You have been summoned to attend a masked ball and feast to celebrate the arrival of Elder Bishop, on Saturday the twentieth of October, at the Elders’ Council Hall at the hour of midnight.
You will attend at the invitation of Michael Glass, and are required to accompany him at his pleasure.
The name jumped out at her like a fanged surprise attack. Michael Glass. Michael was inviting Monica.
Eve didn’t say another word. She shoved the invitation back at Monica, got up, and ducked behind the coffee bar to don her apron again. Claire stared after her, stricken. She could see the jittery anguish in her friend’s movements, but not her face. Eve was keeping carefully turned away, and even when she went to the espresso machine again to pull shots, she kept staring down, hiding her pain.
Claire’s shock thawed into a nice warm glow of anger. “You’re a total bitch, you know that?” she said. Monica raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Not my fault you freaks can’t hang on to your men. I heard Shane was boy-toying around with Ysandre. Too bad. I’ll bet you never even got him between the sheets, did you? Or wait . . . maybe you did. Because I’ll bet that would drive him straight into somebody else’s bed.”
Claire fantasized for a few seconds about planting her physics textbook squarely in the middle of Monica’s pouty, lip-glossed smile. She glared, instead, remembering how effective Oliver’s periods of icy silence could be. Monica finally shrugged, picked up the invitation, and tucked it in the pocket of her leather jacket.
“I’d say ‘See you,’ but I probably won’t,” Monica said. “I guess you can hold your own Loser Party on Saturday, with special shots of cyanide or something. Enjoy.”
She joined up with Gina and Jennifer, and the three girls walked away, turning heads. The golden, fortunate girls, tight and toned and perfect.
Laughing.
Claire realized she was clenching her fists, forced herself to relax and breathe, and picked up her pen again. The details of the essay kept slipping away, because all she could see was Monica preening at Michael’s side, rubbing Eve’s face in the humiliation. And even when she looked past that, there was Ysandre, and Shane, and that hurt even more.
“Why?” she whispered. “Michael, why would you do that to her?” Had they had a fight of some kind? Eve didn’t seem to think so. She acted like it had come as a bolt from the blue sky.
With a feeling that she was making a terrible mistake, she dialed the first speed-dial number on her phone.
“Yes, Claire,” Amelie said.
“I need to talk to you. About this masked-ball thing. What’s going on?”
For a few seconds Claire was sure Amelie would hang up on her, but then the vampire said, “Yes, I suppose we must talk about it. I will meet you upstairs at your home. You know where.”
She meant the hidden room. “When?”
“I am, of course, at your convenience,” Amelie said, which was winter cold and utterly untrue. “Would an hour suffice?”
“I’ll be there,” Claire said. Her hands were shaking, fine little trembles that were a sign of the inner earthquake. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me, child,” Amelie said. “I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find anything I have to say will be of the least comfort to you.”
The house was empty when Claire got there. She checked every room, including the laundry room in the basement, to be absolutely sure. Eve was still at work; Michael was at the music store. Shane—she had no idea where Shane was, except that the house was Shane free.
Claire pressed the hidden button in the hallway on the second floor, and the paneling opened on the dusty steps leading up to the hidden room. She shut the opening behind her and trudged up, feeling sicker and more isolated with every single stair.
At the top, color spilled across the walls: Victorian lamps, all jeweled hues and pale, watery light. There were no windows, no exits here. Only a few nice pieces of dusty furniture, and Amelie.
And the bodyguards, of course. Amelie hardly ever went anywhere without at least one. There were two this time, lurking in the corners. One of them nodded to Claire. She was on nodding terms with scary bodyguard dudes. Great. She really was moving up in the social ladder of Morganville.
“Ma’am,” Claire said, and stayed standing. Amelie was seated, but she didn’t look as though she was in any mood to indulge the fantasy that Claire was her equal. It was hard to determine Amelie’s feelings, but Claire was pretty sure that this one qualified as impatient, with a possible upgrade to annoyed.
“I have very little time for soothing your ruffled feathers,” Amelie said. She shifted a little, which was surprising; Amelie was usually very still, very composed. That was almost fidgeting. There was something else unusual about her today—the color of her suit. It was still classic and beautifully tailored, but it was in a dark gray, much darker than Amelie usually preferred. It turned her eyes the color of storm clouds. “Yet you’ve done more than I asked with Myrnin. I am inclined to forgive your impertinence, if you understand that it’s an indulgence on my part. Not a right on yours.”
“I understand,” Claire said. “I just—this masked ball. Myrnin called it a welcome feast. He acted like it had something important to do with Mr. Bishop.”
Amelie’s eyes, which had been regarding her with impersonal focus, suddenly sharpened. “You’ve spoken with Myrnin regarding Bishop’s arrival?”
“Well—he asked me what was happening in town, and—” Claire broke off, because Amelie was suddenly standing. And her bodyguards had moved out of the corners of the room and were very close, close enough to hurt. “You didn’t tell me not to!”
“I told you to stay out of my affairs!” Something pale and hungry flickered in those eyes, as scary in its own way as Mr. Bishop. Amelie deliberately relaxed. “Very well. The damage is done. What did Myrnin tell you?”
“He said—” Claire wet her lips and glanced at the bodyguards hovering terrifyingly close. Amelie raised an eyebrow and nodded, and Claire felt rather than saw them move away. “He said you both thought Bishop was dead, so he was surprised to find out that he’d come to town. He said that Bishop wanted revenge. Against you.”
“What did he tell you about the feast?”
“Only that it was part of some kind of ceremony to welcome Bishop to town,” Claire said. “And that you weren’t going to fight him if you were putting on the feast.”
Amelie’s smile was quick and cold. “Myrnin knows something about the world and its politics. No, I’m not going to fight him. Not unless I must. Did he tell you anything else?”
“No.” Claire sucked up her courage. “Ysandre’s taking Shane. And Michael—I just found out he’s going, and he’s taking Monica. Not Eve.”
“Do you imagine I have the slightest concern for how your friends arrange their romantic affairs?”
“No, it’s just—I want you to invite me. Please. All the vampires are taking humans. Why don’t you take me?”
Amelie’s eyes widened. Not much, but it was enough to make Claire think she’d scored a big-time surprise. “Why would you possibly wish to attend?”
“Monica says it’s the social event of the season,” Claire said. She wasn’t sure a joke was the way to go; she knew Amelie had a sense of humor, but it was obscure.
Today, it was apparently nonexistent.
“All right, the truth is, I’m worried about Michael and Shane. I just want to be sure—sure they’re okay.”
“And how would you go about ensuring that, if I cannot?” Amelie didn’t wait for an answer, because there obviously wasn’t one. “You want to watch the boy, to be sure he doesn’t fall prey to Ysandre. Is that it?”
Claire swallowed and nodded. That wasn’t all, but that was a lot of it.
“It’s a waste of time. No,” Amelie said. “You will not attend, Claire. I tell you this, explicitly, so that we are understood: I cannot risk you in this. You will not be at this event. Neither you nor Myrnin. Is that clear?”
“But—”
Amelie’s voice rose to a shout. “Is that clear?” The fury cut like knives, and Claire gasped and nodded. She wanted to take a step back from the horrible glow in Amelie’s eyes, but she knew that would be a very bad idea. She’d been around Myrnin enough to understand that retreat was a sign of weakness, and weakness triggered attack.
Amelie continued to stare at her, fixed and silent, and there was a wildness to her that Claire couldn’t
