Where they’d been meaning to burn him alive as punishment for something he hadn’t even done.

For some reason, Claire had expected to be parked in the same place as last time—outside of the square, at the police checkpoint—but of course that wasn’t possible, was it? A few of the older vampires might be able to stand the sun, but they wouldn’t willingly stroll around in it. Morganville was built for the convenience of vampires, not humans, and when Claire’s door opened, and Gretchen impatiently gestured for her to get out, they were in an underground parking garage. It was full of cars, all nice ones, with darkened windows. Like a Beverly Hills mall or something.

There were armed guards. One of them started toward them as Gretchen pulled Claire out of the car, but Hans flashed him a badge, and the other guy— vampire, presumably—backed off.

‘‘Let’s go,’’ Hans said. ‘‘Your Patron is waiting.’’

Gretchen chuckled. Not a happy sound. Claire stumbled over her own feet trying to keep up as the two vampires set off at a brisk walk, Gretchen’s iron-hard grip on her upper arm setting in with bruising force. Claire was short of breath by the time they got to a long double flight of stairs, which the vampires took at a jog. At the top of the stairs was some kind of fire door, with a code panel. Claire didn’t dare try to sneak a look at what Hans entered; knowing the vampires’ paranoia, it wouldn’t do her any good. The machines were probably calibrated to exclude anybody with a heartbeat.

Which made her wonder: was Myrnin behind the town’s security, too? Was that something else she was supposed to learn? It could really come in handy if she could persuade him to show her. . . .

She was obsessing on technicalities to avoid feeling the terror, but as soon as the door lock released, she had nothing else to focus on except fear, and it washed over her in a sticky, cold wave. Gretchen seemed to sense it. She looked down at Claire with those cool, mirror gray eyes, and smiled. ‘‘Worried, little one?’’ she asked sweetly. ‘‘Worried for yourself, or for your friends?’’

‘‘Worried for Sam,’’ Claire said. Gretchen lost her smile, and for just an instant, she seemed honestly off balance and surprised. ‘‘Is he alive?’’

‘‘Alive?’’ Gretchen’s armor slid firmly back in place, and she raised a slender arched eyebrow. ‘‘He may yet be saved, if that is what you mean. I suppose your friend Shane will have to try again.’’

‘‘Shane didn’t do anything!’’

This time, Gretchen’s smile got positively cruel. ‘‘Perhaps not,’’ she said. ‘‘Perhaps not yet. But be patient. He will. It’s in his nature, as much as killing is in ours.’’

Claire had to save her breath, because they were walking again, big strides across thick maroon carpet. Claire’s first impression of the Elders’ Council building had been that it was a funeral home; it still felt like that to her, all hushed and quiet and elegant. They’d had roses in the last time, when the vampire they’d thought Shane killed had been lying in state. She didn’t see any flowers this time.

Gretchen led her down a hallway and through thick double doors, into the round entry hall. There were four armed vampire guards in the room, and Gretchen and Hans had to stop and show ID, and surrender their weapons. Claire got searched—quick, competent pats from cold hands that made her shiver.

And then the doors opened, and she was pulled into a big round room with a high ceiling, chandeliers like falls of ice, and dim, expensive paintings on the walls. She hadn’t imagined the smell of roses. In the center of the room stood a massive round conference table, surrounded by chairs, and in the center was a vase filled with red, red blooms.

Nobody was at the table. Instead, a group of at least ten was standing at the other side of the room, looking down.

Some of them turned, and Claire’s gaze fixed irresistibly on Oliver. She hadn’t seen him since he’d threatened her life, trying to lure Shane out of hiding, and as he stood up, now she had a flash of that again, how icy and hard his hands had been around her throat. How scared she’d been.

Oliver snarled, low in his throat but loud enough to be heard, and his eyes were like a wolf’s. Not human at all.

‘‘I see you brought us a criminal for punishment,’’ he said, and moved toward them.

Gretchen looked at Hans, and then shoved Claire behind her. ‘‘Stop,’’ she said. Oliver did, mostly in surprise. ‘‘The girl asked to come, to see her Patron. We have no proof she is guilty.’’

‘‘If she lives in that house, then she’s guilty,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘You surprise me, Gretchen. When did you begin taking the side of the breathers?’’

She laughed, but it had a bright, false sound to it. She said something in a language that Claire didn’t recognize; Oliver spat something back, and Hans put a big hand on Claire’s shoulder.

‘‘She’s our responsibility,’’ he said. ‘‘And she’s Amelie’s property. Nothing to do with you, Oliver. Move.’’

Oliver, smiling, raised his hands and backed away. Hans moved Claire forward, past him, and she felt his stare on the back of her neck, as sharp as knives.

The circle of people parted as Hans approached. It was mostly (Claire guessed) vampires; they didn’t wear tags or anything, but most of them had the same cool, pale skin, the same whip-snake quickness when they moved. In fact, the only two humans—breathers?—she saw were Mayor Morrell, looking miserably uncomfortable as he stood near the edge of the group, and his son Richard. Richard’s uniform was damp in places, and it took Claire a few seconds to realize that it was wet with blood.

Sam’s blood.

Sam was lying on his back on the carpet, with his head cradled in Amelie’s lap. The elder vampire was kneeling, and her hands were stroking gently through Sam’s bright copper hair. He looked pale and dead, and the stake was still in his chest.

Amelie’s eyes were closed, but opened as Hans pushed Claire toward her. For a long second the older vampire didn’t seem to recognize Claire at all, and then weariness flashed through her expression; she looked down at Sam, her fingers trailing across his cheek.

‘‘Claire, assist me,’’ she said, as if they were continuing a conversation Claire hadn’t even been in on. ‘‘Give her room, please.’’

Hans let go, and Claire felt a wild urge to run, run out of this room, get Shane and just go, anywhere but here. There was something too big to understand in Amelie’s eyes, something she didn’t want to know. She started to take a step back, but Amelie’s hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist and pulled, and Claire fell to her knees on the other side of Sam’s body.

He looked dead.

Really, really dead.

‘‘When I tell you, take hold of the wood and pull,’’ Amelie said, her voice low and steady. ‘‘Not until I tell you.’’

‘‘But—I’m not very strong. . . .’’ Why wasn’t she asking Richard? Asking one of the vampires? Oliver, even?

‘‘You are strong enough. When I tell you, Claire.’’ Amelie closed her eyes again, and Claire scrubbed her damp palms nervously over her blue jeans. The wooden stake in Sam’s chest was round, polished wood, like a spike, and she couldn’t tell how deep it was in his body. Was it in his heart? Wouldn’t that kill him, once and for all? She remembered they’d talked about other vampires who’d gotten staked, and they’d died. . . .

Amelie’s expression suddenly twisted in pain, and she said, ‘‘Now, Claire!’’

Claire didn’t even think. She fastened her hands around the stake and pulled, one massive yank, and for a terrifying second she thought it wouldn’t work, but then she felt it sliding free, scraping against bone as it went.

Sam’s whole body arched, as though he’d been shocked with one of those heart machines, and the circle of vampires moved back. Amelie kept hold of him, her fingers white as bone where they pressed on the sides of his head. Her eyes flew open, and they were pure blazing silver.

Claire scrambled backward, clutching the stake in both hands. Someone plucked it out of her grip— Richard Morrell, looking grim and tired. He put it into a plastic bag and zipped it shut.

Evidence.

Sam went limp again. The wound in his chest was bleeding a steady, slow trickle, and Amelie took off her jacket—white silk—and folded it into a pad to press it against the flow. Nobody spoke, not even Amelie. Claire sat there feeling helpless, watching Sam. He wasn’t moving, not at all.

He still looked dead.

‘‘Samuel,’’ Amelie said, and her voice was low and quiet and warm. She bent closer to him. ‘‘Samuel. Come back to me.’’

His eyes opened, and they were all pupil. Scary owl eyes. Claire bit her lip and thought again about running, but Hans and Gretchen were at her back and she knew she didn’t have a chance, anyway.

Sam blinked, and his pupils began to shrink slowly to a more normal size. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

‘‘Breathe in,’’ Amelie said, in that same quiet, warm tone. ‘‘I’m here, Samuel. I won’t leave you.’’ She stroked fingers gently over his forehead, and he blinked again and slowly focused on her.

It was as though there was nobody else in all the world, just the two of them. Amelie was wrong, Claire thought. It isn’t just that Sam loves her. She loves him just as much.

Sam looked from Amelie to the circle of people, searching it for someone. When he didn’t find the right one, he looked at Amelie again. His lips formed a name. Michael.

‘‘Michael is safe,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Hans. Fetch him here.’’

Hans nodded and left, walking quickly. Michael. Claire realized with a jolt that she’d forgotten he’d be here, forgotten all about him in the shock of all that had happened. Sam was, at least, looking better with every passing second, but Amelie continued to press the makeshift bandage to the wound in his chest.

Sam’s hand crept up, clumsy and slow, to cover hers, and for a long few seconds they looked at each other silently, and then Amelie nodded and let go.

Sam held the bandage in place and, with Amelie’s help, pulled himself to a sitting position. She helped him lean against the wall.

‘‘Can you tell us what happened?’’ she asked him. Sam nodded, and Claire looked up to see Richard Morrell crouching down, notebook and pen at the ready.

Sam’s voice, when it finally came, was soft and thin, and it was clearly an effort for him to speak at all. ‘‘Went to see Michael,’’ he said.

‘‘But Michael was here, with us,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘We summoned him during the night.’’

Sam’s hand—the one not occupied holding the jacket to his chest—rose and fell helplessly. ‘‘Sensed he wasn’t home, so I backed out of the drive. Someone pulled open the car door—Taser, couldn’t fight back. Staked me while I was down.’’

‘‘Who?’’ Richard asked. Sam’s eyes closed briefly, then opened.

‘‘Didn’t see. Human. Heard the heartbeat.’’ He swallowed. ‘‘Thirsty.’’

‘‘You must heal first,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘A few more moments. Is there anything at all you can tell us about this human who attacked you?’’

Sam’s eyes opened again, with an effort. ‘‘He called me Michael.’’

Michael arrived just in time to hear that last part. He looked at Claire, wide-eyed, then crouched down beside Sam. ‘‘Who did? The one who did this?’’

Sam shook his head. ‘‘I don’t know who. Male, that’s all I know. He used your name. I think he thought I was you.’’ Sam’s lips curled in the pale ghost of a smile. ‘‘Guess he didn’t see the hair before he staked me.’’

The article in the newspaper. Captain Obvious. Somebody had decided to take out the newest vampire in town, and it was sheer luck that they’d gotten Sam instead. It could have been Michael lying in the street.

And from the look on Michael’s face, he was thinking the exact same thing.

 
Amelie was agitated. It wasn’t really obvious, but Claire had seen her enough to know the difference. She moved more swiftly, and there was something less calm than usual in her eyes. Claire shivered a little when Amelie summoned her into a side room. It was small and empty, probably some kind of meeting room. Amelie didn’t come alone; a tall blond vampire guy followed along and stood with his back to the door, a flesh-and-blood deadbolt. No getting out quickly, or at all, really.

‘‘What happened?’’ Amelie demanded.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I was asleep. I woke up when—’’ When I heard the sirens, she’d been about to say, but again, that wasn’t really true. She’d felt something, a flash of alarm that had come out of nowhere. And Shane and Eve had felt it, too. It normally would take a nuclear explosion to blast Shane out of sleep in the predawn hours, but he’d been wide-awake. ‘‘It was like some alarm went off in the house.’’

Amelie’s face went very still and smooth. ‘‘Indeed.’’

‘‘Why? Is that important?’’

‘‘Maybe. What else?’’

‘‘Nothing—we went downstairs. The sirens were going outside, and by the time we got down there it was all over, I guess. Sam was down on the road, and the cop was already there.’’

‘‘You saw no one else?’’

Claire shook her head.

‘‘And your friends?’’ Amelie asked. ‘‘Where were they?’’

It wasn’t a casual question. Claire felt her pulse speed up, and tried to stay calm. If Amelie didn’t believe her . . . ‘‘Asleep,’’ she said firmly. ‘‘Shane was with me, and I saw Eve come out of her own room. They couldn’t have done it.’’

Amelie shot her a look. Not one that made her feel any too secure. ‘‘I know how much you value their lives. But understand, Claire, if you lie for them, I will not forgive it.’’

‘‘I’m not lying. They were in their rooms when I came out. The only one missing was Michael, and he was here with you.’’

Amelie turned away from her and paced the length of the room in slow, graceful steps. She looked so perfect, so . . . together. Unable to help it, Claire blurted out, ‘‘Aren’t you worried about Sam?’’

‘‘I am more concerned about whoever attacked him not receiving another chance to do such harm,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Sam was old enough to survive such a thing—but only barely. If the stake had remained in his chest much longer, or the sun had burned him, he could not have survived. Had the assassin succeeded in attacking Michael, he would have died almost instantly. It would take decades for him to build up an immunity.’’

Claire’s mouth opened, shut, and opened again when she found the words. ‘‘You mean—vampires don’t die from stakes in the heart?’’

‘‘I mean that it takes quite a lot to kill one of us,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘More every year we survive. You could put a stake through my heart, and I would simply pull it out and be very annoyed with you for ruining my wardrobe. If I failed to remove it within a few hours, it would damage me, perhaps seriously, but it would not destroy me in the way you’re thinking. We are not so fragile, little Claire.’’ Her teeth gleamed for a second like pearls as she smiled. ‘‘You would do well to tell your friends. Especially Shane.’’

‘‘But—Brandon—’’

Amelie’s smile faded. ‘‘He was tortured,’’ she said. ‘‘Burned with sunlight to reduce his resistance. By the time he was murdered, he had no more strength than a newborn. Shane’s father understands us too well, you see.’’

And now, so did Claire. Which probably wasn’t good. ‘‘The cops took Shane and Eve to the police station. I don’t want anything to happen to them.’’

‘‘I’m sure you don’t. As I did not want anything to happen to my dear Samuel, who would willingly die for the rights of breathers in this town.’’ Amelie’s tone had gone cold and dark, and it gave Claire a deep-down trembling in her stomach. ‘‘I wonder if I have been too lenient. Allowed too much freedom.’’

‘‘You don’t own us,’’ Claire whispered, and it seemed like the bracelet around her wrist tightened all of a sudden, pinching. She grabbed at it, wincing.

‘‘Do I not?’’ Amelie asked coolly. She exchanged a glance with the vampire at the door. ‘‘Let her leave. I am done with her.’’

He bowed slightly and stepped out of the way. Claire resisted the urge to lunge for the exit. Being in the same room with Amelie, never mind her guard, was scary and intense, but she needed to at least try. ‘‘About Shane and Eve—’’

‘‘I don’t interfere in human justice,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘If they are innocent, then they will be released. Go now. I shall expect you to attend to Myrnin today, and I have arranged for some additional classes at university for you to attend. A list has been provided to you at your home this morning.’’

Claire hesitated.

‘‘Sam was supposed to take me to Myrnin—who’s going to—’’

Amelie spun on her, and there was something wild and terrible in her eyes. ‘‘Little fool, don’t bother me with trivia! Go now!’’

Claire ran.

 
The house was empty when she arrived. No Shane, no Eve, and she hadn’t seen Michael again at the Elders’ Council building before Hans and Gretchen had bundled her off. Claire felt very alone, and she locked all the doors and made sure of all the windows.

The house felt . . . warm, somehow. Not in the hot-air sense, but cozy. Welcoming. Claire put her hand flat on the wall in the living room. ‘‘Can you hear me?’’ she asked, and then felt stupid. It was just a house, right? Just wood and bricks and concrete and wiring and pipes. How could it hear her?

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house had jabbed her awake this morning, her and Shane and Eve. That it had been trying to warn them. The house had saved Michael, after all, when he’d been killed by Oliver; it had given him what life it could, as a ghost. It wanted to help.

‘‘I wish you could talk,’’ she said. ‘‘I wish you could tell me who tried to kill Sam.’’

But it couldn’t, and she was talking to a dumbass wall. Claire sighed, turned away, and caught a glimpse of a piece of paper stirring in a breeze.

A breeze that wasn’t there.

The paper was lying on the table, on top of Michael’s guitar case. Claire grabbed it and read it, barely daring to believe— What was she thinking? That the house was going to provide her with the name of Sam’s would-be Van Helsing? Of course not. It wasn’t an answer to her question.

It was a class schedule printout, stamped AMENDED in big red letters. Her core classes were mostly gone; the notation next to them showed that she’d tested out.

What caught her attention, though, was what had been scheduled in their place. Advanced Biochem. Philosophical Studies. Quantum Mechanics. Honors Myth and Legend.

Wow. Was it wrong that she felt her heart skip a beat over that? Claire checked the times, then her watch. She barely had an hour until the first new class, but she couldn’t go yet. Not until she’d heard from Shane and Eve.

Thirty minutes later she was on the phone, trying to get somebody to answer her questions at the police station, when she heard the locks rattle on the door and Eve’s voice saying, ‘‘—dumbass,’’ and the knot of fear in Claire’s chest began to loosen. ‘‘Yo, Claire! You here?’’

‘‘Here,’’ she said, and hung up to come down the hall toward them.

Eve had her arm around Shane, half supporting him. Claire blinked and focused on his face. At the swelling and bruises. ‘‘Oh God,’’ she said, and hurried to his side to help Eve. ‘‘What happened?’’

‘‘Well, Big Man here decided to get a little shirty with Officer Fenton. You ever see Bambi Versus Godzilla? It was like that, only with more punches,’’ Eve said. She sounded false and bright, like tinsel. ‘‘I tried to take him to the hospital and get checked out, but—’’

‘‘I’m fine,’’ Shane gritted out. ‘‘I’ve had worse.’’

Probably true, but Claire still felt painfully helpless. She wanted to do something. Anything. She and Eve got Shane to the couch, where he collapsed against the cushions and closed his eyes. He looked pale, under the bruises. Claire stroked his matted hair anxiously, silently asking Eve what to do; Eve shrugged and mouthed, Just let him rest. She looked scared, though.

‘‘Shane,’’ Eve said aloud. ‘‘Seriously, I don’t want to leave you here alone. You need to go to the hospital.’’

‘‘Thanks, Mom,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s bruises. I think I’ll live. Go on, get out of here.’’ He reached up and captured Claire’s hand, and his dark eyes opened. Well, one of them. The other was swelling shut. ‘‘What happened to you? You okay?’’

‘‘Nothing happened, I’m fine. I talked to Amelie.’’ Claire pulled in a deep breath. ‘‘Sam’s going to be okay, I think.’’

‘‘And Michael? Michael was all right?’’ Eve asked.

‘‘Yeah, he was all right. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out any earlier. Amelie—’’ Probably best not to get into how not-bothered Amelie had been by the idea of Eve and Shane behind bars. ‘‘She was busy with Sam.’’

Eve shrugged and shot Shane an exasperated look. ‘‘We probably would’ve been out of there in ten minutes if he’d behaved himself,’’ she said. ‘‘Look, Shane, I know you’re a hard-ass, but do you have to pick a fight with every jerk in the world? Can’t you just choose half or something?’’

‘‘The scary thing? I do only pick fights with half of them. That’s how many there are.’’ He groaned and adjusted himself to a more comfortable position on the couch. ‘‘Crap. Officer Asshole can really hit.’’

‘‘Shane,’’ Claire said, ‘‘really. Are you okay? I can take you to the hospital if you’re not.’’

‘‘They’d just give me an ice pack and send me home, minus a hundred bucks I don’t have.’’ He caught her hand in his. His knuckles were scraped. ‘‘What about you? Nothing bitten or broken, right?’’

‘‘No,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Nothing bitten or broken. They’re angry, and they’re worried, but nobody tried to hurt me.’’ She checked her watch, and her heart skipped and hammered faster. ‘‘Um . . . I have to go. I have class. You’re sure you’re—’’

‘‘If you ask me if I’m okay again, I’m going to smack myself in the face just to punish you,’’ he said. ‘‘Go on. Eve, make sure she doesn’t go wandering off by herself, okay?’’

Eve already had her keys in her hand, and she was jingling them impatiently. ‘‘I’ll do my best,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Hey. This came special delivery for you.’’ She tossed Claire a package with her name neatly lettered on it. Same handwriting, Claire thought, as the package that had held her bracelet.

This one held a sleek new cell phone, complete with MP3 player and a tiny little flip-open keypad for texting. It was on, and it was fully charged.

The note said, simply, For safety. The signature, of course, was Amelie’s. Eve saw it, and raised her eyebrows. Claire quickly crumpled it up.

‘‘Do I even want to know what that is?’’ Shane asked.

‘‘Probably not,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Claire, little girls who take candy from strangers in Morganville get hurt. Or worse.’’

‘‘She’s not a stranger,’’ Claire said. ‘‘And I really need a phone.’’

 
The classes were nothing like Claire had experienced before. It was as if she’d finally come to school. From the first moment of the first class, the professors seemed bright, engaged; they seemed to see her. Even better, they challenged her. She fumbled her way nervously through Advanced Biochem, made notes of the books she needed, and did the same in Philosophy. There was a lot of talking in Philosophy, and she didn’t understand half of it, but it sounded a lot more interesting than the droning voices of her core class instructors.

She felt exhilarated by the time her late lunch break rolled around . . . she felt, in fact, alive. She was happy as she hunted for used copies of the textbooks she needed, and even happier when she discovered that, mysteriously, she had a scholarship account set up to cover the costs. It even came with its own cash card.

She bought a new long-sleeve T-shirt, too. And some disposable razors. And some shampoo.

Scary, how good it felt having money in her pocket.

By the time three p.m. rolled around, she was starting to wonder if she was expected to head out for Myrnin’s house on her own, but she decided to wait. Nobody had told her of a change of plan, so she headed over to the UC to get in some study time while she waited. The big main study room was packed, and somebody was playing guitar in the corner of the room—quite a big crowd over there, clapping between songs. Whoever it was played well—something complicated and classical, then a pop song right after. Claire was spreading out her books on the table when she heard a song that sounded familiar, and stood up on her chair to get a better look over the heads of the people gathered in the corner.

As she’d suspected, it was Michael. He was sitting down to play, but she could see his head and shoulders. He looked up and met her eyes, nodded, then went back to focus on the music. Claire jumped down, wiped her dusty footprints off the wooden chair, and sat. Her brain was racing. Michael was here. Why? Was it just a coincidence? Or was it something else?

She sat down and tried to concentrate on the properties of low frequency wave modes in magnetized plasma, which was frankly pretty cool. The physics of stars. She couldn’t wait for the lab demonstrations . . . the reading was slow going, but interesting. It linked to another thing about plasma physics that had caught her attention: confinement and transport. It might have been coincidence, but somehow she felt there was something there she ought to understand. Something that related to what Myrnin had been telling her about recomposition, which was a key element in alchemy. Was it possible there really was a link between the two?

Plasma is charged particles. It can be controlled and influenced by shaped magnetic fields. Plasma was the raw state between matter and energy . . . between one form and another.

Reconstitution.

It hit her, suddenly, what Myrnin had discovered. The doorways. They were shaped magnetic fields, holding a tiny, pliable field of plasma held in a steady state. But how did he make them into portable worm-holes? Because that was what they had to be, to bend space like that . . . and the plasma couldn’t be regular plasma, could it? Low-heat plasma? Was that even possible?

Claire was so absorbed that she didn’t even hear the chair scrape back across from her, didn’t know someone had sat down, until a hand grabbed the book propped in front of her and pushed it down.

‘‘Hey, Claire,’’ said Jason, Eve’s nutty brother. He looked weaselly and pale—not Goth-pale, sick-pale. Anemic. There were crusty sores on his neck, and his eyes were wide and red-veined, and he looked high. Really, crazy high. He also hadn’t had a bath or been near a Laundromat in a few days or weeks; he smelled filthy and rotten. Ugh. ‘‘How you doing?’’

She couldn’t quite think what the right move would be. Scream? She closed the book and held on to it— it was pretty heavy, and would make a decent blunt object—and darted a look around. The UC was filled with people. Granted, Michael’s playing was the center of attention at the moment, but there were plenty of others walking around, talking, studying. From where she sat, Claire could see Eve at the coffee bar, smiling and pulling espresso shots.

It was as though Jason were invisible or something. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention.

‘‘Hi,’’ she said. ‘‘What do you want?’’

‘‘World peace,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re pretty.’’

You’re really not. She didn’t, and couldn’t, say it. She just waited. I’m perfectly safe here. There are a lot of people, Michael’s right over there, and Eve . . .

‘‘Did you hear me?’’ Jason asked. ‘‘I said, you’re pretty.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’ Her mouth felt dry. She was scared, and she couldn’t even think why, really, except what Eve had told her about Jason. He did look dangerous. Those scabs on his throat—had he been bitten? ‘‘I have to go.’’

‘‘I’ll walk you to class,’’ Jason said. Somehow, he made that sound filthy, like some porn movie come-on. ‘‘I always wanted to carry some hot college girl’s books.’’

‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘I can’t. I mean—I’m not going to class. But I have to go.’’ And why couldn’t she just tell him to leave her alone? Why?

Jason blew her a kiss. ‘‘Go on. But don’t blame me when the next dead girl shows up in the trash because you wouldn’t do me a simple favor.’’

She was in the act of standing up when he said it, and she just . . . stopped. Stopped moving, and stared. ‘‘What?’’ she asked, stupidly. Her brain, which had been moving at light speed while skipping from one physics problem to the next, felt sluggish now. ‘‘What did you say?’’

‘‘Not that I did anything. But if I had, I’d be planning another one. Unless somebody talked to me and convinced me to stop, for instance. Or I made a deal.’’

Claire felt cold. Worse, she felt alone. Jason wasn’t doing anything—he was just sitting there, talking. But she felt violated, and horribly exposed. Michael’s right over there. You can hear him playing. He’s right there. You’re safe.

‘‘All right,’’ she said, and swallowed a mouthful of what felt like dust and tacks. She sank slowly back into her chair. ‘‘I’m listening.’’

Jason leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, and lowered his voice. ‘‘See, it’s like this, Claire. I want my big sister to understand what she did to me when she sent me to that place. You know what a jail is like in Morganville? It’s as though some third-world country threw it out for prisoner abuse. Eve put me there. And she didn’t even try to save me.’’

Claire’s fingers felt numb, she was holding her book so tightly. She forced herself to relax. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘That must have been bad.’’

‘‘Bad? Bitch, are you even listening?’’ He kept on staring at her, and, as though he were dead, he never blinked. ‘‘I was supposed to be his, you know. Brandon’s. He was going to make me a vampire someday, but now he’s dead, and I’m screwed. Now I’m just waiting around for somebody to put me back in jail, and guess what, Claire? I’m not going. Not without a little fun first.’’

He grabbed her wrist, and she opened her mouth to scream. . . .

All of a sudden he had a knife, and he was pressing it to her wrist. ‘‘Hold still,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m not done talking. You move, you bleed.’’

She was going to yell anyway, but when it made it to her lips it died into a weak little yelp. Jason smiled, and he tossed a filthy-looking handkerchief on top of her wrist and the knife, covering it up. ‘‘There,’’ he said. ‘‘Now nobody’s going to notice, not that they’d care. Not in Morganville. But just in case there are any dumbass heroes, let’s keep this between just us.’’

She was shaking now. ‘‘Let me go.’’ Somehow, her voice stayed low and steady. ‘‘I won’t say anything.’’

‘‘Oh, come on. You’ll run to your friends, and then you’ll run to the cops. Probably those two dicks Hess and Lowe. They’ve been out to get me since I was a kid, did you know that? Sons of bitches.’’ He was sweating. A milky drop ran down the side of his pale face and splashed on his camouflage jacket. ‘‘I hear you’re in good with the vamps. That true?’’

‘‘What?’’ The knife pressed harder against her wrist, hot and painful, and she thought about how easy it would be for him to cut right through her veins. Her whole arm was shaking, but somehow, she managed to hold still against an overwhelming urge to try to yank her wrist away. It would only do the job for him. ‘‘I’m—yes. I’m Protected. You’ll get in trouble for this, Jason.’’

He had a truly creepy smile, a rubbery snarl that didn’t affect his hot, strange eyes at all. ‘‘I was born in trouble,’’ he said. ‘‘Bring it on. You tell whatever vamp put the mark on you that I know something. Something that could blow this town in half. And I’ll sell it for two things: rights to do whatever I want to my sister, and a ticket out of Morganville.’’

‘‘I’m not making any deals,’’ she said, and knew it was probably a death sentence. ‘‘I’m not going to let you hurt Eve.’’

He actually blinked. It made him look almost human, for a second, and Claire remembered that he wasn’t much older than she. ‘‘How you going to stop me, cupcake? Hit me with your book bag?’’

‘‘If I have to.’’

He sat back, staring at her, and then he laughed. Loudly. It was a harsh, metallic clatter of a laugh, and she thought, Oh God, he’s going to kill me, but then he lifted up the handkerchief covering her wrist and like a magic trick, the knife was gone. There was a trickle of blood dripping from the shallow cut in her skin, and she was starting to feel the burn.

‘‘You know what, Claire?’’ Jason asked. He got up, stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, and smiled at her again. ‘‘I’m going to like you a lot. You’re a scream.’’

He strolled off, and Claire tried to get up and see where he was going, but she couldn’t. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate. He was out of sight in seconds.

Claire looked at the coffee bar. Eve was standing there, motionless, staring right at her with huge dark eyes, and even without the Goth rice powder she’d have been pale as death.

Eve mouthed, You okay?

Claire nodded.

She really wasn’t, though, and the cut on her wrist wouldn’t stop bleeding. She dug in her backpack and found an adhesive bandage—she always kept them, just in case she got blisters on her feet from all the walking. That seemed to do the trick.

She was smoothing it in place when she felt someone standing over her, and jumped, expecting the return of Jason, complete with psycho stabbing attack.

But it was Michael. He had his guitar case in his hand, and he looked—great. Relaxed, somehow, in a way that she’d never really seen him. There was even a slight flush of color in his face, and his eyes were shining.

But that quickly faded, and he frowned. ‘‘You’re bleeding,’’ he said. ‘‘What happened?’’

Claire sighed and held up her wrist to show him the bandage. ‘‘Man, you would be so embarrassed if I said it was something else.’’ Michael looked blank. ‘‘I’m a girl, Michael, it could have been all natural, you know. Tampons?’’

Vampire or not, he was such a guy, and his expression was priceless—a combination of embarrassment and nausea. ‘‘Oh crap, I hadn’t really thought that through. Sorry. Not really used to this yet. So—what happened?’’

‘‘Paper cut,’’ she said.

‘‘Claire.’’

She sighed. ‘‘Don’t freak, okay? It was Eve’s brother, Jason. I think he just wanted to scare me.’’

Michael’s eyes widened, and his head turned fast, searching the coffee bar for Eve. When he saw her, the relief that spread over his face was painful—and it didn’t last long before it curdled into something grim. ‘‘I can’t believe he’d come here. Why can’t they catch this jerk?’’

‘‘Maybe somebody doesn’t want to,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s only killing human girls. If he’s the one doing it.’’ Although he’d pretty much confessed, hadn’t he? And the knife was a big clue. ‘‘We can talk about it later. I need to get—’’ She remembered, just in time, that she couldn’t talk to Michael about Myrnin. ‘‘Get to class,’’ she said. She hadn’t really thought Amelie would make her go alone, and she wasn’t sure she could do it. Myrnin was fascinating, most of the time, but then when he turned . . . no, she couldn’t go alone. What if something happened? Sam wouldn’t be there to help get him off her.

Michael didn’t move. ‘‘I know where you’re going,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m your ride.’’

She blinked. ‘‘You’re my—what?’’

He lowered his voice, even though nobody was paying attention. ‘‘I’ll take you where you’re supposed to go. And I’ll wait for you.’’

 
Amelie had told him, Claire found out on the way to Michael’s new car. She’d needed to, apparently; she hadn’t trusted any vampire but Sam with the information and access to Myrnin, but Michael had an investment in Claire’s well-being, and Sam was going to be out of action for a couple of days at least. ‘‘But he’s okay?’’ Claire asked.

Michael opened the door to the parking garage for her, an automatic gesture that he’d probably learned from his grandfather, once upon a time. He had some of Sam’s mannerisms, and they had the same walk. ‘‘Yeah,’’ Michael said. ‘‘He nearly died, though. People—vampires—are pretty wired right now. They want the one who staked him, and they don’t really care how it happens. I made Shane promise to keep his ass inside, and not to go out alone.’’

‘‘You really think he’ll keep his word?’’

Michael shrugged and opened the door of a standard-issue, dark vampire-tinted sedan, exactly the same as the one Sam had driven. A Ford, as it happened. Nice to know the vamps were buying American. ‘‘I tried,’’ he said. ‘‘Shane doesn’t listen to much of anything I have to say. Not anymore.’’

Claire got into the car and buckled in. As Michael climbed in the driver’s side, she said, ‘‘It’s not your fault. He’s just not dealing with it very well. I don’t know what we can do about that.’’

‘‘Nothing,’’ Michael said, and started the car. ‘‘We can’t do anything about it at all.’’

It was a short drive, of course, and as far as Claire could tell from the dimly seen streets outside, Michael took the same route Sam had to the alley, and Myrnin’s cave. Michael parked the car at the curb. When she got out, though, Claire realized something, and bent to look into the dim interior of the car, then ducked back inside.

‘‘Crap,’’ she said. ‘‘You can’t come inside, can you? You can’t go out in the sun!’’

Michael shook his head. ‘‘I’m supposed to wait out here for you until the sun goes down; then I’ll come in. Amelie said she’d make sure you were safe until then.’’

‘‘But—’’ Claire bit her lip. It wasn’t Michael’s fault. There were about three hours of sun left, so she was just going to have to watch her own back for a while. ‘‘Okay. See you after dark.’’

She closed the car door. When she straightened she saw that Gramma Katherine Day was on the porch of her big Founder House, rocking and sipping what looked like iced tea. Claire waved. Gramma Day nodded.

‘‘You bein’ careful?’’ she called.

‘‘Yes ma’am!’’

‘‘I told the queen, I don’t like her putting you down there with that thing. I told her,’’ Gramma Day said, with a fierce stab of her finger for emphasis. ‘‘You come on up here and have some iced tea with me, girl. That thing down there, he’ll wait. He don’t know where he is half the time, anyway.’’

Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘‘I can’t, ma’am. I’m supposed to be there on time. Thank you, though.’’ She turned toward the alley, then had a thought. ‘‘Oh—who’s the queen?’’

Gramma made an impatient fly-waving gesture. ‘‘Her, of course. The White Queen. You’re just like Alice, you know. Down the rabbit hole with the Mad Hatter.’’

Claire didn’t dare think about that too much, because the phrase Off with her head! loomed way too close. She gave Gramma Day another polite smile and wave, hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder, and went to night school.