Bitter Blood

which she handed over. “Here.”

He looked at her, gave her a weak flash of a smile, and took the packet from her. One after another, the tissues soaked red, but each successive one did so more slowly. By the time he’d used most of them, the wounds were sealed over—gruesome still, but steadily better.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” she asked. “You were expecting this. I could see how tense you were. It’s about your marrying Eve. They’re bullying you because of it.”

Michael shrugged and scrubbed the last of the damp stains off his skin. “We all knew how they felt about it. Pretty much like Captain Obvious and his crew of humans-only believers feel, too. Everybody sees us as traitors to whatever their cause is.”

“That’s stupid. You two—you’ve been together for years!”

“Not married together. They’re funny about that. In vampire circles, marrying someone is a huge deal…vampires being immortal and all. It hardly ever happens, and when it does, there’s—power involved. The lesser partner gets elevated up to the status of the greater. So now Eve’s technically got all the rights and powers and privileges that I do. And being Amelie’s direct bloodline, that’s kind of a big deal.” He stuffed all the bloody tissues in his pocket and nodded to her. “Let’s keep going. I don’t like being a sitting duck around here.”

Their escort hadn’t waited for them, but he was standing in front of Amelie’s office when they arrived, and he opened the door to shoo them inside. He didn’t follow, and Claire heard the latch click shut with a finality that made her wonder if they were, in fact, locked in.

If they were, the receptionist inside gave no sign of it. Her name was Bizzie, and she’d been with Amelie a long time. She gave Claire a cool, impartial nod, and ignored Michael almost completely, though her gaze flicked quickly to the wounds on his face. She didn’t ask what had happened. In fact, she didn’t speak at all, which in Claire’s experience was a little unusual; Bizzie had always been cordial in the past.

Things had changed.

Claire and Michael waited silently in the armchairs lining the small wood-paneled room, and Claire spent her time studying the portraits hanging high on the walls. Amelie was in one of them, looking just as she did now but with a more elaborate hairstyle that reminded Claire of movies she’d seen in high school about the French Revolution. Elegant in white satin, Amelie was shown lit by candles, and in her right hand was a mirror dangling negligently by her side. The fingers of her left hand rested on top of a skull.

Creepy and beautiful.

“The Founder will see you,” Bizzie said, though Claire hadn’t heard any phone or intercom. As Claire rose to her feet, the inner door swung open without a sound.

Deep breaths, Claire told herself. She didn’t know why she was so nervous; she’d met with Amelie dozens of times, probably nearly a hundred by now. But somehow, this felt strongly like walking into a trap. She glanced back at Michael, and their eyes met and held.

He felt it, too.

Deep breaths, Claire thought again, and took the plunge.

* * *

The office looked eerily the same: high bookcases, big picture windows treated with anti-UV tinting to reduce damage from the sunlight, candles burning here and there. Amelie’s desk was massive and orderly, and behind it, the Founder of Morganville sat with her hands folded on the leather blotter.

Behind her stood Oliver.

The two vampires couldn’t have been more different. Amelie was polished, silky, pale haired, every inch a born ruler. Oliver, on the other hand, had the angular toughness of a warrior, and with his graying hair and ruthless smile, he might as well have been wearing armor as a turtleneck and jacket. Amelie’s pantsuit was a pristine white silk, and it contrasted completely with his all-black—deliberately; Claire was certain of it.

Amelie was also wearing her hair down in flowing, gorgeous waves. Very not the old Founder.

Oliver had his hand on Amelie’s shoulder, a gesture of easy familiarity that would have been odd in the time before the arrival, battle, and defeat of the draug. He and Amelie had been enemies, then unwilling allies, and then, finally—something else.

Something more dangerous, obviously.

Claire looked around, but the chairs that had once been in front of Amelie’s desk, the ones for visitors, were gone. She and Michael would be expected to stand.

But first, apparently, they were expected to do something else, because Oliver watched the two of them for a moment, then frowned and said, “Pay proper respect, if you wish to speak with the Founder.”

Amelie said nothing. She’d always been a bit of an ice queen, but now she was unreadable, all pale, perfect skin and cool, assessing eyes. There was no telling what she felt, if she felt anything at all.

Michael inclined his head. “Founder.”

“I see you’ve been recently injured,” she said. “How?”

“It’s nothing.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

Amelie sat back in her chair and cast a glance upward at Oliver. “See to it that Henrik understands I do not condone this kind of behavior within these walls. Michael, you’d do well to answer my questions when I ask them next time.”

“Since you already knew the answer, I don’t see the point.” He was almost as good at hiding emotions as Amelie. “If you really cared about stopping him and the others like him, you’d publicly acknowledge our marriage and put a stop to it.”

“You didn’t obtain permission from me, and it’s my right as your blood sire to give or withhold it,” she said. “I don’t have to acknowledge anything you do without my blessing. And we’ve traveled this road before, to no good purpose. What brings you here, then?”

Claire cleared her throat and took a step forward. “I—”

Oliver interrupted her. “Greet the Founder properly, or you’ll not utter another word.”

Amelie could have quelled that; she could have just waved it away as she normally would have…but she didn’t. She waited, her gaze on Claire’s face, until Claire swallowed hard and bent her head forward just a little. “Founder,” she said.

“You may speak, Claire.”

Gee, thanks, Claire wanted to say with a liberal dose of sarcasm, but she managed to choke it back. Shane would have said it, which was why she hadn’t let him come along on this little venture. “Thank you,” she said, and tried to make herself sound truly grateful. “I came to talk to you about the identification cards.”

Amelie’s face did show emotion after all—anger. “I have heard all of the arguments that I am prepared to endure,” she said. “The measure ensures that all Morganville residents have proper care in case of emergency, that their Protectors are properly identified, that they can be found in case they go missing. Whatever resentments you have come from a false sense that you are free to do as you will. You are not, Claire. No one is in this world.”

“I thought you took Sam’s goals seriously. You told me you’d make humans equal partners in Morganville, that we had rights just like vampires. You told me that!”

“I did,” Amelie said. “And yet I find that where humans are allowed a little freedom, they will take more, until their very freedom destroys our way of life. If it comes to a choice, I must choose the survival of my own. Yours are certainly far too numerous as it stands. What is the count now, seven billion? You’ll excuse me if I believe we might be at a slight numerical disadvantage.”

“Is that why you’re allowing hunting again?”

Oliver laughed. “A tempting side benefit, but no. Hunting is buried as deep in the vampire nature as the need to reproduce is in humans. It is not simply a thing we can turn off. For some, hunting allows them to control a dark and violent side that would be much more damaging. Think of a dammed-up river, with a flaw in the structure. Sooner or later, that torrent of water will break free, and the damage it does will be considerably worse than a slow and controlled release.”

“You’re talking about water! I’m talking about people’s lives!”