He took her pale, perfect hand and kissed it. ‘‘Oh, don’t look so distressed, my old friend,’’ he told her. ‘‘I’m perfectly fine.’’

‘‘No,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘You’re not. And you’re about to be a good deal less so.’’ She turned to Bishop. ‘‘I regret that Lord Myrnin is unwell. He must leave, for his own health.’’

‘‘He looks well enough,’’ Bishop replied. ‘‘Let him come forward.’’

‘‘You fool,’’ Amelie whispered as Myrnin did his Pierrot twirl and ended in a dancer’s perfect floor-scraping bow. ‘‘Oh, my lovely fool.’’ Claire couldn’t tell if she was appalled, angry, or sad. Maybe all three.

Bishop seemed amused. ‘‘It’s been years,’’ he said. ‘‘And how have you fared, Myrnin?’’

‘‘As well as you’d expect,’’ Myrnin said.

‘‘Pierrot. How . . . odd for you. You’re much more the Harlequin, I should think.’’

‘‘I’ve always thought that Pierrot was the secretly dangerous one,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘All that innocence must hide something.’’

Bishop laughed. ‘‘I’ve missed you, fool.’’

‘‘Truly? Odd. I haven’t missed you at all, my lord.’’

That stopped Bishop’s laughter in its tracks, and Claire felt the fear close around her, like suffocating cold. ‘‘Ah, I remember now why you ceased to amuse, Myrnin. You use honesty like a club.’’

‘‘I thought it more like a rapier, lord.’’

Bishop was all done with the witty conversation. ‘‘Will you swear?’’

And Myrnin said, shockingly, ‘‘I will.’’ And he proceeded to, a string of swearwords that made Claire blink. He ended with, ‘‘—frothy fool-born apple-john! Cheater of vandals and defiler of dead dogs!’’ and did another twirl and bow. He looked up with a red, red grin that was more like a leer. ‘‘Is that what you meant, my lord?’’

Claire gasped as hands closed cold around her throat from behind. She was pulled backward. It was Ysandre holding her, and the vampire woman bent to whisper, ‘‘Yes, please do struggle. I lost your boyfriend before I could get a taste. I’ll have you instead.’’

Claire didn’t hesitate. She reached under her tunic, got out the ancient glass perfume bottle that Myrnin had given her, and thumbed off the cap.

And she dumped the holy water right on Ysandre’s head.

Ysandre screamed in registers so high the crystal on the tables shivered. She spun away clawing at her hair, shedding drops that landed on François, who was moving toward her. He screamed, too. Where the drops touched, they ate away into skin. Claire stared, appalled. She’d hurt them, all right. Badly.

Myrnin laughed, deep in his throat, and took out the thin, sharp knife he’d worn at his side. As Bishop advanced on him, he cut at him, still laughing.

He connected.

It was a minor little wound to Bishop’s arm, barely a nick, but Clare saw the cut on the older vampire’s robes, and a thin film of blood on the knife.

Bishop looked surprised enough to stop to examine the damage to his costume.

Myrnin’s laughter ratcheted higher and higher, and he twirled again, faster, almost a blur.

‘‘Myrnin!’’ Claire yelled. She was backing away from Ysandre, burned and furious, who was stalking toward her. She tripped and fell flat on her back. ‘‘Myrnin, do something!’’

He stopped twirling and looked at the bloody knife in his hand.

‘‘I told Sam before, you have to know when to let go,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time, Claire.’’ He blew her a kiss, and leaped over the table.

And ran away, shrieking with laughter, still holding the knife. Right out of the hall.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. Claire stared at Ysandre, who seemed just as surprised, and glanced at Bishop.

Who flicked his fingers against the cut in his robe, and chuckled.

‘‘My fool,’’ he said, almost fondly. ‘‘Madmen are the laughter of God, don’t you agree?’’

He sat down on his throne, smiling. ‘‘Ysandre, leave the child. I’m inclined to allow our friends their small acts of defiance tonight.’’

‘‘She burned me!’’ Ysandre snarled.

‘‘And you’ll heal. Don’t whine like a kicked dog. It’s no more than you deserve.’’

Amelie, Claire realized, hadn’t moved at all. Not even when Claire’s life had been in danger. Now she did, leaning down to help Claire to her feet.

‘‘Enough of this,’’ she said. ‘‘You’ve had your fun, Father. End this.’’

‘‘Very well,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s time for the test, my child. Swear fealty to me, and it will all be over.’’

‘‘If I swear fealty, it will never be over,’’ Amelie corrected him. ‘‘I never have sworn an oath to you. Did you really think tonight that would change?’’

His cold, cold eyes narrowed. ‘‘Blood traitor,’’ he said. ‘‘Murderous witch. Do you welcome me to your little town? Do you grant me leave to walk your streets and take your peasants? I don’t think you dare. You know me too well.’’

‘‘I grant you nothing,’’ she said. ‘‘I won’t swear loyalty to you. I won’t give you welcome. I won’t give you anything, Father.’’ It didn’t seem possible, but as Claire watched her, Amelie seemed . . . human. Vulnerable. Fragile and waiting to be broken.

‘‘You will give me one thing if you want to keep what you’ve built here,’’ he said. ‘‘I want my book. The one you stole as you rolled me into my hasty grave, daughter.’’

She froze, eyes widening. Amelie, who couldn’t be surprised, had been completely taken for a ride this time. ‘‘The book.’’

‘‘You think I want your pathetic town? Your ridiculous peasants?’’ Bishop’s contemptuous gaze swept over Claire, over the room beyond. ‘‘I want my property . Give it to me, and I’ll leave. There. Now all our cards are up, child. What say you?’’

‘‘The book isn’t yours,’’ Amelie said.

‘‘I took it from the dead hands of a rival,’’ Bishop said. ‘‘That makes it mine. Right of conquest.’’ He gave her a cold, slow stare. ‘‘The same way you took it from me, if you remember, except that I wasn’t quite dead enough. A pity you didn’t make sure, eh?’’

It was all going wrong. Myrnin had run away, and he was supposed to stay, supposed to fight. Amelie couldn’t do this on her own; he’d said it himself.

The other vampires were all standing by and letting it happen.

‘‘Amelie,’’ Bishop said, ‘‘I’ll destroy you if you refuse. Don’t you know that? Haven’t you known it from the moment I came to town?’’

Claire moved up beside her. ‘‘She wants you to leave,’’ she said. ‘‘You need to go. Now.’’

Bishop laughed. ‘‘A threat from a little yapping dog. Will you make me, mongrel?’’

‘‘No,’’ said Sam Glass. He jumped from the banquet floor up to the table in one lithe, easy motion, and then down to stand on Amelie’s other side. ‘‘Not by herself, anyway.’’ He’d taken off his Huck Finn straw hat, but even if he’d been wearing it, his expression was one that demanded to be taken seriously.

Michael joined him, crossing the distance with a leap, while Eve and Shane took the stairs.

There was a second’s breathless pause, and then others began to move. Oliver. Monica. Charles and Miranda.

Claire’s dad came up to take her mother’s hands and lead her off to the side, out of danger.

More kept coming.

The vampires and humans of Morganville stood together, crowding the stage in front of Bishop, Ysandre, and François. Not all of them—but more than half the room.

‘‘You’re not welcome here,’’ Oliver said, ‘‘Master Bishop. This is our town. Our people. It’s time for you to leave.’’

‘‘A rebellion,’’ Bishop said. ‘‘How refreshingly modern.’’

He nodded to Ysandre and François. François yanked Jennifer out of her seat on the dais.

Ysandre feinted toward Shane, then grabbed hold of Jason Rosser and sank her fangs deep into his neck.

Pandemonium. Sam and Michael both hit François, bearing him backward as he tried to get his teeth into a screaming Jennifer, and Claire lost sight of them almost immediately. Bishop was on his feet, struggling hand to hand with Oliver.

Amelie, eyes the color and hardness of diamond, grabbed Ysandre by the back of the neck and yanked her backward, away from Jason.

‘‘My property,’’ she snapped, and held Ysandre at arm’s length as she hissed and struggled. ‘‘Boy. Boy!’’ She bent over Jason, her pale fingers touching his face.

Jason opened his eyes. He was crying, Claire thought, but then she saw his face, and she knew that wasn’t crying at all.

That was laughter.

‘‘Sucker,’’ he said.

‘‘No!’’ Claire cried, but it was too late.

Jason took a stake out of the folds of his brown monk’s robe and stabbed Amelie, right in the heart.

Everything stopped.

Amelie staggered backward. The wooden stake in her chest looked unreal, obscene, wrong.

Amelie was invulnerable. Couldn’t be hurt.

A rim of blood spread into the white cloth around the stake, growing before Claire’s eyes.

Sam screamed. He abandoned François as Amelie fell, and caught her, easing her down to the wooden stage. The look on his face—Claire had never seen that much pain, ever.

Oliver punched Bishop so hard that the old man staggered backward and fell over the side of the throne; then Oliver moved to Amelie’s side.

‘‘No!’’ Oliver snapped as Sam took hold of the stake to pull it out. ‘‘She’s old. She’ll survive until we get her to safety. Take her!’’

And then he turned as Jason lunged at him, crazy-eyed, with another stake. Oliver grabbed him in midair and snapped his arm with an effortless twist, tossing him across the stage to crash into François, who had Michael down on the ground.

‘‘Mom! Dad! Get out of here!’’ Claire yelled. Her dad beckoned her to come with them, but she shook her head. She wasn’t leaving her friends behind. Not the way Myrnin had left her.

Her parents got out, all the way out the door. Others were running, mostly the ones who’d elected not to go up against Bishop in the first place. Claire saw Maria Theresa slipping out the side door, tugging her human tribute by the arm. He looked horrified, and he was trying to break free.

Out in the darkness, she heard screaming.

Amelie blinked, pulled in a breath, and whispered something to Sam. He looked up at Claire, and his face was as hard and pale as polished marble. ‘‘Endgame, ’’ he said. ‘‘Bishop’s counterattack.’’

Claire looked out and saw that some of those who’d held back were turning on their humans, or attacking other vampires. Bishop had brought his own sleeper agents with him, and it was only a matter of time before they made their way up to the stage. It was going to be a free-for-all.

Michael joined them. His clothes were ripped, and he had a bloodless cut along one cheekbone.

‘‘Get them out of here!’’ Oliver yelled to him. ‘‘Now!’’

Oliver lunged for Bishop, drove the older vampire back against the throne, and reached into his scarecrow costume. He pulled out a long, needle-pointed dagger, and shoved it through Bishop’s chest to pin him to the wood.

It annoyed Bishop more than hurt him. Bishop wrenched free and pulled the dagger out, then back-handed Oliver so hard the other vampire went completely off the stage and out into the darkness of the banquet hall.

‘‘Sam!’’ Michael yelled. Sam gathered up Amelie in his arms and jumped off the stage. Most of the others followed him. Michael grabbed Eve and Shane, and Claire turned to follow as they clattered down the stairs.

Ysandre stopped her.

‘‘Not so fast,’’ she said. Her voice no longer sounded like a purr; it was a growl, low and vicious. ‘‘You I want.’’

Claire fumbled for a weapon. She came up with a fork from a fallen place setting, and stabbed it into Ysandre’s arm. The vampire yelped, plucked it out, and fastened her hand around Claire’s throat, bending her back over the table. Claire couldn’t breathe. She battered at the vampire’s iron hand, and tried to twist free, but it was no use.

She was dying.

Oliver hit Ysandre in a flying leap. He knocked her into Bishop, and they both went down. Before they hit the floor, he’d grabbed Claire’s wrist and pulled her toward the stairs. She wasn’t moving fast enough for him. He scooped her into his arms, and the world blurred around them.

Vampire speed.

Screams smeared into noise, and Claire heard crashes and sirens, and then nothing.

Strange, to feel safe in Oliver’s arms.

When she woke up, her head was in Shane’s lap, and he was stroking her hair. She heard the hushed murmur of voices. ‘‘What—’’ Her throat hurt. Hurt a lot. And her voice sounded funny.

‘‘Hey,’’ Shane said, and smiled down at her. It didn’t look right, that smile. ‘‘Don’t talk. We’re home— we’ve got everything secured. It’s okay.’’

She doubted that. She could hear sirens outside, racing past on the street. Voices inside the house, lots of them. She tried to sit up, but Shane held her back. ‘‘Sam’s upstairs with Amelie, in the rec room.’’ Which was Shane’s term for Amelie’s hidden lair. ‘‘The city’s in lockdown. Bishop had a lot of people on his payroll already. Lots of surprises. He’s been busy.’’

She mouthed, Who’s here?

‘‘Yeah, well, we’ve got guests tonight,’’ he said. ‘‘Couldn’t get them to their own places, so they’re taking refuge here. Your mom and dad are right here—’’

And there they were, pushing Shane out of the way. Mom was crying as she stroked Claire’s face. Her dad was more stoic, but his face was flushed and his jaw was tightly clenched.

‘‘How you doing, kiddo?’’ he asked.

‘‘Fine,’’ she whispered, and pointed at them.

‘‘We’re just fine, sweetheart,’’ her mother said, and kissed her on the forehead. She was still wearing the long white dress, but the angel wings looked battered and off center. ‘‘When Oliver brought you in, I thought—I thought it was too late. I thought—’’

They’d thought she was dead. Claire felt guilty, even though passing out hadn’t been her idea, exactly. ‘‘I’m okay,’’ she managed to say. She tried to swallow, and found that was not just a bad idea; it was a terrible idea. She coughed. That hurt worse.

Pitiful.

‘‘Oliver?’’ she whispered. Her dad nodded to someplace behind the couch, where she was stretched out.

‘‘On the phone,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s quite the take-charge guy, isn’t he?’’

The lights in the house went out, and people screamed. Almost immediately, flashlights clicked on; Eve and Shane had them ready, and so did Michael.

‘‘Calm down,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Everybody relax. The house is secure.’’

Nothing was secure from Bishop, Claire wanted to tell him. Ysandre and François had been here, and they’d get in again if they wanted. The gloom felt thick and oily around her. If there were ghosts in the house—other than the one Michael had been—they were coming out in force tonight, drawn by the fear and fury.

‘‘Hey,’’ Eve said. She was standing at the front windows, looking out. ‘‘Something’s on fire out there.’’

A fire truck roared by, screaming, chased by a fleet of patrol cars. Busy night for city services, Claire thought dizzily. She got up, despite her mother’s attempts to keep her flat. The room spun a little, then steadied. She joined Eve at the window. Eve put an arm around her and hugged her, eyes still on the fire. It was a big one, maybe three streets away. Flames were leaping a dozen feet into the air.

‘‘How you doing?’’ Eve asked her.

Claire gave her a silent thumbs-up, and saw Eve smile.

‘‘Yeah, you went all Spartacus up there. I was proud, you know. Well, until you kind of got your ass kicked.’’

Claire tried to choke out an indignant ‘‘Hey!’’

‘‘Okay, so, maybe not your fault.’’ Eve hugged her again. ‘‘Holy water. Nice touch. I was almost impressed.’’

‘‘Whose house?’’ Two words, Claire managed in one whisper. That was progress. ‘‘On fire?’’

‘‘I think it’s the Melville house.’’ Eve angled for a different view. ‘‘Crap. I see some more. This isn’t good.’’

Michael joined them. ‘‘It’s part of Bishop’s plan,’’ he said. ‘‘Or at least, that’s what I’d guess. Create chaos. Keep Amelie off-balance.’’

Claire bet the power failure was all part of the plan too. ‘‘How many are here?’’

‘‘In our house? About thirty.’’ Eve rolled her eyes. ‘‘Half of them vampires. Great, huh? After all that.’’

Claire stared at her. ‘‘Thirty?’’

Eve nodded. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Makes us a good target.’’

‘‘She’s right,’’ Michael said. ‘‘We need to stay alert.’’

Shane pressed in next to Claire. He was still wearing his leather pants, but he’d thrown on a grotty old Marilyn Manson T-shirt that looked rescued from the bottom of the laundry bag.

She didn’t care. She collapsed against him, and felt his arms go around her, and just for a second, it was all right.

‘‘Killer rabbit,’’ Shane said fondly, and kissed her. ‘‘What’s with the outfit?’’

‘‘Harlequin,’’ she croaked. ‘‘Myrnin—’’ The memory of what Myrnin had done came flooding back. He’d taunted Bishop. He’d set Amelie up to take the fall, and he’d run. He’d left her there, too, to die.

‘‘That’s Myrnin? The crazy one? Claire. How could you trust him in the first place?’’ Shane cupped her face in his hands. ‘‘He talked you into it, didn’t he?’’

Not exactly. She’d wanted to believe Myrnin. She wanted to believe in that sweet, innocent soul that she glimpsed in him from time to time—but now she wasn’t at all sure it even existed at all.

Or if it had, maybe her cure had destroyed it.

‘‘I couldn’t—’’ Claire tried to put the words together, but it was too hard, and Shane’s eyes were too forgiving. He kissed her, and even under the circumstances, with her parents right there, with a house full of vampires and half of Morganville in danger, she thought she could stand here all night and all day, in his arms.

‘‘I know,’’ he murmured, with his damp, sweet lips on hers. ‘‘I know.’’

She almost thought he did.

‘‘Sorry to break this up,’’ Michael said drily from behind Claire, ‘‘but I’m thinking we need to do a little perimeter patrolling.’’

‘‘Not a bad idea,’’ Shane said, and stepped back, ‘‘if they’re torching houses to drive people out in the streets. Easier to pick them off that way, I’ll bet.’’

‘‘Exactly.’’ Michael handed him a crowbar. Shane twirled it and captured it under his arm. ‘‘Like Claire said, we’re a good target. All the Founder Houses are. I’ll take the back; you go to the front.’’

‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Claire offered. Shane and Michael both grabbed her arms and towed her back to the couch, where she was unceremoniously dumped. ‘‘Hey!’’

Shane turned to her parents. ‘‘Make sure she stays in.’’

‘‘We will,’’ her mother said, and sat down beside Claire. ‘‘Honestly, Claire, what are you thinking? It’s dangerous out there!’’

That was exactly what Claire was thinking, in relation to Shane. But she knew that in her present condition, she wasn’t much use. Not for this, at least.

‘‘Bathroom,’’ she sighed, and there was no arguing with that. Her parents exchanged a look. Dad shrugged.

‘‘I’ll go with you,’’ Mom offered.

‘‘Mom, I’m old enough to go to the bathroom alone.’’ Her voice was getting stronger all the time; she only had to hesitate a couple of times getting all that out. She still sounded like she had a pack-a-day cigarette habit, though. But husky was sexy, right?

Mom had her doubts about the whole old-enough theory, but she stayed where she was, on the couch. She and Dad exchanged shrugs. Claire stepped around a knot of strangers—all vampires, with cool, suspicious eyes—and took the stairs.

Miranda was sitting on the landing with her Medusa-snaked head cradled in her hands. ‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said, and hunkered down next to her. ‘‘You okay?’’

Miranda nodded. ‘‘Told you,’’ she said. ‘‘Blood. Fire. It’s all going away.’’

‘‘Can you see anything about us? About the house?’’

Miranda shook her head. ‘‘Too tired.’’ She sounded like it—almost catatonic, slurring her words. ‘‘Head hurts.’’

‘‘Come on,’’ Claire said, and got Miranda to her feet. ‘‘I’ve got a bed. No reason somebody shouldn’t be using it.’’

She saw the girl tucked in, already dozing off, and then—as she’d promised Mom and Dad—visited the bathroom. There was a line. Once that was done, she felt free to investigate other options.

She’d never promised to come right back.

The way she wanted to go was blocked by one of Amelie’s bodyguards—the one who’d nodded to her during an earlier visit, in fact. He was marginally less stone-faced than the rest of her staff, but definitely intimidating. Claire looked up at him, well aware that the bruising around her throat was turning purple.

‘‘Can I go up?’’ she asked. The bodyguard seemed to consider her for a long second before giving her a nod and moving aside. He knocked. The hidden door popped open, and Claire slipped inside and closed it behind her.

There was another vampire bodyguard at the foot of the stairs, and he wasn’t as friendly, but after a whispered conversation at the top of the stairs, he let her go up.

Upstairs it was only Amelie, lying in a frozen waterfall of white silk on the couch, and Sam, and Oliver.

The stake was still in her chest, and her eyes were open and blank.

Oliver snapped at Claire the second she cleared the stairs. ‘‘Go away!’’

She nearly did, but Sam jumped in quickly. ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘She’s earned the right. She was the first one to stand next to Amelie, not you. Not even me.’’

Oliver seemed harassed, but he refocused on Amelie’s still, pale face. His long fingers were on her temples, unexpectedly gentle. He’d stripped off his scarecrow costume, or most of it, but there were still bits of straw in his hair, and smudges of greasepaint on his skin.

He leaned close, staring into her open eyes, and held there. Seconds ticked by, and Sam waited.

‘‘Now,’’ Oliver whispered.

Sam grabbed the stake and pulled, one swift yank. Amelie’s body followed it upward in a spasm, and her mouth opened wide. Her vampire teeth glittered, sharp and deadly in the light.

She didn’t make a sound.

Sam looked tormented. Oliver was whispering something, too faint for Claire to catch, and he bent his head so close to Amelie’s they were almost touching. When Sam reached out toward her, Oliver looked up and shook his head sharply. Sam froze.

‘‘Take her,’’ Oliver said, and removed his hands from her head. Sam quickly took over, sliding into his place. Oliver skinned back his gray shirtsleeve, took in a deep breath, and put his forearm to Amelie’s mouth.

Claire flinched as Amelie bit deep. Oliver didn’t. Sam’s gaze alternated between Amelie and Oliver, looking for something Claire didn’t quite understand, and then he let go of Amelie and grabbed Oliver’s arm to pull it away from her.

Oliver staggered and collapsed, and covered his eyes with both hands. The open wounds on his arm trailed blood drops, pattering on the floor, then slowing. Stopping as he healed.

Amelie blinked and turned her head toward Claire. She looked dead, except for the fact that she was moving; her eyes were still fixed, pupils gone wide, and her skin was an eerie blue white.

‘‘The girl,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Must go. Hungry.’’

Sam nodded and looked over his shoulder at Claire. ‘‘Go get her some blood,’’ he said. ‘‘There should be some in the refrigerator.’’

And Claire realized with a shock that there wasn’t. They were all out of blood.

‘‘Crap,’’ Shane breathed as they stood together looking into the fridge. The shelves held leftover chili, some pasta stuff, hamburger patties. Enough for them, for a couple of days. Not enough for anywhere near the number of people in the house, even for the humans. ‘‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’’

‘‘I’m thinking we have about fifteen vampires and no blood,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Is that it?’’

‘‘No, I was thinking we’re out of chips. Of course that’s what I was thinking.’’ Shane moved some condiment bottles again, in a three-time-loser search for some elusive hidden blood bottle. ‘‘Did I say crap?’’

‘‘More than once, yeah. Shouldn’t you get back outside?’’

‘‘I traded shifts with a vampire. Better to have them walking around in the dark than us, you know? Besides, the fewer of them there are in here right now—’’

‘‘The better,’’ she finished. ‘‘I don’t disagree. But Sam said Amelie needs to feed, and that means blood. She’s not the only one, either. What about the Donation Center?’’

‘‘They don’t deliver,’’ Shane said, and then snapped his fingers. ‘‘Wait. Wait a minute. Yes, they do.’’

‘‘What?’’

He spun away and picked up the phone from the cradle on the wall, then put it back down. ‘‘Dead.’’

Claire took out her cell phone. ‘‘I’ve got a signal.’’ She pitched it to him, and watched as he punched a number. ‘‘Who are you calling?’’

‘‘Pizza Hut.’’

‘‘Loser.’’

He held up a finger. ‘‘Hey, Richard?’’ Not, Claire noticed, Dick. This situation had upgraded him to full-name status. ‘‘Listen, man, we’ve got a situation here at the Glass House.’’

Claire could fill in the other half of the conversation from Richard Morrell almost verbatim. What do you think I have, with the town going crazy?

‘‘We’re out of blood,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Amelie’s wounded. You do the math, man. A little home delivery service from Morganville’s Finest wouldn’t hurt right now.’’

Whatever Richard said, it wasn’t encouraging. ‘‘You’re kidding,’’ Shane said, in an entirely different tone. A worried one. ‘‘You’re not kidding. Oh my God.’’ A short pause. ‘‘Yeah, man, I get it. I get it. Okay, right. Take care.’’

That, she thought, was definitely the most civil she’d ever heard Richard and Shane. It was almost friendly.

Shane folded up the phone and threw it back to her, and his face was a study in self-control.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Donation Center’s burning,’’ he said. ‘‘How do you feel about blood drives?’’

The Bloodmobile arrived in front of the house exactly fifteen minutes later—glossy, black, and intimidating. It came with a flanking guard of squad cars and police wearing protective vests who took up posts on either end of the street.

Claire looked at the clock. It was nearly four a.m.— still hours until dawn, although the fires were making it hard to tell day from night. The Morganville Fire Department was outmatched. Whatever serial arsonists Bishop had employed were definitely doing their jobs.

Claire wondered what Bishop was doing. Waiting, probably. He didn’t really have to do anything else. Morganville was coming apart, with strikes at the communications hubs, the Donation Center, and—as she heard by word of mouth from some of the others— the hospital. So far, the university seemed safe. There was a blood supply on campus, but it would be tough to get to in the chaos.

Michael went out to meet the vampire driving the Bloodmobile. He came back shaking his head. ‘‘Nothing left,’’ he said. ‘‘He’d already dropped off the day’s collections at the Center. There’s nothing in storage. He says he’s heard the supplies at the hospital have been sabotaged, too.’’

‘‘Unless we go door-to-door and gather up bottles and bags, that’s all there is,’’ said the stern-looking vampire. ‘‘I told the Council there should be more backup supplies.’’

‘‘What about the university storage?’’

‘‘Enough for a couple of days,’’ the Bloodmobile driver said. ‘‘I don’t know of anything else.’’

‘‘I do,’’ Claire said, and swallowed painfully as they all looked at her. ‘‘But I need to get permission from Amelie to take you there.’’

‘‘Amelie’s not in any shape to give permission. What about Oliver?’’

Claire shook her head. ‘‘It has to be Amelie. I’m sorry.’’

The Bloodmobile driver looked tired and very frustrated. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘‘Fine,’’ he said. ‘‘But before she can begin to give consent, she needs feeding. And I need donors.’’

Eve, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet, stepped forward. ‘‘I’ll do it,’’ she said.

‘‘Me, too.’’ That was Monica Morrell. She stripped off her heavy Marie Antoinette wig and dropped it on the ground. Claire thought about what Richard Morrell had told her about the mayor wanting to return the costume for credit, and almost laughed. So much for that plan. ‘‘Gina! Jennifer! Get over here! And bring everybody you can!’’

Monica, as imperious as a real French queen, put her ability to threaten and intimidate to good use for a change. Within ten minutes, they had a line of donors ready, and all four Bloodmobile stations were working.

Claire slipped back inside. The vampires were all facing the windows, watching for surprises. Most of the humans were outside, giving blood.

She faced the blank wall in the living room, next to the table. Got to do this fast.

It faded into mist, and she stepped through and was gone almost before the portal opened.

She stepped out into the prison, reached under her Harlequin top, and pulled out the sharpened cross that Myrnin had given her. Use it only in self-defense.

She was ready to do that.

Myrnin’s cell was empty, and the television was on and tuned to a game show. Claire checked the prison refrigerator. There was a good stockpile of blood there, if she could get it out where it was needed.

Myrnin could be anywhere.

No, she thought. Myrnin could be only in about twenty places in Morganville, at least if he was using the doorways.

She went back to the portal wall and concentrated, formed the wormhole tunnel to the lab, and stepped through.

And there he was.

He was feverishly working, and every lamp and candle in the room burned at full capacity. He hadn’t stopped to change, though he’d lost the cone-head cap somewhere; as Claire watched, he got one of his full white sleeves too close to a candle and caught it on fire.

‘‘Cachiad!’’ he blurted, and ripped off his sleeve to throw it on the ground and stomp out the blaze. Irritated, he stripped off the whole billowy top and dumped it, too.

He looked up, half-naked, wild, and saw Claire watching him.

For a second neither of them moved, and then Myrnin said, ‘‘It’s not what you think.’’

Claire stepped away from the door. She swung it shut and clicked the padlock shut. ‘‘If you didn’t want anybody coming after you, you should have locked up.’’

‘‘I don’t have time for this, and neither do you. Now, do you want to help me, or—’’

‘‘I’m done helping you!’’ she shouted. Her abused voice broke like shattered glass, and she heard the raw fury bleed out. ‘‘You ran! You left us all to die!’’

Myrnin flinched. He looked away, down at what he’d been doing at the lab table, and she saw that he’d prepared a number of slides. ‘‘I had my reasons, ’’ he said. ‘‘It’s the long game, Claire. Amelie understands.’’

‘‘Amelie got staked in the heart,’’ she said.

His head slowly rose. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Bishop bought off her tribute, Jason. Jason staked her.’’

‘‘No.’’ It was a bare thread of sound. Myrnin shut his eyes. ‘‘No, that can’t be. She knew—I told her—’’

‘‘You left her to die!’’

Myrnin’s legs failed. He slid down to his knees and buried his face in his hands, silent in his anguish.

Claire gripped the cross, holding it at her side, and walked toward him. He didn’t move.

‘‘Is she alive?’’ he asked.

‘‘I don’t know. Maybe.’’

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘Then it is my fault. That shouldn’t have happened.’’

‘‘And the rest of it should have?’’

‘‘Long game,’’ Myrnin whispered. ‘‘You don’t understand.’’

There was a chessboard, a familiar one, set up in the corner where Myrnin normally read. A game was frozen in midattack. Claire stared at it, and for a second she saw the specter of Amelie sitting with Myrnin, moving those pieces in white, cold fingers.

‘‘She knew,’’ she said. ‘‘She helped you. Didn’t she?’’

Myrnin stood up, and Claire held up the cross between them. Myrnin didn’t so much as look at it. She pushed it closer. Maybe it was a proximity thing?

Myrnin closed his hand over hers, and took the cross away. He held it on the open palm of his hand.

No sizzling. No reaction at all.

"Crosses don’t work,’’ he said. ‘‘We all pretend they do, but they don’t."

Her mouth was hanging open. ‘‘Why?’’ Great. Her last words were, as always, going to be questions.

‘‘Obviously, it keeps people from moving on to things that will hurt us.’’ Myrnin lifted his eyebrows, but the dark eyes below them were cautious and sad. ‘‘Claire. I wasn’t supposed to stay. I was to provide a distraction, get my sample, and leave.’’

‘‘Sample.’’

He pointed toward the lab table, and what he’d been doing. Claire saw the silver gleam of the knife he’d carried to the feast—clean now, no trace of blood.

But there was blood carefully mounted and fixed on glass slides, ranks of them.

‘‘Bishop’s blood?’’

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘We’ve never been able to obtain a sample from any vampire beyond Morganville. As far as we knew, there weren’t any vampires beyond Morganville. Look.’’

Claire didn’t trust him. He stepped back, far back, and indicated the microscope with an apologetic bow.

‘‘Mind if I hold this?’’ she asked, and grabbed the knife.

‘‘So long as you keep it pointed away from me,’’ he said. The weight of it eased her jitters a little, but it still took her several tries to look into the microscope long enough to focus, instead of checking his position.

When she did, she immediately recognized the difference.

Bishop’s blood cells were—for a vampire—healthy.

She stepped back and stared at Myrnin. ‘‘He’s not infected.’’

‘‘It gets better,’’ Myrnin said, and nodded toward the ranks of slides. ‘‘Try number eight.’’

She switched out the slides. ‘‘I don’t see any difference.’’

‘‘Exactly,’’ he said. ‘‘That is my blood, mixed with Bishop’s. Now check number seven—my blood, alone.’’

It was a nightmare. Worse than Claire had ever seen it. Whatever the serum was doing to Myrnin, it was destroying him.

She checked slide eight again.

Slide seven.

‘‘He’s the cure,’’ she said.

‘‘Now you see,’’ Myrnin said, ‘‘why I was willing to risk everything and everyone to be sure.’’

Myrnin’s health failed again after another hour— longer than Claire would have given him, based on what she saw under the slides. When he started tiring and mixing words, she unlocked the prison door and took him back to his cell.

‘‘Damn,’’ she sighed, remembering the broken door. ‘‘We need to move you.’’

That took some time, although she grabbed only what Myrnin pointed out as essentials—clothes, blankets, the rug, his books. By the time she’d gotten everything put into the next cell, and replaced the ancient filthy bunk with the clean cot, Myrnin was in the corner of the room, curled into a ball. Rocking slowly back and forth.

She approached him as carefully as she could. ‘‘It’s ready,’’ she said. ‘‘Come on. I’ll get you something to eat.’’

Myrnin looked up, and she couldn’t tell if he’d understood her until he scrambled to his feet and waved her out of the way with a trembling hand.

He closed the cell door and tested the lock, then slumped onto his bed.

‘‘Amelie,’’ he said. ‘‘Take care of Amelie.’’

‘‘We will,’’ Claire promised. She handed him a blood pack—not threw, handed. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.’’

His nod was more of a convulsive tremble. His gaze was drawn to the blood, but he forced it back to her face. ‘‘Long game,’’ he said. ‘‘Use what Bishop wants. Let him think he’s winning. Play for time. Bring the doctor.’’

‘‘Dr. Mills?’’

‘‘Need help.’’

‘‘I’ll get him here somehow.’’ Claire didn’t want to leave Myrnin, but he was right. There were things to do. ‘‘Are you going to be okay?’’

Myrnin’s smile was, once again, broken, but beautiful. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said softly. ‘‘Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for believing.’’

She hadn’t, really. But she did now.

As she turned away, she heard him whisper, ‘‘I’m so sorry, child. So very sorry I left you.’’

She pretended not to hear.