“Bite me!” she snapped.
The vampire’s eyes flared like hot crystal, and he lunged for Eve. Michael moved faster than Claire had ever seen him, just a confusing blur, and then the stranger was hurtling into the stove. He caught himself with both hands out, and she heard the sizzle as his palms hit the burners, followed by an enraged cry of pain.
This was going to get really bad, and there was nothing, nothing, they could do.
Shane grabbed Eve by the shoulder, Claire by the arm, and he hustled them into the corner by the breakfast table, where they had at least partial cover. But that left Michael on his own, fighting out of his weight class against something more like a wildcat than a man.
It didn’t take long, maybe a few seconds, before Michael’s strength failed. The stranger threw Michael to the kitchen floor and straddled him, fangs down and gleaming. The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to icy chill, cold enough that Claire could see her own breath as she panted in fear. That low-frequency rumble began again, jittering plates and glasses and pans.
Eve screamed and fought to get free of Shane’s hold, not that she could do anything, anything at all—
The back door shuddered and crashed open under a single, overpowering blow. Wood splinters flew across the room, and Claire heard the locks snap like ice breaking.
Oliver, the second-scariest vampire in town (the first, some days), stood at the back door, staring inside. He was a tall man, built like a runner, all wiry muscles and angles. Tonight, he’d dispensed with his usual nice-guy disguise; he was in black, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His face looked like carved bone in the moonlight.
He slapped an open palm against the empty air of the doorway, and it smacked into a solid barrier. “Fools!” he shouted. “Let me in!”
The stranger laughed, and yanked Michael up to a sitting position, fangs poised just over his neck. “Do it and I’ll drain him,” he said. “You know what that will do. He’s too young.”
Claire didn’t know, but she knew it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe not even survivable.
“Invite me in,” Oliver repeated, in a deadly soft voice. “Claire. Do it now.”
She opened her mouth, but she was interrupted.
“No need for that,” said a cool female voice. The cavalry had finally arrived.
Amelie moved Oliver aside and walked through the invisible barrier like it wasn’t there—which, to her, it wasn’t, as Amelie was technically the creator and owner of the house. She was without her usual attendants and bodyguards, but there was no mistaking that she, not Oliver, was in charge by the way she swept across the threshold.
As always, Claire thought of her as a queen. Amelie was wearing a perfectly tailored yellow silk suit, and her pale hair was piled in a glossy crown on top of her head and secured with gold and diamond pins. She wasn’t especially tall, but the aura she gave off was as powerful as an unexploded bomb. Her eyes were cold and very wide, and focused completely on the intruding vampire threatening Michael.
“Leave the boy alone,” she said. Claire had never heard her use that tone, not ever, and she shuddered even though it wasn’t directed toward her. “I rarely kill our own, but if you test me, François, I’ll destroy you. I only give one warning.”
The other vampire hesitated only for a second, then let go of Michael, who collapsed back full length on the floor. François rose to his feet in a single smooth, graceful motion, facing Amelie.
And then he bowed. Claire didn’t have a lot of experience with seeing men bow, but she didn’t think that one looked exactly respectful.
“Mistress Amelie,” he said, and the vampire teeth folded back into his mouth, discreetly hidden. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“And amusing yourself at my expense while you do,” she said. Claire didn’t think she’d blinked at all. “Come. I wish to talk with Master Bishop.”
François smirked. “I’m sure he wishes to speak with you, as well,” he said. “This way.”
She swept in front of him. “I know my own home, François—I don’t require a guide.” A quick glance over her shoulder, to where Oliver still stood silently at the door. “Come inside, Oliver. I will replace the Protections against you later, on behalf of our young friends.”
He raised his eyebrows and crossed the threshold. Michael was just sitting up. Oliver extended a hand to him, but Michael didn’t take it. They exchanged a look that made Claire shiver.
Oliver shrugged, stepped over him, and followed Amelie and François into the other room.
When the kitchen door swung shut, Claire let out a long, relieved breath, and heard Eve and Shane do the same. Michael rolled painfully to his feet and braced himself against the wall, shaking his head.
Shane put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, man?” Michael gave him a thumbs-up answer, too shaken to do anything more, and Shane slapped his back and grabbed the collar of Claire’s shirt as she rushed past him, heading for the door of the kitchen. “Whoa, whoa, Flash, where do you think you’re going?”
“My parents are in there!”
“Amelie’s not going to let anything happen to them,” Shane said. “Get your breath. This isn’t our fight, and you know it.”
Now Shane was talking sense? Wow. Was it opposite day? “But—”
“Your parents are okay, but I don’t want you rushing in. Got it?”
She nodded shakily. “But—”
“Michael. Help me out here. Tell her.”
Michael was doing the vampire equivalent of gasping for air, but he nodded, eyes unfocused and vague. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “They’re okay. That’s why François came after me, because I got between him and your mom.”
“He went after my mom?” Claire flung herself toward the door of the kitchen, and this time Shane barely managed to hold on.
“Dude, that was not the kind of help I was looking for,” Shane said to Michael, and wrapped both arms around Claire to hold her in place. “Easy. Easy, Amelie’s in there, and you know she’ll keep things under control —”
Claire did. After a second’s thought, it made her struggle harder, because Amelie was perfectly capable of seeing Claire’s parents as expendable if it served her needs. She saw Claire as expendable, off and on. But Shane didn’t let go until she jabbed an elbow back and felt him stagger and release his grip. She didn’t realize what she’d done . . . until she saw a thin line of red on his T-shirt, and Shane thumped himself down hard in the nearest available chair.
She’d hit him where he’d been stabbed.
“Dammit!” Eve hissed, and yanked Shane’s shirt up to expose his chest and stomach—still bruised—and the white bandages, which were staining fresh with blood. Claire could even smell it . . .
. . . and as if she were in a dream, or a nightmare, she turned to look at Michael.
His eyes weren’t vague and unfocused anymore. No, they were wide and intent and very, very scary. His face was still and white, and he wasn’t breathing at all.
“Get the bleeding stopped,” he whispered. “Hurry.”
Michael was right. Shane was bait in a shark tank, and Michael was one of the sharks.
Shane was staring back at him as Eve poked and probed at his bandages, making sure they were tight. “I think it’s okay, but you need to be careful,” she said. “These bandages need to be changed. You might have popped a stitch or something.”
She put her shoulder under Shane’s and helped him to his feet. Shane was still watching Michael, and Michael didn’t seem to be able to physically look away from the bloody slash of bandage on Shane’s stomach.
“Want some?” Shane asked. “Come and get it, bat boy.” He was almost as pale as Michael, and his expression was tight and furious.
Michael somehow managed to smile. “You’re not my blood type, bro.”
“Rejected again.” But some of the wildness in Shane’s eyes eased. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Michael turned toward the closed kitchen door for a moment. “They’re talking. Look, I’m going to go in and get your parents, Claire. I want everybody together who’s still—”
“Breathing?” Shane asked.
“In danger,” Michael said. “Back in a second.” He hesitated just a breath, then added, “See if you can fix him
