WAIF

Paris arrived in Daytona late at night, four days before she would find herself sitting in Brianna Van Demir's living room, spilling her sins to strangers.

But she didn't know that yet. All she knew was that she was running, and that the bastard would send someone after her. Someone relentless. Someone dedicated. The Magistrate was not a man who forgave. Three thousand years of ruling the Valensi had taught him that mercy was weakness with better marketing.

She set the cruise control on the stolen Cadillac and glanced back at Robert.

His eyes were closed, his head lolling against the armrest of the rear passenger door. He'd been a good-sized fellow, handsome enough, with a charming smile and a voice like warm honey. Possibly that was what had led her to ask for a ride rather than procuring transportation of her own. Things would have been so much simpler if he'd just driven her where she'd asked to go.

But no. Robert had wanted something in return. Had insisted upon it, in fact. That charming smile changed entirely when she'd declined. His hands had found her throat before his brain had registered what a profoundly stupid decision that was.

Now she had to find someplace to dump the damned body.

Paris merged onto Interstate 4 from the 95, outside of Daytona, and maintained a speed a little under the limit. No need to invite unwanted attention. The incident at the airport had already left much to be desired, and she'd learned long ago how to roll with the punches. Still, the last thing she needed was some curious cop pulling over a teenage girl in a stolen Cadillac, only to discover dead Robert cooling in the back seat.

Teenage girl. She almost laughed at that. She was a hundred and thirty-five years old, and she still got carded at bars.

The glowing blue LED of the dashboard clock read eleven-thirty. Time was on her side, at least for the moment. She checked the GPS and plotted her next steps, her mind running through contingencies the way it always did. Survival wasn't luck. It was preparation meeting opportunity, and she'd had over a century to hone both.

Within minutes, she exited the freeway onto East New York Avenue, then headed north toward Gasline Road. The area grew darker, more rural, the kind of place where a body might not be found for days. Weeks, if she was lucky.

She found a suitable spot—quiet, unlit, thick with trees—and pulled the Cadillac to the side of the road.

Quick, she reminded herself. Be quick about this.

She scanned the road for headlights. Nothing. The night was still, save for the chorus of insects that didn't give a damn about murder or fugitives or ancient Valensi politics.

Paris stepped out of the car and opened the rear door. Robert was heavier than he looked, but she'd been stronger than she looked since 1895. She hauled his body from the back seat and carried him a dozen yards into the woods, his limbs dragging through the underbrush. She didn't bother being gentle. Robert had forfeited gentleness when he'd wrapped his hands around her throat.

She dropped him in a shallow depression between two pines and stood there for a moment, looking down at what remained of a man who'd made one very bad choice.

"You should have just given me the ride," she said.

The insects answered. Robert did not.

Within minutes, Paris was back on I-4, the Cadillac's headlights cutting through the Florida darkness. Dead Robert was already fading into memory, one more shadow in a lifetime of black moments.

She had forty-eight hours before word of Dawn's death reached the Magistrate. Perhaps less. The witnesses in Paris—the city, not her—would report what they'd seen: two young women fighting, one of them killing the other. The fact that the dead one all but disappeared upon death was enough to send up a dozen red flags to the Hierarchy. They wouldn't know why. They wouldn't care. All that mattered was that she had broken the most sacred law of her kind.

She had killed one of her own.

The Magistrate would send his best. And his best would find her eventually. That was simply the math of the situation. You didn't hide from a three-thousand-year-old telepath forever. You simply delayed the inevitable.

Paris pressed the accelerator a little harder and watched the Florida night blur past.

Something would have to change. Because she was not ready to die.

Not yet.