When he returned to the Haven, he shut the world out of his suite. He went into the bathroom and showered, washing the soot and smoke away, and put on clean clothes. He added another log to the fire.
Then he lay down on the still-made bed, curled into a ball, and closed his eyes.
He didn’t move again for three days.
He was aware, from a great distance, of movement around him. Esther came in and tended the fire; Faith tried to talk to him. He heard voices from his com and he heard his phone ringing, but he didn’t stir, didn’t even bother silencing the noise.
Outside the sun rose and set, rose and set. A rain shower passed during the afternoon. The gardeners came and trimmed the hedges. None of it mattered.
He was so cold. There was nothing but cold, ice forming inside him, the fire dying in the room beyond. With a thought he could have made himself warm again, but he didn’t. There was no reason to.
The city might have fallen apart. It might all be burning. Every human in the territory might have had their throats torn out by now. The world might have come to an end.
Let it.
He might have slept, or not; he didn’t notice. His body might be craving blood. It might already have died of starvation.
If only. If only he could let go, break free of his flesh, and with it shed the weight he had taken on his shoulders. He had been fool enough to want it, for a while. For a while, there had been the possibility that he might not have to bear it alone.
But the vast emptiness in his heart was proof against even the most mindless optimism. Whatever had been there, whatever tenuous bond had been forming, it was no more. He hadn’t even realized it was there until too late, when the soft kiss of her presence was abruptly torn from him. How long had it existed? Much, much longer than a week. It had perhaps formed the night he laid eyes on her. Some part of him had always known.
He heard the door open again, and ignored it at first, but there was something strange . . .
A presence he hadn’t felt in years moved through him, settling on the bed at his side. A hand touched his arm.
He opened his eyes and looked up.
“Sire,” he said, his voice hoarse and thin from disuse.
The Prime of the Western United States regarded him through his gentle lavender-blue eyes. “I can’t stay long.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Faith called me. I came as soon as I could.”
“Where’s Jonathan?”
“Out in the hall. He was afraid you might blame him.”
David didn’t answer; his strength seemed to have failed. Failed . . . the word had a thousand new meanings to him now.
“I can’t do this anymore,” David whispered.
Deven had been about seventeen when he became a vampire, and his face was still young, with a touch of the fey about it. Dark, shining brown hair fell straight around his shoulders, and he had always made David think of a renegade angel content to be cast out of paradise, especially when he had a sword in his hand. He bowed his head beneath shared pain and said to David, “Yes, you can. And you will. Millions of people depend on your rule. You took up the Signet, and there is no putting it down.”
“We’re supposed to die when this happens,” David said.
“I know.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
Dev’s hand moved up to his face. It had been a long, long time since David had felt that touch. “You’re going to mourn her, and then you’re going to go on. You have work to do yet, my friend, and you must do it as much for Miranda as for all the others. Don’t belie her faith in you. Stand and fight.”
“I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore. It isn’t as if it matters anyway—if I die, there will be someone else. There’s always someone else.”
The Prime gave him a wryly affectionate smile. “Believe me, there will never be another you. I don’t think the world could take it.”
David felt his resolve to remain numb breaking beneath waves of despair, and he knew there was no holding back the tide. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and out of instinct he tried to ward them off.
“Don’t,” Deven said. “She was worth your grief.”
He opened his arms, and David fled into them, buried his face in his friend’s shoulder, and wept.
He let the sorrow pour out, knowing he was with one of the few people who wouldn’t judge him for it, the rare strength of a Prime the only thing that could understand, and withstand, such pain. Deven didn’t speak, but he offered solace that meant far more than mere words ever could.
Gradually, one shuddering breath at a time, he felt himself grow calmer. The emptiness was still there, and it still felt like it was dragging him down with it, but at least, for the moment, he could think a little more clearly.
He sat back. “Thank you for coming,” David said, trying not to sniffle like a child. Deven lifted a corner of the comforter and wiped David’s eyes, causing him to smile in spite of himself. “Thanks, Mom,” he added.
The Prime chuckled. “I wish we could stay longer.”
“It’s all right. I understand. And you’re right . . . I have to finish what I’ve started. They’re still out there, and if I don’t stop them, this will never end.”
“That’s my boy.” Deven rose, taking David with him; David was a little unsteady on his feet, and Dev grabbed his arm to hold him up. David felt an inrushing of energy, strength into strength. He took it gratefully and brought himself back to center.
“I’d recommend a shower,” Dev said, “and a shave. You’re starting to look like my pedophile uncle.”
“Your uncle was a bald Irish monk who weighed two hundred fifty pounds.”
“It’s the facial hair,” the Prime replied. “I hate facial hair. Now, go. I want to see this sensor network of yours before we leave.”
David was used to giving orders, but even he knew when to do as he was told.
Clean and dressed and feeling a little more like himself, David accepted the wineglass of blood that Deven pressed into his hand when he emerged from the bathroom but didn’t take the time to savor it; there was no more time to waste.
He left the suite to find Faith standing outside with Jonathan, the two of them in conversation that stopped as soon as the door opened. Neither of them looked entirely comfortable with seeing him.
“It’s all right,” he told the Consort. “I don’t blame you.”
“Damn right you don’t,” Jonathan retorted, though he was grinning. “You didn’t give me credit when you got your Signet. Don’t blame me for this.”
They shook hands, and when Deven came out of the suite Jonathan immediately stepped to his left side. They were an odd couple, to say the least; the Consort was twice his Prime’s size, but it was Deven who traveled armed, a sword beneath his coat and half a dozen knives concealed over his seemingly delicate frame.
David turned to Faith, who wasn’t looking at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have shut you out. I know you’re hurting, too.”
Faith nodded. “Permission to speak freely, Sire?”
“Granted.”
“You’re an asshole,” she said, and hugged him.
He returned the hug, saying, “Let’s get back to work.”