Lord of Misrule

upstairs that Claire could see. The stairs were pitch-black.

Michael, by common consent, went first, vampire eyes, and all. Shane followed, then Eve; Claire brought up the rear, and tried to move as silently as possible, although not really all that silently, because the stairs creaked beneath the weight of four people. At the top, Claire ran into Eve’s back, and whispered, “What?”

Eve, in answer, reached back to grip her hand. “Michael smells blood,” she whispered. “Hush.”

Michael flicked on a light at the other end of the small, silent room. There was nothing unusual, just the furniture that was always here. There were no signs anybody had been here since the Goldmans and Myrnin had departed.

“How do we get into the attic?” Shane asked. Michael pressed hidden studs, and another door, barely visible at that end of the room, clicked open. Claire remembered it well; Myrnin had shown it to her, when they’d been getting stuff together to go to Bishop’s welcome feast.

“Stay here,” Michael said, and stepped through into the dim, open space.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane said, and followed. He popped his head back in to say, “No, not you two. Stay here.”

“Does he just not get how unfair and sexist that is?” Eve asked. “Men.”

“You really want to go first?”

“Of course not. But I’d like the chance to refuse to go first.”

They waited tensely, listening for any sign of trouble. Claire heard Shane’s footsteps moving through the attic, but nothing else for a long time.

Then she heard him say, “Michael. Oh man . . . over here.” There was tension in his voice, but it didn’t sound like he was about to jump into hand-to-hand combat.

Eve and Claire exchanged looks, and Eve said, “Oh, screw it,” and dived into the attic after them.

Claire followed, gripping the Cadillac of stakes and hoping she wasn’t going to be forced to try to use it.

Shane was crouched down behind some stacked, dusty suitcases, and Michael was there, too. Eve pulled in a sharp breath when she saw what it was they were bending over, and put out a hand to stop Claire in her tracks.

Not that Claire stopped, until she saw who was lying on the wooden floor. She hardly recognized him, really. If it hadn’t been for the gray ponytail and the leather coat . . .

“It’s Oliver,” she whispered. Eve was biting her lip until it was almost white, staring at her former boss. “What happened?”

“Silver,” Michael said. “Lots of it. It eats vampire skin like acid, but he shouldn’t be this bad. Not unless—” He stopped as the pale, burned eyelids fluttered. “He’s still alive.”

“Vampires are hard to kill,” Oliver whispered. His voice was barely a creak of sound, and it broke at the end on what sounded almost like a sob. “Jesu. Hurts.”

Michael exchanged a look with Shane, then said, “Let’s get him downstairs. Claire. Go get some blood from the fridge. There should be some.”

“No,” Oliver grated, and sat up. There was blood leaking through his white shirt, as if all his skin were gone underneath. “No time. Attack on City Hall, coming tonight—Bishop. Using it as a—diversion—to—” His eyes opened wider, and went blank, then rolled up into his head.

He collapsed. Michael caught him under the shoulders.

He and Shane carried Oliver out to the couch, while Eve anxiously followed along, making little shooing motions.

Claire started to follow, then heard something scrape across the wood behind her, in the shadows.

Oliver hadn’t come here alone.

A black shadow lunged out, grabbed her, and something hard hit her head.

She must have made some sound, knocked something over, because she heard Shane call her name sharply, and saw his shadow in the doorway before darkness took all of it away.

Then she was falling away.

Then she was gone.

13

Claire came awake feeling sick, wretched, and cold. Someone was pounding on the back of her head with a croquet mallet, or at least that was how it felt, and when she tried to move, the whole world spun around.

“Shut up and stop moaning,” somebody said from a few feet away. “Don’t you dare throw up or I’ll make you eat it.”

It sounded like Jason Rosser, Eve’s crazy brother. Claire swallowed hard and squinted, trying to make out the shadow next to her. Yeah, it looked like Jason—skanky, greasy, and insane. She tried to squirm away from him, but ran into a wall at her back. It felt like wood, but she didn’t think it was the Glass House attic.

He’d taken her somewhere, probably using the portal. And now none of her friends could follow, because none of them knew how.

Her hands and feet were tied. Claire blinked, trying to clear her head. That was a little unfortunate, because with clarity came the awareness of just how bad this was. Jason Rosser really was crazy. He’d stalked Eve. He’d—at least allegedly—killed girls in town. He’d definitely stabbed Shane, and he’d staked Amelie at the feast when she’d tried to help him.

And none of her friends back at the Glass House would know how to find her. To their eyes, she would have just . . . vanished.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice sounded rusty and scared. Jason reached out and moved hair back from her face, which creeped her out. She didn’t like him touching her.

“Relax, shortcake, you’re not my type,” he said. “I do what I’m told, that’s all. You were wanted. So I brought you.”

“Wanted?”

A low, silky laugh floated on the silence, dark as smoke, and Jason looked over his shoulder as the hidden observer rose and stepped into what little light there was.

Ysandre, Bishop’s pale little girlfriend. Beautiful, sure. Delicate as jasmine flowers, with big, liquid eyes and a sweetly rounded face.

She was poison in a pretty bottle.

“Well,” she said, and crouched down next to Claire. “Look at what the cat dragged in. Meeow.” Her sharp nail dragged over Claire’s cheek, and judging from the sting, it drew blood. “Where’s your pretty boyfriend, Miss Claire? I really wasn’t done with him, you know. I hadn’t even properly started.”

Claire felt an ugly lurch of anger mix with the fear already churning her stomach. “He’s probably not done with you, either,” she said, and managed to smile. She hoped it was a cold kind of smile, the sort that Amelie used—or Oliver. “Maybe you should go looking. I’ll bet he’d be so happy to see you.”

“I’ll show that boy a real good time, when we do meet up again,” Ysandre purred, and put her face very close to Claire’s. “Now, then, let’s talk, just us girls. Won’t that be fun?”

Not. Claire was struggling against the ropes, but Jason had done his job pretty well; she was hurting herself more than accomplishing anything else. Ysandre grabbed Claire’s shoulder and wrenched her upright against the wooden wall, hard enough to bang Claire’s injured head. For a dazed second, it looked like Ysandre’s ripe, red smile floated in midair, like some undead Cheshire cat.

“Now,” Ysandre said, “ain’t this nice, sweetie? It’s too bad we couldn’t get Mr. Shane to join us, but my little helper here, he’s a bit worried about tackling Shane. Bad blood and all.” She laughed softly. “Well, we’ll make do. Amelie likes you, I hear, and you’ve got on that pretty little gold bracelet. So you’ll do just fine.”

“For what?”

“I ain’t telling you, sweetie.” Ysandre’s smile was truly scary. “This town’s going to have a wild night, though. Real wild. And you’re going to get to see the whole thing, up close. You must be all atingle.”

Eve would have had a quip at the ready. Claire just glared, and wished her head would stop aching and