‘‘Breakfast?’’ Claire repeated blankly. She took a look at the living room window, just to prove to herself that, yes, it was still dark outside. Getting darker all the time.

The three vampires all looked at her. It was bad enough having that kind of attention from the two she hadn’t properly met yet—man and woman, eerily pretty—but when the cold, old Mr. Bishop’s eyes focused her way, it made her want to curl up in a corner and hide.

She held his stare for a full five seconds, then looked down. She could almost feel him smiling.

‘‘Breakfast,’’ he said softly, ‘‘is something to be eaten in the mornings. Mornings for vampires are not controlled by sunrise. And I like eggs.’’

‘‘Scrambled or over easy?’’ Claire asked, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. Don’t say over easy. I don’t know how to make eggs over easy. I don’t even know why I mentioned it. Don’t say over easy. . . .

‘‘Scrambled,’’ he said, and Claire’s breath rushed out in relief. Mr. Bishop was sitting in the comfortable chair in the living room that her housemate Michael normally occupied while he was playing his guitar. Unlike Michael, Mr. Bishop made it look like a throne. Part of it was that everybody else stayed standing— Claire, with her boyfriend, Shane, hovering protectively by her side; Eve and Michael a little distance away, holding hands. Claire risked a glance at Michael. He looked . . . contained. Angry, sure, but under control, at least.

Claire was more scared about Shane. He had a pretty well-documented history of acting before thinking, at least when it came to the personal safety of those he cared about. She took his hand, and he sent her a quick, dark, unreadable glance.

No, she wasn’t sure about him at all.

Mr. Bishop’s voice pulled her attention back to him with a cold snap. ‘‘Have you told Amelie that I’ve arrived, girl?’’

That had been Bishop’s first command—to let his daughter know he’d come to town. His daughter? Amelie—the head vampire of Morganville—didn’t seem human enough to have family, not even family as scary as Mr. Bishop. Ice and crystal, that was Amelie.

He was waiting for an answer, and Claire hastily got one together. ‘‘I called. I got her voice mail,’’ Claire said. She tried not to sound defensive. Bishop’s eyebrows drew together in a scowl.

‘‘I suppose that means you left some sort of a message. ’’ She nodded mutely. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. ‘‘Very well. We’ll eat while we wait. Eggs, scrambled, as I said. We shall also have bacon, coffee—’’

‘‘Biscuits,’’ drawled the woman leaning on the arm of his chair. ‘‘I love biscuits. And honey.’’ The vampire had a molasses-slow accent, something that wasn’t quite Southern and wasn’t quite not, either. Mr. Bishop gave her a tolerant look, the kind a human would give a favorite pet. She had the icy glitter in her eyes, and moved so smoothly and quietly that there was no way she was regular-flavored human. Not hiding it, either, the way some of the vampires of Morganville tried to do.

The woman kept smiling, dark eyes fixed on Shane. Claire didn’t like the way she was looking at him. It looked—greedy.

‘‘Biscuits,’’ Mr. Bishop agreed, with a quirk of a smile. ‘‘And I’ll indulge you further by agreeing to gravy, child.’’ The smile vanished when he turned back to the four standing in front of him. ‘‘Go about your business, then. Now.’’

Shane grabbed Claire’s hand and practically dragged her toward the kitchen. However fast he was moving, Michael was there first, pushing Eve through the door. ‘‘Hey!’’ Eve protested. ‘‘I’m walking here!’’

‘‘And the faster, the better,’’ Michael said. His normally angelic face looked stark, all sharp edges, and he closed the kitchen door once they were safely inside. ‘‘Right. We don’t have a lot of choices. Let’s do exactly what he says and hope Amelie can sort all this out when she gets here.’’

‘‘I thought you were all Big Bad Bloodsucker these days,’’ Shane said. ‘‘It’s your house. How come you can’t just throw them out?’’ That was a reasonable question, and Shane managed to say it without making it seem like a challenge. Well, much of one. The kitchen felt cold, Claire noticed—as if the temperature of the whole house was steadily dropping. She shivered.

‘‘It’s complicated,’’ Michael said. He yanked open cabinets and began assembling the makings of fresh coffee. ‘‘Yeah, it’s our house’’—emphasis, Claire noted, on the our—‘‘but if I revoke Bishop’s invitation, he will still kick our asses, I guarantee you.’’

Shane leaned his butt against the stove and crossed his arms. ‘‘I just thought you were supposed to be stronger than them on home ground—’’

‘‘Supposed to be. I’m not.’’ Michael spooned coffee into the filter. ‘‘Don’t be an asshole right now—we don’t have time for it.’’

‘‘Dude, I wasn’t trying to be.’’ And Claire could tell he actually meant it this time. Michael seemed to hear it, too, and sent Shane an apologetic glance. ‘‘I’m trying to figure out how big a pile of crap we’re in. Not blaming you, man.’’ He hesitated a second, then continued. ‘‘How do you know? Whether or not you have a chance?’’

‘‘Any other vampire I meet, I know where I stand with them. Who’s stronger, who’s weaker, whether or not I could take them in a straight-up fight if it came to that.’’ Michael poured water into the machine and switched it on to brew. ‘‘These guys, I know I haven’t got a chance in hell. Not against one of them, much less all three, not even with the house itself backing me up. They’re badass, man. Truly black hat. It’s going to take Amelie or Oliver to handle this.’’

‘‘So,’’ Shane said, ‘‘landfill-sized pile of crap. Good to know.’’

Eve pushed him out of the way and began getting pots and pans out of the cabinets, clattering everything noisily. ‘‘Since we’re not fighting, we’d better get breakfast ready,’’ she said. ‘‘Claire, you get the eggs, since you volunteered us for short-order cooks.’’

‘‘Better than volunteering us for breakfast,’’ Shane pointed out, and Eve snorted.

‘‘You,’’ she said, and pressed a finger into the center of his well-worn T-shirt. ‘‘You, mister. You’re making gravy.’’

‘‘You do want us all to die, don’t you?’’

‘‘Shut up. I’ll do the biscuits and bacon. Michael—’’ She turned, looking at him with big dark eyes, made almost anime-wide by the Goth eyeliner. ‘‘Coffee. And I think you have to be the private eye here. Sorry.’’

He nodded. ‘‘I’ll go make sure I know what they’re doing when I finish here.’’

Assigning Michael the barista and spy duties made sense, but it left the three of them the majority of the work, and none of them were exactly future chefs in training. Claire struggled with the scrambled eggs. Eve cursed the bacon grease in a fierce whisper, and whatever Shane was making, it didn’t really look that much like gravy.

‘‘Can I help?’’

They all jumped at the voice, and Claire whirled toward the kitchen door. ‘‘Mom!’’ She knew she sounded panicked. She was panicked. She’d forgotten all about her parents—they’d come in with Mr. Bishop, and Bishop’s friends had moved them into the not-much-used parlor at the front of the house. In the great scheme of scary things, Bishop had taken the forefront.

But there was her mother, standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling a fragile, confused smile and looking . . . vulnerable. Tired.

‘‘Mrs. Danvers!’’ Eve jumped in, hurried over, and guided her to the kitchen table. ‘‘No, no, we’re just— ah—making some food. You haven’t eaten, right? What about Mr. Danvers?’’

Her mother—looking every year of the forty-two she claimed not to be—seemed tired, vague, kind of out of focus. Worried, too. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that Claire couldn’t remember seeing before, and it scared her.

‘‘He’s—’’ Claire’s mom frowned, then leaned her forehead on the palm of her hand. ‘‘Oh, my head hurts. I’m sorry. What did you say?’’

‘‘Your husband, where is he?’’

‘‘I’ll find him,’’ Michael said quietly. He slipped out of the kitchen with the grace and quickness of a vampire—but at least he was their vampire. Eve settled Claire’s mom at the table, exchanged a helpless look with Claire, and chattered on nervously about what a long drive it must have been to Morganville, what a nice surprise it was that they were moving to town, how much Claire was going to enjoy having them here. Etc., etc., etc.

Claire numbly continued to rake eggs back and forth in the skillet. This can’t happen. My parents can’t be here. Not now. Not with Bishop. It was a nightmare, in every way.

‘‘I could help you cook,’’ Mom said, and made a feeble effort to get up. Eve glared at Claire and mouthed, Say something! Claire swallowed a cold bubble of panic and tried to make her voice sound at least partly under control.

‘‘No, Mom,’’ Claire said. ‘‘It’s fine. We’ve got it covered. Look, we’re making extra in case you and Dad are hungry. You just sit and relax.’’

Her mom, who was usually a control freak deluxe in the kitchen, prone to take command of something as error free as boiling water, looked relieved. ‘‘All right, honey. You let me know if I can help.’’

Michael opened the kitchen door, and ushered in Claire’s father. If her mom looked tired, her dad just looked . . . blank. Puzzled. He frowned at Michael, like he was trying to work out exactly what was happening but couldn’t put his finger on it.

‘‘What’s going on around here?’’ he barked at Michael. ‘‘Those people out there—’’

‘‘Relatives,’’ Michael said. ‘‘From Europe. Look, I’m sorry. I know you wanted to spend some time with Claire, but maybe you should just go on home, and we’ll—’’

He paused, then turned, because someone was standing in the kitchen door behind him. Following him.

‘‘Nobody’s going anywhere,’’ said the other one of Bishop’s vampire companions—the guy. He was smiling. ‘‘One big happy family, eh, Michael? It’s Michael, isn’t it?’’

‘‘What, we’re on a first-name basis now?’’ Michael got Claire’s dad inside the kitchen and closed the door in the other vampire’s face.

‘‘Right. Let’s get you guys out of here,’’ he said to Claire’s parents, and opened the back door, the one that led out into the backyard. ‘‘Where’s your car? Out on the street?’’

Outside the night looked black and empty, not even a moon showing. Claire’s dad frowned at Michael again, then took a seat at the kitchen table with his wife.

‘‘Close the door, son,’’ he said. ‘‘We’re not going anywhere.’’

‘‘Sir—’’

Claire tried, too. ‘‘Dad—’’

‘‘No, honey, there’s something strange going on here, and I’m not leaving. Not until I know you’re all okay.’’ Her father transferred the frown back to Michael again. ‘‘Just who are these . . . relatives?’’

‘‘The kind nobody wants to claim,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Every family’s got them. But they’re just here for a little while. They’ll be leaving soon.’’

‘‘Then we’ll stay until they do,’’ Dad said.

Claire tried to focus on the scrambled eggs she was making.

Her hands were shaking.

‘‘Hey,’’ Shane whispered, leaning close. ‘‘It’s okay. We’ll all be okay.’’ He was a big, solid, warm presence next to her, stirring what could not possibly really be gravy. She knew this mainly because Shane’s sole culinary ability came in the genre of chili. But at least he was trying, which was new and different, and probably showed just how seriously he was taking all this.

‘‘I know,’’ Claire said, and swallowed. Shane’s arm pressed against hers, a deliberate kind of thing, and she knew if his hands weren’t full, he’d have put his arms around her. ‘‘Michael won’t let them hurt us.’’

‘‘Weren’t you listening?’’ Eve joined them at the stove, whispering fiercely. She scowled at the frying bacon. ‘‘He can’t stop them. Best he can do is get himself really hurt in the process. So maybe you ought to call Amelie again and tell her to get her all-powerful ass over here now.’’

‘‘Yeah, good idea, piss off the only vampire who can help. Look, if they were going to kill us, I don’t think they’d ask for eggs first,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Not to mention biscuits. If you ask for biscuits, clearly, you think you’re some kind of a guest.’’

He had a point. It didn’t really stop the trembling in Claire’s hands, though.

‘‘Claire, honey?’’ Her mom’s voice, again. Claire jumped and nearly flipped a spatula full of eggs out onto the stove top. ‘‘Those people. What are they really doing here?’’

‘‘Mr. Bishop—he’s, uh, waiting for his daughter to come pick him up.’’ That wasn’t a lie. Not at all.

Claire’s father got up from the table and went to the coffeepot, which had wheezed itself full; he poured two mugs and took them back to the table. ‘‘Have some coffee, Kathy. You look tired,’’ he said, and there was a gentle note in his voice that made Claire look at him sharply. Her dad wasn’t the most emotional of guys, but he looked worried now, almost as worried as Mom.

Dad drained his coffee like it was water after a hot afternoon of lawn mowing. Mom listlessly creamed and sugared, then sipped. Neither of them spoke again.

Michael slipped out the kitchen door, taking mugs of coffee out to the others. When he came back, he closed the door and leaned against it for a minute. He looked bone white, strained, worse than he had in the months since he’d been transformed fully into a vampire. Claire tried to imagine what they’d said to him to make him look like that, and couldn’t even begin to guess. Something bad. No, something horrible.

‘‘Michael,’’ Eve said tensely. She nodded toward Claire’s parents. ‘‘More coffee?’’

He nodded and moved away from the door to pick up the coffeepot, but he never made it to the breakfast table. The kitchen door opened again, and Mr. Bishop and his entourage entered the room.

Tall and haughty as nineteenth-century royalty, the three vampires surveyed the kitchen. The other two vampires were pretty, young, and frightening, but Mr. Bishop was the one in charge; there was no mistaking it. When his gaze fell on her, Claire flinched and turned back to the sizzling eggs.

The female vampire strolled over and dipped her finger in the gravy Shane was stirring, then lifted the finger slowly to her lips to suck it clean. She stared at Shane the whole time. And Shane, Claire realized with a helpless, unpleasant shock, stared right back.

‘‘We’ll sit for the meal now,’’ Bishop said to Michael. ‘‘You will have the pleasure of serving us, Michael. And if your little friends decide to try to poison me, I’ll have your guts out, and believe me, a vampire can suffer a very, very long time when I want him to.’’

Michael swallowed and nodded once. Claire sent an involuntary look toward her folks, who could not possibly have missed that.

And they hadn’t. ‘‘Excuse me?’’ Claire’s father asked, and began to rise out of his chair. ‘‘Are you threatening these kids?’’

Bishop turned those cold eyes toward them, and Claire desperately thought about whether a hot iron skillet with a panful of frying eggs might be a useful weapon against a vampire. Her dad froze, halfway up.

She felt a wave of something go through the room, and her parents’ eyes went blank and vague. Her dad sank down again heavily in his chair.

‘‘No more questions,’’ Bishop said to them. ‘‘I tire of your chatter.’’

Claire felt a surge of utter black fury. She wanted to leap on that evil old man and claw his eyes out. The only thing holding her back, in those two long seconds, was the fact that if she tried, they’d all end up dead.

Even Michael.

‘‘Coffee?’’ Eve broke the silence with a desperate, brittle brightness in her tone. She grabbed the coffeepot from Michael and bore down on Claire’s mom and dad like the avenging dark angel of caffeine. Claire wondered what her parents made of Eve, with her rice-powder makeup and black lipstick and raccoon eyeliner, and her dyed-black hair teased into fierce spikes.

Then again, she had coffee, and she was smiling.

‘‘Sure,’’ Claire’s mom said, and tried a tentative smile in return. ‘‘Thank you, dear. So—did you say that man is a relative of yours?’’ She cast a look toward Bishop, who was exiting the kitchen and heading for the dining table in the living area. The handsome younger male vamp caught Claire’s look and winked, and she hastily focused back on Eve and her parents.

‘‘Nope,’’ Eve said, with fear-fueled cheer. ‘‘Distant relative of Michael’s. From Europe, you know. Cream?’’

‘‘Eggs are done,’’ Claire said, and turned down the burner. ‘‘Eve—’’

‘‘I hope we have enough plates,’’ Eve interrupted, more than a little frantic. ‘‘Jeez, I never thought I’d say this, but where’s the good china? Is there good china?’’

‘‘Meaning plates without chips in the edges? Yeah. Over there.’’ Shane pointed to a cabinet about four feet higher than Eve’s head. She gave him a stare. ‘‘Don’t look at me—I’m not reaching for it. Still wounded, you know.’’ He was. Claire had forgotten that, too, in the press of all the other stuff—he was doing better, but he’d been out of the hospital only a short while. Hardly enough time to really heal up from the stab wound that had nearly killed him.

That was another good reason not to make waves unless they absolutely had to—without Shane, their ability to fight back was seriously compromised.

Eve climbed up on the counter, found the plates, and handed them down to Claire. Once that was done, Claire took Shane’s place at the stove, stirring the lumpy stuff that was supposed to be gravy. It looked like something an alien would barf.

‘‘That girl,’’ Claire said to Shane.

‘‘What girl?’’

‘‘The—you know. Out there.’’

‘‘You mean the bloodsucker? Yeah, what about her?’’

‘‘She was staring at you.’’

‘‘What can I say? Irresistible.’’

‘‘Shane, it’s not funny. I just—you should be careful.’’

‘‘Always am.’’ Which was an absolute lie. Shane’s eyes fixed on hers, and she felt a burst of heat inside that crept up to burn in her cheeks. He smiled slowly. ‘‘Jealous?’’

‘‘Maybe.’’

‘‘No reason. I like my ladies with a pulse.’’ He took her hand and pressed his fingers gently against her wrist. ‘‘Yep, you’ve got one. It’s beating pretty fast, too.’’

‘‘I’m not kidding, Shane.’’

‘‘Neither am I.’’ He stepped closer, and they were barely a breath apart. ‘‘No vamp’s going to come between us. You believe me?’’

She nodded wordlessly. For the life of her, she couldn’t have forced out a single word just then. His eyes were dark, the color of rich brown velvet, with a thin rim of gold. She’d looked into his eyes a lot recently, but she’d never noticed just how beautiful they were.

Shane stepped back as the door opened again. Michael turned first toward them, offering up a mute apology, then faced Claire’s parents.

‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Danvers, Mr. Bishop would like for you to join him for dinner,’’ he said. ‘‘But if you have to go home—’’

If Michael was hoping they’d changed their minds, Claire could have told him that wasn’t going to happen. As long as her dad had the idea something funny was going on, he wasn’t about to do the sensible thing. Sure enough, he got to his feet, holding his coffee cup. ‘‘I could do with some breakfast. Never tasted Claire’s eggs before. Kathy? You coming?’’

Clueless, Claire thought in despair, but then again, she’d been just as bad when she’d first come to Morganville. She hadn’t taken the strong hints, or even the outright instructions, seriously. Maybe she’d gotten that from her parents, along with the fair skin and slightly curly hair. In their defense, though, Mr. Bishop was playing with their heads.

And they were scared for her.

She watched as her parents followed Michael into the other room, and then helped Eve get the eggs and bacon and biscuits onto serving dishes—nice ones at that. The lumpy gravy couldn’t be helped. They poured it into a gravy bowl and hoped for the best, then silently carried it out into the dining area, which was really a corner of the living room.

Claire was struck again, as she was at the oddest times, how the mood of the house could change at a moment’s notice. Not just the mood of the people in it—the house itself. Right now, it felt dark, cold, foreboding. Almost hostile. And yet all that dark emotion seemed directed at the intruding vampires.

The house was worried, and on guard. The solid Victorian furniture crouched hunched and deformed, nothing warm or welcoming about it. Even the lights seemed dimmed, and Claire could feel something, almost a presence—the way she’d been able to sometimes sense Michael when he’d been trapped in the house as a ghost. The fine hair on her arms stood on end, and her skin pebbled into gooseflesh.

Claire set the eggs and bacon down on the wooden table and backed away. Nobody had asked her, Eve, and Shane to take seats, although there were empty places at the table; she caught Eve’s eye and retreated back to the kitchen, grateful to escape. Michael stayed by the table, putting food on plates. Serving. There was a tight, pale set to his face and a cold fear in his eyes, and God, if Michael was panicking, there was definitely reason for a total freak-out.

As soon as the kitchen door closed again, Shane grabbed her and Eve and hustled them to the farthest corner of the room. ‘‘Right,’’ he whispered. ‘‘It’s official—this is getting way more than creepy. Did you feel that?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Eve breathed. ‘‘Wow. I think if the house had teeth, it’d be chomping down right now. You have to admit, that’s cool.’’

‘‘Cool isn’t getting us anywhere. Claire?’’

‘‘What?’’ She stared at him blankly for a few long seconds, then said, ‘‘Oh. Right. Yeah. I’ll call Amelie again.’’ She dug the cell phone out of her pocket. It was new, and came with a few important numbers preloaded on it. One of them—the first on speed dial, in fact—was a contact number for Amelie, the Founder of Morganville.

The head vampire. Claire’s boss, sort of. In Morganville, the technical term was Patron, but Claire had known from the beginning that it was just a more polite word for owner.

It rang—again—to voice mail. Claire left another hurried, half-desperate message to ‘‘come to the house, please, we need your help,’’ and hung up. She looked mutely at Eve, who sighed and took the phone, then dialed another number.

‘‘Yeah, hi,’’ she said when she got someone on the line. ‘‘Let me talk to the boss.’’ A longish pause, and Eve looked like she was steeling herself for something really unpleasant. ‘‘Oliver. It’s Eve. Don’t bother to tell me how nice it is to hear from me, because it’s not, and this is business, so save the BS. Hold on.’’

Eve handed over the phone to Claire. Frowning, Claire mouthed, Are you sure? Eve made an emphatic thumb-and-little-finger phone gesture at her ear.

Claire reluctantly took the call.

‘‘Oliver?’’ she asked. On the other end of the line, she heard a low, lazy chuckle.

‘‘Well,’’ he said. The owner of Common Grounds, the local coffee shop, had a warm voice—the kind that had made her think he was just an all-around nice guy when she’d first met him. ‘‘If it isn’t little Claire. Eve didn’t want to hear it, but I’ll tell it to you—it’s nice that you turn to me in your moment of need. It is a moment of need, I assume? And not an invitation to socialize?’’

‘‘Someone’s here,’’ she said as softly as she could. ‘‘In the house.’’

The warmth drained out of Oliver’s voice, leaving a sharp annoyance. ‘‘Then call the police if you have a prowler. I’m not your security service. It’s Michael’s house. Michael can—’’

‘‘Michael can’t do anything about it, and I don’t think we should call the cops. This man, he says his name is Mr. Bishop. He wants to talk to Amelie, but I can’t get her on the—’’

Oliver cut her off. ‘‘Stay away from him,’’ he said, and his voice had grown edges. ‘‘Do nothing. Say nothing. Tell your friends the same, especially Michael, yes? This is far beyond any of you. I will find Amelie. Do as he says, whatever he says, until we arrive.’’

And Oliver hung up on her. Claire blinked at the dead phone, shrugged, and looked at her friends. ‘‘He says do what we’re doing,’’ she said. ‘‘Take orders and wait for help.’’

‘‘Fantastic advice,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Remind me to stock a handy vampire-killing kit under the sink for times like these.’’

‘‘We’ll be okay,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Claire’s got the bracelet. ’’ She grabbed Claire’s wrist and lifted it to show the delicate glitter of the ID bracelet circling it—a bracelet that had Amelie’s symbol on it, instead of a name. It identified her as property, someone who’d signed over life and limb and soul to a vampire in return for certain protections and considerations. She hadn’t wanted to do it, but it had seemed like the only way, at the time, to ensure the safety of her friends. Especially Shane, who was already on the bad side of the vamps.

She knew that the bracelet could bring its own brand of hazard, but at least it obligated Amelie (and maybe even Oliver) to come to her defense against other vampires.

In theory.

Claire slipped the phone into her pocket. Shane took her hands in his and rubbed lightly over her knuckles, a gentle, soothing kind of motion that made her feel at least a little safe, just for a moment.

‘‘We’ll get through this,’’ he said. When he tried to kiss her, though, he winced. She put a hand lightly on his stomach.

‘‘You’re hurting,’’ she said.

"Only when I bend over. When did you get so short, anyway?"

‘‘Five minutes ago.’’ She rolled her eyes, playing along, but she was worried. According to the rules of Morganville, he was off-limits to vampires during his convalescence; the hospital bracelet still around his wrist, glowing white plastic with a big red cross on it, ensured that any passing bloodsucker would know he wasn’t fair game.

If their visitors played by the rules. Which Mr. Bishop might not. He wasn’t a Morganville vampire. He was something else.

Something worse.

‘‘Shane, I’m serious. How bad is it?’’ she asked in a low whisper, just for Shane’s ears. He ruffled her short hair, then kissed it.

‘‘I’m cool,’’ he said. ‘‘Takes more than a punk with a switchblade to put a Collins down. Count on it.’’

Unspoken was the fact that they were up against a hell of a lot more than that, and he knew it.

‘‘Don’t do anything dumb,’’ she said. ‘‘Or I’ll kill you myself.’’

‘‘Ouch, girl. Whatever happened to unconditional love around here?’’

‘‘It got tired of visiting you in the hospital.’’ She held his eyes for a long few seconds. ‘‘Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t. We have to wait. We have to.’’

‘‘Yeah, all the vampires say so. Must be true.’’ She hated hearing him say the word quite that way, with so much loathing; when he said it, she always thought of Michael, of the way that he suffered when Shane’s hatred boiled out. Michael hadn’t wanted to be a vampire, and he was trying as best he could to live with it.

Shane wasn’t making that any easier.

‘‘Look.’’ Shane put his hands around her face and stared earnestly into her eyes. ‘‘What if you take Eve and get out of here? They’re not watching you. I’ll cover for you.’’

‘‘No. I’m not leaving my parents. I’m not leaving you.’’

And they didn’t have time to talk about it, because there was a tremendous crash from the living room. The kitchen door flew open, and Michael stumbled backward through it, held by the throat by the handsome young vamp who’d come in with Bishop. He slammed Michael up against the wall. Michael was fighting, but it didn’t seem to be doing him a lot of good.

The other vampire opened his mouth in a snarl, and his big, sharp vampire teeth flashed down like switchblades.

So did Michael’s, and Claire involuntarily backed up against Shane.

Shane yelled, ‘‘Hey! Let him go!’’

Michael choked out, ‘‘Don’t!’’ but of course Shane wasn’t listening, and Claire’s grip on his arm wasn’t going to stop him, either.

What did stop him was Eve, holding a big, nasty-looking knife. She gave Shane a wild warning look, then spun around and leveled the knife at the vampire holding Michael. ‘‘You! Let him go!’’

‘‘Not until this one apologizes,’’ the vampire said, and emphasized it by banging Michael against the wall again, hard enough that every piece of glass in the room rattled. No—it wasn’t the impact; it was a low-level vibration coming from the room itself. The walls, the floor . . . the house. Like a warning growl.

‘‘You’d better let him go,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Can’t you feel that?’’

The vampire frowned at her, and his pretty green eyes narrowed even as the pupils expanded. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘Nothing,’’ Eve said, and gestured with the knife.

‘‘You’re doing it. The house doesn’t like it when you play dirty with Michael. Now step away from him before something bad happens.’’

He thought they were bluffing—Claire could see it in his eyes—but he also didn’t see much of a reason to push his luck. He let Michael go, his full lips curling in contempt. ‘‘Put that away, silly girl,’’ he told Eve, and before any of them could even blink, he slapped it out of her hand—slapped it so hard it flew across the room and stuck in the wall. Eve grabbed her hand and cradled it close, backing away from him.

‘‘Apologize,’’ he told her. ‘‘Beg my forgiveness for threatening me.’’

‘‘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 up while I’m gone.’’

And then he was out the door, moving unnaturally fast, as if it was a relief to get away from the smell of Shane’s blood. Claire swallowed and exchanged a look with Eve. Eve looked just as shaken as she felt, but she moved quickly on with priorities. ‘‘Okay. Where’s the first aid kit?’’

‘‘Upstairs,’’ Claire said. ‘‘In the bathroom.’’

‘‘Nope, it’s down here,’’ Shane said. ‘‘I moved it.’’

‘‘You did? When?’’

‘‘Couple of days ago,’’ he said. ‘‘Figured it would be better where I could get to it, since I’m the one who’s usually getting bandaged. Look under the sink.’’

Eve did, and hauled out a big white metal box marked with a red cross. She opened it up and pulled out supplies. ‘‘Shirt off.’’

‘‘You only love me for my abs.’’

‘‘Shut up, loser. Shirt off.’’

With a glance toward Claire, Shane pulled it over his head and tossed it on the breakfast table next to him. Claire took the shirt to the sink, where she rinsed it in cold water, watching as Shane’s blood tinted the water light pink. She didn’t like to watch what Eve was doing; seeing the damage that Shane put himself through made her feel sick and frail, because he’d done it—as always—for other people. For her, and Eve.

‘‘Done,’’ Eve pronounced a few minutes later. ‘‘You’d better not bleed all over my nice clean bandages, or I’ll stick a sale price on you and put you on the corner for the next neck-muncher.’’

‘‘You’re such a bitch,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Thanks.’’

She gave him an air kiss and a wink. ‘‘Like most girls wouldn’t line up to play nurse with you. Right.’’

Claire felt an unwelcome, completely surprising surge of jealousy. Eve? No, it was just Eve’s usual teasing. Nothing else, right? She wasn’t—she wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t.

Claire wrung out the shirt until her hands ached, then pressed it between two towels to try to get it as dry as possible. She handed it to Shane while Eve was busy putting the unused supplies back in the box, and helped him drag the damp fabric over his head and down his chest. She couldn’t help but let her fingers brush down his skin, and to be honest, she didn’t really try. In fact, she might have moved a little more slowly than she should have.

‘‘Feels good,’’ Shane said, very quietly, in her ear. ‘‘You okay?’’

Claire nodded. He touched her lightly under the chin to lift it, and studied her face closely.

‘‘Yeah,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re okay.’’ He brushed her lips with his and looked past her at the kitchen door as it opened.

Michael, with Claire’s parents in tow. The knot in Claire’s chest, the one tied tight around her heart, eased a couple of precious notches.

Her parents looked . . . blank. Frowning, as if they’d forgotten something important. When her mother’s eyes focused on her, Claire dredged up a smile.

‘‘Weren’t we going to have dinner?’’ her mother asked. ‘‘It’s getting very late, isn’t it? Were you going to cook, or—’’

‘‘No,’’ Michael said. ‘‘We’ll go out.’’ He grabbed his car keys from the hook next to the door. ‘‘All of us.’’