Through common consent, none of them went to bed. They didn’t eat. The four of them crammed onto the couch, grateful for the warmth and the company, and put on a movie. A scary one, as it turned out, but Claire was glad to focus on someone else’s problems for a change. Being hunted by a city full of zombies might have seemed like a relief in some ways—at least you knew whom to run from, and whom to run toward. She lay with her head on Shane’s chest, listening more to him breathe than to the characters babbling at one another. His hand kept a slow, steady rhythm on her hair, stroking all her tension and fear away.

Eve and Michael didn’t cuddle, but after a while, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer, and she didn’t resist.

By the time the DVD menu came on after the credits, they were all sound asleep, and trouble was far, far away.

Fridays were usually good days, classwise; even most of the professors were in better moods.

Not this Friday, though. There was a weird tension in the air, along with the increasingly chilly bite to the wind. Her first professor of the day had lost his temper over a cell phone going off, and reduced some sophomore sorority girl to tears before exiling her from the class with a flat-out failing grade. Her second class didn’t go much better; the TA had a headache, maybe a hangover, and was grumpy as hell—too much to bother slowing down as he sped through the lecture, or to answer any questions.

The only good thing about her third hour was that she was confident it would be over in under an hour. Professor Anderson had widely advertised today’s supposedly pop quiz; only a complete coma patient wouldn’t know to come prepared. Anderson was one of those professors—the ones who gave you plenty of chances, but the test was The Test, full stop. He gave only two a year, and if you didn’t do well on both of them, you were screwed. He had a reputation for being a nice guy who smiled a lot, but he’d never yet allowed anybody extra-credit work, or so Claire had heard.

The history majors liked to call his class Andersonville, which was a not very funny reference to the Civil War prison camp. Claire had studied her brains out, and she was absolutely sure that she would ace the test, and have extra time left over.

She stopped off in the restroom, since she was a little early, and carefully balanced her backpack against the wall of the bathroom stall as she did her business. She was going over dates and events in her head when she heard a soft, muffled laugh from near the sinks. Something about it made her freeze—it wasn’t innocent, that laugh. There was something weird about it.

‘‘I hear there’s a test in Andersonville today,’’ a voice said. A familiar one. It was Monica Morrell. ‘‘Hey, does this color look okay?’’

‘‘Nice,’’ Gina said, fulfilling her job as Affirmation Friend #1. ‘‘Is that the new winter red?’’

‘‘Yeah, it’s supposed to shimmer. Is it shimmering? ’’

‘‘Oh yeah.’’

Claire flushed the toilet, grabbed her backpack, and braced herself for impact. She tried to look as if she didn’t care a bit that Monica, Gina, and Jennifer were occupying three out of the four sinks in the bathroom. Or that the rest of the place was deserted.

Monica was touching up her hooker-red lipstick, blowing kisses at her reflection. Claire kept her eyes straight ahead. Get the soap. Turn on the water. Wash—

‘‘Hey, freak, you’re in Andersonville, right?’’

Claire nodded. She scrubbed, rinsed, and reached for the paper towels.

Jennifer snagged her backpack and pulled it out of her reach.

‘‘Hey!’’ Claire grabbed for her stuff, but Jennifer dodged out of her way, and then Monica took hold of her wrist and snapped something cold and metallic around it. For a crazy second Claire thought, She’s switched bracelets with me. Now I’m Oliver’s property. . . .

But it was the cold metal of a handcuff, and Monica bent down and fastened the other end to the metal post on the bottom of the nearest bathroom stall.

‘‘Well,’’ she said as she stepped back and put her hands on her hips, ‘‘I guess you’ll be finding out just how tough the little general can be, Claire. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’re so smart, you’ll just fill in those test answers by the power of your mind or something. ’’

Claire yanked uselessly at the handcuffs, even though she knew that was stupid; she wasn’t going anywhere. She kicked the bathroom stall. It was tough enough to stand up to generations of college students; her frustration wasn’t going to make a dent.

‘‘Give me the key!’’ she yelled. Monica dangled it in front of her—small, silver, and unreachable.

‘‘This key?’’ Monica tossed it into the toilet in the first stall and flushed. ‘‘Oops. Wow, that’s a shame. You wait here. I’ll get help!’’

They all laughed. Jennifer contemptuously shoved her backpack across the floor to her. ‘‘Here,’’ Jennifer said. ‘‘You might want to cram for the test or something.’’

Claire grimly opened her backpack and began looking for something, anything she could use as a lock-pick. Not that she knew the first thing about picking locks, exactly, but she could learn. She had to learn. She barely looked up as the three girls exited the restroom, still laughing.

Her choices were a couple of paper clips, a bobby pin, and the power of her fury, which unfortunately couldn’t melt metal. Only her brain.

Claire took the cell phone out of her pocket and considered her choices. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Eve or Shane had experience with handcuffs—and getting out of them—but she wasn’t sure she wanted to endure the questions, either.

She called the Morganville Police Department, and asked for Richard Morrell. After a short delay, she was put through to his patrol car.

‘‘It’s Claire Danvers,’’ she said. ‘‘I—need some help.’’

‘‘What kind of help?’’

‘‘Your sister kind of—handcuffed me in a bathroom. And I have a test. I don’t have a key. I was hoping you—’’

‘‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m heading to a domestic-disturbance call. It’s going to take me about an hour to get over there. I don’t know what you said to Monica, but if you just—’’

‘‘What, apologize?’’ Claire snapped. ‘‘I didn’t say anything. She ambushed me, and she flushed the key, and I have to get to class!’’

Richard’s sigh rattled the phone. ‘‘I’ll get there as fast as I can.’’

He hung up. Claire set to work with the bobby pin, and watched the minutes crawl by. Tick, tock, there went her grade in Andersonville.

By the time Richard Morrell showed up with a handcuff key to let her loose, the classroom was dark. Claire ran the whole way to Professor Anderson’s office, and felt a burst of relief when she saw that his door was open. He had to give her a break.

He was talking to another student whose back was to Claire; she paused in the doorway, trembling and gasping for breath, and got a frown from Professor Anderson. ‘‘Yes?’’ He was young, but his blond hair was already thinning on top. He had a habit of wearing sport jackets that a man twice his age would have liked; maybe he thought the tweed and leather patches made people take him seriously.

Claire didn’t care what he looked like. She cared that he had the authority to assign grades.

‘‘Sir, hi, Claire Danvers, I’m in—’’

‘‘I know who you are, Claire. You missed the test.’’

‘‘Yes, I—’’

‘‘I don’t accept excuses except in the case of death or serious illness.’’ He looked her over. ‘‘I don’t see any signs of either of those.’’

‘‘But—’’

The other student was watching her now, with a malicious light in her eyes. Claire didn’t know her, but she had on a silver bracelet, and Claire was willing to bet that she was one of Monica’s near and dear sorority girls. Glossy dark hair cut in a bleeding-edge style, perfect makeup. Clothes that reeked of credit card abuse.

‘‘Professor,’’ the girl said, and whispered something to him. His eyes widened. The girl gathered up her books and left, giving Claire a wide berth.

‘‘Sir, I really didn’t—it wasn’t my fault—’’

‘‘From what I just heard, it was very much your fault,’’ Anderson said. ‘‘She said you were asleep out in the common room. She said she passed you on the way to class.’’

‘‘I wasn’t! I was—’’

‘‘I don’t care where you were, Claire. I care where you weren’t, namely, at your desk at the appointed time, taking my test. Now please go.’’

‘‘I was handcuffed!’’

He looked briefly thrown by that, but shook his head. ‘‘I’m not interested in sorority pranks. If you work hard the rest of the semester, you might still be able to pull out a passing grade. Unless you’d like to drop the class. I think you still have a day or two to make that decision.’’

He just wasn’t listening. And, Claire realized, he wasn’t going to listen. He didn’t really care about her problems. He didn’t really care about her.

She stared at him for a few seconds in silence, trying to find some empathy in him, but all she saw was self-absorbed annoyance.

‘‘Good day, Miss Danvers,’’ he said, and sat down at his desk. Pointedly ignoring her.

Claire bit back words that probably would have gotten her expelled, and skipped the rest of her classes to go home.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a clock was ticking. Counting down to Bishop’s masked ball.

There was one comforting thing about the theory of complete apocalypse: at least it meant she wouldn’t have to fail any classes.

Just when she thought her Friday couldn’t get any worse, visitors dropped by the house at dinnertime.

Claire peered out the peephole, and saw dark, curling hair. A wicked smile.

‘‘Better invite me in,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘Because you know I’ll just go hurt your neighbors until you do.’’

‘‘Michael!’’ Claire yelled. He was in the living room, working out some new songs, but she heard the music stop. He was at her side before the echoes died. ‘‘It’s her. Ysandre. What should I do?’’

Michael opened the door and faced her. She smiled at him. François was with her, both of them sleek and smug and so arrogant it made Claire’s teeth itch.

‘‘I want to talk to Shane,’’ Ysandre said.

‘‘Then you’re going to be disappointed.’’

François raised his eyebrows, reached down, and pulled a bound human form from the bushes on the side of the steps. Claire gasped.

It was Miranda, looking completely terrified. Tied hand and foot, and gagged.

‘‘Let’s put it another way,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘You can let us in to talk, or we have our dinner alfresco, right here on your veranda.’’

There was absolutely no right answer to that, Claire thought, and saw Michael struggle with it, too. He let the silence stretch for so long that Claire was really afraid Miranda would be killed—François seemed glad to have the chance—but then Michael nodded. ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘Come in.’’

‘‘Why, thank you, honey,’’ Ysandre said, and strolled in. François dropped Miranda on the wooden hallway floor and followed her. Claire knelt next to the girl and untied her hands.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ she whispered. Miranda nodded, eyes as big as saucers. ‘‘Get out of here. Run home. Go.’’

Miranda stripped off the ropes around her ankles, scrambled up, and escaped.

Claire shut the door and hurried to the living room.

François had shoved Michael’s guitar out of the way and taken the chair. Ysandre sat on the couch, as comfortable as if she owned the world and everything in it. ‘‘How kind of you to ask us in, Michael. I didn’t think we got off to a very good beginning. I want to start over.’’

François laughed. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘We should be friends, Michael. And you shouldn’t be living with cattle.’’

‘‘Is this all you have? Because if it is, I think we’re all done.’’

‘‘Oh, not quite,’’ Ysandre said.

‘‘They’re making dinner,’’ François said. ‘‘That’s ironic, don’t you think? When they let ours go.’’

‘‘These humans, all they do is eat,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘No wonder they’re all fat and lazy.’’

Shane came out of the kitchen. He wasn’t surprised, Claire saw; he must have heard them. ‘‘You’re not invited, ’’ Shane said. Ysandre kissed her lips toward him.

‘‘Oh, Shane, I really don’t care whether I am or not, and you aren’t anywhere near powerful enough to make me leave,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s Friday, my love. You received the costume I want you to wear for tomorrow?’’

Shane nodded unwillingly, like his neck had frozen stiff. His eyes were more than a little crazy.

‘‘You need to go,’’ Claire said to Ysandre, with a bravado she really didn’t feel.

‘‘What do you think, Michael? Do I?’’ Ysandre locked gazes with him, and there was something awful in her eyes. ‘‘Do I have to go?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘Stay.’’

Claire gaped.

They make you feel things. Do things, whether you want to do them or not. Shane had said it, but Claire hadn’t imagined that they could do it to other vampires. Even one as young and inexperienced as Michael.

"Michael!"

He didn’t look at her. He seemed completely caught in the web of Ysandre’s attraction.

Claire dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She hesitated over the address book.

‘‘Deciding who to call for help?’’ François yanked the cell phone out of her hands and threw it across the room. ‘‘Amelie won’t thank you for distracting her from all her preparations. She’s busy, busy, busy, making sure everything goes just right to welcome our beloved father properly.’’

‘‘Maybe you ought to ask Michael what to do,’’ Ysandre said, and laughed, showing fang. She pronounced it like Michelle. ‘‘I’m sure he’ll help dispatch us. So fierce, isn’t he?’’

Michael’s eyes were slowly turning crimson.

‘‘Shane,’’ Claire said. ‘‘We need to get out of here. Now.’’

‘‘I’m not leaving Michael.’’

‘‘Michael’s the problem.’’

Ysandre laughed. ‘‘You really are clever, ma chérie.’’

François snapped his fingers in front of Michael’s face. ‘‘Dinner’s ready.’’

Michael opened his mouth and snarled. Full fangs.

And he turned and fixed his gaze on Claire.

‘‘Oh, crap,’’ Shane breathed. He grabbed Claire’s arm. ‘‘Kitchen!’’

They retreated. Shane shoved the table against the swinging door, for all the good it would do, and they backed up toward the rear door.

Claire opened the refrigerator and took Michael’s last two sealed bottles out of the back of the refrigerator. Have to tell Michael to pick up more, she thought, and how weird was that? Running short of blood was getting as normal as needing Coke or butter.

She was gibbering in her head, that was it. And yet, oddly calm.

Michael burst into the room and headed straight for them.

Claire stepped into his path, held out a bottle, and said, ‘‘You’re not one of them. You’re one of us. One of us, and we love you.’’

‘‘Claire—’’ Shane sounded agonized, but he didn’t move. Maybe he knew it would have blown everything.

Michael stopped. His eyes were still blazing red, but he seemed to see her.

And the red flickered a little.

She held out the bottle.

‘‘Drink it,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ll feel better. Trust me, Michael. Please.’’

He was staring into her eyes.

And this time, she was the one who challenged him. See me. Know what you’re doing.

His eyes flared white. He grabbed the bottle out of her hand, popped the cap, and tipped the bottle, guzzling the contents as fast as he could swallow.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

His eyes faded back to blue, and he lowered the bottle with a gasp. A thin line of blood dripped off his lip, and he wiped it with a trembling hand.

‘‘It’s okay,’’ Claire said. ‘‘She got in your head. She can do that. She—’’

Shane was gone. While she’d been so focused on Michael, he’d just . . . disappeared.

The kitchen door was still swinging.

It’ll be easier for her the next time, Shane had told her.

Claire headed for the living room. Michael tried to stop her, but he seemed weak. Sick. She remembered how shaken Shane had been.

Maybe she couldn’t.

Shane was sitting on the couch beside Ysandre, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Ysandre was running her hands up and down Shane’s chest, tracing invisible lines, and as Claire watched, the vampire began to nibble on Shane’s neck. Not seriously, as in not drawing blood, but little teasing nips. Licks.

Shane’s face was still and blank, but his eyes were pools of panic. He doesn’t want this, Claire realized. She’s making him.

Claire threw the second bottle of blood at Ysandre. The vampire’s hand came up unbelievably fast to snatch it out of the air before it made contact with the side of her head.

‘‘If you’re hungry, eat,’’ she said. ‘‘And get your claws out of my boyfriend.’’

Ysandre’s eyes narrowed. Claire felt something brush at her mind, but it was like walking through a spiderweb, easily broken.

Ysandre flipped the cap from the bottle, sniffed it, and made a disgusted face. ‘‘Don’t be so possessive. Shane is at my command. The invitation said so.’’

‘‘He’s at your command tomorrow. Not today.’’

‘‘How charming. So young for a lawyer.’’ Ysandre sipped from the bottle, gagged, and shook her head. ‘‘Why your vampires subject themselves to this indignity is beyond my understanding. This is rancid. Undrinkable filth.’’ She threw the bottle back at Claire, who had no choice but to try to catch it; she did, but the contents splattered cold over her face and neck. ‘‘Remove it from our presence.’’ Her eyes took on a horrible dull shine, angry and cruel. ‘‘And clean yourself up. You’re as useless as the hospitality you offer.’’

‘‘Get out,’’ Claire said. She felt the power of the house now, gathering like a storm around her. Rushing into the cool silence, crackling with energy. ‘‘Get out of our house. Now.’’

It exploded up through her feet, painful and shocking, and hit Ysandre and François like a bolt of invisible lightning. It knocked them flat, grabbed them by the ankles, and dragged them to the front door, which crashed open before they reached it.

Ysandre shrieked and clawed at the floor, but it was useless. In that moment, the house wasn’t taking any prisoners.

It threw them out into the sun. François and Ysandre staggered to their feet, covered their heads, and ran for their car.

Claire stood in the doorway, spattered with cold blood, and yelled, ‘‘And don’t come back!’’

The power cut off, and the sudden emptiness left her shaking. Claire clung to the door for a few seconds, long enough to see them drive away, and then staggered back to the living room. Shane sat on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, head in his hands.

Shuddering.

‘‘You okay?’’ she asked.

He nodded convulsively without looking up at her. Michael opened the kitchen door and came straight to her. He had a towel, and he scrubbed the blood off her face and hands with rough, anxious movements.

‘‘How did you do that?’’ he asked. ‘‘Even I can’t— not on command. Not like that.’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. She felt sick and shaky, and perched on the couch next to Shane. Shane was buttoning his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, and didn’t seem very steady, either.

‘‘Shane?’’ Michael stood next to him, and his voice was very gentle.

‘‘Yeah, man, I’m fine,’’ he said. His voice was threadbare with exhaustion. ‘‘She may own me, but she can’t take possession until tomorrow night. I don’t think she’ll risk coming back here. Not just for me.’’ He looked up at Michael then, and Michael nodded tightly. ‘‘I don’t want to ask, but—’’

‘‘You don’t have to ask,’’ Michael said. ‘‘I’ll look out for you. As much as I can.’’

They bumped fists.

‘‘I need a shower,’’ Shane said, and went upstairs. He wasn’t moving like Shane, not at all—too slow, too heavy, too . . . defeated.

Michael had made the promise, but Claire was afraid—very afraid—that he wouldn’t be able to keep it. Once they were away from this house, isolated and separated, nobody could stop Ysandre from doing whatever she wanted to Shane. To Michael. To anyone.

If Jason had been telling the truth when he’d come by the house looking to talk, then Oliver had had something to say. Maybe he still did.

Maybe, somehow, it would help Shane.

It was really the only thing Claire could think of that might help.

When she went to Oliver’s coffee shop, she walked into more trouble, although it wasn’t as obvious as Ysandre and François taking over the living room. In fact, it took Claire a few seconds to identify what was odd about what she was seeing, because on the surface it looked quite normal.

But it wasn’t.

Eve was sitting peacefully across the table from Oliver, whom she’d sworn she’d rather stake than look at again. And whatever it was she was saying, Oliver was gravely listening, head cocked, expression composed. He had a very thin smile on his face, and his eyes were fixed on Eve’s face with so much focus it made Claire’s skin crawl.

She was going to draw their attention, standing like an idiot in the middle of the room, even as busy as the place was. She turned away, went to the coffee bar, and ordered a mocha she didn’t crave, just to have some reason to be here. Eve was too deep into her own thing to realize Claire had come in, but Oliver knew; Claire could feel it, even though he hadn’t so much as glanced her way.

She paid her four bucks and took her overpriced, yet delicious, drink to an empty table near the front windows, where there were plenty of students to cover her. She didn’t really need to worry, though; when Eve got up and left, she walked straight out, and she didn’t look right or left as she stiff-armed the door and stalked off down the street. She was wearing a black satin ankle-length skirt that reminded Claire of the inside of a coffin, and a purple velvet top, and she looked thin and fragile.

She looked vulnerable.

‘‘Terrible, the lengths some girls will go to for attention, ’’ Oliver said, and settled into a chair across from Claire. ‘‘Don’t you think her obsession with the morbid is a bit much?’’

She didn’t take the bait, just looked at him. The line of sunlight was very close to him, and creeping closer. In another few minutes, it would touch him on the shoulder. She knew he, like most older vampires, had partial immunity to sunlight, but it would still hurt.

Oliver knew what she was thinking. He glanced at the hot line of light and scooted his chair sideways, enough to buy another few minutes in the shadows.

‘‘Why did you send Jason the other night?’’ she asked.

‘‘Why do you think I sent him?’’

‘‘He said so.’’

‘‘Is Jason so reliable a source as all that? I thought he was a crazed murderer who was stalking his own sister.’’

‘‘What did you just talk to Eve about?’’

Oliver raised his eyebrows. ‘‘I believe that is Eve’s business, not yours. If there’s nothing else—’’

‘‘Ysandre and François just tried a power play at our house. In our house, Oliver. Why did you send Jason?’’

Oliver was quiet a moment. He wasn’t looking at her at all; he was watching the people walking outside on the street, the cars passing. His gaze wandered over the students inside his shop, talking and laughing. There was something odd in his expression, as if—like Eve—he was suddenly aware of his own vulnerability.

And that of others.

‘‘I don’t admit that I did send him,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘But if I did, obviously I would have had a very good reason, yes?’’

She didn’t answer. His gaze flashed back to her, bright and very, very focused. ‘‘I have never made any secret of my desire for power, Claire. I don’t like Amelie, and she doesn’t care for me, but our games are honest ones. We know the rules and we abide by them. But Bishop—Bishop is beyond all rules. He would take our game board and overturn it completely, and that I cannot have. Not even if I gain in the process.’’

The light dawned, finally. ‘‘Bishop tried to recruit you. Against Amelie.’’ Claire’s blood chilled a couple of degrees. ‘‘You couldn’t tell her directly. So you wanted to use Jason to tell me, and let me tell her.’’

‘‘Too late now. Things are moving too quickly to the edge. It’s not within my power to halt it, or hers. Much less yours, Claire.’’

Claire realized she was clutching the table in a death grip, and let go. Her fingers ached from the pressure. ‘‘What were you talking to Eve about?’’

Oliver’s eyes fixed on hers, and he said, ‘‘She is accompanying me to the feast.’’

Eve was going to the masked ball. With Oliver.

Claire sat back, unable to think of a single thing to say for a moment, and then it hit her exactly what that meant. ‘‘Does Michael know?’’

‘‘Frankly, I could not care less. Eve can explain it as and if she chooses; it’s no concern of mine. I believe I’m finished assisting you with your inquiries, Claire. But if I might give you a piece of advice—’’ Oliver leaned forward, and it put him completely in the sun. He didn’t flinch, though the pupils of his eyes contracted to almost nothing, and his skin began to take on a definite pink tinge. ‘‘Stay home tomorrow. Lock your doors and windows, and if you’re a religious person, a little prayer might not go amiss.’’

It was such a startling thing for him to say that Claire almost laughed. ‘‘I’m supposed to pray? For who, you?’’

Oliver didn’t blink. ‘‘If you would,’’ he said, ‘‘that would be comforting. I don’t think anyone’s done it in quite some time.’’

He stood up and walked away. Claire sat for a while staring off into the afternoon sunlight, sipping a mocha long gone cold and tasting nothing at all. When a knot of big upper-class jocks asked her, none too politely, if she was done with the table, she left without any protest. She went for a walk, following the curve of streets without any real awareness of where she was, or where she might be going.

All these people. She was away from the college crowd now, and Morganville natives took advantage of the sunshine any way they could—sunbathing, working in their gardens, painting their houses.

And tomorrow, if Oliver was right, it could be all over. If Bishop succeeded in taking over from Amelie . . .

Claire realized with a start that the sun was slipping toward the horizon, and turned at the nearest cross street to head for home. She made it with the day still officially in the late-afternoon phase, although twilight was creeping in, but as she opened the gate and came through the walk, she realized that someone was sitting on the front steps waiting for her.

Shane.

‘‘Hey,’’ he said.

‘‘Hey,’’ she returned, and sat down next to him. He was looking out at the street, the occasional passing car. A breeze ruffled his dark hair, and the sunlight made his skin look like it had a faint brushing of gold.

God, he was so . . . perfect. And he was breaking her heart with the look in his eyes.

‘‘So,’’ Shane said. ‘‘I was thinking we should go out tonight.’’

‘‘Out?’’ she repeated blankly. ‘‘Out where?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Doesn’t matter. Movies. Dinner. I’d take you to the local bar for a blowout, but your dad might kill me.’’ Shane looked at her for a few seconds, then went back to his careful study of nothing. ‘‘I just want to spend tonight doing something with you. Whatever it is.’’

Because tomorrow, it could all change. It was the same eerie feeling Claire had felt walking around town: the feeling that the world was ending, and only a few people had a clue it was coming.

‘‘Any place you’ve always wanted to go?’’ Claire asked.

‘‘Sure. I play a great game of Anywhere but Here. You mean in Morganville?’’ He was quiet for a second, as if the question had caught him by surprise. ‘‘Maybe. You up for a drive?’’

‘‘In whose car?’’

‘‘Eve’s.’’ He held up the car keys and jangled them. ‘‘I made her a deal. I get the car two nights a week; I do her share of the chores two more days. I’m exercising my rental coupon.’’

‘‘The sun’s going down,’’ Claire felt compelled to point out.

‘‘So it is.’’ He jangled the car keys again. ‘‘Well?’’

Really, he already knew what the answer would be.

They drove to a restaurant near the vampire downtown area—far enough that it had mostly human patronage, but still stayed open late. There was a lounge area with a dance floor, and a jukebox that played oldies. Shane had a beer he was too young to order. Claire had a Coke, and they spent a roll of quarters on choosing songs, one right after another.

"This is the biggest damn iPod I’ve ever seen,’’ Claire said, which made him choke on his beer. ‘‘Kidding. I have seen a jukebox before.’’

‘‘The way you’re feeding it, I’m not so sure. You think you picked enough songs?’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘How many will it take to play all night?’’

He put his beer down on the table, put his arms around her, and they swayed together as the songs changed, and changed, and changed.

And around them, Morganville slowly went quiet.