It finally dawned on her that he was thinking about Saturday, and the invitation. And that he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all.

‘‘So what should I do?’’ she asked Eve. ‘‘I mean, can’t he just call in sick for the party or something?’’

‘‘You’re kidding,’’ Eve said. ‘‘You think they’d buy an excuse? If you get an invitation to something like this, you go. End of story.’’

‘‘But—’’ Claire, who was getting glasses out of the cabinet while Eve put out plates, nearly dropped everything. ‘‘But that means that creepy little bi—’’

‘‘Language, missy.’’

‘‘—witch is going to make him go with her!’’ That made her blindly furious, and not entirely because of how upset Shane had been before. It was the whole idea of Shane going along with it. Of Ysandre putting those pale, thin fingers on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Shane hadn’t said a word to her about it. Not a single word. And she didn’t know how to help.

Eve stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds before she said, ‘‘Well, she’s not the only one who’s going, of course. Shane won’t be all by himself.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Michael’s going, too. I recognized the invitation when it came in. Didn’t open it, though.’’

Still, Eve had every reason to expect that Michael would at least ask her to go with him. Claire, on the other hand, was completely shut out.

Which made her irrationally angry again, and this time for herself. You’re jealous, she realized. Because you don’t want him going anywhere without you.

She so did not want to be that person, but there it was. And she had no idea what to do about it.

When she set Shane’s glass of Coke down in front of him, she did it with probably a little too much emphasis; he glanced up at her with a question-mark expression. Eve had already settled into her chair across the table. Michael wasn’t home, but Eve didn’t seem bothered about it this time. Maybe he’d talked to her about where he was going.

Nice to know somebody’s talking, Claire thought.

‘‘What?’’ Shane asked her, and took a drink. ‘‘Did I forget to say thanks? Because, thanks. Best Coke ever. Did you make it yourself? Special recipe?’’

‘‘Got any plans for Saturday night?’’ she asked. ‘‘I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies, or—’’

Too transparent. Shane knew instantly, and Eve choked on her forkful of microwave lasagna. The silence stretched. Claire poked at her own meal, just for something to do.

‘‘I can’t,’’ Shane finally said. ‘‘I guess you know why.’’

‘‘You’re going to that ball thing,’’ Claire said. ‘‘With Bishop’s—friend.’’

‘‘I don’t exactly have a choice.’’

‘‘Are you sure about that?’’

‘‘Of course I’m sure—why are we talking about this exactly?’’

‘‘Because—’’ She stuck the fork into her lasagna so deep it scraped the plate. ‘‘Because Michael’s going. I guess Eve is, too. And what am I supposed to do, exactly?’’

‘‘You’re kidding. Are you on crack? Because I thought you just implied that you wanted to go to the scary vampire thing. Which, by the way, I don’t.’’

Claire tried not to glare. ‘‘I thought you hated her. Ysandre. But you’re going with her.’’

‘‘I do. And I am.’’ Shane shoveled food into his mouth, a blatant excuse to end the conversation, or at least avoid it.

Eve cleared her throat. ‘‘Maybe I should, I don’t know, leave? Because this is starting to sound like one of those reality shows I don’t want to be in. Maybe you guys want to take turns in the confessional booth.’’

Shane and Claire ignored her. ‘‘I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing you can do,’’ Shane said. ‘‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’’

‘‘Stop talking with your mouth full.’’

‘‘Dude, you asked!’’

‘‘I—’’ Claire felt a sudden burn of tears in her eyes. ‘‘I just wanted you to talk to me, that’s all. But I guess you can’t even do that.’’

She picked up her uneaten lasagna and drink and took it upstairs to her room. It was her turn to throw a fit, slam a door, and sulk, and dammit, she was going to do it well.

She burst into tears the second the door was closed, put everything down on the dresser, and collapsed into a soggy heap in the corner. She hadn’t cried like this in a long time, not over something so stupid, but she just couldn’t—didn’t—

There was a knock at the door. ‘‘Claire?’’

‘‘Go away, Shane.’’ Her heart wasn’t in it, though, and he must have heard that. He opened the door. She kind of expected him to rush to her and sweep her up in a hug, but instead Shane just . . . stood there. Looking like some mixture of annoyed and confused.

‘‘Why is this about you?’’ he asked her. It was a perfectly reasonable question, so absolutely logical it made her gasp and cry harder. ‘‘I have to get dressed up in a stupid outfit. I have to pretend I don’t want to shove a stake in this bitch’s heart. You don’t.’’

‘‘But you’re going! Why are you going? You—I thought you hated her—’’

‘‘Because she said she’d kill you if I didn’t show up. And because I know it’s not a threat. She’d do it. Happy now?’’

He closed the door quietly. Claire couldn’t get her breath. The hurt in her chest seemed to be smothering her, as if every heartbeat might be her last. She heard herself make a sound, but she couldn’t tell if it was tears or anger or anguish.

Eventually, the tears stopped, and Claire wiped the wet streaks from her cheeks. She felt sore, alone, and utterly to blame for everything. Her dinner held no appeal, and all she wanted to do was curl up under the blankets with the biggest, fluffiest stuffed animal she could find.

But she couldn’t do that.

When she opened her door, she found Shane sitting outside, back against the wall. He looked up at her.

‘‘You done?’’ he asked. His eyes were red, too. Not exactly tearful, but—something. ‘‘Because it’s not like this floor’s real comfortable.’’

She sank down next to him. He put his arm around her, and her head fell against his chest. There was something so soothing about the stroke of his fingers through her hair, the soft rhythm of his breathing. The reassurance of his solid warmth next to her.

‘‘Don’t let her hurt you,’’ she whispered. ‘‘God, Shane—’’

‘‘No worries. Michael will be there, and I’m pretty sure he’d get into it if she tried. But I want you safe. Promise me that while we’re gone, you’ll go stay with your parents or something. No—’’ Because she was already trying to protest. ‘‘No, promise me. I need to know you’ll be okay.’’

She nodded, still miserable. ‘‘I promise,’’ she said, and took a deep breath to push all that away. ‘‘So what dumbass costume are you wearing?’’

‘‘Don’t ask.’’

‘‘Does it involve leather?’’

‘‘Yeah, actually, I think it might.’’ He sounded like he dreaded the prospect. She managed a smile, despite everything.

‘‘I can’t wait.’’

Shane banged his head back against the wall. ‘‘Chicks.’’

Her next visit to Myrnin’s lab brought a surprise. When she descended the steps, she saw the glow of lamps, and her first thought was, Oh God, he’s out of his cell. Her second was that she’d better get the dart gun ready, and she was unzipping the backpack to reach for it when she saw that it wasn’t Myrnin at all.

The overcrowded, dimly lit lab—which was more like a storeroom of outdated equipment, really—held a chair and reading lamp. Seated in the chair, turning pages in one of the fragile, ancient journals, was none other than Oliver.

Claire put her hand on the butt of the dart gun, just in case, although she wasn’t really sure what good a dose of antidote would do in this situation.

‘‘Oh, relax, I’m not going to attack you, Claire,’’ Oliver said in a bored voice. He didn’t even look up. ‘‘Besides, we’re on the same side these days. Or haven’t you heard?’’

She came down the remaining steps slowly. ‘‘I guess I haven’t. Was there a memo?’’ Granted, he’d come running when Eve had called about Bishop, but that didn’t necessarily put him in the category of ally in Claire’s books.

‘‘When outsiders threaten the community, the community pulls together against the outsiders. It’s a rule as old as the tribal system. You and I are in the same community, and we have a common enemy.’’

‘‘Mr. Bishop.’’

Oliver looked up, marking the place in the journal with one finger. ‘‘You have questions, I’d assume. I would, in your place.’’

‘‘All right. How long have you known him?’’

‘‘I don’t know him. I doubt anyone does who’s still alive today.’’

Claire slipped into a rickety chair across from him. ‘‘But you’ve met him.’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘When did you meet him, then?’’

Oliver tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and she remembered how she’d once thought he was nice, just a normal kind of person. Not so much now.

Not so much a person, either.

‘‘I met him in Greece,’’ he said. ‘‘Some time ago. I don’t think the circumstances would be particularly enlightening to you. Or comforting, come to think of it.’’

‘‘Did you try to kill him?’’

‘‘Me?’’ Oliver smiled slowly. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘Did Amelie?’’

He didn’t answer, but he continued to smile. The silence stretched until she wanted to scream, but she knew he wanted her to babble.

She didn’t.

‘‘Amelie’s affairs are none of yours,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I assume you’ve been listening to Myrnin’s chatter.

I confess, I find it fascinating he’s still with us. I thought him dead and gone, long ago.’’

‘‘Like Bishop?’’

‘‘He’s quite mad, you know. Myrnin. And he has been for as long as I can recall, though it certainly got worse in more recent times.’’ Oliver’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘‘He did so love the hunt, but he was always such a pathetic weeping idiot after. It doesn’t surprise me he wants to blame his own weakness on some—mythical disease. Some people simply aren’t cut out for this life.’’

Of all the things Claire had expected, that one caught her off guard. ‘‘You don’t believe there’s a disease?’’

‘‘I don’t believe that because Myrnin and a few others are—defective—that it means we’re all declining, no.’’

‘‘But—you can’t, um—’’

‘‘Reproduce?’’ Oliver said it without any emotion at all. ‘‘Perhaps we don’t wish to.’’

‘‘You tried to turn Michael.’’

Oh, she shouldn’t have said that, she really shouldn’t have; Oliver’s face tensed, and she saw the skull underneath that smooth, pale skin. A flicker of red went through his eyes. ‘‘So Michael says.’’

‘‘So Amelie says. You wanted—you wanted your own power base here. Your own converts. But you couldn’t do it. That surprised you, didn’t it? Because all of a sudden you’re—not able to.’’

‘‘Child,’’ Oliver said, ‘‘you should think carefully about the next thing you say to me. Very, very carefully.’’

He followed up with another stretch of silent staring, and this time Claire did look away. She picked at invisible lint on her backpack. ‘‘I should get to work,’’ she said. ‘‘And you aren’t supposed to be in here without Amelie knowing about it.’’

‘‘How do you know she doesn’t?’’

‘‘There’d be somebody else here watching you if she did,’’ Claire pointed out, and got a small, cold smile in response.

‘‘Clever girl. Yes, very well. Are you going to tell me to leave?’’

‘‘I don’t think I can tell you to do anything, Oliver, but if you want me to call Amelie—’’ She took her cell phone out, opened it, and scrolled through the address book.

Oliver thought about killing her. She saw it flash across his face, plain as sunrise, and she almost dialed the phone in sheer reflex.

Then it was gone, and he was smiling, and he stood up and gave her a nod. ‘‘No need to bother the Founder with such nonsense,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll be leaving. There’s only so many ridiculous mad ravings one can read at a sitting, in any case.’’

He dropped the journal onto a pile scattered near the chair and walked away, moving with effortless grace around the piles of books and barriers of mismatched furniture. He didn’t seem to move quickly, but before she could blink, he was gone, a shadow on the steps.

Claire let out a shaky breath, got the dart gun from her backpack, and went to see Myrnin.

‘‘Magnificent,’’ Myrnin said, staring down at his hands. He flexed them into fists, turned them over, extended his fingers. ‘‘I haven’t felt this good in—well, years. I had numbness in my hands—did you know?’’

It was a symptom Myrnin had forgotten to mention, and Claire wrote it down in her notebook. She had the countdown clock—a new addition to the lab, one she’d ordered from the Internet—up on the wall, and the red flickering numbers reminded both of them that Myrnin had a maximum of five hours of sanity from the current formulation of the treatment.

Myrnin followed her glance at the clock, and the giddy excitement in his expression faded. He still looked like a young man, except for his eyes; it was creepy to think he’d looked exactly that way for generations before she was born, and would long after she was dead and gone. He did so love the hunt, Oliver had said. There was really only one kind of hunt for vampires. Hunting people.

He smiled at her, and it was the smile that had won her over in the first place—sweet, gentle, inviting her to share in some delightful secret. ‘‘Thank you for the clock, Claire. That’s a great help. There’s an alarm feature?’’

‘‘It starts sounding a tone fifteen minutes before the clock runs out,’’ she said. ‘‘And it has tones striking every hour, too.’’

‘‘Very helpful. Well, then. Now that I have use of my fingers—what shall we do?’’ Myrnin wiggled his thick black eyebrows suggestively, which was actually funny, coming from him. Not that he wasn’t cute—he was—but Claire couldn’t really imagine finding him sexy.

She wondered if that would hurt his feelings.

‘‘How about if we start shelving some of these books?’’ she said. It really was getting to be a hazard; she’d tripped over stacks more than once even when it wasn’t an emergency. Myrnin, however, made a face.

‘‘I only have a few hours in my right mind, Claire. Housekeeping seems a poor way to spend them.’’

‘‘All right, what do you want to do?’’

‘‘I think we made great progress in this last formulation, ’’ he said. ‘‘Why not see if we can distill the essence further? Strengthen the effects?’’

‘‘I think we’d better do some chemical analysis on what happens in your blood before we do that.’’

Before she could stop him, he strode over to a table, picked up a rusty knife, and slashed open his arm. She was just opening her mouth to scream when he grabbed a clean beaker from the rack on the table and caught the drizzling blood. The wound healed before he’d lost more than a few teaspoons.

‘‘There are—easier ways to do that,’’ she said weakly. Myrnin held the beaker out to her. The blood looked darker than regular human blood, and thicker, but then she supposed it would—he wasn’t as warm. She tried not to think about all those people donating blood, but she couldn’t help it. Was Shane’s blood going to end up in Myrnin’s veins? And how did that work, anyway? . . . Did vampires digest the blood, or just somehow pass it whole into their circulatory systems? Did blood types matter? Conflicting Rh factors? What about bloodborne diseases, like malaria and Ebola and AIDS?

There were a lot of questions to answer. She thought Dr. Mills would be in heaven over the prospect.

‘‘Pain doesn’t matter much,’’ Myrnin said, and yanked his sleeve down over his pale, unmarked arm after wiping away the trickles of blood that were left. ‘‘One learns to ignore it, eventually.’’

Claire doubted that, but she didn’t argue. ‘‘I’m going to take part of this back to the hospital,’’ she said. ‘‘Dr. Mills wanted blood samples. They’ve got a lot of cool equipment there, he can give us detailed information we can’t get here.’’

Myrnin shrugged, clearly uninterested in Dr. Mills or any human beyond Claire. ‘‘Do as you like,’’ he said. ‘‘What kind of equipment?’’

‘‘Oh, all kinds. Mass spectrometers, blood-chemistry analyzers—you know.’’

‘‘We should get those things.’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘How can we possibly operate as we should if we don’t have the most current equipment?’’

Claire blinked at him. ‘‘Myrnin, you don’t exactly have room down here. And I don’t think your current dinky little power situation is going to let you plug in an electron microscope. That’s not the way scientists work anymore, anyway. The equipment’s too expensive, too delicate. The big hospitals and universities buy the equipment. We just rent time on it.’’

Myrnin looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘‘Rent time? But how can you schedule such a thing when you don’t know what you’re looking for or how long it will take?’’

‘‘You have to learn to schedule your epiphanies. And be patient.’’

That got a laugh out of him. ‘‘Claire, I am a vampire. We aren’t known for patience, you know. Your Dr. Mills—maybe we should pay him a visit. I’d like to meet him.’’

‘‘He’d—probably like to meet you, too,’’ she said slowly. She wasn’t at all sure how Amelie was going to feel about that, but she could tell that Myrnin had it in his head to do it whether she went along or not. ‘‘Next time, okay?’’

They both glanced at the countdown clock. ‘‘Yes,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘Next time. Ah! I meant to ask you. What did you hear about Bishop and the welcome feast?’’

‘‘Not much. I think Michael and Eve are going. Shane—Shane says he has to go.’’

‘‘With Ysandre?’’

Claire nodded. Myrnin turned away from her, shoved over a stack of books with restless enthusiasm, then another. He gave a raw cry of delight and scrambled over the piled volumes to retrieve one that, to Claire’s eyes, looked just like any other.

He threw it to her. Claire managed to grab it before it smacked into her chest. ‘‘Ow!’’ she complained. ‘‘Not so hard, please.’’

‘‘Sorry.’’ He wasn’t, really. There was a subversive, dark streak in him today.

‘‘What is this, anyway?’’

Myrnin came back to her side, took the book, opened it, and flipped pages. He paused around the middle and handed it back.

‘‘Ysandre,’’ he said.

The book was written in English, but it was from the eighteenth century, and not easy to make out, considering the stains on the pages.

‘‘Oh,’’ Claire said, surprised. That was Ysandre; he was right. ‘‘She was—’’

‘‘A very famous murderess. She helped her husband and cousins kill a king shortly after her grandfather’s death. She was hanged, in the end, but that was after she’d been made a vampire. Lucky timing, for her.’’

The book contained a gruesome account of the king’s murder, and a whole lot of others. Claire shivered and closed the book. ‘‘Why did you show me this?’’

‘‘I don’t want you to do what her grandfather did— underestimate her because she has the look of an angel. Ysandre has destroyed more lives than you can begin to imagine, starting with her own.’’ Myrnin’s eyes were dark and very, very serious. ‘‘If she wants Shane, let her have him. She’ll be done with him soon enough. Amelie won’t allow her to kill him.’’

‘‘I think she wants other things,’’ Claire said.

‘‘Ah. Sexual, then. Or some version of it. Ysandre has always been a bit—odd.’’

‘‘How do I stop her?’’

Myrnin slowly shook his head. ‘‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you. My only suggestion—which I’m quite certain you won’t like—is to let him deal with this in his own way. She’ll leave him alive, and largely intact, unless he resists her.’’

‘‘You’re right. I don’t like it.’’

‘‘Complain to the management, my dear.’’ His fit of seriousness passed off, like a cloud from the sun. ‘‘How about a game of chess, then?’’

‘‘How about we just analyze your blood, because you’ve only got a few more minutes before I have to put you back in your, ah, room?’’

‘‘Cell,’’ he corrected. ‘‘Perfectly all right to say so. And you work too hard for someone so young.’’

She worked too hard, Claire thought in frustration, because somebody had to. Myrnin certainly didn’t.

By Thursday, the upcoming masked ball was the buzz of Morganville. Claire couldn’t avoid hearing about it. At the university coffee shop, that was inevitable; people said the weirdest, most private things right out in public, like there was some invisible privacy wall around them. She’d heard way too much about her fellow students’ sexual adventures over the past few weeks; apparently, it was mating season, now that everybody was settling in for the semester. Girls rated guys. Guys rated girls. Both wanted what they couldn’t have, or had what they didn’t really want.

But as Claire sipped her coffee and wrote out her physics essay on mechanics, heat, and fields—which didn’t have to do with auto shops, weather, or farming—she heard something that made her pen come to a stuttering stop on the page.

‘‘—invitation,’’ someone was saying. The someone was sitting behind her. ‘‘Can you believe it! My God, I actually got one! They say there are only three hundred invitations being sent out, you know. It’s really going to be amazing. I was thinking of going as Marie Antoinette—what do you think?’’

They had to be talking about the masked ball. Claire shifted in her chair. That didn’t help—she still couldn’t see who was speaking.

‘‘Well, I think somebody might have actually known her, back in the day,’’ the other girl said. ‘‘So you might want to go with something safe, like Catwoman. I’ll bet none of them know Catwoman.’’

‘‘Catwoman’s good,’’ the first girl agreed. ‘‘Tight black leather is never out of style. I would look totally hot as Catwoman.’’

Claire spilled her coffee, more or less deliberately, and jumped up to gather handfuls of napkins from the common dispenser at the creamer station. On the way back, she got a look at the two who were talking.

Gina and Jennifer, Monica’s ever-present friends. Only, this time, no Monica to be seen. Interesting.

Jennifer glared at her. ‘‘What are you looking at, klutz?’’

‘‘Absolutely nothing,’’ Claire said, deadpan. She wasn’t afraid of them, not anymore. ‘‘I wouldn’t go as Catwoman. Not with those thighs.’’

‘‘Oh, mee-yow.’’

She gathered up books and coffee, and retreated to a table closer to the actual coffee bar. Eve was working. She looked perky today, bright-eyed and smiling; she had on red, and it totally worked for her. Goth, but somehow cheerful. She still grieved for her dad—Claire saw it in odd moments, when she thought nobody was watching—but Eve had pulled herself together, and was holding it together despite all the odds.

She had a break in the coffee line, so she flashed her coworker a hand signal of five—a five-minute break, Claire guessed as Eve stripped off the apron and ducked under the bar to slip into the chair opposite her.

‘‘So,’’ she said, ‘‘I heard from Billy Harrison that his dad got an invitation to this ball thing, from Tamara—the vamp who owns all those warehouses on the north side, and runs the paper? And he said that vamps all over town are going, and taking humans as their—I don’t know, dates? That’s weird, right? That they’re all bringing humans?’’

‘‘It’s never happened before?’’

‘‘Not that I know of,’’ Eve said. ‘‘I asked around, but nobody’s seen anything like it. It’s become the hot-ticket event of the year.’’ Her smile dimmed slightly. ‘‘I guess Michael forgot to send me mine. My invitation. I should remind him.’’

Claire felt a tight little knot tug inside. ‘‘He hasn’t asked you?’’

‘‘He will.’’

‘‘But . . . it’s the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?’’

‘‘He will. Besides, it’s not like I have to come up with some elaborate costume or anything. Have you seen my closet? Half of what I wear qualifies as dress-up. ’’ Eve glanced at her, then down. ‘‘You?’’

‘‘Nobody’s asking me to go.’’ Yeah, the bitterness was there in her voice. Claire couldn’t keep it out. ‘‘You know who Shane’s going with.’’

‘‘It’s not his fault. It’s hers. Ysandre.’’ Eve made a face. ‘‘What kind of a name is that, anyway?’’

‘‘French. Myrnin gave me a book about her,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I knew she was dangerous, but honestly, she’s worse than I thought. She might have started out just trying to get by, but she was a real player, back when politics was war.’’

‘‘What about the guy? François?’’ Eve rolled her eyes when she said his name, doing her best foo-foo French pronunciation. ‘‘He thinks he’s hotter than the surface of the sun. Who’s he taking?’’

‘‘No idea,’’ Claire said. ‘‘But—it’s not a date, you know. It’s—’’ She had no real idea what it was. ‘‘It’s something else.’’

‘‘Looks like a date, dresses like a date, dates like a date,’’ Eve said. ‘‘And I intend to be arm candy for Michael and protect him from all the big, bad social climbers out there looking to grab on to the newest vamp in town.’’

‘‘He’s not, though,’’ Claire said. ‘‘The newest. Not anymore. Bishop and his crew are newer than he is, at least in terms of novelty factor.’’

Eve frowned. ‘‘Yeah,’’ she said. ‘‘I guess that’s true.’’

A shadow fell across their table, but before they could look up, something hit the surface between them, and both Claire and Eve involuntarily focused on it.

It was one of the cream-colored invitations.

They looked up. Monica. She swept her perfect blond hair back over her shoulders, raised her eyebrows, and gave Eve a slow, evil smile.

‘‘Too bad,’’ she said. ‘‘I guess your hottie boyfriend knows where his social bread is buttered, after all.’’

Eve’s eyes widened. She turned the invitation around to read it, but even upside down, Claire saw the incriminating evidence.

The name jumped out at her like a fanged surprise attack. Michael Glass. Michael was inviting Monica.

Eve didn’t say another word. She shoved the invitation back at Monica, got up, and ducked behind the coffee bar to don her apron again. Claire stared after her, stricken. She could see the jittery anguish in her friend’s movements, but not her face. Eve was keeping carefully turned away, and even when she went to the espresso machine again to pull shots, she kept staring down, hiding her pain.

Claire’s shock thawed into a nice warm glow of anger. ‘‘You’re a total bitch, you know that?’’ she said. Monica raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘‘You didn’t have to do that.’’

‘‘Not my fault you freaks can’t hang on to your men. I heard Shane was boy-toying around with Ysandre. Too bad. I’ll bet you never even got him between the sheets, did you? Or wait . . . maybe you did. Because I’ll bet that would drive him straight into somebody else’s bed.’’

Claire fantasized for a few seconds about planting her physics textbook squarely in the middle of Monica’s pouty, lip-glossed smile. She glared, instead, remembering how effective Oliver’s periods of icy silence could be. Monica finally shrugged, picked up the invitation, and tucked it in the pocket of her leather jacket.

‘‘I’d say ‘See you,’ but I probably won’t,’’ Monica said. ‘‘I guess you can hold your own Loser Party on Saturday, with special shots of cyanide or something. Enjoy.’’

She joined up with Gina and Jennifer, and the three girls walked away, turning heads. The golden, fortunate girls, tight and toned and perfect.

Laughing.

Claire realized she was clenching her fists, forced herself to relax and breathe, and picked up her pen again. The details of the essay kept slipping away, because all she could see was Monica preening at Michael’s side, rubbing Eve’s face in the humiliation. And even when she looked past that, there was Ysandre, and Shane, and that hurt even more.

‘‘Why?’’ she whispered. ‘‘Michael, why would you do that to her?’’ Had they had a fight of some kind? Eve didn’t seem to think so. She acted like it had come as a bolt from the blue sky.

With a feeling that she was making a terrible mistake, she dialed the first speed-dial number on her phone.

‘‘Yes, Claire,’’ Amelie said.

‘‘I need to talk to you. About this masked-ball thing. What’s going on?’’

For a few seconds Claire was sure Amelie would hang up on her, but then the vampire said, ‘‘Yes, I suppose we must talk about it. I will meet you upstairs at your home. You know where.’’

She meant the hidden room. ‘‘When?’’

‘‘I am, of course, at your convenience,’’ Amelie said, which was winter cold and utterly untrue. ‘‘Would an hour suffice?’’

‘‘I’ll be there,’’ Claire said. Her hands were shaking, fine little trembles that were a sign of the inner earthquake. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘Oh, don’t thank me, child,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find anything I have to say will be of the least comfort to you.’’

The house was empty when Claire got there. She checked every room, including the laundry room in the basement, to be absolutely sure. Eve was still at work; Michael was at the music store. Shane—she had no idea where Shane was, except that the house was Shane free.

Claire pressed the hidden button in the hallway on the second floor, and the paneling opened on the dusty steps leading up to the hidden room. She shut the opening behind her and trudged up, feeling sicker and more isolated with every single stair.

At the top, color spilled across the walls: Victorian lamps, all jeweled hues and pale, watery light. There were no windows, no exits here. Only a few nice pieces of dusty furniture, and Amelie.

And the bodyguards, of course. Amelie hardly ever went anywhere without at least one. There were two this time, lurking in the corners. One of them nodded to Claire. She was on nodding terms with scary bodyguard dudes. Great. She really was moving up in the social ladder of Morganville.

‘‘Ma’am,’’ Claire said, and stayed standing. Amelie was seated, but she didn’t look as though she was in any mood to indulge the fantasy that Claire was her equal. It was hard to determine Amelie’s feelings, but Claire was pretty sure that this one qualified as impatient, with a possible upgrade to annoyed.

‘‘I have very little time for soothing your ruffled feathers,’’ Amelie said. She shifted a little, which was surprising; Amelie was usually very still, very composed. That was almost fidgeting. There was something else unusual about her today—the color of her suit. It was still classic and beautifully tailored, but it was in a dark gray, much darker than Amelie usually preferred. It turned her eyes the color of storm clouds. ‘‘Yet you’ve done more than I asked with Myrnin. I am inclined to forgive your impertinence, if you understand that it’s an indulgence on my part. Not a right on yours.’’

‘‘I understand,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I just—this masked ball. Myrnin called it a welcome feast. He acted like it had something important to do with Mr. Bishop.’’

Amelie’s eyes, which had been regarding her with impersonal focus, suddenly sharpened. ‘‘You’ve spoken with Myrnin regarding Bishop’s arrival?’’

‘‘Well—he asked me what was happening in town, and—’’ Claire broke off, because Amelie was suddenly standing. And her bodyguards had moved out of the corners of the room and were very close, close enough to hurt. ‘‘You didn’t tell me not to!’’

‘‘I told you to stay out of my affairs!’’ Something pale and hungry flickered in those eyes, as scary in its own way as Mr. Bishop. Amelie deliberately relaxed. ‘‘Very well. The damage is done. What did Myrnin tell you?’’

‘‘He said—’’ Claire wet her lips and glanced at the bodyguards hovering terrifyingly close. Amelie raised an eyebrow and nodded, and Claire felt rather than saw them move away. ‘‘He said you both thought Bishop was dead, so he was surprised to find out that he’d come to town. He said that Bishop wanted revenge. Against you.’’

‘‘What did he tell you about the feast?’’

‘‘Only that it was part of some kind of ceremony to welcome Bishop to town,’’ Claire said. ‘‘And that you weren’t going to fight him if you were putting on the feast.’’

Amelie’s smile was quick and cold. ‘‘Myrnin knows something about the world and its politics. No, I’m not going to fight him. Not unless I must. Did he tell you anything else?’’

‘‘No.’’ Claire sucked up her courage. ‘‘Ysandre’s taking Shane. And Michael—I just found out he’s going, and he’s taking Monica. Not Eve.’’

‘‘Do you imagine I have the slightest concern for how your friends arrange their romantic affairs?’’

‘‘No, it’s just—I want you to invite me. Please. All the vampires are taking humans. Why don’t you take me?’’

Amelie’s eyes widened. Not much, but it was enough to make Claire think she’d scored a big-time surprise. ‘‘Why would you possibly wish to attend?’’

‘‘Monica says it’s the social event of the season,’’ Claire said. She wasn’t sure a joke was the way to go; she knew Amelie had a sense of humor, but it was obscure.

Today, it was apparently nonexistent.

‘‘All right, the truth is, I’m worried about Michael and Shane. I just want to be sure—sure they’re okay.’’

‘‘And how would you go about ensuring that, if I cannot?’’ Amelie didn’t wait for an answer, because there obviously wasn’t one. ‘‘You want to watch the boy, to be sure he doesn’t fall prey to Ysandre. Is that it?’’

Claire swallowed and nodded. That wasn’t all, but that was a lot of it.

‘‘It’s a waste of time. No,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘You will not attend, Claire. I tell you this, explicitly, so that we are understood: I cannot risk you in this. You will not be at this event. Neither you nor Myrnin. Is that clear?’’

‘‘But—’’

Amelie’s voice rose to a shout. ‘‘Is that clear?’’ The fury cut like knives, and Claire gasped and nodded. She wanted to take a step back from the horrible glow in Amelie’s eyes, but she knew that would be a very bad idea. She’d been around Myrnin enough to understand that retreat was a sign of weakness, and weakness triggered attack.

Amelie continued to stare at her, fixed and silent, and there was a wildness to her that Claire couldn’t understand.

‘‘Mistress,’’ said one of the bodyguards. ‘‘We should go.’’ He made it sound as if they had someplace to be, but Claire had the eerie feeling that he was intervening deliberately. Providing Amelie an excuse to back off.

‘‘Yes,’’ Amelie said. There was a husky tone to her voice Claire had never heard before. ‘‘By all means, let us be done with this. You have heard my words, Claire. I warn you, don’t test me on this. You’re valuable to me, but you are not irreplaceable, and you have friends and family in this town who are far less useful.’’

There was no mistaking that for anything but an outright threat. Claire nodded slowly.

‘‘Say the words,’’ Amelie said.

‘‘Yes. I understand.’’

‘‘Good. Now don’t bother me again. You may go.’’

Claire backed away toward the stairs. She even backed down two steps before turning and hurrying down the rest, and when she was halfway there, she realized that the control to open the door from inside lay at the top, in the couch where Amelie sat.

If Amelie didn’t want to let her out, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Claire reached the landing at the bottom. The door was still closed. She looked back up the stairs and saw shadows moving, but heard nothing.

The lights went out.

‘‘No,’’ she whispered, and fear came down like a bucket of freezing water, from head to toe. Her hand reached out blindly to stroke the closed door. ‘‘No, don’t do this—’’

Something had changed in Amelie. She wasn’t the cool, remote queen she’d been before. She was more—animal. More angry.

And Claire finally admitted it to herself: Amelie was more hungry.

‘‘Please,’’ she said to the dark. She knew there were ears listening. ‘‘Please let me go now.’’

She heard a sharp click, and the door moved under her fingertips, swinging inward. Claire grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled it open. She was suddenly in the hall, and when she looked back, the door was closing.

She collapsed against the wall, trembling.

That went well, she thought sarcastically. She wanted to scream, but she was almost sure that would be a very, very bad idea.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, and Claire heard the clump of heavy shoes on the wood floor.

‘‘Eve?’’ she called.

‘‘Yeah.’’ Eve sounded exhausted. ‘‘Coming.’’

She looked even worse than she sounded. The red outfit that had flattered her so much before seemed to scream now, overpowering her; she seemed ready to drop, and from the state of her makeup, she’d already shed a lot of tears.

‘‘Oh,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Eve . . .’’

Eve tried for a smile, but there wasn’t much left. ‘‘Pretty stupid to be upset about Monica, right? But I think that’s why it hurts so bad. It’s not like he’s taking somebody halfway nice or anything. He has to pick the walking social disease.’’ Eve wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her eyeliner and mascara had made a true Gothic mess, trickling in dirty streaks down her pale cheeks. ‘‘Don’t try to tell me he was ordered to do it. I don’t care if he was—he could have told me first. And why aren’t you arguing with me?’’

‘‘Because you’re right.’’

‘‘Damn right I’m right.’’ Eve kicked open the door to her room, walked in, and threw herself facedown on the black bed. Claire clicked on the lights, which mostly consisted of strings of dim white Christmas lights and one lamp with a bloodred scarf draped over the shade. Eve screamed into her pillow and punched it. Claire perched on the corner of the bed.

‘‘I’m going to kill him,’’ Eve said, or at least that was what it sounded like filtered through the pillow. ‘‘Stake him right in the heart, shove garlic up his ass, and—and—’’

‘‘And what?’’

Michael was standing in the doorway. Claire jumped off the bed in alarm, and Eve sat up with her pillow clutched in both hands. ‘‘When did you get home?’’ Claire demanded.

‘‘Apparently just in time to hear my funeral plans. I especially like the garlic up the ass. It’s . . . different.’’

‘‘Yeah, well, I’m not finished,’’ Eve said. She slithered off the bedspread, dropped the pillow, and faced Michael with her arms crossed. ‘‘I’m also going to stake you outside in the sun, on top of a fire ant mound. And laugh.’’

‘‘What did I do?’’

‘‘What did you do?’’ Eve’s glare was fierce enough to rip even a vampire’s heart right out of his chest. ‘‘You can’t be serious.’’

Michael went very still, and Claire thought the expression in his eyes was the definition of busted. ‘‘Monica. She told you.’’

‘‘Duh. Why wouldn’t she take the chance to rub my face in it, you loser? And speaking of that, Monica? Did you lose a bet or something? Because that’s really the only reason I can think of for you to humiliate me like this.’’

‘‘No,’’ Michael said. His gaze flickered to Claire in an unmistakable plea for her to leave. She didn’t. ‘‘I can’t explain, Eve. I’m sorry, I just can’t. But it’s not what it—’’

‘‘Don’t you even say it’s not what it looks like, because it’s always what it looks like!’’ Eve lunged forward, shoved Michael square in the chest, and drove him a foot backward, out of her room. ‘‘I can’t talk to you right now. Get out! And stay out!’’

She slammed the door and locked it. Not, Claire reflected, that a lock would do any good, considering how strong Michael was. But he probably wouldn’t go around battering down doors in his own house, at least.

‘‘Eve, you have to listen to me. Please.’’

Eve threw herself back on the bed, grabbed her iPod from the drawer, and shoved headphones over her ears as she hit the play button. Claire could hear the thundering metal all the way across the room.

‘‘Eve?’’

Claire opened the door and looked at Michael. ‘‘I don’t think she’s listening,’’ she said. ‘‘You really screwed this up—you know that, right? At least Shane got ordered to do what he did. You chose, didn’t you?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Michael agreed softly. ‘‘I chose. But you really don’t have any idea of what my choices were, do you?’’

She watched him walk away, enter his room at the end of the hall, and shut the door.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it really wasn’t what it looked like. Not that Eve was going to listen. Claire stood there for a while, listening to the cold and stony silence, and then shook her head and went downstairs.

Chili dogs weren’t the same eaten alone.

Shane got home after dark, and the second Claire saw him, she knew something was wrong. He looked— distracted. Different.

And he barely nodded to her on his way through the living room to the kitchen. She was curled up on the sofa highlighting text in her English book, wondering for the thousandth time why anybody thought knowing about the Brontë sisters was important and multitasking by not really watching a cooking show on cable TV.

‘‘Hey,’’ she called after him. ‘‘I left the chili on for you!’’

He didn’t answer. Claire capped her marker pen and went to the kitchen door. She didn’t open it, but she stood and listened. Shane wasn’t making the normal dish noises of a guy desperate for dinner; in fact, he wasn’t making any noise at all.

Claire was debating whether to return to studying when she heard him open the back door of the house. Voices, hushed and muffled. She eased the door open just a little, and listened harder.

‘‘You’re lucky I don’t call the cops,’’ Shane was saying. ‘‘Walk away, man.’’

‘‘I can’t. I need to talk to her.’’

‘‘You’re not coming near either one of the girls, got me?’’

‘‘I’m not going to hurt anyone!’’

She knew that voice, or thought she did. But that couldn’t be right, it just couldn’t be.

Shane could not be talking to Eve’s brother, Jason, especially not at the back door. She had to be imagining things. Maybe it was someone else, someone who just sounded like Jason Rosser. . . .

Claire eased the door open enough to get a tiny slice of a view.

No, that was Jason. There was absolutely no doubt about it. He was even wearing the same skanky, stained jeans and leather jacket. His hair was lank and even greasier than the last time she’d seen him, and he looked sallow and sick.

‘‘Come on, man,’’ he said. ‘‘Just let me talk to Claire. You keep me waiting out here in the dark, I’m lunch meat.’’

‘‘Good to know.’’

Jason put out a hand to stop Shane from closing the door on him. ‘‘Please, man. I’m asking.’’

Shane hesitated. Claire couldn’t really imagine why. Jason had stalked Eve; he’d killed—or at least he said he’d killed—innocent girls out of some misguided attempt to get the vampires to sign him up for service. He’d stabbed Shane in the guts.

Shane did swing the bat at him first, Claire’s prim little voice of conscience said. She told it to shut up. Jason had engineered that fight, he’d provoked Shane into it, and it was only the fact that they’d gotten an ambulance there so fast that had saved Shane’s life.

Jason didn’t look like a crazy killer just now. He looked like a half-starved scared junkie kid who was terrified out of his mind. And desperate.

Claire came into the kitchen. Jason’s face lit up. ‘‘Claire! Claire, tell him—tell him it’s okay. I promise, I’m not going to hurt anybody. Tell him it’s okay to let me in so I can talk to you.’’

‘‘It’s not okay,’’ Claire said. ‘‘But he already knows that.’’

Shane nodded. He shoved Jason backward, off-balance, off the porch. Jason tripped over a brick and fell flat on his ass. He glared up at Shane and rolled slowly to his feet. ‘‘Claire, I’m supposed to tell you something. From Oliver.’’

‘‘Oliver’s got nothing to tell us that we want to hear, man. Especially from you.’’

‘‘You sure about that?’’

Shane grinned. ‘‘Pretty sure. Good luck with that survival thing out there in the dark.’’

Shane started to shut the door. He almost made it before Jason blurted out, ‘‘Bishop’s setting a trap. We can tell you where and when.’’

Claire put a hand on Shane’s shoulder, and he kept the door open, just a crack. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

‘‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’’ Jason looked desperate enough to claw paint off the door. ‘‘Please, Claire. I swear, I’m on the level here.’’

‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘If Oliver’s got something to say, I’ll talk to him, not to you.’’

Resentment flickered in Jason’s dark eyes like oil on fire, and he got up and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘‘Yeah? You gonna play it like that?’’

‘‘I’m not playing at all,’’ Claire said.

‘‘I think you are. So maybe we do it the hard way after all.’’ Jason threw himself against the door with such force that Shane was knocked backward, and Claire lost her footing and ended up flat on her back on the kitchen floor. As she twisted around to try to get up, she felt Jason’s hand close on her hair, painfully tight. He yanked her up to her knees and dragged her out into the night. She yelled and fought, but he had a lot of experience with making girls do what he wanted.

And she stopped fighting when he put a gun to her head.

‘‘Good,’’ he said in her ear, and even in a blind, black rage she thought his breath was disgusting enough to peel paint. ‘‘Calm down, I’m not going to hurt you. I was serious. You need to listen to me.’’

Shane followed them outside, moving slowly but never taking his eyes off Jason. Off the gun. ‘‘Let her go.’’

Jason laughed, and dragged her backward to the driveway, where a big black car was waiting. Shane followed at a safe distance. Don’t, Claire mouthed. She’d seen Jason nearly kill Shane before. She couldn’t stand to see it happen again. I’ll be okay.

Jason opened the driver’s-side door of the car, shoved her inside, and pushed in after. She immediately lunged for the other door.

Locked.

Jason slammed the car door and turned the key to start the engine. He took a firmer grip on Claire’s hair. ‘‘Stay still!’’

Something heavy fell on the roof of the car, denting it down almost to the level of their heads; Claire and Jason both ducked, and Claire yelped at the thought that panic might make him squeeze the trigger.

It didn’t.

A fist punched through the metal roof of the car, grabbed the ragged edge, and peeled it back like a tin can lid. And the face that looked down was Michael’s.

No—not Michael; it was Vampire Michael. Fangs completely down, eyes completely crimson.

Michael was angry. Also, terrifying.

He dropped through the hole in a fall of moonlight, took hold of Jason’s gun hand, and yanked him away from Claire like a toy. A breakable one. Jason screamed. The gun went off, and Claire flinched and covered her head, trying to pull into a ball in the corner. The car shook as Michael threw Jason out, straight up through the opening in the roof. Jason screamed the whole way up, and the whole way down. He hit the ground with a sickening thud and rolled.

Michael launched himself up out of the car, landed lightly on his feet in the wash of headlights, and walked to where Jason was crawling to get away. Jason rolled over. He still had the gun.

He shot Michael six times, point-blank. Claire flinched with every loud crack.

Michael didn’t.

He reached Jason, took the gun, ripped it in half, and threw the two pieces into the trash can leaning at the side of the house. Jason looked shocked, then resigned, as Michael reached down and grabbed him by the collar of his leather jacket.

Shane reached through the ragged sunroof, opened the car door, and grabbed Claire. He pulled her out and to her feet. ‘‘You okay?’’ He sounded deeply shaken, and he kept running his hands over her, looking for bullet holes, she guessed. ‘‘Claire, say something! ’’

‘‘Stop him,’’ she whispered, looking past him at Michael. ‘‘Don’t let him do that.’’

Because Michael was going to bite Jason, and once he did, there’d be no going back. Shane sent her a look, one that probably meant he thought she was crazy, but she forced herself to stay still and calm, even if her insides were quivering in terror.

‘‘Shane,’’ she said, and tried her best to channel Amelie’s cool authority. ‘‘Stop him.’’

She saw the reality of what was happening dawn on Shane, and he nodded and turned toward Michael, who didn’t look as if he was in any mood to be talked off the murder ledge.

But Shane didn’t have to try, because Michael looked up and saw Eve standing in the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth, dark eyes wide in horror, staring at her boyfriend threatening to suck blood out of her little brother.

Michael let go. Jason collapsed back to the ground, whimpering, and tried to crawl away.

Michael put his foot on Jason’s back, holding him in place. ‘‘No,’’ he said. His voice sounded low and very, very dangerous. ‘‘I don’t think so. Attempted kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder of a vampire? You’re done, man. It’s all over but the screaming.’’

‘‘You asshole!’’ Jason yelled. ‘‘I’m working for Oliver! You can’t touch me!’’

He skinned back the sleeve on his jacket, and there, on his wrist, was a silver bracelet.

Michael responded by pressing his foot harder into Jason’s back. ‘‘Then you and I are going to have a talk with Oliver about how he sends his little worm to my house to shoot me,’’ he said. ‘‘I think you’re not going to like that very much. Because I’m pretty sure that Oliver didn’t ask you to do that kind of thing.’’

‘‘Michael,’’ Shane said. It was a warning, and as Claire turned, she saw why—another car was arriving, a police car with lights flashing. It pulled to a stop in the driveway, blocking in Jason’s half-peeled car, and Richard Morrell got out of the driver’s side carrying a shotgun. Detectives Joe Hess and Travis Lowe were with him, and each of them held a drawn gun.

She’d never seen the three of them looking so grim, but she was glad to see them. At least this meant somebody would be putting a stop to Jason and his craziness at last. Michael was right: it wasn’t going to be a good ending for him, but—

Richard Morrell put the shotgun to his shoulder. He was aiming at Michael. The other two men took up shooting stances.

Claire gasped.

‘‘Out of the way,’’ Detective Hess ordered Shane, with a jerk of his head. Shane didn’t argue. He held up his hands and backed away. Michael turned and saw the cops aiming at him, and frowned.

‘‘Let him go, Michael,’’ Travis Lowe said. ‘‘Let’s do this easy.’’

‘‘What’s going on?’’

‘‘One thing at a time. Let the kid up.’’

Michael removed his foot. Jason scrambled to a standing position and tried to run; Richard Morrell sighed, handed his shotgun to Joe Hess, and took off after him. As fast as Jason was, Richard was faster. He took him down in a flying tackle before he was halfway to the fence. He rolled Jason onto his back and handcuffed him with brutal efficiency, yanked him upright, and marched him back to where the other two policemen held Michael at gunpoint.

‘‘What’s going on?’’ Michael repeated. ‘‘He tries to kidnap Claire, and you come after me? Why?’’

‘‘Let’s just say we’re saving you from yourself,’’ Detective Hess said. ‘‘You okay? You calm?’’

Michael nodded. Hess lowered his gun, and so did Travis Lowe. Richard Morrell put Jason in the backseat of the police car.

‘‘We got a tip,’’ Hess continued, ‘‘that you’d gone berserk and were trying to kill your friends. But since I see they’re all standing here alive and well, I’m guessing little Jason is the real problem.’’

Richard came back, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Clearly, he didn’t like touching Jason, either. ‘‘Did he break in?’’

‘‘No,’’ Shane said. ‘‘He pulled a gun on us and grabbed Claire at the back door. He was trying to drive away with her. Michael stopped him.’’

Michael, Claire realized as her heartbeat started to slow, had also been shot six times in the chest at point-blank range. His loose white shirt had the blackened ragged holes to prove it, each one rimmed with a thin outline of red. She remembered Myrnin swiping the knife carelessly down his arm, laying open veins and arteries and muscles just to get a blood sample.

She couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t look like there was a mark on Michael’s chest under the shirt, and he wasn’t moving like a man with bullets buried inside. Not even one in shock.

Wow.

‘‘What did he want?’’ Detective Hess asked. ‘‘Did he say?’’

‘‘He said he wanted to talk to me,’’ Claire said. That much was true, but she didn’t want to drag Oliver into this. It was enough of a mess already. ‘‘I think he really did want to. He just knew he wouldn’t be able to do it here. I don’t—I don’t think he really meant to hurt me.’’ This time.

Shane was looking at her like she’d grown a second head, one with serious brain damage. ‘‘It’s Jason. Of course he meant to hurt you! Wasn’t the gun pointed at your head a clue?’’

He was right, of course, but—she’d seen the look in Jason’s eyes, and it hadn’t been the predatory glee she’d seen before when he was playing his little sadistic games. This had been flat-out desperation. She couldn’t explain it, but she believed Jason.

This time.

Shane was still watching her with a frown. So was Michael. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Shane asked, and folded his arms around her. The warm weight of his body pressed against hers, and she realized just how cold she felt. She was shivering, and her knees felt weak underneath her. I could collapse, she realized. And he’d catch me.

But she stayed on her own two feet, pulled back, and looked him in the eyes.

‘‘I’m fine,’’ she said. She kissed him. ‘‘Everything’s fine.’’