had said Hart had brought his “girls” here to taunt the Pair, and if he knew they would oppose his perversions, he might have sent her as bait. David might not think much of Miranda’s diplomatic abilities, but she wasn’t a complete idiot.
They waited a few minutes, long enough that Miranda started to wonder if the whole thing was Hart’s idea of a joke, but then there was a chime, and Faith had a brief conversation on her com.
“They’re here,” Faith said. “It took a minute because they had to find someone who speaks Italian—the girl’s English is rudimentary at best.”
“Bring them in,” Miranda replied.
Faith nodded and strode over to the double doors. Miranda took a minute to compose herself—too bad she hadn’t had a chance to shower beforehand, so she wouldn’t be such a sweaty mess—and sat up straight and tall in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other, her hands folded. Her Signet was plain to see, as was her sword, and she quickly reached up and yanked the elastic from her hair so it fell loose down her back. A ponytail wasn’t nearly as impressive.
Faith held the door open as Elite 62 and three other guards escorted a pitifully thin figure into the room. She was leaning on Elite 62, who treated her with surprising tenderness, helping her walk the long expanse to the dais, steadying her when she stumbled. The other three guards followed at a respectful distance, as if the woman were an honored guest and not a potential enemy.
Miranda saw Faith’s mouth set in a grim line at the sight of the woman, and as she got closer, it was clear why. The girl couldn’t be more than seventeen physically, perhaps even younger; she was so skeletally thin that it was hard to tell. Her skin, once olive and probably beautiful, was ashen, her eyes sunken in with dark circles beneath them. Her dark hair was waist-length, but lank, dull. She was dressed in a gauzy thing that barely covered her wreck of a body. Miranda saw the shadows of bruises on her breasts and legs, and she had a fading black eye that, on a vampire, should have healed in thirty seconds.
Miranda gripped the arms of her chair until her fingers went numb.
One of the Elite, 29 if Miranda remembered correctly, stepped forward and offered herself as translator; Miranda nodded to her. Elite 29 went to the woman and touched her shoulder lightly, gesturing for her to speak.
The girl’s voice was tremulous but held the faintest hint that it might once have been very different. “My name is Cora,” she said through Elite 29. “The Master brought me here to your Haven.”
“Welcome, Cora,” Miranda said. “I am Miranda Grey-Solomon, Ninth Queen of the Southern United States. How can I be of service to you?”
Cora looked like she was sure Miranda, or possibly one of the Elite, was going to strike her down at any second for what she intended to say. “I . . . I need your help, Lady Queen. I want to leave my Master’s house, where he keeps me as a slave to his lusts. If I do not get away from him, I will die like all the others do. I want . . .”
She looked around helplessly, waving her pencil-thin arm weakly as if to take in the Elite, the Queen, and everything around her. “I want to be free of him.”
Miranda took a deep breath. “Come here, child.”
The Elite helped Cora approach the dais, close enough that Miranda could lean forward and look directly into her eyes. “Are you here of your own free will?”
Cora was taken aback by the question. Apparently the thought had never occurred to her, but slowly, she nodded. “Yes.”
“Be still a moment, please.”
Miranda extended her empathic power toward Cora, who seemed not to feel the intrusion at all; she wasn’t shielded, but as weak as she was she probably had no need for psychic protection. If she had any gifts, they were buried under years of hunger, fear, and shame . . . but something was there, some barely shining potential struggling to be released. Miranda
They waited a few minutes, long enough that Miranda started to wonder if the whole thing was Hart’s idea of a joke, but then there was a chime, and Faith had a brief conversation on her com.
“They’re here,” Faith said. “It took a minute because they had to find someone who speaks Italian—the girl’s English is rudimentary at best.”
“Bring them in,” Miranda replied.
Faith nodded and strode over to the double doors. Miranda took a minute to compose herself—too bad she hadn’t had a chance to shower beforehand, so she wouldn’t be such a sweaty mess—and sat up straight and tall in her chair, one ankle crossed over the other, her hands folded. Her Signet was plain to see, as was her sword, and she quickly reached up and yanked the elastic from her hair so it fell loose down her back. A ponytail wasn’t nearly as impressive.
Faith held the door open as Elite 62 and three other guards escorted a pitifully thin figure into the room. She was leaning on Elite 62, who treated her with surprising tenderness, helping her walk the long expanse to the dais, steadying her when she stumbled. The other three guards followed at a respectful distance, as if the woman were an honored guest and not a potential enemy.
Miranda saw Faith’s mouth set in a grim line at the sight of the woman, and as she got closer, it was clear why. The girl couldn’t be more than seventeen physically, perhaps even younger; she was so skeletally thin that it was hard to tell. Her skin, once olive and probably beautiful, was ashen, her eyes sunken in with dark circles beneath them. Her dark hair was waist-length, but lank, dull. She was dressed in a gauzy thing that barely covered her wreck of a body. Miranda saw the shadows of bruises on her breasts and legs, and she had a fading black eye that, on a vampire, should have healed in thirty seconds.
Miranda gripped the arms of her chair until her fingers went numb.
One of the Elite, 29 if Miranda remembered correctly, stepped forward and offered herself as translator; Miranda nodded to her. Elite 29 went to the woman and touched her shoulder lightly, gesturing for her to speak.
The girl’s voice was tremulous but held the faintest hint that it might once have been very different. “My name is Cora,” she said through Elite 29. “The Master brought me here to your Haven.”
“Welcome, Cora,” Miranda said. “I am Miranda Grey-Solomon, Ninth Queen of the Southern United States. How can I be of service to you?”
Cora looked like she was sure Miranda, or possibly one of the Elite, was going to strike her down at any second for what she intended to say. “I . . . I need your help, Lady Queen. I want to leave my Master’s house, where he keeps me as a slave to his lusts. If I do not get away from him, I will die like all the others do. I want . . .”
She looked around helplessly, waving her pencil-thin arm weakly as if to take in the Elite, the Queen, and everything around her. “I want to be free of him.”
Miranda took a deep breath. “Come here, child.”
The Elite helped Cora approach the dais, close enough that Miranda could lean forward and look directly into her eyes. “Are you here of your own free will?”
Cora was taken aback by the question. Apparently the thought had never occurred to her, but slowly, she nodded. “Yes.”
“Be still a moment, please.”
Miranda extended her empathic power toward Cora, who seemed not to feel the intrusion at all; she wasn’t shielded, but as weak as she was she probably had no need for psychic protection. If she had any gifts, they were buried under years of hunger, fear, and shame . . . but something was there, some barely shining potential struggling to be released. Miranda
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