behaves while he’s here.”
Faith’s eyes were like two slivers of flint ready to spark off any available tinder. “He brought his women,” she replied. “Four of them. They’re . . . the rumors are true, Sire.”
David closed his eyes and sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
Miranda looked from him to Faith. “What rumors?”
“Everyone knows Hart has a harem,” Faith told her. “There’s been speculation for years over whether the women he keeps are there of their own free will, and over how he treats them. The prevailing thought is that he turns them himself and keeps them weak, nearly starving, so they can’t fight him.”
Miranda felt the first stirrings of molten wrath forming in her stomach. “And it’s true?”
“Apparently. You should see them . . . they’re skin and bone. None of them make eye contact. They just shuffled into their room and one of his Elite shut the door and stood guard.”
The Prime rarely displayed anger, even to his Queen, but she felt it flare up inside him and saw the subtle change in his expression that few other people would recognize as carefully controlled fury. When he spoke he was deadly calm. “All right. So he brought them into my Haven knowing perfectly well how I would feel about it. I think it’s safe to assume his intentions in coming here are not pure.”
David stood, straightening his shirt and reaching for the suit jacket he had hung over the back of his chair. They always dressed to the nines for these things, and although some Primes reinforced their reputations with old-fashioned wardrobes or stereotypical Goth-esque vampire attire, David opted for impeccable hand tailoring from the finest local shops so that everything fit him perfectly and only added to his allure.
Miranda was still working out her own style as far as that went. She had her stage clothes, lots of leather and jewelry, and a variation thereof that she wore into town when her presence was required. So far she’d had the most success with what she called “neo-bitch goddess,” and tonight she’d worn black pants and heeled boots, a long coat, and a bloodred lace-trimmed top that perfectly matched the stone of her Signet. It was definitely not casual wear, but still wasn’t a frilly cocktail dress or Hillary Clinton pantsuit. She wanted to look impressive but be able to breathe, fight, and slouch when necessary.
“Let’s go, beloved, and get this over with,” David said. He turned to her, arms out slightly in the universal vampire gesture of I have no idea how I look—what do you think?
Miranda ran her hand down the front of his jacket, resting her palm over his heart. “Gorgeous as always,” she said fondly.
“You, too,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead before taking her arm.
Faith looked like she’d rather eat a live scorpion than go anywhere near Hart again, but she was nothing if not a professional; she held the door open for them, but as Miranda passed she heard Faith mutter, “We’re going to need another deer head.”
David was immensely proud of Miranda for not drawing her sword and decapitating Prime Hart five seconds after meeting him.
In fact, his fears about her reaction were completely overblown; he realized she had been observing him the last three months, and though she was friendly and somewhat relaxed with the first three Pairs who came to visit, when confronted with a notorious man like Hart she did the same thing David did and slipped on a mask of cordiality coupled with professional disinterest.
He loved it when she surprised him. It reminded him that though she was young and a little rash, the Signet never chose wrong. He could only imagine her in twenty or so years when she had stepped fully into her power and authority and was every inch the Queen . . . no one, not even Hart, would dare cross her then.
Or, it seemed, today.
“Welcome to our Haven, Prime Hart,” David said, bowing, extending his hand. “Our home is
Faith’s eyes were like two slivers of flint ready to spark off any available tinder. “He brought his women,” she replied. “Four of them. They’re . . . the rumors are true, Sire.”
David closed his eyes and sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
Miranda looked from him to Faith. “What rumors?”
“Everyone knows Hart has a harem,” Faith told her. “There’s been speculation for years over whether the women he keeps are there of their own free will, and over how he treats them. The prevailing thought is that he turns them himself and keeps them weak, nearly starving, so they can’t fight him.”
Miranda felt the first stirrings of molten wrath forming in her stomach. “And it’s true?”
“Apparently. You should see them . . . they’re skin and bone. None of them make eye contact. They just shuffled into their room and one of his Elite shut the door and stood guard.”
The Prime rarely displayed anger, even to his Queen, but she felt it flare up inside him and saw the subtle change in his expression that few other people would recognize as carefully controlled fury. When he spoke he was deadly calm. “All right. So he brought them into my Haven knowing perfectly well how I would feel about it. I think it’s safe to assume his intentions in coming here are not pure.”
David stood, straightening his shirt and reaching for the suit jacket he had hung over the back of his chair. They always dressed to the nines for these things, and although some Primes reinforced their reputations with old-fashioned wardrobes or stereotypical Goth-esque vampire attire, David opted for impeccable hand tailoring from the finest local shops so that everything fit him perfectly and only added to his allure.
Miranda was still working out her own style as far as that went. She had her stage clothes, lots of leather and jewelry, and a variation thereof that she wore into town when her presence was required. So far she’d had the most success with what she called “neo-bitch goddess,” and tonight she’d worn black pants and heeled boots, a long coat, and a bloodred lace-trimmed top that perfectly matched the stone of her Signet. It was definitely not casual wear, but still wasn’t a frilly cocktail dress or Hillary Clinton pantsuit. She wanted to look impressive but be able to breathe, fight, and slouch when necessary.
“Let’s go, beloved, and get this over with,” David said. He turned to her, arms out slightly in the universal vampire gesture of I have no idea how I look—what do you think?
Miranda ran her hand down the front of his jacket, resting her palm over his heart. “Gorgeous as always,” she said fondly.
“You, too,” he replied, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead before taking her arm.
Faith looked like she’d rather eat a live scorpion than go anywhere near Hart again, but she was nothing if not a professional; she held the door open for them, but as Miranda passed she heard Faith mutter, “We’re going to need another deer head.”
David was immensely proud of Miranda for not drawing her sword and decapitating Prime Hart five seconds after meeting him.
In fact, his fears about her reaction were completely overblown; he realized she had been observing him the last three months, and though she was friendly and somewhat relaxed with the first three Pairs who came to visit, when confronted with a notorious man like Hart she did the same thing David did and slipped on a mask of cordiality coupled with professional disinterest.
He loved it when she surprised him. It reminded him that though she was young and a little rash, the Signet never chose wrong. He could only imagine her in twenty or so years when she had stepped fully into her power and authority and was every inch the Queen . . . no one, not even Hart, would dare cross her then.
Or, it seemed, today.
“Welcome to our Haven, Prime Hart,” David said, bowing, extending his hand. “Our home is
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