There was also a doorway to Amelie’s castle—or at least, Claire thought of it as a castle; she had no idea what it looked like on the outside. She didn’t even know where it was in town. But inside, it felt and looked old and very, very strong. There were exits in the system to the university administration building, to the library, to the town hall, and to the Elders’ Council building.

Which was where the ball was being held.

‘‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’’ Claire whispered as Myrnin contemplated the blank wall in the Glass House living room. ‘‘Myrnin, are you sure? Maybe we should take a car or something.’’

‘‘This is faster,’’ he said. ‘‘Not afraid, are you? No need. You’re with me.’’ He said it with effortless arrogance, and once again, she had that flash of chilly doubt. Was he okay? He seemed to be stringing thoughts together just fine, but there was something . . . off. The sweet-natured Myrnin who normally emerged during his brief bouts of sanity was gone, and she didn’t really know this Myrnin at all.

But he’d given her holy water and a cross, and he didn’t have to do that. Besides . . . she needed him.

Didn’t she?

It was too late for second thoughts. The area of wall where Myrnin was staring fluttered and melted into gray fog. The fog swirled, took on color, and became darkness with a line of hot gold light barely visible at the bottom.

It looked like the interior of a closet.

‘‘Come on,’’ Myrnin said, and extended his hand to her. She took it, and they stepped through together into the darkness. Behind them, she felt the portal seal itself, and when she turned to look, there was nothing there.

The place smelled like cleaning supplies, and as Claire swept her hand around, she came into contact with the wooden shaft of a mop. Janitor’s closet. Well, she supposed it made arrivals a little less noticeable.

Except for the part about sneaking out of the janitor’s closet.

Myrnin hadn’t stopped. He reached out and turned the knob of the door, then eased it open just a crack.

‘‘Clear,’’ he said, and opened it wide. He stepped out first. Claire hurried to follow, and shut the door behind them. They were in what looked like a utility hallway, plain white walls and dark red carpet.

All the doors were unmarked. And identical. Claire tried to count, to be sure she could find the room again.

‘‘This way,’’ Myrnin said, and strode down the hallway to the right. His white tunic billowed as he walked, and he ought to have looked ridiculous in that traffic-cone hat, but somehow . . . somehow, he didn’t. ‘‘I should have let you be Pierrot, little Claire. Pierrot is known for his sweet, innocent nature. Not like Harlequin. Libitor frenzy, Claire.’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I said, I should have let you be Pierrot—’’

‘‘No,’’ she said slowly. ‘‘You said libitor frenzy. What does that mean?’’

‘‘I said what?’’ Myrnin sent her an odd look. ‘‘That’s nonsense. Aqua lace that.’’

She stopped dead in her tracks, and after a couple of steps on, he realized she’d been left behind and turned impatiently. ‘‘Claire, iguana time.’’ Claire, we don’t have time.

‘‘Myrnin, you’re not making sense. I—think the serum is wearing off.’’

‘‘I feel acting.’’ I feel fine.

‘‘Can you hear yourself? What you’re saying?’’

He held up his hands. He couldn’t tell that he was making word salad. Neurological complications, she thought, and wished she could talk to Dr. Mills. Of course, he did carve out part of his brain. That could have done some damage. Then again, he’d been talking fine right up until these last few moments.

Claire tried to keep her voice as calm as possible. ‘‘I think you need another shot. Please. I don’t think we should wait to see how much worse you get, do you?’’

Myrnin silently held out his arm and pulled up his sleeve. His exposed skin was alabaster pale, and as she took hold, it felt less like a human arm than soft leather over marble. Claire took out the small case she’d stuck in the waistband of her tights—the one Dr. Mills had given her, with the syringe and vials of medicine. She’d practiced giving injections with the needle on an orange, but this was different.

‘‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’’ she said. Myrnin rolled his eyes.

Her hands trembled as she slipped the needle into the rubber stopper of the vial and filled up the syringe. She squirted a few drops of the liquid from the needle and took a deep breath.

She hoped Myrnin would let her do this without a fight.

He didn’t seem inclined to act out, at least not yet; he stood passively as she positioned the needle over the cold blue of his vein.

‘‘Ready?’’ she asked. She was really asking herself, not him. He seemed to know that, because he smiled.

‘‘I trust you,’’ he said.

She pushed, and the needle popped through his skin and slipped deep. There was a second of resistance against the surface of his vein, and then it was in.

She quickly pressed the plunger and yanked out the needle. A thin drop of blood marked where it had come out, and she wiped it away with her thumb, leaving a faint smear on his perfect skin.

She looked up and saw his pupils shrink to nothing, and a feeling of utter terror swept over her, freezing her in place. Myrnin’s mouth was wide and red and smiling, and there was something about him that really, really wasn’t at all right—

Then it was gone, as he blinked, and his pupils began to expand again to normal size. He shuddered and heaved a sigh.

‘‘Unpleasant,’’ he said. ‘‘Ah, there comes the warmth. Now, that’s pleasant.’’

‘‘It didn’t hurt, though?’’

‘‘I don’t like needles.’’

Which was funny enough to make her laugh. He frowned at her, but she kept giggling and had to cover her mouth with her hand as the laughter ratcheted higher and thinner, toward hysteria. Get it together, Claire.

‘‘Better?’’ she asked him. Myrnin’s arrogance was back, obvious in the look he sent her as she packed away the supplies.

‘‘I wasn’t bad,’’ he said. ‘‘But I appreciate your concern.’’

The hallway ended up ahead in a pair of white swinging doors, and Myrnin took her hand and practically dragged her toward them. ‘‘Wait! Slow down!’’

‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because I want to be sure you’re—’’

‘‘Compos mentis? That’s Latin, Claire. It means—’’

‘‘In your right mind, yes, I know.’’

‘‘I’m not babbling nonsense. And I don’t think I needed the shot in the first place.’’ He sounded huffy about it. That was, Claire thought, the scariest part of it—Myrnin really couldn’t tell when he was slipping away.

She hoped that was the scariest part, anyway. From the eagerness in Myrnin’s face, she was afraid it might get a lot worse.

On the other side of the doors was the round foyer of the Elders’ Council building, and it was packed. People stood talking, holding flutes of champagne or wine or something that was too red to be wine. All in costume, all masked.

‘‘You were right,’’ she said to Myrnin. ‘‘I think every vampire in town is here.’’

‘‘And every one brought a little human friend,’’ he said. ‘‘But I think you’re the only one who was told the true reason.’’

Claire caught sight of Jennifer first, who was preening on the arm of François, Bishop’s protégé. She was wearing a sixties costume of a tie-dyed halter top and tiny miniskirt, platform shoes, peace-sign jewelry. Her mask was an afterthought. Clearly, her whole costume’s point was to show as much skin as possible without actually going nude. Good job, Claire thought. François clearly approved. He was dressed as Zorro, all in black satin and leather, with a flat Spanish hat.

Near Jennifer was Monica, who’d gone as Marie Antoinette, from low-cut bodice to wide skirts. She’d tied a red ribbon around her throat, which made Claire feel a little queasy, and had a miniature guillotine in her hand. She was clinging to the arm of . . . Michael. Who looked, even with the mask, like he wished he was far, far away and anywhere but next to Monica. He was dressed as a priest, in a plain black cassock and white collar. No cross visible.

Claire followed Michael’s eyeline across the room to a tall scarecrow—straight out of the scariest corn-field movie she could imagine—and a girl dressed as Sally from Tim Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas . . . Oliver, and Eve. Eve looked like the perfect Sally— wistful, sad, stitched together by nothing but hope.

And she was staring at Michael, too.

Oliver, on the other hand, was ignoring her to focus on everyone else. Looking around, Claire slowly picked out a few more she recognized. Her mother wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but her father was dressed in a bear costume, looking intensely uncomfortable as he stood next to a middle-aged woman— vampire?—dressed as a witch.

‘‘Do you see Shane?’’ Claire asked Myrnin anxiously. He nodded toward the other side of the room. She’d already looked there, but she tried again, and after skipping over him three times, she finally figured it out.

Does your costume involve leather? she’d asked. And he’d said, Actually, yeah, it might.

It really did. It involved a leather dog collar, leather pants and a leash, and the leash was held by Ysandre, who was in skintight red rubber, from neck to thigh-high boots. She’d topped it off with a pair of devil horns and a red trident.

She’d made Shane her dog, complete with furry dog mask.

‘‘Breathe,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘I’m not much for it myself, but I hear it’s quite good for humans.’’

Claire realized he was right; she’d been holding her breath. As she let it out, her shock faded, letting in a cascade of rage. That bitch!

No wonder Shane had looked so sick.

‘‘She hasn’t hurt him,’’ Myrnin said, speaking softly next to her ear. ‘‘And you may be wearing the costume of Harlequin, but Ysandre is most definitely more of a devil. So be cautious. Bide your time. I’ll let you know when we can engage with our enemy.’’

Claire nodded stiffly. If she’d had any doubts at all about this, that was done now. She was going to get her friends and her family out of this, and she was going to personally take that leash out of Ysandre’s hand and—do something violent with it.

‘‘I’m ready when you are,’’ she said.

Myrnin shot her a mad, smiling look. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘I think you might be, little one.’’

They stayed to themselves, watching the others, and although others eyed them curiously, no one approached. Claire asked—better late than never—if people wouldn’t recognize Myrnin, even with the makeup, but he shook his head.

‘‘I’m hardly a social fixture,’’ he said. ‘‘Amelie, Sam, Michael, Oliver, a few more might know me by sight. But very few others, and none of them would expect to see me here. Especially as’’—he twirled theatrically, the white tunic billowing out around him—‘‘Pierrot.’’

Which made zero sense to her, since she still had no idea who Pierrot was, but she nodded. Myrnin saw one of the vampire women nearby watching him, and made an elaborate low bow in her direction. ‘‘Do a cartwheel,’’ he said under his breath to Claire.

‘‘Do a what?’’

‘‘I would ask you to do a backflip, but I’m almost certain that would be a problem. Cartwheel. Now.’’

She felt like a total idiot, but she fastened the elastic string on her matador hat under her chin and did a cartwheel, coming off it and bouncing to her feet with a bright, trembling smile.

People clapped and laughed, then turned back to their own conversations. All except Oliver, who stared intently.

But at least he kept his distance.

There was no sign of Bishop or Amelie, but Claire gradually identified most of the vampires she knew. Sam arrived, dressed as Huckleberry Finn, which went well with his red hair and freckles. He’d brought a girl Claire knew slightly from Common Grounds, one of Oliver’s employees. Probably the one who’d replaced Eve when she’d quit. For Sam’s sake, Claire hoped she was someone Oliver could afford to lose.

Miranda was there, dressed in ancient Greek robes with snakes for hair, and with her was a faded, small man in a Sherlock Holmes costume. ‘‘Charles,’’ Myrnin confirmed when Claire asked. ‘‘He always did have a weakness for the damaged ones.’’

‘‘She’s only fifteen!’’

‘‘Modern standards, I’m afraid. Charles comes from a time when twelve was a good age to be married, so he takes your age-of-eighteen rules a little lightly.’’

‘‘He’s a pedophile.’’

‘‘Probably,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘But he’s not on Bishop’s side.’’

Sam spotted them, frowned, and gradually made his way through the crowd to them. Myrnin pulled off the comical bow again, but Claire was glad to note he didn’t require a cartwheel this time. ‘‘Samuel,’’ he said. ‘‘How lovely to see you.’’

‘‘Are you—?’’ Sam visibly checked himself, because the question had probably been, Are you crazy? and that answer was self-evident. ‘‘Didn’t Amelie tell you to stay away? Claire—’’

‘‘He was coming anyway,’’ she said. ‘‘He broke the lock. I thought I ought to at least come along.’’ Which was a true—if cowardly—explanation of how they’d come to be standing here. Still, Myrnin gave her a look. One that clearly said, Confess. ‘‘I probably would have done it anyway,’’ she said in a rush. ‘‘I can’t let my friends and my parents be here without me. I just can’t.’’

Sam looked grim, but he nodded like he understood. ‘‘Fine, you’ve been here. You’ve seen. It’s time to go, before you’re announced. Myrnin—’’

Myrnin was shaking his head. ‘‘No, Samuel. I can’t do that. She needs me.’’

‘‘She needs you to stay out of it!’’ Sam stepped up, right into Myrnin’s personal space, and Myrnin’s eyes turned a muddy crimson. So did Sam’s. ‘‘Go home,’’ Sam said. ‘‘Now.’’

‘‘Make me,’’ Myrnin said in a silky whisper. Claire had never seen him look so deadly, and it was terrifying.

She nudged him. Carefully. ‘‘Myrnin. What happened to biding our time? Sam’s not the enemy.’’

‘‘Sam would protect our enemy.’’

‘‘I’m protecting Amelie. You know I’d die to protect her.’’

That sobered Myrnin up, at least to the extent that he took in a breath and stepped back. The white froufrou of the Pierrot costume made him look like the scariest clown she’d ever seen, especially when he smiled. ‘‘Yes,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘I know you would, Sam. That will destroy you, one day. You have to know when to let go. It’s an art the oldest of us have been forced to master, again and again.’’

Sam gave them both frustrated looks and turned away.

The crowd had thickened, filling the circular room, and Claire heard a distant grandfather clock striking the hour. It seemed to go on forever in deep, sonorous bongs, and when it finished, there was silence in the room except for the rustle of fabric as people jostled for position.

The gilt-edged double doors to Claire’s right opened, and a smell of roses drifted out. She knew that smell, and that room. A vampire’s body had been laid in state on that stage. She and Eve and Shane had been terrorized there.

Not her favorite place, or her favorite memory.

‘‘The lady Muriel and her attendant, Paul Grace,’’ said a deep, echoing voice near the door. It carried to all corners of the room. Claire craned her neck and saw a short, round vampire dressed as an Egyptian being escorted through the doors by a tall man dressed in Victorian costume. The man doing the announcing was standing to one side, a gilded book open in both hands, though he wasn’t consulting it.

The maître d’ of the undead.

‘‘John of Leeds,’’ Myrnin whispered to her. ‘‘Excellent choice. He was herald to King Henry, as I remember. Impeccable manners.’’

The next name was already being spoken, and another couple moved forward. Claire couldn’t see what was beyond the door from her angle, but she saw the glow of candlelight. ‘‘It’s going to take forever,’’ she said.

‘‘Ceremony is part of the joy of life,’’ Myrnin said, and handed her a glass of something that sparkled. ‘‘Drink.’’

‘‘I shouldn’t.’’

He raised an eyebrow. She put her lips to the champagne and tasted it—not sweet, not bitter, just right. Like light, bottled.

Maybe just one sip.

The glass was empty by the time she and Myrnin had drifted up to the front of the line; Claire felt hot and a little off-balance, and she was glad Myrnin had taken her arm. The herald, John, stood to Myrnin’s left, and he seemed mildly surprised for a bare second, then said with his usual smoothness, ‘‘Lord Myrnin of Conwy, with his attendant, Claire Danvers.’’

So much for the subtle approach.

Heads turned. Lots of heads turned, and although vampires weren’t given much to gasping, Claire heard the whispers start as she and Myrnin swept into the room. It was a cavernous, dark place set up ballroomstyle, with round tables and chairs, and a large dais on the stage. Fine white linens. Floral arrangements on each table. Glittering glass and gleaming china. The entire room was lit by candles—thousands of them, in massive crystal displays.

It would have been magical, if it hadn’t been so scary. The pressure of all that attention—hundreds of eyes watching their every move—made Claire’s knees feel like bags of water.

Myrnin seemed to sense it. ‘‘Steady,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Smile. Head up. No sign of weakness.’’

She tried. She wasn’t sure how she managed it, but when he released her next to a chair, she sank down fast. They were at an empty table near the back of the room. As she looked around, she saw that Sam was seated not far away, and so was Oliver. Eve was with him, staring wide-eyed at Claire.

She couldn’t see Michael. Unfortunately, she could see Shane all too clearly, because Ysandre was on the dais on the stage, and she’d brought Shane on his leash up the steps so that everyone could see him, too. They were seated at a long table on one side; François and his date were on the other.

Still no sign of Amelie, or Bishop.

Claire’s father started to get up from his seat across the room, but the vampire with him took his arm and pulled him back into his chair. So the rules were no mingling, apparently. She wanted to go to him, very badly, but when she glanced at Myrnin, he shook his head. ‘‘Wait,’’ he said. ‘‘You wanted to play the game, Claire. Now we’ll find out if you really have the gall for it.’’

‘‘That’s my dad!’’

‘‘I told you, this will be a test of nerves. Yours are on display. Calm yourself.’’

Fine talk from a guy who’d let his eyes turn red when somebody as unthreatening as Sam got in his face. But Claire concentrated on deep, slow breaths, and kept her gaze turned down, away from temptation.

‘‘Ah,’’ Myrnin said, in a voice full of satisfaction. ‘‘They’re here.’’

He meant, of course, Amelie and Bishop. Amelie entered first from the right of the stage, a glittering sculpture all in a white so cold it hurt the eyes. She’d come as some sort of ice spirit, which was appropriate in so many ways. Her platinum hair was woven into a crystalline tower, and she looked delicate and fragile.

On her arm was Jason Rosser. At least, Claire thought it was Jason. She’d never seen him after a bath and a haircut, but she recognized the stooped shoulders and the walk, if nothing else. He was wearing a hooded brown monk’s robe. She picked someone she could afford to lose, Claire thought. That’s why she didn’t pick me. It should have made her feel better about being left out, but somehow, it didn’t.

Bishop entered, stage left. He was dressed all in Episcopal purple, in—what else?—a bishop’s costume, minus the cross. He even had the tall hat, the miter.

On his arm, he had an angel. A woman dressed as one, anyway, with fine white feathery wings that were taller than she was, and swept the floor behind her.

Claire slapped both hands over her mouth to hold in the shriek that threatened to erupt.

It was her mother.

‘‘Steady,’’ Myrnin said. His cool hand pressed her arm. ‘‘What did I tell you? Control yourself! We have miles to go yet.’’

She didn’t want to listen to him. She wanted to get her mom and her dad, Shane and Michael and Eve. She wanted to get out of here, hit the borders of Morganville, and keep on going.

She didn’t want to be here anymore.

Other guests filled in the remaining seats at their table, and two of them were Charles and Miranda. Miranda looked dreadfully young and pallid under her snaky hair and Greek robes. She sat next to Claire, and under cover of the tablecloth, reached for her hand. Claire allowed it. Miranda’s felt as cool as Myrnin’s, and clammy with fear.

‘‘It’s happening,’’ Miranda said. ‘‘All the blood. All the fear. It’s really happening.’’

‘‘Hush,’’ said Charles, seated next to her, and nodded at her plate. ‘‘Eat. Beef will build your strength.’’

Miranda, like Claire, picked at the prime rib on her plate. Claire tried a bite. It was good—smoky, tender, just the right warmth—but she had no appetite. Myrnin tucked into his with a frightening zeal. She wondered how long it had been since he’d had an actual meal, or wanted one. That led her to an erratic series of questions—were there vegetarians in the crowd? Did the vampires cater to food allergies? As she nibbled dully on the bread, Claire saw Amelie staring toward them. At this distance, it was impossible to really see her expression, but Claire was sure it wasn’t pleased.

‘‘I think Amelie’s going to have us thrown out,’’ she said to Myrnin. He chewed his last bite of prime rib.

‘‘She won’t,’’ he said with absolute confidence. ‘‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’’

Claire gave up and passed her plate. Myrnin began cutting up the meat.

‘‘Amelie can’t afford a scene,’’ he said. ‘‘And no doubt it will amuse Bishop to have me here.’’

He seemed odd again, almost happy. Claire eyed him doubtfully. ‘‘Do you feel okay?’’

‘‘Never better,’’ he said. ‘‘Ah, dessert!’’

The servants—Claire never did catch more than a shadowy glimpse of them, so they must have been vampires—delivered exquisite little martini glasses full of berries and cream to each place. Berries and cream were something that even Claire couldn’t resist. She ate the whole thing, in between staring at Shane to see if he was eating. She didn’t think he was. He wasn’t moving at all.

As after-dinner drinks were delivered—blood for the vamps, champagne and coffee for the hemoglobin intolerant—Claire felt her anxiety ratchet up another notch. There was murmuring in the room, a rising tide of it, and she felt the swell of excitement. ‘‘Myrnin? What’s happening?’’

Miranda’s hand grabbed hers again, squeezing so hard Claire almost yelped.

‘‘It’s coming,’’ Miranda said. ‘‘It’s almost over.’’

Before Claire could ask what she meant, Myrnin touched her shoulder and said, ‘‘They’re beginning the ceremony.’’

John of Leeds had come out of the wings behind the dais, and had taken up a post at a dark wooden podium. He was wearing a traditional herald’s tabard, Claire realized, just like in books and paintings. She half expected him to pull out a long, thin trumpet.

He opened the book that he’d been holding outside the room instead.

‘‘Behold,’’ he said in a deep, velvety smooth voice, ‘‘there comes to us on this day one who is worthy of our fealty, and as one, we welcome him to our house.’’

Bishop stood up. A curtain pulled back onstage, and behind it was a huge dark wooden throne, heavily carved.

Bishop walked up the steps to take his seat on it.

Claire’s mother stayed where she was, at the table.

"What’s happening?’’ Claire asked. Myrnin shushed her.

‘‘As I speak your name, come forward with your tribute,’’ John said. ‘‘Maria Theresa.’’

A tall Spanish woman dressed in a glittering matador’s costume rose from her chair, took hold of the man she’d brought to the feast, and escorted him up onto the dais. She bowed to Amelie and then turned to Bishop on his throne. She bowed again.

‘‘I give you my fealty,’’ she said. ‘‘And my gift.’’

She looked at the man standing next to her. He seemed . . . stunned. Frozen.

Bishop looked at him and smiled. ‘‘Princely,’’ he said. ‘‘I thank you for your gift.’’

And he flicked his fingers at them, and just like that, it was over.

‘‘Vassily Ivanovich,’’ John of Leeds called, and the parade went on.

Nobody got killed. It was just like Myrnin had said . . . a token. A gesture.

Claire let out her breath. She hadn’t even been aware how hard she’d been holding it, but her whole rib cage ached. ‘‘He could kill them. Right? If he wanted?’’

‘‘Right,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘But he isn’t doing so.’’ He looked grave and focused under his clown’s makeup. ‘‘I wonder what’s stopping him.’’

It was, Claire saw, going to stretch on for hours. She was glad they had seats, because standing would have been torture. As John of Leeds called each name, a vampire would rise and lead his or her human up to be presented to Bishop; Bishop would nod; and that would be it.

As life-and-death confrontations went, it was really boring.

And then it suddenly wasn’t.

The first hint came when Sam mounted the dais with his ‘‘gift’’—he bowed to Amelie, but he only nodded to Bishop. Myrnin made a slight sound and leaned forward, dark eyes intent, and Bishop sat up straighter in his chair.

‘‘I welcome you to Morganville,’’ Sam said. ‘‘But I’m not going to swear my loyalty to you.’’

The hall went absolutely still, not even the little rustles of fabric and clinks of cups on china that had been noticeable to that point. Amelie, Claire noticed, had moved closer to Sam than she had to the other vampires.

‘‘No?’’ Bishop asked, and beckoned Sam forward. Sam obliged by one single step. ‘‘Your lady will acknowledge me. Why won’t you?’’

‘‘I have other oaths.’’

‘‘To her,’’ Bishop said. Sam nodded. ‘‘Well, then, her oath to me will bind you, as well, Samuel. I believe that will do.’’ He eyed the girl. ‘‘Leave the gift.’’

Sam didn’t move. ‘‘No.’’

Amelie murmured something to him, but it was soft enough that it didn’t carry to Claire’s ears despite the excellent acoustics of the room.

‘‘She’s my responsibility,’’ Sam said, ‘‘and if you want a gift, take what Morganville offers you. Freedom.’’

He reached in the pocket of his rope-belted Huck Finn blue jeans and pulled out a blood pack.

Ysandre leaped from her seat. So did François. ‘‘You dare!’’ François snarled, and knocked the blood pack out of Sam’s hand. ‘‘Take that filthy thing away!’’

Ysandre grabbed hold of Sam’s date by the hair and yanked her away. ‘‘She’s the tribute,’’ Ysandre said, ‘‘and you have no right to deny her to him.’’

‘‘He has no right,’’ Amelie said. Every word was clear as crystal. ‘‘But I do.’’

Bishop’s eyes locked with hers, and for a long, long moment, nobody moved.

Then Bishop smiled, sat back in his chair, and waved. ‘‘Take her, Samuel,’’ he said. ‘‘I find she’s not to my taste, after all.’’

Sam grabbed the girl’s hand, shoved François out of the way, and descended the steps back to the banquet-hall floor. Murmurs bloomed in the darkness as he passed. He headed straight for the table where Michael sat, leaned over, and said something. Michael replied, looking strained and a little bit desperate. Whatever the argument was about, it was ripping Michael apart to take the other side.

Sam yanked Michael to his feet, and this time Claire heard what he said. ‘‘Just come with me!’’

Whether Michael might have or not, it was too late, because John of Leeds said, ‘‘Michael Glass of Morganville, ’’ and everybody waited to see what the youngest vampire in town was going to do.

Michael took Monica’s hand and walked to the dais. He mounted the steps, nodded to Amelie, and nodded to Bishop. Not much in the way of obedience either direction.

‘‘Ah, the Morrell girl,’’ Bishop said. ‘‘I’ve heard so much about you, child.’’

Monica, the idiot, seemed pleased about that. She risked her tall wig by doing a deep curtsy in those mile-wide Marie Antoinette skirts. ‘‘Thank you, sir.’’

‘‘Did I tell you to speak?’’ he asked, and transferred his attention to Michael again. ‘‘Your kinsman refused to swear fealty. What say you, Michael?’’

‘‘I’m here,’’ Michael said. ‘‘But I’m not swearing anything.’’

There was a long, tense moment, and then Bishop impatiently waved him offstage.

Monica dragged her feet, simpering at the big, bad vampire. ‘‘What an idiot,’’ Claire muttered under her breath, and Myrnin chuckled.

‘‘There are always a few,’’ he said. ‘‘Thankfully.’’ The next vampire was already onstage. He was a little more politic than Michael—he welcomed Bishop as a guest to Morganville, but again, no pledges of loyalty. Bishop looked sour. ‘‘Well, this is taking a turn for the interesting. I wonder how long he’ll tolerate it.’’

Not long, it seemed, because Oliver was next. And even though Oliver bowed, there was something forced about it. Something militant. Bishop sensed it.

‘‘What say you, Oliver of Heidelberg?’’

‘‘I bid you welcome,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘And nothing more.’’ He bowed again, mockingly. ‘‘Your days of ordering us about are done, Master Bishop. Haven’t you noticed?’’

Bishop stood up. So did François and Ysandre. ‘‘Bring your tribute,’’ Bishop said. ‘‘And walk away, while I allow you to walk at all.’’

And Oliver, the coward, dropped Eve’s hand and left the stage. Abandoning her.

Michael, down on the floor, tried to go to her rescue, but Sam tackled him and held him down. ‘‘Get off me!’’ Michael yelled, and the two of them rolled into a table and sent the expensive china and glasses flying. ‘‘You can’t let him—’’

François and Ysandre were closing in on Eve like hunting tigers. And she was standing, petrified, caught in Bishop’s stare.

Shane stood up and took off the dog mask Ysandre had made him wear. He walked over to stand next to Eve, unhooked the leash, and let it fall to the floor in a slither of leather.

‘‘I’m so done with this crap,’’ he said, and extended his elbow toward Eve. ‘‘How about you?’’

‘‘So done,’’ she agreed. ‘‘Though I do love a good dress-up party. Can I have the collar when you’re done with it?’’

‘‘Knock yourself out.’’

They were trying to be cool, but Claire could feel the menace up there, the hair-trigger violence just waiting to erupt. And Shane couldn’t win. He couldn’t even hurt them. All he could do was get himself killed.

She fought to get out of her chair. Myrnin’s hand crushed her shoulder hard, forcing her down again. ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘Wait.’’

‘‘They’re my friends!’’

‘‘Wait!’’

He was right. Amelie stepped forward, between Shane and Eve and Bishop. ‘‘They belong to me,’’ she said. ‘‘They are not Oliver’s to give.’’

‘‘That argument could be made for anyone in this town,’’ Bishop said. ‘‘Will you deny me any tribute at all?’’

She smiled slowly. ‘‘I never said that. Be careful, Father. You sound desperate.’’

Claire saw Bishop’s eyes flare red, then white-hot.

Amelie didn’t back down. She turned her head slightly, and nodded at Shane and Eve. Shane hustled Eve off the stage and down to the banquet-hall floor. François seemed to get some silent message from Bishop, because he backed out of their way.

Sam let Michael up, and in seconds, Michael was across the room to join them as Shane and Eve descended the stairs from the dais.

Sam followed. That made a small group in the noman’s -land in the center of the tables on the floor.

‘‘It’s starting,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘We’re at the tipping point now. He knows he’s losing. He’ll have to act.’’

And John of Leeds said, in that perfectly calm voice, ‘‘Lord Myrnin of Conwy.’’

There was that head-turning thing again. Myrnin got up from his chair and held out his hand to Claire. His eyes were bright, a little too bright. A little too manic.

His smile scared her, and she didn’t think it was just the makeup. ‘‘Ready?’’ he asked.

She didn’t really have a choice. She stood and put her hand in his, and walked toward the last thing in the world she wanted to do.