Disclaimer:

If you haven't read the disclaimers in the prologue and part 1 ... then continue at your own peril.

Ugh okay. Warning—damn it!: Intense scene between Miranda and Andy ahead.

Thanks to my beta's Kerri-Ann, Xavacid, and Nic

choice took a dump all over my plans

Mistakes are unintentional deviations from what is right, correct or true.

Miranda flipped the light switch to the off position. The room was immediately thrown into complete darkness.

Miranda Priestly was rarely guilty of unintentional deviations.

She planned in advance, every garment worn, every maneuver. Even the most cutting of insults underwent, within fractions of seconds, a gamut of sentence structuring and editing in her whip-like mind before released like scalding water smoothly spewed from a fountain head.

It was not so dark that she was blind to shadows or to every nuance of her surroundings. For once the curtains were drawn, excluding the outside world. She had closed them the moment she had sensed Andrea's second awakening. The sun had barely begun to set, but even with scarf covering Andrea's eyes, waning sunlight would have been quite hostile to the woman's sensitive vision after so long a sleep.

It was the kind of thoughtfulness rarely shown to anyone but her girls.

Miranda scowled.

The need to question what the devil she thought she was doing and why, was curtailed and viciously struck down by the irritation of having asked herself that very question more times then she'd care to consider.

Misgivings after the fact were hardly constructive.

She made a brief call on her cell phone and then disconnected, tossing the phone aside.

She looked around the room, gaze falling on the tumblers she'd dropped during Andrea's impotent assault. Her jaw clenched. She'd spent far too much time in this room. She wondered for the hundredth time since Stephen had so speedily vacated the premises, if she shouldn't have just had it filled in with cement.

The girl's scent lingered in the room. Miranda had chosen a body wash with the subtle scent of sandal wood for the girl. She had been correct in her assumption that it would only enhance Andrea's natural earthen scent. Of course, that natural scent had lain suffocating under the stench of vomit, death and sickness the night Andrea had collapsed outside of Elias-Clarke.

Every muscle bunched, tense, she felt caged. Her gaze flickered to the closed drapes. Outside that window the night was alive with revelers. She could feel the pulse of the city. Halloween brought out the decadence in the most staid of men and women. She'd once celebrated the night, gorging herself unable, no, unwilling to be sated.

There'd been hard lessons to learn, none of them pleasant doled out by firm and determined hand. She'd been schooled in control by the most ardent of task masters. She had not lied, when she'd told Andrea that want would always rattle the cage. hunger would always burn. She shuddered. The difference was separating oneself from the animals.

She breathed in deeply and released the breath slowly. Miranda mused if she should grow accustomed to wasted investments as it seemed her new hobby. Time, effort, energy and blood poured into that which refused to yield reward. She chuckled darkly.

Yield. Yupanqui would not be amused. Or maybe he would. One could never tell with his lordship. At times he behaved as a doting father and others... Miranda shivered. No human would survive his methods of chastisement. Merciful for them he found humans too beneath him to grace his presence accept at meal times, and unlike others of the brotherhood of the blood, he wasted no time toying with his food.

There had been exceptions, few and far between centuries.

Miranda had been such an exception. Perhaps she should be more grateful.

And she was grateful when not allowing herself to dwell on the hellish night when she'd met the harbinger of death and had spat in its face. She tapped the surface of the bedside table with blunt nails. Andrea would have met his challenge, she wagered. Andrea would have fought tooth and nail, cursing him. She'd have fought her friends had she not been half gone on drugged wine.

Yupanqui would have liked her. He would have liked her a little too well.

Miranda frowned. Her stomach twisted into a knot and she wondered if it might not be better if the girl ran far away. Found a flight to the other side of the world. Perhaps Andrea would. Miranda looked to the doorway of the room frown still in place. What the devil is taking the girl so long? How hard was it to make a simple choice? The only choice Andrea could make right now. The only choice the girl's stubborn nature would allow.

Absently Miranda raised her left hand, until it rested on her right shoulder fitting almost perfectly in the hand-shaped bruise left by Andrea's grip. The ghost of the girl's nearness lingered. Warm breath teasing Miranda's lips.

She could have exerted her will over the girl. Still could easily bend her to Miranda's want. My blood in her veins. She looked at the open doorway and then again averted her gaze from temptation. Using such methods were too exploitative. Ultimatum and threats were one thing but violating the will of another, usurping self control the ability to choose marched dangerously hand in hand with the rape. Yet she'd never been more enticed.

Her heart accelerated as she replayed that near flawless leap across the room, the strong hands gripping her shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh. Only one other would dare touch her in such a manner. The girl was impulsive, foolishly brave and sensually feral when provoked ... Miranda averted her gaze from the door. And still Andrea was vermin. There was no hiding the lack of pure crossing.

If she had felt an unexpected rush the moment that young heart had begun beating solidly again, the thrill of satisfaction from hearing the shocked gasp of Andy's first breath after the long sleep, those feelings had been extinguished. Knowing it was her blood which flowed through the journalist's body giving her life, making her stronger than Christian Thompson's weak swill could have ever hoped, now only left an echo of hollowness, displacing triumph.

Ironic, she inclined her head, when not long ago you sat waiting for the day the girl would be no more than ashes.

Miranda reclaimed her chair, her dark glare focused on the mussed bedding and the red silk scarf that had protected Andrea's eyes while she lie recovering. It would have been easy to have kept the drapes drawn closed at all times. The most common types Kindred nowadays were the most undesirable and they lacked any toleration for sunlight.

Miranda had left the drapes open because she had had to be sure. Because the answer to that mystery might have seen the young woman eventually turning to dust after all, in spite of Miranda's intercession. It would have been a mercy. Fledglings who died during the day and could not tolerate the kiss of daylight were useless except as toys, playthings for their masters and mistresses.

Though Andrea might have been immune to its affect before, the near starvation and the subsequent collapse might have changed that. Particularly given the nature of Andrea's non-consensual induction. It was rare, practically unheard of for gutter trash to produce a successful crossing. She suspected that success was greatly due to their having been three who'd given of their blood. Three, whom from the clues the girl had unknowingly imparted, Christian had purposely raised to be weak, too weak to endure the sunlight themselves. Nate's visits only occurring after sunset on the nights he was free from work. His leaving before sunrise.

Miranda imagined crushing the boy's spine.

That anyone could do such a thing to the girl and then had left her to suffer ... had watched daily as she had floundered ... What the hell had they been thinking? Her jaw clenched, the answer coming to her a moment after the question. They'd wanted Andrea sick, afraid and desperate enough to do anything they wanted or whatever Christian Thompson wanted.

Her lips twisted with distaste.

It was the second time in as little as six months Christian Thompson had made an attempt to take that which was hers. She had not crushed him completely the first time around for his role in the attempt to dethrone her as Runway's editor-in-chief. A courtesy. She'd had long been aware that he was a favored toy and sometimes paramour of Jacqueline Follet. He'd hardly registered as a blip on her radar as anything more than a brief annoyance. Denying him his triumph had been enough. Ambition was something Miranda could respect ... But had she known then ...

Flashes of him plying Andrea with wine saw her body tense, her nostrils flaring. She was sickened by unwanted visions of Andrea in his arms. The very thought of the body she had so recently tended being touched by that man was simply ... She'd have paid to have her brained scoured, cleansed of the images her creative mind supplied.

Inwardly, Miranda seethed, nails digging into the arms of the chair.

The closet door downstairs opened and closed. Finally. Miranda relaxed.

The door to the one of the guest baths creaked. The soft rustling of clothes had Miranda envisioning the body she had dressed, undressed, and bathed, now changing clothes under its own power. The pajamas would need to be sent out for dry cleaning. She'd have to retrieve them herself from the closet, of course. No doubt the girl lacked the common decency to return them to her roo—Miranda clenched her jaw—the guest room.

And why expect such a small show of common courtesy, when the girl had never been grateful for anything Miranda had done for her.

The fashionista glanced up at the bedside clock, a pinched expression on her face. Friday night, the Book should be arriving soon with the mock ups for the next Runway edition. Emily would deliver it, not the second Emily, just recently hired. The girl showed some inkling of promise, but Miranda was reserving her judgment, after all, there was always tomorrow, and then Sunday. Monday. Any time now the new Emily could prove herself to be just as lacking in sensibilities as the others had.

There was silence from down the stairs now.

Miranda was not so arrogant, she snorted, well at least not in private, that she didn't recognize her own mistakes, even when they were deliberate.

Andrea Sachs was a bad choice. Bringing her here had been a mistake. Not outright destroying her could be considered a terrible miscalculation.  Saving her and now ...

The front door opened. Miranda closed her eyes and she listened as the door was softly pulled closed.

... letting her go again some might say was a disastrous error.

She felt the thrum of that strong heart beating almost in exact cadence with her own.

Eyes still shut, a slow smile pulled at the corner of her lips.

*************

She had nowhere to go.

Andy had known this before stubbornly but quietly slipping out of Miranda's town house.

She'd stood in the woman's foyer clad in silk pajamas for long minutes thinking that very thing. And then after she had finally slipped into the half-bath admiring the clothes chosen for her she had still been thinking it. Well thinking that and that Miranda might be a little on the side of pervy.

Her eyebrow had almost lifted clear to her hairline as she held up a scrap of sheer material that one might consider underwear. The label read Eres: Le Tulle Une Alea. Andy's mouth had fallen open when she had first removed the scrap of cloth from the bag. It wasn't that she had never worn a G-string before. She had indeed, purchased and worn them on occasion. It wasn't the sort of thing that had ever been picked out for her by another woman. Especially when said woman was Miranda Priestly.

Her state of despair had been momentarily suspended by shock.

And she had glanced at her reflection in the mirror not all surprised by the blush suffusing her face. Maybe it hadn't been Miranda who'd chosen them.

She'd eyed the flimsy garment dangling from her left index finger.

She hadn't been sure if that had made her feel any better. Or which thought was worse, that some stranger she didn't know had just absently tossed such a sensual garment into a bag for another stranger to wear, that Emily might have chosen them not knowing who they were meant for, or that Miranda had inspected them, keenly appraised them in her habitual manner and had imagined Andy wearing them and had thought, "Acceptable."

Whatever, Andy had decided she had dallied on the subject for far too long. It wasn't like she cold just walk round New York City commando. She needed at least something under her clothes, especially after having noticed upon carefully rifling through the bag that there was no bra. And besides she had some angst-ridden moping and self pitying that needed her attention.

The clothes were ... not what she might have chosen for herself, but she'd grudgingly admitted she like them. And they did in fact drape well on her.

The mahogany corduroy bootcut jeans hugged her hips. 7 For All Mankind. She'd had a vague recollection of the label and she did like the cute crystal button closure. The Geren Ford eggplant twill snap vest was slightly daring, a little too snug for a shirt which she also had noticed was absent. She had slid her stockinged feet into a pair of 4 inch black patent leather Prada booties and had offered a small smile to her reflection.

How about that? Expensive clothes really are a temporary fix for depression and despair. My life's gone to hell ... but damnit. I look good.

The good feeling would not last, and she'd known it. As expected, it had fled the moment she had reached for the front door, twisted the knob and had let herself out after sparing a final glance up the stairs Miranda had earlier ascended.

Andy stood outside the town house, uncertainty punching her in the gut with breath robbing force. Fear once again clawed its way to the surface. She flexed and curled her fingers nervously, stretching the long metallic Prada leather gloves. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the sky as if the answers she sought would be found there. They wouldn't be. Andy just knew that somehow she'd fallen into a place where even angels dared not tread.

She walked down the steps and faltered, moisture suddenly springing to her eyes, hot tears chilling fast on her cheek. Expensively dressed, she looked like someone important, some high society chic on her way out for a night on the town. The high extended tab stand collar of the Cinzia Rocca coat protected her neck from the chill on the air. That extended tab ran the length of the mid-thigh coat, hiding the glittering buttons. Andy had never felt more displaced. She could not go home. She could not go to the Mirror which had become home away from home. She could not run to Cincinnati. Her blood iced over at the thought of Christian following her there, endangering her mom and dad.

Her world was in shambles and she could not run to her friends and cry on their shoulders because it had been those friends who'd set her world ablaze.

Andy set off unmindful of the direction with the intention of walking until she shoved her gloved hands into her coat pockets and froze. Curious and swallowing nervously, she pulled her left hand free and with it a roll of bills.

She was staring at the small wad when the cab pulled up. The driver, honked and then stared at her impatiently. Andy frowned her confusion and looked over her shoulder, catching the sight of the second floor drapes closing, instructing her view of the woman who'd been watching her from the window. Her heart sped, anxiety making her blood rush as she thrust her will mightily against the sudden urge to flee back into the safety of a house that had proven it was not really safe at all.

"Where to?" the driver asked when she'd finally eased herself into the car. She'd been shocked at the effort it had taken to get her body to move further away from the house and to the vehicle that would carry her even farther away from it.

"Just drive." She slunk back into the seat, slouching. "Just ... drive."

what you don't know can and will...