kitchen to make coffee and toast. As breakfasts went, it was lonely and basic, but the sun was barely up and none of the others were what you might call morning people.
There were times when signing up for early classes seemed like a really bad idea.
When the phone rang, Claire nearly jumped out of her skin. She leaped for the extension hanging on the wall by the kitchen door and got it before the second earsplitting jangle. “Hello?”
There was a pause on the other end, and then her mother said, “Claire?”
“Mom! Hi—what’s wrong?”
“Why should anything be wrong? Why can’t I just call because I wanted to talk to my daughter?” Oh, great. Now her mother sounded agitated and defensive. “I know it’s early, but I wanted to catch up with you before you went off to class for the day.”
Claire sighed and leaned against the wall, idly kicking at the linoleum floor. “Okay. How are you and Dad settling in? Getting all unpacked?”
“Just fine,” her mother said, in so false a tone that Claire went very, very still. “It’s just—an adjustment, that’s all. Such a small town and all.”
“Yeah,” Claire agreed quietly. “It’s an adjustment.” She had no idea what her mother and father knew about Morganville by now, but they had to be getting some kind of—what would they call it? Orientation? Morganville was nothing if not efficient about that, she suspected. “Have you—met some people?”
“We went to a nice getting-to-know-you party downtown,” Mom said. “Mr. Bishop and his daughter took us.”
Claire had to bite her lip to hold back a moan. Bishop? And Amelie? Oh God. “What happened?”
“Oh, nothing, really. It was a cocktail party. Hors d’oeuvres and drinks, a little conversation. There was a presentation on the history of—of—” With shocking suddenness, Claire’s mother burst into tears. “I swear, we didn’t know—we didn’t know or we wouldn’t have sent you to this awful place, oh, honey—”
Claire could barely swallow around the lump in her throat. “Don’t cry, Mom. It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay now.” She was lying, but she had to. The sound of her mother breaking apart was just too hard. “Look, you’ve met Amelie, right?”
Sniffles on the other end. “Yes, she seemed nice.”
Nice wasn’t how Claire would have put it. “Well, Amelie’s the most powerful person in Morganville, and she’s definitely on our side.” An exaggeration, but it was the best she could do to describe the situation in simple terms. “So there’s really nothing to be worried about, Mom. I work for Amelie. She has some responsibility for me, and for you, to make sure we’re safe. Okay?”
“Okay.” It was wan and muffled, but at least it was agreement. “I was just so worried about your father. He didn’t look well, not well at all. I wanted him to go to the hospital, but he said he was fine—”
Claire had a cold second of flashback to Miranda saying, Please don’t send me there. You don’t know what they’ll do. . . . She’d been talking about the hospital. “But he’s okay?”
“He seems all right today.” Claire’s mom blew her nose, and when she came back to the phone, she sounded clearer and stronger. “I’m sorry to lay this on you, honey. I just had no idea—it was so strange to think that you’d been here all this time and never said a word to us about—the situation.” Meaning, the vampires.
“Well, to be honest, I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Claire said. “And out-of-town calls are monitored. They told you that, right?”
“Yes, they did. So you were protecting us.” Her mom laughed shakily. “Parents are supposed to protect their children, Claire. We’ve done a bang-up job of that, haven’t we? We really thought that it would be so much safer for you here than off in Massachusetts or California on your own. . . .”
“It’s okay. I’ll get there someday.”
They moved the conversation to easier things—to unpacking, to the vase that had gotten broken during the move (“Honestly, I hated that thing anyway—your aunt gave it to us for Christmas that year, remember? ”), to how Claire intended to spend her day. By the end of it, Mom seemed more or less stable, and Claire’s coffee was hopelessly cold. So was her toast.
“Claire,” Mom said. “About moving out of that house—”
“I’m not moving,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know it’s going to upset Dad, but these are my friends, and this is where I belong. I’m staying.”
There was a short silence on the other end, and then her mother said, very softly, “I’m so proud of you.”
She hung up with a soft click. Claire stood for a moment, tears prickling in her eyes, and then said to the silent line, “I love you.”
And then she picked up her stuff and went to class.
Chapter 8
Days passed, and for a change, there were no further emergencies. Normal life—or what passed for it, anyway—set in. Claire went to class, Eve went to work, Michael taught guitar lessons—he was a lot more in demand since the concert at Common Grounds—and Shane . . . Shane slacked, although Claire thought he seemed preoccupied.
It finally dawned on her that he was thinking about Saturday, and the invitation. And that he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all.
“So what should I do?” she asked Eve. “I mean, can’t he just call in sick for the party or something?”
“You’re kidding,” Eve said. “You think they’d buy an excuse? If you get an invitation to something like this, you go. End of story.”
“But—” Claire, who was getting glasses out of the cabinet while Eve put out plates, nearly dropped everything. “But that means that creepy little bi—”
“Language, missy.”
“—witch is going to make him go with her!” That made her blindly furious, and not entirely because of how upset Shane had been before. It was the whole idea of Shane going along with it. Of Ysandre putting those pale, thin fingers on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
Shane hadn’t said a word to her about it. Not a single word. And she didn’t know how to help.
Eve stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds before she said, “Well, she’s not the only one who’s going, of course. Shane won’t be all by himself.”
“What?”
“Michael’s going, too. I recognized the invitation when it came in. Didn’t open it, though.”
Still, Eve had every reason to expect that Michael would at least ask her to go with him. Claire, on the other hand, was completely shut out.
Which made her irrationally angry again, and this time for herself. You’re jealous, she realized. Because you don’t want him going anywhere without you.
She so did not want to be that person, but there it was. And she had no idea what to do about it.
When she set Shane’s glass of Coke down in front of him, she did it with probably a little too much emphasis; he glanced up at her with a question-mark expression. Eve had already settled into her chair across the table. Michael wasn’t home, but Eve didn’t seem bothered about it this time. Maybe he’d talked to her about where he was going.
Nice to know somebody’s talking, Claire thought.
“What?” Shane asked her, and took a drink. “Did I forget to say thanks? Because, thanks. Best Coke ever. Did you make it yourself? Special recipe?”
“Got any plans for Saturday night?” she asked. “I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies, or—”
Too transparent. Shane knew instantly, and Eve choked on her forkful of microwave lasagna. The silence stretched. Claire poked at her own meal, just for something to do.
“I can’t,” Shane finally said. “I guess you know why.”
“You’re going to that ball thing,” Claire said. “With Bishop’s—friend.”
“I don’t exactly have a choice.”
“Are you sure about that?”
