Carpe Corpus

6

By the time they made their way out of Ada’s cavern, it was night—full, dark night.

Which was a problem.

“We can’t walk,” she told Myrnin, for about the eleven hundredth time. “It’s not safe out there. You really don’t get it!”

“Of course I get it,” he said. “There are vampires a-roaming the dark. Very frightening. I’m quaking in my beach sandals. Come on; buck up, girl. I’ll protect you.” And then he leered like a total freak show, which made Claire feel not so much reassured. She didn’t trust him. He was starting to get that jittery, manic edge she dreaded, and he kept insisting that he couldn’t take the serum yet—or even the maintenance drug, the red crystals that Claire kept in a bottle in her backpack.

Past a certain point, Myrnin was crazy enough that he thought he was normal. That was when things got really, really dangerous around him.

“We could take the portal,” Claire said. Myrnin, halfway up the stairs, didn’t so much as pause.

“No, we can’t,” he said. “Not from this node. I’ve shut it down. I don’t want anyone else coming here anymore. They’ll ruin my work.”

Claire took a look around at the wreckage—the smashed glass, the shredded books, the broken furniture. In her view, there wasn’t anything left for vandals to destroy, and even if there was, sealing up the portal wouldn’t stop them; it would only inconvenience her (and Myrnin) from getting here.

Only . . . maybe that was what he intended. “What about the entrance to the cave?” she asked. He snapped his fingers as if he’d forgotten all about it.

“Excellent point.”

Myrnin dragged the largest, heaviest table over, top down, and covered up with it the hole he’d made in the floor. Then he took handfuls of broken glass and mounded it up on all sides.

“What if they move the table?” she asked.

“Then they’ll find Ada, and my countermeasures will likely eat them,” he said happily. “Speaking of that, I really must find some lunch. Not you, dear.”

Claire would have been happier if he’d had some magical way to repair it, but she supposed that would have to do. It looked like the bad guys had been through this place a dozen times already, anyway; they probably wouldn’t be back and in the mood to redecorate.

Claire unzipped her backpack. At the bottom, rattling around loose, were two sharpened wooden stakes. She took one out and slipped it into her pocket. It wouldn’t kill a vampire by itself, but it would paralyze one until it was removed . . . and it would weaken one enough to die by other means.

If trouble came—even if it was Myrnin himself—she’d settle for slowing it down long enough for her to run for her life.

Myrnin artistically sprinkled some more broken glass. “There,” Myrnin said, and backed off to the stairs again. “What do you think?”

“Fabulous.” She sighed. “Brilliant job of camouflage.”

“Normally, I’d add a corpse,” he said, “just to keep people at bay. But that might be good enough.”

“Yeah, that’s . . . good enough,” she said. “Can we go now?” Before he decided to go with the corpse idea.

As she followed Myrnin out of the wreck of a shack that covered the entrance to his lair, he took the time to carefully close and padlock the door. Which was really ridiculous, because Claire could have kicked right through the rotten old boards, and she wasn’t exactly She-Hulk.

Claire pulled her phone out and flipped it open, scrolling for Eve’s number.

Myrnin batted it right out of her hand, straight up into the air like a jump ball, and caught it with ease. He grinned smugly, all sharp teeth at crazy angles, and put the phone in his jacket pocket. “Now, now,” he chided her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Off on a beach somewhere with your sanity? We can’t do this. You know what happens out on the streets at night.”

“I can’t help that. I need some air, and besides, walking is very healthy for humans, you know.” With that, Myrnin dismissed her and started walking down the narrow alley into the dark. Claire gaped for a second, then hurried after him, because the being-left-behind option didn’t seem all that fantastic a choice. On her right, over the high wooden fence, she saw the looming dark bulk of the Day House. It was deserted these days. Gramma Day had moved out, temporarily, and her daughter had gone into hiding—probably for good, considering that she’d thrown in her lot with the antivampire forces in town, and that had not gone well for anybody.

Claire slowed for a second, staring at the unlit windows of the house. She could have sworn that in the cold star-light she’d seen one of those white lace curtains move. “Myrnin,” she said. “Is there somebody in there?”

“Very likely.” He didn’t slow down. “People are hiding out in dozens of places all over Morganville, waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“God to descend from on high and save them? Who knows?”

From the other side of the fence, Claire heard a faint, breathless giggle. She came to a stop, staring at Myrnin, who paused and looked at the fence, shook his head, and shrugged. He moved on.

But Claire was convinced that whatever was on the Day side of the fence was pacing them now, and when they got to the end of the row . . . Bad. That will be bad.

“Myrnin, maybe we should call somebody. You know, get a cab. Or Eve, we could call Eve—”

Myrnin turned on her.

It happened fast, so fast, and she barely had time to gasp and duck as he came at her, a white blur in the star-light. There was a sense of hard impact, of falling, and then everything went a little soft around the edges.

Myrnin was stretched out on top of her, and as the world stopped wobbling, she realized she was flat on her back on the ground. “Get off!” she yelped, and battered at his chest with both fists. “Off!”

He put his cold hand over her mouth and lifted a single finger of his other hand to his lips. She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but she saw the gesture, and it made the panic in her shift directions from oh my God, Myrnin’s going to bite me to oh my God, Myrnin’s trying to save me.

Myrnin dipped his head low, so low he was well within critical vein range, and she heard him whisper, “Don’t move. Stay here.”

Then he was gone, just like that. As noisy as he could be at times, he could also be as silent as a shadow when he wanted.

Claire raised her head just a little to look around, but she saw nothing. Just the alley, the fence, the sky overhead with wispy clouds moving across the stars.

And Myrnin’s flip-flops, which he’d left behind, lying sad and abandoned on the ground.

There was a sudden, enraged shriek from the other side of the fence, and something crashed against the wood with enough force to splinter heavy boards. Claire rolled to her feet, heart pounding, and gripped the stake in her hand hard. Funny, I didn’t think to use it on Myrnin. . . . Maybe she’d known, deep down, that he was acting to protect her.

She hoped so. She hoped it wasn’t that she couldn’t see the threat in him anymore, because that would eventually get her killed.

Whatever was happening on the other side of the fence, it was bad. It sounded like tigers fighting, and as she backed up from the snarls and howls and sounds of bodies slamming around, the boards of the fence broke again, and a white hand—not Myrnin’s, this was a woman’s—clawed the air.

Reaching for Claire.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Myrnin called. He sounded eerily normal. “Do go on and run, Claire. I’ll catch up. This may take a few moments.”

She didn’t wait. She grabbed up her fallen backpack and ran for the exit of the alley, where it dumped out into the cul-de-sac next to the Day House.

A vampire car was parked there, door open, engine idling. Nobody around.

Claire hesitated, then looked inside. In the glow of the instrument panel, she couldn’t see much: dark upholstery, mainly. She didn’t think there was anybody inside, although it was tough to see into the back. She ducked into the cabin and flipped on the overhead light, then bounced back on her heels with the stake held in her most threatening way possible. (Which, she had to admit, probably wasn’t very intimidating at all.)

Luckily, nothing lunged at her from the backseat.

Claire threw herself behind the wheel, dumped her backpack on the floorboard of the passenger side, and slammed the door. She leaned on the horn, a long blast, and yelled, “Myrnin! Come on!”

It was a risk. There was every possibility that whoever won that fight back there, it wouldn’t be Myrnin opening the car door, but she had to try. He’d taken on another vampire—more than one, she thought—to save her life. The least she could do was give him fair warning that she was about to speed away and leave him behind.

It was impossible to see through the dark tinting on the windshield and windows. Claire counted to ten, slowly and deliberately, and got to a whispered seven before there was a casual knock on the passenger window. She yelped, fumbled, and found the switch that rolled down the glass.

Myrnin leaned in and smiled at her. “Fair lady, may I ride with you in your carriage?”

“God—get in!” He looked . . . messy. Messier than usual, anyway; his coat was shredded in places, he had bloodless scratches on his face, and his eyes were still glowing a dull, muddy red. As he slid into the passenger seat, she caught a sharp scent from him—fresh vampire blood. In the dashboard glow, she saw traces of it around his mouth and smeared on his hands. “Who was it?”

“No idea,” Myrnin said, and yawned. His fangs flashed lazily. “Someone Bishop set to spy on me, no doubt. She won’t be reporting back. Sadly, her companion was too fast for me. And too frightened.”

He was so casual about it. Claire, freaked, made sure all the doors were locked and the windows rolled up, and then realized that they were sitting in an idling car, and she couldn’t see a thing ahead of her. Of course. It was a standard-issue vampire-edition sedan. Not meant for humans at all.

Myrnin sighed. “Please, allow me.”

“Do you have the faintest idea of how to drive a car?”

“I am a very fast learner.”

In fact, he wasn’t.

Myrnin dropped Claire off at her parents’ house well before dawn, tossed her cell phone out of the car to her, and drove off still bumping into curbs and running over mailboxes with cheerful abandon. He seemed to enjoy driving. That terrified her, but he was officially the Morganville police’s problem, not hers.

The weight of the day crashed in on her as she unlocked the front door, and all she wanted to do was crawl onto the sofa in the living room and go to sleep, but she smelled like dirt, old bones, and other things she didn’t really want to think about. Shower. Mom and Dad were in bed, she guessed; their door was shut at the top of the stairs. She tiptoed past it to the far end of the hall, dumped her backpack on the bed, and pulled an old thin cotton nightgown from a drawer before heading to the bathroom.

Déjà vu struck her as she locked the door and turned on the water. Mom and Dad’s Founder House was the same layout as the Glass House—which still felt more like home, even though she’d been in both houses for about the same amount of time. Even the countertops and flooring were the same. Only the Mom-approved shower curtain and bath towels were different. I want to go back. Claire sat down on the toilet seat and let the sadness well up inside. I want to go back to my friends. I want to see Shane. I want all this to stop.

Not that any genie was going to pop in and grant her wishes, unfortunately. And crying didn’t make anything easier, in the end.

After the long, hot shower, she felt a little better—cleaner, anyway, and pleasantly tired. Claire used the dryer on her hair until it was a tousled mop—it was getting longer now, and brushed her shoulders when she combed it out. Her eyes looked a little haunted. She needed sleep, and about a month with nobody trying to kill her. After that, she could deal with all the chaos again. Probably.

She touched the delicate cross Shane had given her, and thought about him trapped in a cage halfway across town. Amelie had made her a promise, but it had been significantly light on specifics and timing; she also hadn’t really promised to set Shane free, only to keep him from being executed.

Claire was still thinking about that when she turned on the lights in her bedroom and found Michael sitting on the bed.

“Hey!” she blurted, and grabbed a fluffy pink robe from the back of her door to cover herself up, suddenly aware of just how thin her nightgown really was. “What are you doing?” After the first surge of embarrassment, though, she felt an equally strong wave of delight. She hadn’t seen Michael—not on his own, away from Bishop—since that horrible day when everything had gone so wrong for all of them.

As she struggled into her robe, he stood up, holding out both hands in a very Michael-ish sort of attempt at calming her down. “Wait! I’m not who you think I am. I’m not here to hurt you, Claire. Please believe me—”

Oh. He thought she still believed he was Bishop’s little pet. “Yeah, you’re working for Amelie, not evil anymore, I get it. That doesn’t mean you can show up without warning when I’m in my nightgown!”

Michael gave her a smile of utter relief and lowered his hands. He looked a million miles tall to her just then, and when he opened his arms, she just about flew into his embrace. She came nearly up to his chin. He was a vampire, so there was no sense of warmth from his body, but there was comfort, real and strong. Michael was his own person. Always.

There was genuine love in him. She could feel it.

“Hey, kid,” he said, and hugged her with care, well aware of his strength. “You doing okay?”

“I’m okay, and man, I wish everybody would stop asking me,” she said, and pulled back to look at him. “What are you doing here?”

Michael’s face took on hard lines, and he sat down on the bed again. Claire climbed up next to him, feeling her happiness bleed away. She picked up a pillow and hugged it absently. She needed something to hold.

“Bishop sent me out to run one of his errands,” he said. “He still thinks I’m one of his good little soldiers. At least, I hope he does. This is probably his idea of a test.”

“Sent you out to do what?”

“You don’t want to know.” Clearly, something that Michael hated. His blue eyes were shadowed, and he didn’t seem to want to look at her directly.“Things are getting too dangerous for you to be in the middle of this. Promise me you won’t come back to Bishop. Not even if he uses that tattoo to call for you. Just stay away from him. Handcuff yourself to a railing if you have to, but don’t go back.”

“But—”

“Claire.” He took her hand and squeezed it. “Trust me. Please. You have to stay here. Stay safe.”

She nodded mutely, suddenly more afraid than she’d been all night. “You know something. You heard something.”

“It’s not that simple,” Michael said. “It’s more of a feeling. Bishop’s getting bored, and when he gets bored with something . . . he breaks it.”

“You mean me?”

“I mean Morganville,” he said. “I mean everything. Everybody. You’re just an easy, obvious target.”

Claire swallowed hard. “But you . . . you’re okay, right?”

“Yeah.” He sighed and ran a hand through his curling blond hair. “I’d better be. Not much of a choice anymore. Don’t worry about me—if I need to get out, I will. I’m just trying to stay with it as long as I can.”

Claire hated the sadness in him, and the anger, and she wished she could say something to make him feel better. Anything.

Wait—there was something. “I saw Eve.”

That got an immediate response from him—his head jerked up, and his blue eyes widened. “How is she?” There was so much emotion behind the question it made Claire shiver.

“She’s good,” Claire said, which wasn’t exactly true. “She’s, uh, kind of pissed, actually. I had to tell her. About you being not really evil.”

Michael sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure that was a good idea.”

“It will be if you go see her tonight and tell her . . . well, whatever. Oh, but watch out. She’s gone all Buffy with the stakes and things.”

“Sounds like what she’d do, all right.” Michael was smiling now, happier than she’d seen him in months. “Maybe I’ll try to see her. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She wasn’t sure how much more to say, but she was tired of not telling the truth. “She really loves you, you know. She always has.”

He sat for a few seconds in silence, then shook his head. “I’d better let you rest,” he said. “Remember what I said. Stay here. Don’t go back to Bishop.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.” She mock-saluted him. “Hey. I missed you, Fang Boy.”

“You’ve been hanging around Eve too much.”

“Not nearly enough. Not recently, anyway.” And she was sad about that.

“I know,” he said, and kissed the back of her hand. “We’ll fix it. Get some sleep.”

“Night,” she said, and watched him walk toward the door. “Hey. How’d you get in?”

He wiggled his fingers at her in a spooky oogie-boogie pantomime. “I’m a vampire. I have secret powers,” he said with a full-on fake Transylvanian accent, which he dropped to say, “Actually, your mom let me in.”

“Seriously? My mom? Let you in my room? In the middle of the night?”

He shrugged. “Moms like me.”

He gave her a full-on Hollywood grin, and slipped out the door.

Claire got under the covers and, for the first time all night, felt like it was safe to sleep.

In the morning—not too early—Claire found cereal and juice waiting for her downstairs, along with a note from her mother that she’d gone shopping, and that she hoped Claire would stay home today. It was the same sort of note Mom left every day. At least, the “hope you stay home” part.

Claire intended to, this time. She intended to right up until she looked at her calendar, and realized what day it was, and that it was circled in red with multicolored exclamation points all around it.

“Oh, crap!” she muttered, and pawed through her backpack, hauling out textbooks, notebooks, her much-abused laptop, floods of colored markers, and assorted change. She found the purple notebook, the one she kept for important test dates.

Today was the final exam for her physics class. Fifty percent of her grade, and no makeup tests for anything less than life support.

It’s only a test. Michael said—

It wasn’t only a test; it was her most important final exam. And if she didn’t show up for it, she’d automatically fail a class she had no business not acing. Besides, Michael had said not to hang around Bishop—he hadn’t said anything about going to classes. That was normal life.

She needed normal right now.

After the cereal and juice, Claire packed her backpack and set out in the cool morning for Texas Prairie University. It was a short walk from pretty much anywhere in Morganville; from her parents’ house, the route took her down four residential blocks, then into Morganville’s so-called business district, about six square blocks of stores. Walking in daylight showed just how much Morganville had changed since Mr. Bishop had shown up: burned-out houses on every block, with few attempts to clear them away or rebuild. Abandoned houses, doors hanging open and windows broken. Once she got into the business district, half the stores were shut, either temporarily or permanently. Oliver’s coffee shop, Common Grounds, was shuttered and quiet, with a Closed sign in the dark window.

Everywhere, there was a feeling that the town was holding its breath, closing its eyes, trying to wish away its problems. The few people Claire saw trying to go about their normal lives seemed either jumpy and distracted, or as if they were putting on some false smile and happy face. It was creepy, and she felt a little bit relieved when she passed the gates of the university—open, like it was a regular sort of day—and fell in with the crowds of young people moving around the campus. TPU wasn’t a huge school, but it sprawled over a fairly large area, with lots of park spaces and quads. She usually would have made a stop at the University Center for a mocha, but there wasn’t time. Instead, she headed for the science building, navigating the crowds piling into Chem 101 and Intro to Geology. The physics classes were held toward the end of the hallway, and they were a lot less well attended. TPU wasn’t exactly MIT on the plains; most students just wanted to get their core courses and transfer out to better schools. Most of them never had a single clue about the true nature of Morganville, because they didn’t get off campus all that much—TPU prided itself on its student services.

Of course, there were also local students, destined to stay in Morganville their entire lives. Until a few months ago, she could have identified those people at a glance, because they’d be wearing identification bracelets with odd symbols on them to identify the vampire they owed their allegiance to—their Protector. Only that system had mostly broken down after Bishop’s arrival. The vampires were no longer Protectors; most were out-and-out predators. No more blood banks, at least for those loyal to Bishop; they were all about hunting.

Hunting people.

So far, Bishop had seen the wisdom of keeping his hunting parties out of the TPU campus; after all, the kids here helped fund the town and keep the economy running. Most of them stayed on campus, where they had everything they needed except for the occasional trip to a store or a bar, so they didn’t know much—and couldn’t care less—about Morganville. Morganville didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment, when you came right down to it. Even the shops were boring.

If he started allowing his vampires to hunt students, it would get very, very bad. Claire couldn’t even imagine how the fragile system Morganville was built on could survive an exposure like that—the press would show up. The government. Not even Amelie could keep control under those kinds of conditions, and Bishop wouldn’t even bother to try.

Looking around, all Claire could think about was how precarious it was—and how oblivious everybody was to the tipping point.

Claire slid into her usual seat in her physics class, two minutes early. There were only about ten other people attending now; they’d started out with about twenty, but plenty had dropped out, and of those who were left, she thought she was the only one with a solid A. As in most of her classes, nobody made eye contact. Unless you had friends when you came to TPU, you weren’t likely to make them casually.

Claire’s professor didn’t put in an appearance, but his teaching assistant did, a twenty-two-year-old Morganville native named Sanaj, who handed out sealed tests but told the students not to open them yet. Claire tapped her pen impatiently on the test, waiting for time. She expected this to be over fast—after all, she’d mastered most of the basics of this class in the first two weeks. If she was fast enough, she might be able to grab a coffee, say hello to Eve, and get the scoop on whether Michael had dropped in for a visit. She was dying to hear all about it.

The door at the bottom of the lecture hall opened, and in strolled Monica Morrell.

Claire hadn’t seen her archenemy much lately, but that had mostly been good luck on her part. Monica had been highly visible—first at her dad’s funeral, then taking her role as Morganville’s First Sister as a blanket excuse for any kind of crazy behavior she wanted to try. Most people in town looked worn, tired, and worried, including Monica’s own brother, the mayor; not Monica, though. She looked like she was deeply enjoying herself these days. She’d gone through a bad patch for a while, after losing her status as Oliver’s best girl, but disgrace was something that never seemed to stick, not to her.

Monica walked slowly. She was the center of attention and loving every minute of it. She’d gone off blond again; Claire thought the new color suited her better anyway, but she doubted it would last. Monica changed her hair the way she changed her makeup—according to mood and trend.

Currently, though, she’d let her hair grow out, long and lustrous, and it was a dark, bouncy brown. Her makeup was—of course—perfect, on a perfect face flawed only by the nasty arrogance that showed in her smile. Claire was wearing blue jeans and a camp shirt over a red tee; Monica was dressed in a flirty little dress, something more suited to Hollywood than Morganville, and some impressively tall shoes in magenta that Claire was sure had come mail-order—no store in town would have carried those. In short, she looked glossy, perfect, and utterly in command of herself and everything around her.

Behind her trailed her perpetual wingmen, Gina and Jennifer. They looked good, but never as good as Monica. That was how the whole thing worked: the backup singers never took center stage.

Sanaj paused at the top of the terraced classroom in handing out the last couple of tests to look down at Monica and her groupies. “Miss?” he asked. “Can I help you?”

“Doubt it.” Monica sniffed. “I’m not here for you.” Her eyes focused on Claire, and she smiled. She made a little come-here motion.

Claire calmly sent her back a middle finger. Monica pouted, an effect greatly enhanced by her shiny pink lip gloss. “Don’t be that way, Claire,” she said. “It’d be a shame if something happened to these nice people.”

The TA looked honestly shocked and offended. “Excuse me; are you threatening my students?”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Look, idiot, just sit down and shut up. This doesn’t concern you. If you think it does, I’ll call up my new friend. Maybe you know him?” She pulled out a tiny bejeweled phone and held it at eye level, ready to dial. “Mr. Bishop?”

Sanaj handed out the last two tests in silence and looked at Claire apologetically. “Perhaps you should talk with your friend outside,” he said. “So as not to disturb the other students.”

“But I’m taking the test!”

Monica began to slowly dial a number. Sanaj grew pale, watching her—he was clearly one of those who knew the score. “No,” he said, and grabbed Claire’s test from her desk. “I’m sorry. You can take the test once you’re finished with them. Please go.”

“But—”

“Go now!”

The other students had their heads down, though they were shooting Claire looks that were sympathetic, scared, or angry. Nobody tried to stand up for her.

Claire put her pen down, looked Sanaj in the eyes, and said, “Save my test. I’m coming back.”

He nodded and turned away.

She walked down to meet Monica on the stage.

“Well, that was easy,” Monica said, and flipped her phone closed. “Hey, loser. How goes the war? Oh, yeah, you lost.”

“What do you want?” Claire was determined to get it over with, fast. She wasn’t interested in fighting, or spar-ring, or even sarcasming. Monica smiled at her and put her phone in her tiny little purse.

“Walk with me,” she said. “Let’s find out.”

Claire resisted making an Eve-style joke about Monica’s gaudy shoes, and silently followed Monica out of the classroom. Gina and Jennifer brought up the rear guard.

Outside, the hallway was mostly deserted, except for a few students hurrying late to classes. Monica led the way around the corner to a break area with well-used chairs and study tables. She took a seat, showing off her perfectly waxed legs.

She looked like a queen on a throne. Instead of standing in front of her like some criminal waiting to be judged, Claire moved to a chair off to the side and flopped down. Monica’s smile curdled. “Fine,” Claire said. “You’ve got me. What now? The beatings will continue until my attitude improves?”

“Cut the crap,” Monica said. “I’m not in the mood. What did you do to my brother?”

“Your . . .” Claire sat up slowly. “Richard? What happened to Richard?”

“Like you don’t know? Please. He’s missing. He disappeared right after he talked to you—went out the door and never came back. I know it’s something you said to him. Tell me what you talked about.” Her eyes narrowed at Claire’s silence. “Don’t make me say please.”

Claire tried to stand up. Gina, positioned behind her, pushed down on her shoulders and held her in the chair.

Jennifer moved in from the side and took out a folding knife.

“Tell me,” Monica said, “or I promise you, this is going to get ugly. And so will you.”

Claire felt a nasty, cold burst of fear. Sure, she could scream the place down, but this was Morganville. She wasn’t sure anybody would come. And besides, Monica—who’d had a brief, shining period as the town pariah—had turned back into her usual glossy, predatory self again. Bishop had interviewed her and found her amusing. Claire figured he thought lots of nasty, stinging things were amusing, too. But he’d given her his official seal of approval and sent her out with a new sense of entitlement, which Monica had promptly translated into a mandate to hurt everyone who’d kicked her when she was down.

Some of those people were no longer around at all, which put Claire among the lucky ones.

“I went to Richard to ask him for a favor,” Claire said as calmly as she could. “He tried to help, but he couldn’t. So I left. The end. As far as I know, he was having a normal day; I didn’t see anything or anybody weird hanging around. That’s all I know.”

“What kind of favor did you ask him for?” Monica asked. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw the glitter of the knife as it turned in Jennifer’s fingers. “Let me guess. Loser boyfriend rescue favor?”

Claire didn’t answer. There really wasn’t any good way to go with that. Monica smiled, but it wasn’t a comforting kind of smile.

“So my brother turned you down when you wanted him to use his influence to spring your skanky boyfriend, and you made him disappear,” she said. “Nice. I guess you figure the next mayor might be a bigger idiot and let you have what you want.”

Claire took a deep breath. “Why would I think that? Since apparently running Morganville is a family business, and you’d be next in line. Oh, I see your point. You’re definitely the bigger idiot.”

“Ooh, she is just begging for it,” Gina said, and pressed cruelly hard down on Claire’s shoulders. “Cut her, Jen. Give her something to think about.”

“I’m serious! Why would I think a new mayor would help me any more than Richard? Look, I like your brother. I like him a lot more than I like you. Why would I do anything to hurt him? Am I likely to get anybody more likely to help me?”

Monica didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. Jennifer took her silence for encouragement, and put the edge of the knife on Claire’s cheek.

It felt hot. Claire stopped breathing.

“You’re sure,” Monica said. “You don’t know what happened to my brother.”

Now she could breathe, because Monica hadn’t nodded a go-ahead on the cutting. “No. But maybe I could find out. If you don’t piss me off.”

The pressure of the knife went away. Claire kept watching Monica, which was where the real threat was coming from.

“Why would you help me?” Monica asked, which was a pretty reasonable question.

“Not helping you. I’m looking to help Richard. I like Richard.”

Monica nodded. “You do that. I’m going to give you a day. If I don’t hear from Richard, or he doesn’t show up alive and well, then you’re the next one who disappears. And I promise you, they’ll never find the body.”

“If I had a nickel for every time somebody said that to me around this town . . .” Claire said, and Monica’s lips quirked into something that was almost a smile. “Come on; you know it’s true. Morganville. Come for the education, stay for the terrifying drama.”

“Try being born here,” Monica said.

“I know. Not easy.” Claire looked up at Gina, who was still holding her down; Gina exchanged looks with Monica, then shrugged and let go. Claire flexed her shoulders. She’d probably have aches later, if not bruises. “How’s your mom holding up?”

“She’s . . . not, exactly. It’s been hard.” Monica actually thawed a little. Not that they would ever like each other, Claire thought; Monica was a bully, and a bitch, and she would always feel entitled to more than anyone around her. But there were moments when Monica was just a girl only a little older than Claire—someone who’d already lost her dad, was losing her mom, and was afraid of losing her brother.

Then she surprised Claire by asking, “Your parents okay?”

“I don’t know if okay is the right word for it, but they’re safe. For now, anyway.” Claire picked up her backpack. “Mind if I go finish my test now?”

Monica raised one eyebrow. “You want to take the test? Seriously? I was giving you an excuse, you know. They’d let you make it up. You could probably just buy the answers.” She said that as if she really couldn’t imagine wanting to take any test, ever.

“I like tests,” Claire said. “If I didn’t, why would I still be in Morganville?”

Monica smiled this time. “Wow. Good point. It is kind of pass/fail.”

Test turned in (and still ahead of everyone else), Claire headed for the University Center. Specifically, she headed for the coffee bar, which was where Eve put in her slave-wage hours pulling espresso shots for the college crowd. There was more of a line than usual; with Common Grounds being “closed for renovations” (according to the sign), more students were settling for the local fare than usual. Behind the hissing machines, Eve worked with silent concentration, barely looking up as she delivered each order, but when she said, “Mocha,” and slid it across, Claire touched her on the hand.

“Hey,” she said.

Eve looked up, startled, and blinked for a second, as if she had trouble remembering who Claire was, and why she was standing in front of her interrupting the flow of work.

Then she yelled, “Tim! Taking five!”

“No, you’re not!” Tim, who was working the register, yelled back. “Do not take that apron off. Eve!”

Too late. Eve’s apron hit the counter, and she ducked under the barrier to join Claire on the other side. Tim sighed and motioned one of the other register clerks to cover the espresso station as they walked away.

“One of these days, he’s going to fire you for that,” Claire said.

“Not today. Too busy. And he’ll forget by tomorrow. Tim’s kind of like a goldfish. Three-second memory.” Eve looked relaxed. In fact, despite the fact that she was typically Gothed up in red and black, with clown-white makeup and bloodred lipstick, Eve looked almost . . . content. “Thanks.”

Claire sipped the mocha, which was actually pretty good. “For what?”

“You know what.”

“Don’t, actually.”

Eve’s smile turned wicked around the edges. “Michael came by.”

“Oh?” Claire dumped her backpack on a deserted table. “Tell.”

“You’re too young.”

“Seventeen as of yesterday.”

“Oh? Oh. Um . . . sorry.” Eve looked deeply ashamed. “I . . . Happy birthday. Man, I can’t believe I forgot that. Well, in my defense, I was kinda pissed at you.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. It’s okay. But you owe me a cake.”

“I do?” Eve flopped into the chair across from her. “Okay. It’ll probably suck, though.”

Claire found herself smiling. “I hope so. Anyway. What happened with Michael?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” Eve traced a black fingernail in some carving on the tabletop—apparently Martin + Mary = HOT, or at least it had once. “We talked. He played guitar for me. It felt . . . normal for a change.”

“And?”

“Like I’m going to tell you.”

Claire stared at her.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. God, don’t nag, okay?” Eve scooted her chair closer. “So. We kissed for a while—did I mention what an awesome kisser he is? I did, right?—and . . .”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to end up on Blood Bank Row because I told you dirty little stories about me and Michael, Miss Barely Seventeen. So just, you know, imagine.” Eve winked. “You can be really vivid if you want.”

“You suck.” Claire sighed.

Eve opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying a single word. Before either of them could think what to say next, a shadow fell across the table.

Claire had never seen him before, but he had the typical cool-boy-on-campus look . . . a loose black T-shirt over a nice expanse of shoulders, comfortable jeans, the usual pack full of books. Dark hair, kind of an emo cut, and expressive dark eyes beneath his bangs.

“Hi,” he said, and shuffled from one foot to the other. “Umm, do you mind if I . . . ?” He pointed to the remaining chair at the table. Claire looked around. All the other tables were full.

“Knock yourself out,” Eve said, and pushed his chair out with her foot. “Hope you’re not allergic to girl talk.”

“Not likely. I have four sisters,” he said. “Hey. I’m Dean. Dean Simms.” When he extended his hand for Eve to shake, Claire automatically checked his wrist. Not a Morganville native; there was no bracelet, and no sign that there had ever been one. Even those who’d gladly ditched the symbols of Protection still had the tan lines.

“Eve Rosser.” From the wattage of Eve’s smile, she liked what she saw across the table. “This is Claire Danvers.”

“Hey.” He gravely shook hands with Claire, too; she thought it was a kind of forced, formal thing for him. He seemed a little nervous. “Sorry to bust in on you. I just need a place to go over my notes before my test.” He dug around in his backpack and came up with a battered spiral notebook, which had an elaborate ink-pen drawing of some kind of car doodled all over the front. He saw Claire looking at it, and a faint pink blush worked up over his cheeks. “Core classes. You get bored, right?”

“Right,” she said. She’d skipped core classes—tested out of them—but she understood. She’d gotten so bored that she’d read the entire Shakespeare library of plays, and that had been her freshman year in high school. But she’d never been a doodler. “Nice drawing.”

“Thanks.” He flipped open the notebook, past pages of tight, neat handwriting.

“What class?” Eve asked. “Your test.”

“Um, history. World History 101.”

Claire had easily bypassed that one. “Seems like you’ve got all the notes you need.”

He smiled. It was awkward and nervous, and he quickly looked down at his pages again. “Yeah, I scribble a lot when I’m in class. It’s supposed to help with memory, right?”

“Does it?” Eve asked.

“I’ll tell you after the test, I guess.” He focused on his notes, looking even more uncomfortable. Claire looked at Eve, who gave a tiny little whatever shrug.

“So,” she said. “Plans for today?”

“Apart from . . .” Nothing Claire could say in front of an innocent bystander. “Well, not really. Did you know that Richard Morrell’s gone missing? Monica asked me to find him.”

“Back up. What?”

“Monica asked me to—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. Now you’re doing favors for the Morrell family? Girlfriend, there’s nice, and then there’s utterly dumb. You don’t need to do Monica any favors. What has she ever done for you?”

“That’s why it’s called a favor,” Claire pointed out. “Not an evening of the score. It’s something you do before they owe you one.”

“You’re just asking for it. Stay out of trouble, okay? Just keep your head down. I know that’s what Michael told you. If Shane was here, that’s what he’d say, too.”

Dean was doing a very good imitation of studying, but the tips of his ears had been turning pink, and now, he looked up and stage-whispered, “Yeah, about that. I kind of know Shane.”

Which brought the conversation to a quick halt. Dean looked around and lowered his voice even more. “I also know his dad.”

“Oh God, please. Tell me you’re not one of Frank Collins’s lame-ass vampire hunters.” Eve sighed. “Because if you are, dude, way to go low-profile. Buy some life insurance today, and please, make me the beneficiary.”

“Not exactly a vampire hunter, but . . . I do work for Frank Collins, sort of.”

Eve looked at Claire. “I think we found a good choice to replace Captain Obvious.” Captain Obvious had been part of the secret vampire-hating underground when Claire had first arrived in Morganville; he’d ended up being a little too obvious toward the end. Obviously dead.

“Because he’d be dead before he got his first sentence out when he came face-to-face with a vampire?” Claire asked, deadpan.

“I was thinking just put him in a custom T-shirt that says, ‘Hello, my name is Dean and I’m here to kill you, evil bloodsucking creatures of the night.’ With an arrow pointing at his neck that says, ‘Bite here.’ ”

Dean was flipping his attention back and forth between them in obvious consternation. “Okay, let me start over. I’ve been trying to find out where Shane and his father are. Do you have any idea?”

“Friend,” Eve said, and pointed toward her skull-graphic-covered self. “Girlfriend.” The black fingernail turned toward Claire. “Housemates.” The finger gestured to include them both. “So yeah, we know. How exactly do you know Shane?”

“I . . . I met him when he and his mom and dad were on the run. Did he tell you about that?”

Both girls nodded. Shane’s sister had been killed in a house fire; the Collins family had done the forbidden in response—they’d packed up and fled Morganville . . . with some kind of vampire help, because that was the only way to get past the barriers if you were wearing a Protection mark. Out in the world, though, things hadn’t gone well. Shane’s parents had each gone crazy in their own special way: his dad had become a cold, hard, vampire-hunting drunk, and his mom had turned into a depressed, possibly suicidal drunk, leaving Shane to make his way as best he could.

“I was there,” Dean said. “When Mrs. Collins died. I mean, I was in the motel court. I saw Shane after he found her. Man, he was totally fucked-up.”

“You were there?” Claire repeated.

“My brother was running with his dad by then, so yeah. I was around. Me and Shane kind of hit it off, because we were both getting dragged around without any say in what was happening.”

“Wait a minute. Shane never said anything about coming back to Morganville with a friend,” Eve said.

“Yeah, he wouldn’t, because he doesn’t know I’m here. Mr. Collins—Shane’s dad—sent me after him. I was supposed to stay to keep an eye on Shane, kind of watch his back.” Dean shook his head. “Except nothing was the way he said it would be. I didn’t know where to hide, so I enrolled at TPU because it gave me an excuse to hang around. Then I kind of lost track of everybody a few weeks ago.” He looked at them hopefully. “So? What do I do now?”

Claire and Eve stared at him in silence for a moment, and then Eve said, very seriously, “Look. We know Frank Collins—know, hate, whatever. And you need to give up on that evil old loser. You seem like kind of a sweet kid. Pack it in and go away. Get out while you still can.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Dean said. “It was supposed to be easy. I mean, the good guys were supposed to win, you know? The vampires were supposed to die.”

“And then what, you guys take over and run the town?” Claire sighed. “Not likely. And I’ve met Mr. Collins. Not a good idea to give him the keys to the city, either.”

Dean looked at her like he thought she was crazy, and that it really was a pity. “At least he’s not a vampire.”

“They’re not all bad,” Claire said.

For a split second, she thought she saw an altogether different Dean watching her—same guy, same emo haircut, but his eyes were weird. Not vampire weird. Odd weird.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, and she thought it was just her imagination. If you couldn’t be paranoid in Morganville, though, where could you?

“Well, that’s new to me,” Dean said. He smiled, and it was a real smile. A warm one, not at all nervous. “I just always thought the whole bloodsucking thing made being bad a lock.”

“What you know about vampires could fit into a mosquito’s ass,” Eve said, irritated. “All you know is what you grew up seeing on TV. You ever actually meet one?”

Dean didn’t answer that, but the tips of his ears grew red and his smile disappeared as he faced Eve directly. “Yeah, well, I’m not some collaborator who’s willing to apologize for what these monsters do. Maybe that’s the point. Anyway—it wasn’t really my choice. I just came because Frank asked, and I didn’t have anyplace else to go. My brother was running with Frank, and he was all I had.”

Eve’s eyes remained watchful. “So where’s Big Scary Bro now?”

“Dead,” Dean said softly. “He got killed in the fighting. I’m all alone.”

Claire stared down at the table, suddenly not interested at all in her mocha, no matter how delicious. The truth was that some of those guys—the foot soldiers, the ones who’d come along to Morganville with Frank Collins as his shock troops—well, some of those guys hadn’t fared well, either in the fight or in jail. She didn’t know who they were, not by name. Up until this moment, they’d just been labeled in her head as Frank Collins’s minions. But they all had names, friends, lives. They all had families. Claire wouldn’t know Dean’s brother from any of his fellow muscle-bound biker dudes, but that didn’t mean Dean didn’t mourn him.

That led Claire to a terrifyingly real waking nightmare—Bishop summoning her, telling her that he’d decided to let Shane go. Shane lying there, not moving . . .

“Hey, Claire?” Eve snapped her fingers under Claire’s nose, and Claire jerked so hard she slopped coffee onto the table. “Damn, girl. You space so hard, you ought to look into a career at NASA. So. We agree that Mr. Dean here is a terrible excuse for a vampire hunter, is in a whole lot of trouble if he doesn’t keep his head down, and he should head for the hills if he knows what’s good for him?”

“Sure,” Claire said, but Dean was already looking oddly stubborn.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “My brother would have wanted me to finish what I started. I told Frank Collins I’d look out for Shane. I’m staying until I know they’re okay.”

“That’s sweet, but how exactly are you going to look out for him, seeing that he’s in jail?” Eve said. “Unless you want to look after his girl instead.” She winked at Claire.

The tips of Dean’s ears turned even redder. “That’s not what I meant.”

Except that Claire had the funny feeling that he did.

She avoided Eve’s gaze for another few seconds, then pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. She had nowhere to be, but this was turning weirdly uncomfortable all around.

“Gotta go,” she said, and grabbed up her backpack. She’d had about all the Dean time she wanted.

Eve blinked. “You barely touched the mocha!”

“Sorry. You have it.”

“I work in a coffee bar. No. Here, Dean. Knock yourself out.”

The last she saw before she ducked off into the crowds, heading for nowhere in particular, was Eve handing Dean her abandoned drink, and chatting like old friends.

Claire really didn’t have a lot of ideas about what to do for the rest of the day, but one thing she did not intend to do was go against Michael’s instructions. No way was she going anywhere near Vampire Central today. Going home didn’t have much appeal, either, but it seemed the safest thing to do. As she walked, she dialed Richard Morrell’s cell phone number. It went to voice mail. She tried the new chief of police next.

“Hannah Moses, go,” said the brisk, calm voice on the other end.

“Hey, Hannah, it’s Claire. You know, Claire Danvers?”

Hannah laughed. She was one of the few people Claire had ever met in Morganville who wasn’t afraid to really laugh like she meant it. “I know who you are, Claire. How are you?”

“Fine.” That was stretching the truth, Claire supposed, but not according to the standards of Morganville, maybe. “How does it feel to be in charge?”

“I’d like to say good, but you know.” Claire could almost hear the shrug in the older woman’s voice. “Sometimes being a know-nothing spear carrier’s comforting. Don’t have to know about how the war’s going, just the battle in front of you.” Hannah was, in real-world terms, a soldier—she’d just come back from Afghanistan a few months ago, and she was as badass a fighter as Claire could even imagine, outside of ninja TV stars. She might not do the fancy high kicks and midair spins, but she could get the job done in a real fight.

Even against vampires.

Hannah finally said, “I’m guessing you didn’t call just because you missed me.”

“Oh. No . . . I just . . . Did you know Richard Morrell is missing?”

“All over it,” Hannah said, without a change at all in her tone. “Nothing to be concerned about. Let me guess, Monica put you onto it. I already told her it’s handled.”

“I don’t think she believes you.”

On the other end of the phone, Hannah was probably grinning. “No shit? Well, she’s bad; she’s not stupid. But her brother’s safe enough. Don’t worry. Richard can take care of himself, always has.”

“Is something going on? Something I should know about?” Hannah said nothing, and Claire felt a hot prickle of shame. “Right. I forgot. I’m wearing the wrong team jersey, right?”

“Not your fault,” Hannah said. “You were drafted; you didn’t join up. But I can’t talk strategy with you, Claire. You know that.”

“I know.” Claire sighed. “I wish . . . you know.”

“I really do. You go home, and stay there. Understand?”

“On my way,” Claire promised, and hung up.

On the other side of the street, college-adjacent businesses were starting to close up shop, even though it was still early. Nobody liked to be caught outside as night approached; it was unsafe during the day, but it was a hell of a lot worse at twilight, and after.

Claire slowed as she passed Common Grounds. The security shutters were still down, the door was closed, but there was something . . . something . . .

She crossed the street, not really sure why she did, and stood there for a few seconds, staring like an idiot at the locked door.

Then she heard the distinct, metallic sound of a dead bolt snapping back, and in slow motion, the door sagged open just a bare inch. Nothing showed but darkness.

I am not going to say, “Hello, is anyone there,” like some stupid, too-dumb-to-live chick in a movie, Claire thought. Also, I am not going in there.

I’m really not.

The door opened another inch. More darkness. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Claire said. “How stupid do you really think I am?”

This time, the gap opened to about a foot. Standing well back from any hint of sunlight was someone she knew: Theo Goldman, vampire and doctor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t come to you. Will you do me the honor . . . ?”

There were a lot of vampires in Morganville who scared Claire, but Theo wasn’t one of them. In fact, she liked him. She didn’t blame him for trying to save his family, which included both humans and vampires. He’d done what he had to do, and she knew it hadn’t been for any bad motives.

Claire stepped inside. Theo shut the door and locked it securely after her. “This way,” he said. “We keep all the lights off in the front, of course. Here, allow me, my dear. I know you won’t be able to see your way.”

His strong, cool hand closed around her upper arm in a firm, but not harsh grip, and he guided her through blind darkness, zigzagging around (she assumed) tables and chairs. When he let go, she heard a door close behind them, and Theo said, “Shield your eyes. Lights coming on.”

She closed her eyes, and a flare of brightness reddened the inside of her lids. When she looked, Theo was stepping away from the light switch and moving toward the group of people sitting at the far end of the room. His dark-haired wife rose from her chair, smiling; except for her generally pale skin, she didn’t look much like a vampire, really. Theo’s kids and grandkids—some physically older than Claire, some younger—sat in a group playing cards. In the dark, because all the ones playing were vampires. The humans weren’t here at all.

“Claire,” Patience Goldman said, and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming inside.”

“Um . . . no problem,” she said. “Is everything okay?” It hadn’t been for a while. Bishop had been thinking of killing all the Goldmans, or making them leave Morganville. Something about their being Jews. Claire didn’t really understand all the dynamics of it, but she knew it was an old anger, and a very old feud.

“Yes, we are fine,” Theo said. “But I wanted to tell you that we will be leaving Morganville tonight.”

“You . . . what? I thought Bishop said you could stay—”

“Oh, he did,” Theo said, and his kindly face took on a harder look. “Promises were made. None that I believe, of course. It’s no sin for a man like him to break a promise to a man like me; after all, I am hardly better than a human to him.” His wife made a sound of protest, and Theo blinked. “I did not mean that to slight you, Claire. You understand what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Bishop had carried over some prejudices from his human days, and a big one had to do with a dislike of Jewish people, so maybe he didn’t look at Jewish vampires as being any different—any better—than mere humans, who weren’t real to Bishop, anyway. “But . . . why tell me? You can’t trust me, you know.” She rubbed her arm under the long-sleeved T-shirt, feeling ashamed all over again. “I can’t help it. If he asks me, I have to tell him about you.”

Theo and his wife exchanged a look. “Actually,” Patience said, “you don’t. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That the influence of the charm he used on you is fading.” Patience stepped forward. “May I?”

Claire had no idea what she was asking for, but since Patience was holding out her cool white hands, Claire hesitantly extended hers. Mrs. Goldman pushed the shirt sleeve up to expose the tattoo, turning it this way and that, studying it.

“Well?” Theo asked. “Can you tell?”

“It’s definitely significantly weakened,” his wife said. “How much, it’s hard to tell, but I don’t think he can compel her without a large effort. Not anymore.”

That was news to Claire. Good news, actually. “Does he know what I’m thinking?”

“He never did, my dear,” Patience said, and patted her hand before releasing it. “Mr. Bishop’s skills are hardly all-powerful. He simply uses our fear to make them seem so.” She nodded to her husband. “I think I can safely mask her from him, if he should look for her.”

“Wait, what?” Claire asked.

Their eldest son, Virgil, threw down a handful of cards in annoyance and crossed his arms. “Oh, just tell her,” he said. “They want to take you with us.”

“What?”

“It’s for the best,” Theo said quickly. “We can escort you safely out of town. If you stay, he’ll kill you, or turn you vampire so he can control you better. You simply have no options here, my dear. We only want to help you, but it has to be now. Tonight. We can’t risk waiting any longer.”

“That’s . . . kind of sweet,” Claire said carefully, and measured the distance between where she stood and the door. Not that she could outrun one vampire, much less six. “But I’m okay here. Besides, I really can’t leave now. Shane—”

“Ah.” Theo snapped his fingers, and his smile took on a wicked sort of tilt around the edges. “Yes, of course. The boy. As it happens, I did not forget young Mr. Collins; Clarence and Minnie have gone to fetch him. Once they arrive here, we will make sure you both are safely away.”

Claire’s eyes widened, and suddenly she couldn’t get a breath. Her heart started to pound, first from anticipation, then from outright fear. “You . . . you decided to break Shane out of jail?”

“Call it our last good act of charity,” Theo said. “Or our revenge on Mr. Bishop, if you like. Either way, it’s of benefit to you, I think.”

“Does Amelie know what you’re doing?”

Theo’s expression smoothed out into a frighteningly blank mask. “Amelie finds it better to skulk in the shadows, while people die for her lack of courage. No, she does not know. If she did, she’d no doubt have a dozen reasons why this was a mistake.”

It was a mistake. Claire couldn’t say why, but she knew it, deep down. “She promised me she’d take care of him,” Claire said. “She’s got a plan, Theo. You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“Amelie’s plans are subject to her own needs, and she never bothered to include me,” Theo said. “I am offering you and your boy a way out of Morganville. Now. Tonight. And you need never return here again.”

It wasn’t that simple. “My parents.”

“We can take them with us as well.”

“But . . . Bishop can find us,” Claire said. “Vampires found Shane’s family when they left town before. They killed his mother.”

“Shane and his father blame vampires for what was only a very natural human despair. Shane’s mother took her own life. You see that, don’t you? Claire?” Theo seemed to want her to agree, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe he doubted it himself. When she didn’t, he looked disappointed. “Well, it’s too late now, in any case. We can discuss this once we’re safely away. We will help you find a place well beyond Bishop’s—and Amelie’s—reach before we move on ourselves.”

One of the grandsons—the middle one, Claire couldn’t remember his name—made a rude sound and threw down his cards. “Grandpapa, we don’t want to leave.” The other children tried to shush him, but he stood up. “We don’t! None of us do! We have lives here. We stopped running. It was safe for us. Now you want us to go out there again, start over again—”

“Jacob!” Theo’s wife seemed shocked. “Don’t talk to your grandfather so!”

“You never ask us. You want us all to pretend that we’re still children. We’re not, Grandmother. I know you and Grandpapa can’t accept that; I know you don’t want to let us go, but we can make our own decisions.”

Mrs. Goldman seemed not to know what to say. Theo looked very thoughtful, and then nodded. “All right. I’m listening. What decision have you made?”

“To stay here,” Jacob said. “We’re staying here.” He looked down at his brothers and sisters, who all nodded—some reluctantly, though. “You can go if you want, but we’re not letting Bishop drive us out. And no matter what you say, that’s what you’re doing. You’re just saving him the trouble of exiling us.”

“If exile was what I was worried about, I would agree with you. It isn’t.”

“You think he’ll try to kill us?” Jacob shook his head. “No. It’s not the old days, Grandpapa. Nobody’s hunting us here.”

“If I have learned anything in my long life, it is that someone is always hunting us,” Theo’s wife said. “Now sit down, Jacob. The rest of you, sit down. We’ll have no more of this. You’re being rude in front of our friend.”

Claire wanted to apologize, somehow; Jacob shot her a borderline-angry look, but he dropped back in his place on the floor, shoulders slumped. She’d never thought about it, but she supposed for a lot of vampires Morganville was about as good as it could get—no looking over your shoulder, waiting to be discovered. No worrying about putting down roots, making friends, having some kind of a life.

“Theo,” Mrs. Goldman said, and nodded toward the door where they’d come in. “I hear someone coming.”

“She has better ears than I do,” Theo confessed to Claire. “Stay here. I will let them in.”

“But—”

“Stay here. There’s nothing to fear. You’ll be with your young man soon.”

He left, shutting the door behind him. Mrs. Goldman drifted quietly over to speak to her children and grand-children in a low, urgent voice—the way moms always talked to kids who were throwing tantrums in front of company—and Claire was left not quite knowing what she ought to do. If they had managed to bust Shane out of jail, well, that was good, wasn’t it? Maybe not according to Amelie’s plan, but that didn’t make it a bad thing. Not automatically.

Claire took her cell phone out and speed-dialed the Glass House. No answer, at least not on the first three rings.

On the fourth ring, she thought she heard someone pick up, but it was drowned out by a warning cry from Mrs. Goldman from behind her.

The door smashed open, and Theo came flying through, crashing into Claire and sending her to the floor. The phone skittered out of her hands and underneath the shadowy bottom of an old, upholstered chair. She couldn’t breathe; Theo’s shoulder had hit her in the stomach, and as she struggled to get her muscles working again, she saw black spots swimming at the edge of her vision. Her whole body felt liquid and hot, and she wasn’t sure what had just happened, except that it was bad. . . .

Mrs. Goldman vaulted over Claire’s body and grabbed Theo, who was feebly trying to right himself. She pulled him back into the corner, with the children, and fearlessly stood in front of all of them, fangs flashing white as she faced their enemies.

“Now, don’t be doing that,” said a honey-dark voice from the doorway’s shadows. “There’s no need for violence, is there?” The light caught on the vampire’s face, and Claire felt sick. Ysandre, Bishop’s icky little pet slut. She was dressed for business just now, in black leather pants and a long-sleeved heavy jacket with a hood. She could have been drawn in black and white, except for the slash of red that was her mouth. “Got something for you, missus.”

She reached back, grabbed two people by the hair, and propelled them both inside. It was the Goldmans’ other son and daughter, Clarence and Minnie. Vampires didn’t often look beaten up, but these two did, and Claire felt a little sick at the sight of the fear on Mrs. Goldman’s face.

“Let them go,” she said. “Children! Come here!”

“Not so fast,” Ysandre said, and yanked on the hair she was holding. “Let’s talk about this first. Mr. Bishop is not too pleased with your family breaking its word to him. He allowed you to stay here, alive and free, and in return you were supposed to stay out of his business. Did you stay out of his business, sugar? Because it really doesn’t look like you did, since you sent these two fine children of yours to try to break his enemies out of jail.”

Claire stopped moving at all. She was curled on her side, still struggling to breathe, shaking, and now it felt like the whole world was crashing in on her. Try. Try to break his enemies out jail.

They hadn’t done it. Shane was still a prisoner.

Ysandre hadn’t come alone. She shoved the Goldman boy and girl over into the arms of their mother, and behind her a solid army of vampires filled the darkness. “Didn’t know about this place,” Ysandre remarked. “Didn’t know it had a tunnel going right up under it, anyway. That’s real convenient. Didn’t even have to take a sunburn to get to you.” She brushed her shiny hair back, and as she did, her gaze fell on Claire. She gave her a slow, deadly smile. “Why, lookit. It’s little Miss Perfect. Oh, I think Mr. Bishop is going to be very disappointed in you.”

Claire tried to get up and almost fell. She wasn’t hurting yet, but she knew she would be. Bruises, mostly, maybe a couple of strained muscles.

Theo Goldman caught her. He’d gotten to his feet when she wasn’t looking, and now he helped her stand up. At close range, she saw the misery in his eyes before he put on a fake smile for Ysandre’s benefit.

“I suppose we will be going with you,” he said. “For another interview with our benevolent master.”

“Some of you will,” she agreed. “And some of you won’t.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at Claire. Two big, muscular vampire guys lunged from behind her and grabbed Claire by the arms to haul her off. When Theo protested, they shoved him back with his family. “I want to introduce you to an old friend of Mr. Bishop’s. This is Pennywell. I believe you may already be acquainted, though.”

As she was dragged out of the room, into the dark open area of Common Grounds, Claire passed the stranger she’d seen in Bishop’s office on her birthday. He—she? it was hard to tell—walked past Claire as if she didn’t exist, heading into the room where the Goldmans were being held.

“Wait!” Claire yelled. “What are you going to do?”

Pennywell didn’t even pause. Ysandre looked back and winked at her.

“Don’t you worry about any of this, now,” she cooed with false sympathy. “You’ve got plenty of your own problems to worry about. Good-bye, Claire.”