at her gig and had found herself someone for dinner, she slid behind the wheel of her little silver Toyota and took Loop 360 out of town.
She was almost ready to escape the club's heat and noise when Denise knocked on the dressing room door and said, ”Hey, do you have a minute?”
”Sure,” Miranda called, double-checking that the mirror was still covered with a towel. ”What's up?” she asked, gathering her sweaty hair back out of her face and securing it with a stretchy band.
Denise MacNeil was a strikingly beautiful black woman who radiated competence and confidence, two things that Miranda had discovered were vital for a woman in the music industry. Denise carried herself like a warrior, and in fact she reminded Miranda strongly of Faith, except instead of a sword Denise was armed with a briefcase and BlackBerry and hunted opportunities, not lawbreakers. Miranda would have continued to play the bar circuit without much thought if Denise hadn't come along, but in the short time she'd been the Queen's agent she had already set the wheels in motion for a recording contract and doubled her bookings. It would have been easy for someone so b.a.l.l.sy to be a b.i.t.c.h, but Denise still had a warmth to her that seemed to bring her even greater respect.
”There's a woman here from the Statesman who wants an interview for their weekly entertainment supplement,” Denise was saying. ”Nothing drawn-out, just a few questions. Are you up for it?”
Miranda sighed. She had played hard, and worked hard, holding the audience's attention pretty easily, but it was still draining, and she hadn't fed tonight. Her teeth were starting to ache and her insides felt like they were drying out. She took a quick internal inventory and judged she had about half an hour before things got unpleasant. ”Sure.”
”Great. Also, don't forget next week we have a meeting with the guys over at the Bat Cave.”
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