Previously on Trancing Miranda
Nick meets with council enforcer Ragnar Erikson. They discuss the possibility that Julien is planning another attack on Daniel and the Regio. Nick tells Ragnar that Miranda is fae and asks him to follow her. We learn a bit about their history and that they both knew the enigmatic Arianne.
Miranda put the last dark stout on Kate’s tray next to the other drinks. “Two Mojitos, three Guinness, and a classic Margarita.”
“And one white wine,” Kate reminded her.
“Sorry.”
Miranda poured the wine and added it to the tray. Last night had been brutal, but tonight was worse and she couldn’t help wishing she’d taken the vampire’s advice.
“Make sure they know it’s last call.”
“Sure.” Kate hesitated. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just tired.”
“So, nothing to do with the boss-man?”
“Not at all.” Kate had seen her talking to Daniel last night. Probably everyone had.
Kate knew that Miranda was Daniel’s donor on occasion. Most people in the Regio did, or if they didn’t, they suspected.
“Just checking.” Kate smiled. “You look nice all dressed up.”
“I’m not dressed up.”
“You are. I saw the girly boots. Don’t tell me you have a date after work because that never happens.”
“They’re just boots, K.” Miranda had a lot of boots. Four pairs of combat boots, two pairs of motorcycle boots, and the thigh-high black vinyl boots Kate considered girly. “I felt like something with some height.”
Even though Miranda was already as tall or taller than four out of five human men. Kate didn’t call her on it, but she was still smiling when she hoisted her tray into the air and pushed her way back through the crowd.
Miranda adjusted her earplugs, pushing the soft foam deeper into her ears and kept handing out drinks until the house lights came on and the music cut out.
Turning away from the crowd, she set up her own drink—a splash of New Viridian, with two sugars on top of the spoon, and and held the glass under pretty Art déco fountain. A fountain Daniel had bought not long after he made her quit the Black Goddess and come to work at the Vault.
Miranda let the cold water pour and just as the bright green liquid clouded, Nick Markovich’s energy surged into her awareness.
She froze, without meaning to, then made herself relax, took a sip of her drink and started to wipe down the smooth surface of the salvaged Victorian bar. She pretended she didn’t notice, pretended she couldn’t sense blueblood energy to save her life.
But she felt him coming—and when she looked up, he was there.
His eyes were sparkly, and he looked healthy and well-rested. But why shouldn’t he? For him, this wasn’t the end of a long, tiring shift, it was lunchtime—and that was why he was here.
What was weird was that it surprised her.
Somehow, she’d got it into her head that this vampire was not like the others. She didn’t know how that had happened exactly. But she knew that was wrong, because he was here now, at closing, looking to feed—like every other vampire in the room.
The only real difference was that he looked better.
He’d swapped out the trendy suit he’d worn earlier for a midnight blue velvet jacket and a dark blue brocade vest. His shirt was white and open a little at the collar. Not enough to be slutty, just enough to give her a glimpse of smooth skin and a beautifully sculpted chest.
Miranda turned to pull up her end-of-shift report, determined to ignore his reflection in the mirror next to the touchscreen. Then she finished her tally and faced him. “Why are you here?”
He raised a brow, surprised by her hostility, but taking it very much in stride. “You remember me asking if I could drop by?”
“You could have done that during my shift.”
“Is that a good time to talk?”
It wasn’t, but Miranda wasn’t about to admit it. “It’s better than now.”
“Are you busy?”
“I will be.” She knocked back the absinthe. “I get hit up for blood around this time every night. Without fail. Usually by half-vamps wanting to take me to some sleazy motel just outside the gate.”
“That’s not what this is.”
But Miranda wasn’t buying it. She was buying it at all, and she wasn’t going to play his game, either. “I guess I should be flattered. You being a blueblood and all.”
He sat down on a stool a little to her left, resting one elbow on the edge of the bar and angling himself to look at her. “I’m not here for your blood, Miranda.”
Nick Markovich was a manipulator, like all vampires. Miranda knew it, but before she could tell him, Kate deposited a tray full of empty glasses at the end of the bar and joined them. “I’m Kate Ryan.” She smiled at Nick. “And you are?”
“Nick Markovich.”
They beamed at each other.
“He’s just leaving,” Miranda said.
Both Kate and Nick turned to look at her. Like being rude was worse than being a cold-blooded predator. It wasn’t. It obviously wasn’t, but nobody else could see that.
Kate didn’t even know he was a vampire because of the glamour.
Miranda huffed out a breath, walked to the end of the bar, and started gathering empty glasses and wiping down every available surface.
She wasn’t even really mad at Nick. She was mad at herself. Mad that she’d gotten all dressed up, as if he had an actual interest in her as a person. Mad that she’d missed something she should have seen from a mile away.
Miranda started to load the glasses into the dishwasher at the far end of the bar, and when she looked up again, he was directly in front of her.
“I can’t stay,” he said. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you were holding up.”
It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d expected a line, or an invitation, or a healthy dose of mind control energy.
She tried to recalibrate, but there wasn’t time.
“So.” He smiled a little, knowing he’d surprised her. “How are you holding up?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what he was up to. “I’m fine.”
“I guess you get a couple days off now?”
Like everyone else in the Regio. He knew how it worked, obviously. He was just making conversation. Which was normal, in a surreal kind of way. “That’s right.”
“Maybe we can catch up then?”
He was doing it again. Asking instead of telling, like he wanted her to be the one to decide. She was all set to say no, then for some reason she did not understand, she shrugged.
As if she didn’t know what she wanted.
As if it was up to him.
“I’ll text you.” He started to turn away and then he turned back. “This is Daniel Boucher’s place, right?”
She nodded.
“Is he around?”
“Why?” It came out too fast, more challenge than question.
“Just curious.”
“He’s not.”
He studied her like he was trying to work something out, then smiled. “Have a good night, Miranda. I’ll check in tomorrow.”
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© 2025-2026 Barbara Graver. All rights reserved. This is an original work of fiction. Do not reproduce or redistribute without written permission.
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