Fade Out

Claire went in search of cameras in the Glass House.

She found the first one in an air vent in Shane’s room, and had to sit down, hard, on his bed with her head in her hands. It was focused right on his bed.

Oh my God. Oh no.

At first she was sick with the thought of Kim combing through hours of video of Shane, invading his privacy, watching him get undressed . . . and then she remembered.

We were in here. Together. And she saw it.

Claire lifted her head and looked right up at the camera. She had no idea what was on her face, but if it was any match for the rage burning inside her, the feeling of total betrayal and exposure, she couldn’t imagine Kim was having any fun seeing it. “I hope there’s sound on these,” she said. “You bitch. I officially hope you rot in hell, and I swear, if you post any of this online, I will find you.”

Then Claire dragged a chair over, stood on the seat, and yanked the vent screen out of the wall. Behind it, the little webcam blinked its light and stared at her with a glass eye every bit as emotionless as Bob the spider’s.

Claire picked it up, carried it into her bedroom, and put it next to the first one they’d found in Kim’s apartment. Then she started searching the other rooms. She found two more—one hidden on top of a bookshelf, barely visible, in the living room, providing a bird’s-eye view of the whole space, and another in Michael’s room, focused on his bed.

“Pervert,” Claire muttered, grabbed it out of the fake plant on top of his dresser, and carried it back to set it with the others. The IP addresses were consistent. Claire tried entering them into the web browser, and the signal was there, but it just displayed as gibberish.

Encrypted, which went along with the randomizer program that Kim was using.

She was just starting to backtrace the signals when she felt that familiar tingle along the back of her neck, a feeling that the world had just shifted.

Portal.

Claire slid out of her chair and grabbed weapons, then waited. It had felt like the portal had opened upstairs, in the attic, and as she waited she heard faint creaks and pops from the old wood floor overhead.

Not spiders, she thought. Spiders wouldn’t be that heavy.

God, she hoped spiders wouldn’t be that heavy. That was a terrifying thought. She was already entering B-movie horror territory . . . alone in the house! With a giant spider!

And a vampire, maybe.

Which could be worse.

Long minutes passed, and nothing came to eat her. Claire’s hand had gotten sweaty, and her muscles hurt from the strength of her grip on the silver knife in her hand.

Come on, she thought. Just get it over with already.

It could have been somebody with a lot of power—Myrnin, or Oliver, or Amelie. In which case she’d put the knife down and apologize.

But she thought it was probably Ada, making another run at her.

The creaks overhead paused, and she heard them retreat.

Then she felt the portal activate again, and slam closed. All her protections snapped back into place, as if they’d never been broken. If she hadn’t been here . . . she’d never have even known someone had been inside.

Claire edged out into the hall, staring at the hidden door up to the secret room. It was shut, and she heard nothing at all. She wouldn’t, of course, it being sound-proofed, but still . . . She felt as if she ought to be able to feel something . . . and the house usually conveyed a feeling of danger. When it didn’t, it was usually because Amelie . . .

Amelie.

Claire opened the hidden door and went up the stairs, and found the lights on at the top. The soft glow thrown through colored glass painted the walls, and on the couch, Amelie lay full length, one white hand pressed to her forehead.

She was wearing a flowing white dress, like a very fancy nightgown, and there were flecks of blood on it. Not as if she’d been hurt—more as if she’d been standing near someone else who had been. As Claire entered the room, Amelie’s eyes opened and focused on her, but the Founder didn’t move.

“We have a problem. Ada,” Amelie said. “You know, don’t you?”

“That she’s crazy? Yeah. I figured that.” Claire realized she was still holding the knife, and put it down. “Sorry.”

“A reasonable precaution in uncertain times,” Amelie said softly. Nothing else. Claire waited, but Amelie was as still as one of those marble angels on top of a tomb.

“What happened?” Claire finally asked.

“Nothing you would understand.” Amelie closed her eyes. “I’m tired, Claire.”

There was a simple kind of resignation to the way she said it that made Claire shiver. “Should I—is there somebody I should call, or—”

“I will rest here for now. Thank you.” It was a dismissal, one Claire was a little relieved to get. Amelie just seemed—absent. Empty.

“Okay. But—I guess if you need something—”

Amelie’s eyes snapped open, and Claire felt it at the same time: a surge of power—the portal reopening.

Amelie’s will slammed it closed.

“Someone’s looking for you,” Claire said. “Who is it?”

“None of your affair.”

“It is if they’re coming here! Is someone after you?”

“It’s my guards,” Amelie said. “They’ll find me, sooner or later, but for now, I want to be here. Here, where Sam—” She stopped again, and silvery tears pooled in her eyes and ran down into her unbound pale hair. “Where Sam told me he would never leave me. But he did leave me, Claire. I knew he would, and he did. Everyone leaves. Everyone.”

This time, when the portal flared, Amelie didn’t try to keep it shut. In seconds, the attic door flew open, and it wasn’t the guards after all, in their black Secret Service suits.

It was Oliver, still wearing his bowling shirt, graying hair pulled tight into a ponytail. For a second, as his gaze fell on Amelie, he looked like a different person.

No, that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t really feel something for her. Could he?

“You,” he said to Claire. “Leave us. Now.”

“Stay,” Amelie said. There was an unmistakable thread of command in her voice. “You don’t order my servants in my house, Oliver. Not yet.”

“You’re hiding behind children?”

“I’m not hiding at all. Not even from you.” She slowly sat up, and in the multicolored glow of the lamps she looked young, and very tired. “We’ve played our games, haven’t we? The two of us, we’ve schemed and cheated and used each other all these centuries, for our own purposes. What did it bring us? Peace? There’s never peace for us. There can’t be.”

“I can’t talk of peace,” he said, and went to one knee, looking up into her face. “And neither can you. Morley tried to kill you out there in the graveyard the other evening, and still you wander alone, looking for your own destruction. You must stop.”

“Speaking as my second-in-command.”

“Speaking as your friend,” he said, and took her hand. “Amelie. We have our differences, you and I. We always will. But I would not see you suffer so. Morganville is too much for you right now—there are too many vampires here with too much ambition. Control must be maintained, and if you won’t do it, you must put it in stronger hands. My hands.”

“How kind of you, to keep the best interests of others so close to your heart,” she said. She didn’t try to remove her fingers from his, but her tone had taken on a remote kind of chill. “So what do you propose?”

“Until you can put aside your mourning, give me the town,” he said. “You know I can keep order here. I’ll act