She was the gun attached to her boss’s forefinger. He pulled her trigger, she shot, the body dropped, and in spite of the fact that some lives were forever changed, the sun still came up and went down the next day for everyone else on the planet, including her.

Such was the course of her jobligation, as she thought of it: half employment, half obligation for what Rehv did to protect them both.

When she returned to this place at nightfall, she would do what she was there to do and leave with a conscience as intact and secure as a bank vault.

In and out and never to be thought of again.

Such was the way and the life of an assassin.

Allies were the third prong in the wheel of war.

Resources and recruits gave you the tactical engine that allowed you to meet, engage, and reduce the size and strength of your enemies’ forces. Allies were your strategic advantage, people whose interests were aligned with your own, even if your philosophies and ultimate goals might not intersect. They were just as important as the first two if you wanted to win, but they were a little less controllable.

Unless you knew how to negotiate.

“We been drivin’ for a while,” Mr. D said from behind the wheel of Lash’s adoptive dead father’s Mercedes.

“And we’re going to drive a little longer.” Lash glanced at his watch.

“You ain’t told me where we’re going.”

“Nope. I haven’t, have I.”

Lash stared out the sedan’s window. The trees at the side of the Northway looked like pencil drawings before the leafy bits had been sketched in, nothing but barren oaks and spindly maples and twiggy birches. The only thing with any green were the stumpy coniferous stalwarts, the numbers of which had been increasing as they went farther into the Adirondack Park.

Gray sky. Gray highway. Gray trees. It was like New York State’s landscape had come down with the flu or some shit, looking about as healthy as someone who hadn’t had his pneumonia shot in time.

There were two reasons Lash hadn’t been up-front about where he and his second in command were headed. The first was straight-up pussy, and he could barely admit it to himself: He wasn’t sure whether he was going to go through with the meeting he’d set up.

The issue was that this ally was complicated, and Lash knew he was poking a hornets’ nest with a stick by even approaching them. Yes, there was potential for a great alliance, but if loyalty was a good attribute in a soldier, it was mission critical in an ally, and where they were headed, loyalty was as unknown a concept as fear. So he was kind of fucked on both ends and that was why he wasn’t talking. If the meeting didn’t go well, or his sniff test didn’t work, he wasn’t going to proceed, and in that case, Mr. D didn’t have to know the ins and outs of who they were dealing with.

The other reason Lash was tight-lipped was because he wasn’t certain whether the other party was going to show. In which case, he again didn’t want a record of what he’d been contemplating.

At the side of the road, a small green sign with white reflective print read: U.S. BORDER 38.

Yup, thirty-eight miles and you were out of the country…and that was why the symphath colony had been located all the way up here. The goal had been to get those psychotic motherfuckers as far away from the civilian vampire population as you could, and goal accomplished. Any closer to Canada and you’d have to say fuck off and die to them in French.

Lash had made contact thanks to his adoptive father’s old Rolodex, which, like the male’s car, had proven very useful. As a former leahdyre of the council, Ibix had had a way of contacting the symphaths in the event that one was found hiding in the general population and needed to be deported. Of course, diplomacy between the species had never been in the cards. That would have been like offering a serial killer not only your own exposed throat, but the Henckels to cut it with.

Lash’s e-mail to the king of the symphaths had been short and sweet, and in the brief rundown, he identified himself as who he really was, not who he’d been raised to think himself to be: He was Lash, head of the Lessening Society. Lash, son of the Omega. And he was seeking an alliance against the vampires that had discriminated against and shunned the symphaths.

Surely the king wanted to avenge the disrespect showed to his people?

The response he’d received had been so gracious he’d nearly hurled, but then he recalled from his training days that symphaths treated everything like a chess match-right down to the moment they captured your king, turned your queen into a whore, and burned down your castles. The reply from the colony’s leader had indicated that a collegial discussion of mutual interest would be welcome, and would Lash be so kind as to come up north, as the exiled king’s travel options, by definition, were limited.

Lash had taken the car because he’d imposed a condition of his own, and that was Mr. D’s attendance. Truth was, he put out the requirement for no other reason than equity of demands. They wanted him to come to them; fine, he was bringing one of his men. And as the lesser couldn’t dematerialize, the drive was necessary.

Five minutes later, Mr. D took an exit off the highway and eased through an urban center the size of just one of Caldwell’s seven city parks. Here there were no skyscrapers, just four-and five-story brick buildings, such that it seemed as if the harsh winter months had stunted the growth not only of the trees, but the architecture as well.

At Lash’s direction, they headed west, passing leafless apple orchards and fenced-in cow farms.

As he had on the highway, he ate up the scenery. It was still amazing to him to be witness to milky December sunlight throwing shadows on sidewalks or house roofs or over the brown ground beneath barren tree limbs. Upon his rebirth, he had been given purpose anew from his true father, along with this gift of daylight, and he enjoyed both immensely.

The Mercedes’ GPS conked out a couple minutes later, the reading going all-over wonky. He figured this meant they were getting close to the colony, and sure enough the road they were looking for presented itself. Ilene Avenue was marked by only a tiny street sign. And avenue, his ass; it was nothing but a dirt lane that intersected cornfields.

The sedan did its best over the uneven trail, its shocks absorbing the craters created by puddles, but the trip would have been easier in a fucking four-wheeler. Eventually, though, a thick collar of trees appeared in the distance, and the farmhouse that formed the head around which they were crowded was in pristine condition, all brilliant white with dark green shutters and a dark green roof. Like something off a human’s Christmas card, smoke eased from two of its four chimneys, and the porch was set with rocking chairs and evergreen topiaries.

As they drew closer, they passed a discreet sign in white and dark green that read: TAOIST MONASTICAL ORDER, EST. 1982.

Mr. D brought the Mercedes to a halt, killed the engine, and made the sign of the cross over his chest. Which was so fucking dumb. “This don’t feel right.”

The thing was, the little Texan had a point. In spite of the fact that the front door was open with sunlight spilling onto warm cherry floorboards, something wrong lurked behind the homey facade. It was just too perfect, too calculated to set a person at ease and thus weaken his defensive instincts.

This was a pretty girl with an STD, Lash thought.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They both got out, and whereas Mr. D palmed his Magnum, Lash didn’t bother to reach for his gun. His father had given him many tricks, and unlike those instances when he dealt with humans, he had no problem bringing out his special skills in front of a symphath. If anything, putting on a show might help them see him in his proper light.