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rioting over anymore.
    That was the theory, anyway.
    She let the blinds fall back into place. Closed her fist around the cube of lethe.
    Someone screamed downstairs.
    Probably Niamh.
    The vampires laughed.
    They’d been enjoying the harpy as their toy ever since Stark left them. Taking turns drinking her blood. Sharing it by the milliliter.
    And Deirdre let them.
    Gage wouldn’t have let them, but he wasn’t there. She’d killed him. He’d forced her to do it. And then Stark had left too, and Deirdre was alone.
    She sank against the headboard, shutting her eyes.
    Gods, she hurt all over. It wasn’t even cold in her apartment, not like it was outside—she’d found a couple of space heaters and kept them on high all the time—but Deirdre felt miserable.
    She slipped the cube into the intake bracelet. The drug heated in her veins.
    The emptiness didn’t leave, but it numbed. It didn’t hurt as much. It was a veil between her and the high-rise, the vampires six feet deep, the sense that she was becoming Stark breath by breath.
    Yeah. Deirdre knew a lot of new things about Stark these days.
    Too many things.

    Election day arrived without fanfare.
    Midnight found Deirdre and Geoff near the polling station in Chelsea. She’d posted teams of her allies around the city, stretching them as thin as she dared, trying to provide protection against the attacks to come.
    And there would definitely be attacks.
    Deirdre watched the election unfold through the scope of a sniper rifle.
    The sun crawled overhead, shadows tracked between the buildings, and people streamed through the elementary school. They entered the auditorium through the street and exited on the playground.
    While people were inside the polling station, she couldn’t see what was happening, but she could imagine it easily.
    The gaean voters would write their names on the log at the entry table. Volunteers would give them a sticker proudly declaring “I Voted for the Alpha!” Then the voters would enter curtained booths, touch the name of the faction they supported, and leave with the pride of having performed their civic duty.
    Hopefully they’d get home safely after that. Hopefully there wouldn’t be more riots catching people on their way back to their jobs, lives, and families.
    Deirdre didn’t put much stock in hope. That was why she had the sniper rifle.
    But the morning of the election was quiet. She was tense at midnight, remaining watchful through the dawn hours. After a little while, watching the voters through the scope got tedious.
    Nothing happened.
    There were fewer voters during the daytime hours. Many gaeans had normal jobs at that time, and the vampires couldn’t venture outside without getting burned.
    Nobody broke into fights. A few loud arguments on the street? Sure. But no blows were exchanged. The riots didn’t resurge on the surrounding block, and there wasn’t a single glimmer of sidhe magic, unseelie or otherwise.
    It was surprisingly boring.
    When the sun started to dip below the horizon again, Deirdre exchanged positions with Geoff, one of the few surviving asylum shifters. She had picked him to back her up in Chelsea because he seemed unlikely to stab her in the back.
    So far, so good.
    Once he took the sniper rifle, she tried to rest. She should have slept, but she couldn't let her guard down to close her eyes. Instead, she watched the exit polls on a news website.
    “The race is currently too close to call,” January Lazar said, voice piped from a speaker on the back of the tablet. She was looking even more carefully groomed than usual. This was a historic day, and the nation’s most ambitious reporter of preternatural politics intended to go down in history looking perfect. “The unseelie faction is making strides in polls along the West Coast, but has yet to close the twenty-point gap between them and the independent faction, led by Everton Stark.”
    “Melchior,” Deirdre murmured, letting the tablet fall facedown on