Claire stood in the doorway, spattered with cold blood, and yelled, “And don’t come back!”
The power cut off, and the sudden emptiness left her shaking. Claire clung to the door for a few seconds, long enough to see them drive away, and then staggered back to the living room. Shane sat on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, head in his hands.
Shuddering.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded convulsively without looking up at her. Michael opened the kitchen door and came straight to her. He had a towel, and he scrubbed the blood off her face and hands with rough, anxious movements.
“How did you do that?” he asked. “Even I can’t— not on command. Not like that.”
“I don’t know,” she said. She felt sick and shaky, and perched on the couch next to Shane. Shane was buttoning his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, and didn’t seem very steady, either.
“Shane?” Michael stood next to him, and his voice was very gentle.
“Yeah, man, I’m fine,” he said. His voice was threadbare with exhaustion. “She may own me, but she can’t take possession until tomorrow night. I don’t think she’ll risk coming back here. Not just for me.” He looked up at Michael then, and Michael nodded tightly. “I don’t want to ask, but—”
“You don’t have to ask,” Michael said. “I’ll look out for you. As much as I can.”
They bumped fists.
“I need a shower,” Shane said, and went upstairs. He wasn’t moving like Shane, not at all—too slow, too heavy, too . . . defeated.
Michael had made the promise, but Claire was afraid—very afraid—that he wouldn’t be able to keep it. Once they were away from this house, isolated and separated, nobody could stop Ysandre from doing whatever she wanted to Shane. To Michael. To anyone.
If Jason had been telling the truth when he’d come by the house looking to talk, then Oliver had had something to say. Maybe he still did.
Maybe, somehow, it would help Shane.
It was really the only thing Claire could think of that might help.
When she went to Oliver’s coffee shop, she walked into more trouble, although it wasn’t as obvious as Ysandre and François taking over the living room. In fact, it took Claire a few seconds to identify what was odd about what she was seeing, because on the surface it looked quite normal.
But it wasn’t.
Eve was sitting peacefully across the table from Oliver, whom she’d sworn she’d rather stake than look at again. And whatever it was she was saying, Oliver was gravely listening, head cocked, expression composed. He had a very thin smile on his face, and his eyes were fixed on Eve’s face with so much focus it made Claire’s skin crawl.
She was going to draw their attention, standing like an idiot in the middle of the room, even as busy as the place was. She turned away, went to the coffee bar, and ordered a mocha she didn’t crave, just to have some reason to be here. Eve was too deep into her own thing to realize Claire had come in, but Oliver knew; Claire could feel it, even though he hadn’t so much as glanced her way.
She paid her four bucks and took her overpriced, yet delicious, drink to an empty table near the front windows, where there were plenty of students to cover her. She didn’t really need to worry, though; when Eve got up and left, she walked straight out, and she didn’t look right or left as she stiff-armed the door and stalked off down the street. She was wearing a black satin ankle-length skirt that reminded Claire of the inside of a coffin, and a purple velvet top, and she looked thin and fragile.
She looked vulnerable.
“Terrible, the lengths some girls will go to for attention, ” Oliver said, and settled into a chair across from Claire. “Don’t you think her obsession with the morbid is a bit much?”
She didn’t take the bait, just looked at him. The line of sunlight was very close to him, and creeping closer. In another few minutes, it would touch him on the shoulder. She knew he, like most older vampires, had partial immunity to sunlight, but it would still hurt.
Oliver knew what she was thinking. He glanced at the hot line of light and scooted his chair sideways, enough to buy another few minutes in the shadows.
“Why did you send Jason the other night?” she asked.
“Why do you think I sent him?”
“He said so.”
“Is Jason so reliable a source as all that? I thought he was a crazed murderer who was stalking his own sister.”
“What did you just talk to Eve about?”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “I believe that is Eve’s business, not yours. If there’s nothing else—”
“Ysandre and François just tried a power play at our house. In our house, Oliver. Why did you send Jason?”
Oliver was quiet a moment. He wasn’t looking at her at all; he was watching the people walking outside on the street, the cars passing. His gaze wandered over the students inside his shop, talking and laughing. There was something odd in his expression, as if—like Eve—he was suddenly aware of his own vulnerability.
And that of others.
“I don’t admit that I did send him,” Oliver said. “But if I did, obviously I would have had a very good reason, yes?”
She didn’t answer. His gaze flashed back to her, bright and very, very focused. “I have never made any secret of my desire for power, Claire. I don’t like Amelie, and she doesn’t care for me, but our games are honest ones. We know the rules and we abide by them. But Bishop—Bishop is beyond all rules. He would take our game board and overturn it completely, and that I cannot have. Not even if I gain in the process.”
The light dawned, finally. “Bishop tried to recruit you. Against Amelie.” Claire’s blood chilled a couple of degrees. “You couldn’t tell her directly. So you wanted to use Jason to tell me, and let me tell her.”
“Too late now. Things are moving too quickly to the edge. It’s not within my power to halt it, or hers. Much less yours, Claire.”
Claire realized she was clutching the table in a death grip, and let go. Her fingers ached from the pressure. “What were you talking to Eve about?”
Oliver’s eyes fixed on hers, and he said, “She is accompanying me to the feast.”
Eve was going to the masked ball. With Oliver.
Claire sat back, unable to think of a single thing to say for a moment, and then it hit her exactly what that meant. “Does Michael know?”
“Frankly, I could not care less. Eve can explain it as and if she chooses; it’s no concern of mine. I believe I’m finished assisting you with your inquiries, Claire. But if I might give you a piece of advice—” Oliver leaned forward, and it put him completely in the sun. He didn’t flinch, though the pupils of his eyes contracted to almost nothing, and his skin began to take on a definite pink tinge. “Stay home tomorrow. Lock your doors and windows, and if you’re a religious person, a little prayer might not go amiss.”
It was such a startling thing for him to say that Claire almost laughed. “I’m supposed to pray? For who, you?”
Oliver didn’t blink. “If you would,” he said, “that would be comforting. I don’t think anyone’s done it in quite some time.”
He stood up and walked away. Claire sat for a while staring off into the afternoon sunlight, sipping a mocha long gone cold and tasting nothing at all. When a knot of big upper-class jocks asked her, none too politely, if she was done with the table, she left without any protest. She went for a walk, following the curve of streets without any real awareness of where she was, or where she might be going.
All these people. She was away from the college crowd now, and Morganville natives took advantage of the sunshine any way they could—sunbathing, working in their gardens, painting their houses.
And tomorrow, if Oliver was right, it could be all over. If Bishop succeeded in taking over from Amelie . . .
Claire realized with a start that the sun was slipping toward the horizon, and turned at the nearest cross street to head for home. She made it with the day still officially in the late-afternoon phase, although twilight was
