"Just my luck."

As they drew closer to the drive, Cyn saw the same silent vampire who'd driven earlier leaning against the car and looking bored. He straightened when they appeared, glaring at them both, as though it was their fault he'd had to spend his night lurking about the driveway.

"Okay, Mirabelle,” Cyn said for his benefit. “Thanks for your help. I'll get back to Jabril as soon as I know something."

"My master's name is Lord Jabril Karim,” the bodyguard growled. “You will refer to him accordingly."

Mirabelle froze, but Cyn barely glanced at him before shaking her head and opening the car door. “See you later, Mirabelle. Take care."

The driver stood outside long enough that Cyn began to contemplate calling a cab, but eventually he slid into the driver's seat, favoring her with a forbidding glare before turning around and starting the car.

Cyn stared out the window as they glided down the long drive. Endless manicured lawns stretched out to either side, dotted with artfully placed clusters of trees and flowers. Looking back, she could see the house itself, bathed in the glow of what must be hundreds of lights. Mirabelle stood on the porch, looking small and dull against the gleaming white house. Cyn turned around as they passed through the artificially rustic gate, thinking Liz wasn't the only Hawthorn daughter who needed rescuing.

Chapter Six

Mirabelle watched the limo glide down the long driveway, cutting an elegant line through the manicured lawns and out through the gates. She thought she saw Cynthia Leighton turn at the last minute, but it was probably her imagination, or wishful thinking. Wishing she was the one in that limo, the one driving through those gates going ... anywhere. Anywhere but here.

She sighed, touching her scarf, tugging her clothes back into place before opening the door and slipping into the house. She paused just inside, listening, but there was no one around. They were all in the throne room, or maybe by now Jabril had excused them and gone downstairs to his personal harem in the basement for his evening's repast.

She hurried toward the stairs as quickly as she could, careful to maintain the proper decorum just in case. Her steps were smooth and measured, her hands at her sides, and her eyes on her own feet, on the stairs and then the carpeted floor in front of them. Her room was on the second level, in the back of the house. Closing her door behind her, she went directly to the closet, shutting that door as well and clicking the flimsy lock. She turned on the dim light overhead and yanked off the dowdy scarf, sighing in relief as she ran the fingers of both hands through her waves of blond hair. Next to go were the hated clothes, though she hung them carefully on a hanger, ready to be worn. She'd made the mistake once, in a fit of anger, of throwing the repulsive things to the floor. Jabril had been very unhappy at her disheveled appearance the next night and had made painfully certain it would never happen again. There had been no bruises afterward, no visible signs of his displeasure. He hadn't needed to resort to anything as crude as that. He was a vampire lord and she belonged to him, body and soul. The tiniest exertion of his will could cause her unspeakable pain, pain that left her writhing on the floor, begging for mercy while he looked on with cold dispassion.

She shivered at the memory and donned a pair of old, comfortable denims and a sweatshirt, leaving her feet with their sinfully polished toenails bare, she sat cross-legged on the closet floor and closed her eyes, listening. A vampire's senses were much finer than those of a human. Mirabelle could see in virtual darkness with ease, could hear a servant's heartbeat down the hall in the quiet house, and while the scent of blood was intoxicatingly strong, her entire sense of smell was greatly enhanced. She always knew when the humans on staff had brought food over from their own quarters to eat in the main kitchen during the day. She knew when the garbage had been left sitting too long and when the fruit on the counter was growing soft.

Not that she was ever permitted to actually enter the kitchens. And it wasn't as if she needed the food anyway. At least not that sort of food. What she needed, what every vampire needed, was blood. Fresh, human blood. Jabril had his stable of blood slaves, which he shared with Asim and those among his minions who were in his particular favor at any given time. Mirabelle's nutrition came from a plastic bag of anonymous blood, left hanging on her door knob three times a week like a gruesome do not disturb sign. Taking blood directly from a human had the potential to be an intensely sexual act. It was said to be unrivaled in its ecstasy, for both human and vampire. Which was why so many humans volunteered for it. And why Jabril would never permit Mirabelle to indulge in it. She had originally thought this was out of some obscene possessiveness, because she belonged to him. But later, she'd come to realize it was just his prudish idea of the proper role for a woman of his household. She was certainly the lowest vampire on the totem pole, but she was Vampire, and that put her in an entirely different class from the humans on the estate. One which required a certain female decorum, in his view.

The other vampires of Jabril's household, those not privileged enough to use the blood slaves, were permitted to hunt in the nearby city of Houston. Discreetly, of course, and only for volunteers. He was very clear on that. Jabril Karim was one of eight vampire lords who ruled all of North America, a position earned not through political patronage, but by brute strength. The entire southern United States was his territory, but Houston was his home. And no vampire wanted to be the one who made a mess in Jabril's back yard.

As Mirabelle sat on the floor of her closet, she located every person, human or vampire, on the second floor. The vampires were the easiest, distinguished by their sluggish heartbeats and the reek of old blood that seemed to never go away. But the vampires rarely visited the second floor. Jabril and his minions had rooms on the sublevel beneath the house. It was one more indicator of her lowly status that she resided on the upper floor, that her room had not one window, but an entire wall of windows. Mirabelle didn't mind. It reminded her of better times and kept her far away from the rest of them. Which was perfect for what she had planned for tonight.

She remained still for a final moment, listening. Satisfied, she turned and quickly removed the false front from what appeared to be a set of ordinary built-in drawers to reveal a small refrigerator hidden behind them. This had been her grandfather's room when he was alive. He'd been fond of midnight snacks and had liked being near the back stairway that led directly down to the kitchen. Mirabelle had nothing but good memories of her grandfather. She'd been ten years old when he died, five years before her parents’ fatal accident. One of the many secrets he'd shared with her before his death had been his treasure trove of contraband goodies, foods his doctor had forbidden him after his third heart attack. Mirabelle had spent many joyful afternoons on the floor of the closet while Grandpa produced all sorts of delicious treats. She didn't know what had fascinated her most, the idea of a grown-up hiding things from her mom, or the way everything tasted so much better when it came from Grandpa's secret stash.

But what she pulled from within the small refrigerator tonight was very different from Grandpa's rolls of greasy sausage and fatty cheese. It was a sleek, top-of-the-line laptop computer, with a wireless adapter that picked up a clear, strong signal from the modem downstairs, a modem used by virtually every one of the estate's inhabitants.

It had been Liz's idea. She was the one who secured the password for the network and smuggled in the laptop during the day while most everyone in the main house was sound asleep. It was a way to break through the isolation Jabril tried to impose on them, a way for the sisters to communicate privately, far from the prying ears and eyes that were everywhere in this house.

Mirabelle booted up and logged onto the huge teenage website she and Liz used. There were millions of messages posted daily on this board, most of them the mind-numbingly trite exchanges of young teens all over the world. She scanned several messages and dropped in on chat rooms at random, blurring her computer trail before zeroing in on a search for a message from Liz. She found it on one of the public message boards.

Number1Cow, I'm ok. Don't worry. I'll be in touch. It was signed Number2Cow. The cow designation was an old joke between them, a play on the nicknames their parents had used for them as children. Mirabelle had been simply Belle. Elizabeth had been Elsie. Belle and Elsie. They used to joke that their parents were confused about whether they were raising daughters or cows. After all, this was Texas.

Mirabelle closed her eyes, letting relief wash away the worst of her fears. She was still worried about where Liz was and what she was doing, but at least now she knew this wasn't some scheme of Jabril's to hold Liz prisoner so he could control her better. God knew it wasn't beneath him to pull something like that. As their parents’ dear friend and close business associate, he had managed to get himself appointed the legal guardian of both girls when their parents died. Vampires, for the most part, lived discreetly, passing through society without most people ever being aware they were there. But that didn't mean the vampires were equally unaware of human society. Politicians were courted, donations made. Quiet laws were passed, and ancient and long-term interests were protected.

Jabril was shrewd and perceptive, and always very generous with political donations in the right places. No one had opposed the guardianship. Not Child Protective Services, who'd done a cursory investigation and found nothing objectionable in giving a vampire custody of two young girls. And not the judge who'd held a private hearing—in his chambers at night—for his good friend Jabril Karim.

Jabril had been careful enough, and patient enough, to wait the three years until Mirabelle turned eighteen. Three years and a day. He'd turned her the day after her eighteenth birthday. It had been an ugly thing, her first and only sexual experience. Brutal and perfunctory, as coldly done as a thief who steals a priceless heirloom only for the money it will bring. She'd been sick for months. Jabril had been furious, fearing she wouldn't survive. Not that he cared about Mirabelle, but if she died before her twenty-fifth birthday, her money would be lost to him forever, passing not to Elizabeth, but to the Hawthorn charitable trust, the one part of the family money Jabril had no hope of getting his hands on.