“Of course I’m sure—why are we talking about this exactly?”
“Because—” She stuck the fork into her lasagna so deep it scraped the plate. “Because Michael’s going. I guess Eve is, too. And what am I supposed to do, exactly?”
“You’re kidding. Are you on crack? Because I thought you just implied that you wanted to go to the scary vampire thing. Which, by the way, I don’t.”
Claire tried not to glare. “I thought you hated her. Ysandre. But you’re going with her.”
“I do. And I am.” Shane shoveled food into his mouth, a blatant excuse to end the conversation, or at least avoid it.
Eve cleared her throat. “Maybe I should, I don’t know, leave? Because this is starting to sound like one of those reality shows I don’t want to be in. Maybe you guys want to take turns in the confessional booth.”
Shane and Claire ignored her. “I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing you can do,” Shane said. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”
“Stop talking with your mouth full.”
“Dude, you asked!”
“I—” Claire felt a sudden burn of tears in her eyes. “I just wanted you to talk to me, that’s all. But I guess you can’t even do that.”
She picked up her uneaten lasagna and drink and took it upstairs to her room. It was her turn to throw a fit, slam a door, and sulk, and dammit, she was going to do it well.
She burst into tears the second the door was closed, put everything down on the dresser, and collapsed into a soggy heap in the corner. She hadn’t cried like this in a long time, not over something so stupid, but she just couldn’t—didn’t—
There was a knock at the door. “Claire?”
“Go away, Shane.” Her heart wasn’t in it, though, and he must have heard that. He opened the door. She kind of expected him to rush to her and sweep her up in a hug, but instead Shane just . . . stood there. Looking like some mixture of annoyed and confused.
“Why is this about you?” he asked her. It was a perfectly reasonable question, so absolutely logical it made her gasp and cry harder. “I have to get dressed up in a stupid outfit. I have to pretend I don’t want to shove a stake in this bitch’s heart. You don’t.”
“But you’re going! Why are you going? You—I thought you hated her—”
“Because she said she’d kill you if I didn’t show up. And because I know it’s not a threat. She’d do it. Happy now?”
He closed the door quietly. Claire couldn’t get her breath. The hurt in her chest seemed to be smothering her, as if every heartbeat might be her last. She heard herself make a sound, but she couldn’t tell if it was tears or anger or anguish.
Eventually, the tears stopped, and Claire wiped the wet streaks from her cheeks. She felt sore, alone, and utterly to blame for everything. Her dinner held no appeal, and all she wanted to do was curl up under the blankets with the biggest, fluffiest stuffed animal she could find.
But she couldn’t do that.
When she opened her door, she found Shane sitting outside, back against the wall. He looked up at her.
“You done?” he asked. His eyes were red, too. Not exactly tearful, but—something. “Because it’s not like this floor’s real comfortable.”
She sank down next to him. He put his arm around her, and her head fell against his chest. There was something so soothing about the stroke of his fingers through her hair, the soft rhythm of his breathing. The reassurance of his solid warmth next to her.
“Don’t let her hurt you,” she whispered. “God, Shane—”
“No worries. Michael will be there, and I’m pretty sure he’d get into it if she tried. But I want you safe. Promise me that while we’re gone, you’ll go stay with your parents or something. No—” Because she was already trying to protest. “No, promise me. I need to know you’ll be okay.”
She nodded, still miserable. “I promise,” she said, and took a deep breath to push all that away. “So what dumbass costume are you wearing?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Does it involve leather?”
“Yeah, actually, I think it might.” He sounded like he dreaded the prospect. She managed a smile, despite everything.
“I can’t wait.”
Shane banged his head back against the wall. “Chicks.”
Her next visit to Myrnin’s lab brought a surprise. When she descended the steps, she saw the glow of lamps, and her first thought was, Oh God, he’s out of his cell. Her second was that she’d better get the dart gun ready, and she was unzipping the backpack to reach for it when she saw that it wasn’t Myrnin at all.
The overcrowded, dimly lit lab—which was more like a storeroom of outdated equipment, really—held a chair and reading lamp. Seated in the chair, turning pages in one of the fragile, ancient journals, was none other than Oliver.
Claire put her hand on the butt of the dart gun, just in case, although she wasn’t really sure what good a dose of antidote would do in this situation.
“Oh, relax, I’m not going to attack you, Claire,” Oliver said in a bored voice. He didn’t even look up. “Besides, we’re on the same side these days. Or haven’t you heard?”
She came down the remaining steps slowly. “I guess I haven’t. Was there a memo?” Granted, he’d come running when Eve had called about Bishop, but that didn’t necessarily put him in the category of ally in Claire’s books.
“When outsiders threaten the community, the community pulls together against the outsiders. It’s a rule as old as the tribal system. You and I are in the same community, and we have a common enemy.”
“Mr. Bishop.”
Oliver looked up, marking the place in the journal with one finger. “You have questions, I’d assume. I would, in your place.”
“All right. How long have you known him?”
“I don’t know him. I doubt anyone does who’s still alive today.”
Claire slipped into a rickety chair across from him. “But you’ve met him.”
“Yes.”
“When did you meet him, then?”
Oliver tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and she remembered how she’d once thought he was nice, just a normal kind of person. Not so much now.
Not so much a person, either.
“I met him in Greece,” he said. “Some time ago. I don’t think the circumstances would be particularly enlightening to you. Or comforting, come to think of it.”
“Did you try to kill him?”
“Me?” Oliver smiled slowly. “No.”
“Did Amelie?”
He didn’t answer, but he continued to smile. The silence stretched until she wanted to scream, but she knew he wanted her to babble.
She didn’t.
“Amelie’s affairs are none of yours,” Oliver said. “I assume you’ve been listening to Myrnin’s chatter.
I confess, I find it fascinating he’s still with us. I thought him dead and gone, long ago.”
“Like Bishop?”
“He’s quite mad, you know. Myrnin. And he has been for as long as I can recall, though it certainly got worse in more recent times.” Oliver’s eyes took on a faraway look. “He did so love the hunt, but he was always such a pathetic weeping idiot after. It doesn’t surprise me he wants to blame his own weakness on some—mythical disease. Some people simply aren’t cut out for this life.”
Of all the things Claire had expected, that one caught her off guard. “You don’t believe there’s a disease?”
