Eve was crying quietly, almost hopelessly. For some reason Claire didn’t cry at all. Not at all. She wasn’t even sure she could. Did that make her sick? Screwed up? She wasn’t sure whom she could ask. She couldn’t seem to feel anything right now except a vague sense of dread.

Richard Morrell came to take their statements. It was simple enough, and Claire had no hesitation in turning in Jason for the stabbing. ‘‘And he confessed,’’ Claire added. ‘‘To killing those girls.’’

‘‘Confessed how?’’ Richard asked. He sat down in the chair across from her in the lounge area, and Claire thought he looked tired. Older, too. She guessed it wasn’t easy being the semisane one in the family. ‘‘What exactly did he tell you?’’

‘‘That he left one for us,’’ she said, and glanced at Eve, who hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t, as far as Claire could tell, actually blinked. ‘‘He called them presents.’’

‘‘Did he mention any of them by name?’’

‘‘No,’’ she whispered. She felt very, very tired all of a sudden, as if she could sleep for a week. Cold, too. She was shivering. Richard noticed, got up, and came back with a big gray fleece blanket that he tucked around her. He’d brought a second one for Eve, who was still wrapped in Shane’s black coat.

‘‘Is it possible that Jason just said that because he knew about the bodies being found near your house?’’ Richard asked. ‘‘Did he talk about anything more specific that wasn’t in the papers?’’

Claire almost said yes to that, but she stopped in time. The police didn’t know about the girl being found in their basement. They thought she’d been taken to the church by her killer.

She had no choice. She just shook her head.

‘‘It’s possible Jason’s all talk, then,’’ Richard said.

‘‘We’ve been watching him. We haven’t seen anything to prove that he’s got any involvement with these dead girls.’’ He hesitated, then said, very gently, ‘‘Look. I don’t want to make this about Shane, but he did have a bat, right?’’

Eve raised her head, very slowly. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘Shane had a bat.’’

‘‘He took it from another guy,’’ Claire said, nearly tripping over the words in her hurry to get them out. ‘‘A guy from Monica’s party. Shane got jumped; he was just defending himself! And he was trying to get Jason to back off—’’

‘‘We have witnesses who say that Shane swung the bat at Jason after Jason had put away his knife.’’

Claire couldn’t find the words. She just sat there, lips parted, staring into Richard’s weary, hard eyes.

‘‘So that’s it,’’ Eve said. Her voice started out soft, but hardened quickly. ‘‘It’s all going to be Shane’s fault, because he’s Shane. Never mind that some frat ass tried to knock his head off, or that Jason stabbed him. It’s still Shane’s fault!’’ She stood up, stripped away the blanket, and threw it at him. Richard grabbed it before it hit his face, but just barely. ‘‘Here, you’ll need it for your cover-up!’’ She stalked away, slender and pale as a lily in all that black.

‘‘Eve—’’ Richard sighed. ‘‘Dammit. Look, Claire, I have to have the facts, okay? And the facts are that during the confrontation, Jason put his knife away, Shane had a bat, and Shane threatened him. Then Jason stabbed him in self-defense Is that right?’’

She didn’t answer. She sat for a few seconds, just staring at him, and then stood up, stripped off the blanket, and handed it to him.

‘‘You’re going to need a bigger cover-up,’’ she said. ‘‘See if there’s a circus in town. Maybe you can borrow a tent.’’

She walked down the hall to see if Shane was out of surgery.

He wasn’t.

Eve was pacing the hallway, stiff with rage, hands clenched into fists barely visible as knots in the too-long sleeves of the coat. ‘‘Those sons of bitches,’’ she said. ‘‘Those bastards! They’re going to put Shane down; I can feel it.’’

‘‘Put him down?’’ Claire repeated. ‘‘What do you mean, put him down? Like, a dog?’’

Eve glared at her. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and wet with tears. ‘‘I mean even if he makes it through the surgery, they’re not going to let him get out of this. Richard practically told us; don’t you get it? It’s the perfect frame. Shane took the swing, Jason acted in self-defense, and nobody’s even going to look at Jason for these murders. They’ll just bury it, like they bury the bodies.’’

She stopped talking, and her eyes refocused over Claire’s shoulder. Claire turned.

Michael was striding toward them, lean and powerful and tall, and he headed straight for Eve. No hesitation, as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t seen him bending over a dead girl at the party.

He stopped just inches away from Eve, and held out his hands.

‘‘I went looking for you guys. I finally tracked you to Common Grounds. How is he?’’ he asked. His voice was hoarse.

‘‘Not so good,’’ Eve whispered, and flowed into his arms like water through a broken dam. ‘‘Oh God. Oh God, Michael, it all went wrong, it’s all wrong—’’

He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, and rested his golden head next to her dark one. ‘‘I should have come with you. I should have made you get in the damn car. I was going to, but—things happened; I had to take care of it at the party. I never thought you’d try to walk home.’’ He paused, and when he finally went on, his voice was thick with pain. ‘‘It’s my fault.’’

‘‘It’s nobody’s fault,’’ Claire said. ‘‘You know you can’t make Shane do something he doesn’t want to do. Or Eve, for that matter. Or me.’’ She put a hand hesitantly on Michael’s arm. ‘‘You didn’t kill that girl, did you?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘I found her when I was searching for Jason. I was trying to find him and get him out of the party. He was probably already gone by then.’’

‘‘Then who—’’

Michael looked up, and his blue eyes were fiercely bright. ‘‘That’s what I had to take care of. There were vampires there, hunting. I had to stop it.’’

One of the nurses passing by slowed, watching Michael and Eve. Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped to stare. She muttered something, then walked on.

Michael turned to the nurse, who was already halfway down the hall. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ he said. ‘‘What did you say?’’

The nurse stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. ‘‘I didn’t say anything. Sir.’’ That last word sounded sharp enough to cut.

‘‘I think you did,’’ Michael said. ‘‘You called her a fang-banger.’’

The nurse smiled coldly. ‘‘If I muttered something under my breath, sir, that shouldn’t concern you. You and your—girlfriend—ought to do your business in the waiting room. Or the blood bank.’’

Michael’s hands curled into fists, and his face went tight with rage. ‘‘It’s not like that.’’

The nurse—her name tag said her name was Christine Fenton, RN—outright sneered at him. ‘‘Yeah, it never is. It’s always different, right? You’re just misunderstood. You want to hurt me, go ahead and try. I’m not afraid of you. Any of you.’’

‘‘Good,’’ Michael said. ‘‘You shouldn’t be afraid of me because I’m a vampire. You ought to be scared because you just trash-talked my girlfriend to her face.’’

Nurse Fenton flipped him off and kept walking.

‘‘Wow,’’ Eve said. She almost sounded like herself again, as if having somebody diss her had helped, like a slap in the face. ‘‘And people treated me bad when I dated Bobby Fee. At least he was breathing. Mouth-breathing, yeah, but—’’

Michael put his arm around her, still staring after the nurse. He had a frown on his face, but he forced it off to smile at Eve and plant a kiss on her forehead.

‘‘You need some rest. Let’s go back to the waiting room,’’ he said. ‘‘I promise not to embarrass you anymore.’’ He guided her in that direction, and threw a look back. ‘‘Claire? You coming?’’

She nodded absently, but her mind was somewhere else, trying to sort through data. Fenton. She’d seen that name before, hadn’t she? Not the nurse, though; she’d never met her before and now really didn’t look forward to ever seeing her again.

Claire realized she was standing alone in the hallway, and shivered. While this was a modern building, not nearly as nasty as the old, falling-to-ruins abandoned hospital where she and Shane had been chased for their lives, it still gave her the creeps. She threw one last, aching glance at the frosted-glass doors that read SURGICAL AREA—ADMITTANCE TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. She couldn’t see anything beyond except vague moving shadows.

She followed Michael back to the waiting room. Richard Morrell was gone, which was good, and Claire sat in silence, rubbing her hands together, still feeling the phantom slickness of Shane’s blood on her skin.

‘‘Hey,’’ Michael said. She didn’t know how much time had passed, just that she was stiff and sore and tense. She looked up into his crystal blue eyes, and saw strength and kindness, but also just a little bit of a glitter that didn’t seem . . . natural. ‘‘Rest. I can almost hear the gears grinding in your head.’’ Eve was asleep in his lap, curled up like a cat. He was stroking her dark hair. ‘‘Here,’’ he said. ‘‘Lean in.’’ And he put his arm around Claire, and she leaned, and despite everything that had happened, she felt warm and safe.

It all fell in on her then, all the fear and the pain and the fact that Shane had gotten stabbed, right in front of her, and she didn’t know how to deal with that, didn’t know how to feel or what to say or do, and it was all just . . .

She turned her face into Michael’s blue silk shirt and cried, silent heaving sobs that tore up out of her guts in painful jerks. Michael’s hand cradled her head, and he let her cry.

She felt him press his cool lips to her temple when she finally relaxed against him, and then she just slid away, into the dark.

 
Claire fought her way, panicked, out of a nightmare, and into another one. Hospital. Shane. Surgery.

Eve was shaking her with both hands on her shoulders, babbling at her, and she couldn’t follow the words, but the words didn’t matter at first.

Eve was smiling.

‘‘He’s okay,’’ Claire said in a whisper, then louder. ‘‘He’s okay!’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Eve said, the words tumbling out in a confusing bright flood, way too fast. ‘‘He’s out of surgery. It was touch and go. He had a lot of internal bleeding. He’s going to be in ICU for a few days before they let him come home, and he’ll have a temporary bracelet, you know, the plastic kind?’’

Claire tried to literally shake the sleepy fog out of her head. ‘‘Plastic—wait, don’t you always get one of those in the hospital? Like an ID tag?’’

‘‘Do you? Really? How weird. Oh. Well, in Morganville you leave it on when you leave, and it protects you for up to a month after surgery. Kind of like a temporary vampire restraining order.’’ Eve actually bounced up and down. ‘‘He’s going to be okay, oh my God, he’s going to be okay!’’

Claire scrambled out of her seat, grabbed Eve’s arms, and the two of them bounced together up and down, then fell into a hug and squealed.

‘‘I’ll just—let you guys do that,’’ Michael said. He was sitting in the chairs watching, but he was smiling. He looked tired.

‘‘What time is it?’’ Claire asked.

‘‘Late. Early.’’ Eve checked her skull watch. ‘‘About six in the morning. Michael, you should get home; it’ll be dawn soon. I’ll stay here with Claire.’’

‘‘We should all go home,’’ Michael said. ‘‘He’s not going to wake up for hours yet. You could change clothes.’’

Claire looked down at herself, and grimaced tiredly. ‘‘Yeah, I could,’’ she admitted. Shane’s blood had soaked into her patterned tights, and she thought Michael could probably smell it. She could even smell it, a musty, rotten odor that made her gag. ‘‘Eve? You want to go, too?’’

Eve nodded. The three of them walked out of the waiting room and down the long, empty hallway toward the elevators. They passed the front desk, where Nurse Fenton glared at them. When Claire looked back, as they waited for the elevator, Nurse Fenton was dialing the phone.

‘‘Why do I know that name?’’ she asked, and then realized, duh, she was with two Morganville natives. ‘‘Fenton? You guys know anything about her?’’

The elevator arrived. Eve stepped in and pushed the button for the lobby, and she and Michael looked at each other for a second.

‘‘The family’s been here for generations,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Nurse Charming out there’s a new arrival. She came to TPU for school, married into the family.’’

‘‘You met her husband,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Officer Fenton, Brad Fenton. He’s the one who—’’

‘‘The one who showed up when Sam was attacked,’’ Claire blurted. ‘‘Of course! I forgot his name.’’ Why did that still leave her vaguely uneasy? She couldn’t remember anything that Officer Fenton had done that had made her think he was antivamp; he’d acted quickly enough when Sam was in trouble. Not like his wife, who clearly wasn’t as open-minded.

She worried about it for a while, but couldn’t see any real connection, and there were other things to think about. After all, Shane was okay, and that was all that mattered.

 
A shower helped, but it didn’t banish the dull ache between Claire’s eyes, or the strange gray cast the world had taken on. Exhaustion, she guessed, and stress. Nothing looked quite right. She changed clothes, grabbed her backpack, and went back to the hospital— this time, taking a cab, despite it being broad daylight— to wait for visiting hours to start in ICU. No sign of Jason, but then, she hadn’t expected him to be that obvious. Or that stupid. He’d managed to get away with it this long.

But then again . . . He really hadn’t struck her as all that far-thinking, either. More of a want-take-have kind of guy. So what did that mean? Was Eve right? Was this a giant official cover-up, and Jason had been given free rein to run around town raping and killing and stabbing as the mood moved him? She shuddered just thinking of it.

Nurse Fenton was, mercifully, off duty when Claire arrived. She checked in with the younger, nicer lady at the desk, whose name was Helen Porter, and went to find the least uncomfortable chair in the waiting area. The building wasn’t completely lame; there were laptop connections and desks, and she set herself up there. The wireless was crap, but there was a LAN connection, and that worked fine.

Of course, the filters restricted where she could go on the Internet, and she quickly grew frustrated trying to find out what was happening in the world outside of Morganville . . . more of the same, she guessed. War, crime, death, atrocity. Sometimes it hardly seemed that vampires were the bad guys, given the things people did to each other without the excuse of needing a pint of O neg to get through the day.

She wondered if the vampires had made any headway tracking down who could have staked Sam. Surely they’d found out something. Then again, they hadn’t had a lot of luck cornering Shane’s dad, either. . . .

Her laptop connection stopped working, right in the middle of an e-mail to her parents. She’d been avoiding making the call, because there was this dangerous temptation to start spilling out her hurt and fear and look for comfort—after all, wasn’t that what parents were for?—but if she did, they’d either come running to town, which would be bad, or they’d try to pull her out of school again, which would definitely be worse. Worse in every way.

Still, she knew she was overdue to talk to her mom, and the longer she put it off, the more stress it was going to be for both of them.

Claire logged off the laptop, packed it, and opened up her new cool phone. It glowed with a pale blue light when she dialed the number, and she heard faint clicking. That probably meant the call was being recorded, or at least monitored. More reason to be careful about what she said . . .

Mom answered the phone on the third ring. ‘‘Hello?’’

‘‘Hi!’’ Claire winced at the artificial cheeriness of her tone. Why couldn’t she sound natural? ‘‘Mom, it’s Claire.’’

‘‘Claire! Honey, I’ve been worried. You should have called days ago.’’

‘‘I know, Mom, I’m sorry. I got busy. I got transferred into some advanced classes; they’re really great, but there’s been a lot of homework and reading. I just forgot.’’

‘‘Well,’’ her mother said, ‘‘I’m glad to hear those teachers are recognizing that you need special attention. I was a little worried when you told me the classes were so easy. You like challenges, I know that.’’

Oh, I’m challenged now, Claire thought. Between the classes and Myrnin, being stalked by Jason, and being terrified for Shane . . . ‘‘Yeah, I do,’’ she said. ‘‘So I guess this is all good.’’

‘‘What else? How are your friends? That nice Michael, is he still playing his guitar?’’ Mom asked it as if it was a silly little hobby that he’d give up eventually.

‘‘Yes, Mom, he’s a musician. He’s still playing. In fact, he was playing in the University Center the other day. He got quite a crowd.’’

‘‘Well, fine. I hope he’s not playing in some of those clubs, though. That gets dangerous.’’

There was more of that, the danger talk, and Claire worried that her mother was, if not remembering exactly, at least remembering something. Why would she be so fixated on how dangerous things could be?

‘‘Mom, you’re overreacting,’’ Claire finally said. ‘‘Honest, everything’s fine here.’’

‘‘Well, you started out this semester in the emergency room, Claire; you can’t really blame me for worrying. You’re very young to be out on your own, and not even in the dorm. . . .’’

‘‘I told you about the problems with the dorm,’’ Claire said.

‘‘Yes, I know; the girls weren’t very nice—’’

‘‘Not very nice? Mom! They threw me down the stairs!’’

‘‘I’m sure that was an accident.’’

It hadn’t been, but there was something about her mother that wasn’t going to accept that, not really. For all her fluttering and worrying, she didn’t want to believe that something really could be badly wrong.

‘‘Yeah,’’ Claire sighed. ‘‘Probably. Anyway, the house is great. I really like it there.’’

‘‘And Michael has our numbers? In case there’s any problem?’’

‘‘Yes, Mom, everybody’s got the numbers. Oh, speaking of that, here’s my new cell phone—’’ She rattled off the digits, twice, and made her mother read them back. ‘‘It’s got better reception than the old one, so you can get me a lot more easily, okay?’’

‘‘Claire,’’ her mother said, ‘‘are you sure you’re all right?’’

‘‘Yes. I’m fine.’’

‘‘I don’t want to pry, but that boy, the one in the house—not Michael, but—’’

‘‘Shane.’’

‘‘Yes, Shane. I think you should keep your distance from him, honey. He’s old for you, and he seems pretty sure of himself.’’

She did not want to get into the subject of Shane. She’d nearly stumbled over saying his name, it hurt so bad. She wanted to talk to her mother the way she’d used to. They’d talked about everything, once, but there was no way she could really talk about Morganville with her family.

And that meant that there was no way she could talk about anything at all.

‘‘I’ll be careful,’’ she managed to say, and her attention was caught by the young nurse standing in the doorway of the waiting area, waving for her attention. ‘‘Oh—Mom, I have to go. Sorry. Somebody’s waiting for me.’’

‘‘All right, honey. We love you.’’

‘‘Love you, too.’’ She hung up, slid the phone into her pocket, and grabbed her backpack.

The nurse led her through another set of glass double doors into an area labeled ICU. ‘‘He’s awake,’’ she said. ‘‘You can’t stay long; we want him to rest as much as possible, and I can already tell he’s going to be a difficult patient.’’ She smiled at Claire, and winked. ‘‘See if you can sweeten him up a little for me. Make my life easier.’’

Claire nodded. She felt nervous and a little sick with the force of her need to see him, touch him . . . and at the same time, she dreaded it. She hated the thought of seeing him like this, and she didn’t know what she was going to say. What did people say when they were this scared of losing someone?

He looked worse than she’d imagined, and she must have let it show. Shane grunted and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘‘Yeah, well, I’m not dead; that’s something. One of those in the house is enough.’’ He looked awful—pale as, well, Michael. The baseball bat had left him with Technicolor bruising, and he seemed fragile in ways Claire hadn’t even thought about. There were so many tubes and things. She sat down in the chair next to his raised bed and reached over the railing to touch him lightly on his scraped, bruised hand.

He turned it to twine their fingers together. ‘‘You’re all right?’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ she said. ‘‘Jason ran away, after.’’ Walked, really, but she wasn’t going to say that. ‘‘Eve’s okay, too. She was here while you were in surgery; she just went home to change clothes. She’ll be back.’’

‘‘Yeah, I guess the diva dress might have been a little much around here.’’ He opened his eyes and looked at her directly. ‘‘Claire. Really. You’re okay?’’

‘‘I’m fine,’’ she said. ‘‘Except that I’m scared for you.’’

‘‘I’m okay.’’

‘‘Except for the stab wound and all the internal bleeding? Yeah, sure, tough guy.’’ She heard her voice quiver, and knew she was about to cry. She didn’t want to. He wanted to laugh it off, wanted to be tough, and she ought to let him, right?

He tried to shrug, but it must have hurt, from the spasm that went across his face. One of the machines near Claire beeped, and he let out a slow sigh. ‘‘That’s better. Man, they give you the good stuff in ICU. Remind me to always get seriously wounded from now on. That minor injury stuff isn’t as much fun.’’

It was wearing him out to talk. Claire got up and leaned over to stroke her fingertips lightly over his lips. ‘‘Shhhh,’’ she said. ‘‘Rest, okay? Save it for somebody who isn’t me. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be hurt, Shane. With me, it’s okay.’’

For a second his eyes glittered with tears, and then the tears spilled over, threading wet trails into his hair. ‘‘Damn,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Sorry. I just—I felt it all going away, I felt you going away, I tried—I thought he was going to hurt you and there was nothing I could do about it—’’

‘‘I know.’’ She leaned forward and kissed him very lightly, careful of the bruises. ‘‘I know.’’

He cried a little, and she stayed right where she was, his shield against the world, until it was over. Finally, he fell into a light sleep, and she felt a tap on her shoulder. The nurse motioned for her to step out, and Claire carefully pulled her hand free of Shane’s and followed.

‘‘Sorry,’’ Helen said. ‘‘I’d like for him to sleep a while before we start with the poking and prodding. You can come back this afternoon, all right?’’

‘‘Sure. What time?’’

Four o’clock. That left her the entire day to kill, and not the slightest idea what she ought to be doing with it. She didn’t have to see Myrnin; Amelie hadn’t given her any other instructions to follow. It was Saturday, so she wasn’t cutting any classes, and she didn’t want to go back to the Glass House and just . . . worry.

Claire was still trying to decide what to do when she spotted a familiar, well-groomed figure standing outside the hospital doors.

What was Jennifer, one of Monica’s regular clique, doing hanging around here?

Waiting for Claire, apparently, because she hurried to catch up as Claire strode by, heading for the taxi stand. ‘‘Hey,’’ she said, and tucked her glossy hair behind her ear. ‘‘So. How’s Shane doing?’’

‘‘Like you care,’’ Claire said.

‘‘Well, yeah. I don’t. But Monica wants to know.’’

‘‘He’s alive.’’ That was no more than Monica could learn without her help, so it didn’t really matter, and Claire didn’t like having Jennifer this close. Monica was creepy, but at least she was Alpha Creepy. There was something pathetic and extra-weird about her two groupies.

Jennifer kept pace with her. Claire stopped and turned to face her. They were halfway down the sidewalk, in the full glare of early-fall sunlight, which at least meant it wasn’t too likely some vampire would be sneaking up on her while Jennifer kept her distracted. ‘‘Look,’’ Claire said, ‘‘I don’t want anything to do with you, or Monica, okay? I don’t want to be friends. I don’t want you sucking up to me just because I’m . . . somebody, or something.’’

Jennifer didn’t look like she wanted to be sucking up, either. In fact, she looked as bitter and resentful as a glossy, entitled rich girl could look—which was a lot. ‘‘Dream on, loser. I don’t care who your Patron is; you’re never going to be anything more than jumped-up trailer trash with delusions. Friends? I wouldn’t be friends with you if you were the last person breathing in this town.’’

‘‘Unless Monica said so,’’ Claire said spitefully. ‘‘Fine, you don’t want to exchange friendship rings. So why are you bothering me?’’

Jennifer glared at her for a few seconds, stubborn and angry, and then looked away. ‘‘You’re smart, right? Like, freak smart?’’

‘‘What does that have to do with anything?’’

‘‘You placed out of the two classes we were in together. You must have aced the tests.’’

Claire nearly laughed out loud. ‘‘You want tutoring?’’

‘‘No, idiot. I want test answers. Look, I can’t bring home anything under a C; that’s the rule, or my Patron cuts off my college. And I want my full four years, even if I never do anything with it in this lame-ass town.’’ A muscle fluttered in Jennifer’s jawline. ‘‘I don’t get this economics crap. It’s all math, Adam Smith, blah blah blah. What am I ever going to use it for, anyway?’’

She was asking for help. Not in so many words, maybe, but that was what it was, and Claire was off balance for a few heartbeats. First Monica, now Jennifer? What next, a cookie bouquet from Oliver?

‘‘I can’t give you test answers,’’ she said. ‘‘I wouldn’t even if I could.’’ Claire took in a deep breath. ‘‘Look, I’m going to regret this, but if you really want help, I’ll go over the notes with you. Once. And you pay me, too. Fifty dollars.’’ Which was wildly out of line, but she didn’t really care if Jennifer said no.

Which Jennifer clearly thought about, hard, before giving her a single, abrupt nod.

‘‘Common Grounds,’’ she said. ‘‘Tomorrow, two o’clock.’’ Which was pretty much the safest time to be out and about, providing they didn’t stay too long. Claire wasn’t wild about visiting Oliver’s shop again, but she didn’t suppose there were too many places in town that Jennifer would agree to go. Besides, it wasn’t far from Claire’s house.

‘‘Two o’clock,’’ Claire echoed, and wondered if they were supposed to shake hands or something. Not, obviously, because Jennifer flipped her hair and walked away, clearly glad to have it over with. She jumped into a black convertible and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.

Leaving Claire to contemplate the afternoon sunlight and the odds of walking home through a Morganville where Jason was still on the loose.

She took out her cell phone and called the town’s lone taxi driver, who told her he was off duty, and hung up on her.

So she called Travis Lowe.

 
Detective Lowe wasn’t really happy to be the Claire Taxi Service. She could tell because he wasn’t his usual self, not at all—he’d always been kind to her, and a little bit funny, but there wasn’t any of that in the way he pulled his blue Ford to the curb and snapped, ‘‘Get in.’’ He was accelerating away even before she got strapped in. ‘‘You do know I’ve got a real job, right?’’

‘‘Sorry, sir,’’ she said. The sir was automatic, a habit she couldn’t seem to break no matter how hard she tried. ‘‘I just didn’t think I should be walking home, with Jason—’’

‘‘Right thought, just wrong timing,’’ he said, and his tone softened some. He looked tired and sallow, and there were dark bags under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. He needed a shave and a shower. Probably the shower more than the shave. ‘‘How’s Shane?’’

‘‘Better,’’ she said. ‘‘The nurse told me he was going to be okay; it’s just going to take some time.’’

‘‘Good news. Could’ve gone the other way. Why’d you try to walk home like that?’’

She fidgeted a little in the seat. In contrast to the vampire cars, with their dark tinting, the glare inside Lowe’s car seemed way too bright. ‘‘Well, we tried getting a ride,’’ she said. In retrospect, none of the explanations seemed all that good, really. She didn’t mention that she’d tried both Lowe’s phone and Joe Hess’s. No point in making him feel guilty. Guiltier. ‘‘We thought with the three of us together . . .’’

‘‘Yeah, good plan, if it had been any other kids. You guys, you’re just trouble to the power of three. And I’m no math whiz, but I’m betting that’s a lot.’’ His eyes were cold and distant, and she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t really thinking about her at all. ‘‘Listen, I’ve got to make a stop. I’m running late as it is. You stay in the car, okay? Just stay in the car. Do not get out.’’

She nodded. He turned some corners, into a residential area of Morganville she didn’t recognize. It was run-down and faded, with leaning fences that were marked with sun-bleached gang signs. The houses weren’t much better. Most of them just had sheets tacked up in the windows instead of real curtains.

He parked in front of one, got out, and said, ‘‘Windows up. Lock the doors.’’

She followed his orders and watched him go up the narrow, cracked sidewalk to the front door. It opened on the second knock, but she couldn’t see who was inside, and Lowe closed the door behind him.

Claire frowned and waited, wondering what he was doing—cop stuff, she guessed, but in Morganville that could be anything, from running errands for vampires to dog-catching.

He didn’t come back. She checked her watch and found that more than ten minutes had passed. He’d ordered her to stay put, but for how long? She could have been home already if she’d been able to get the taxi, or even if she’d walked.

And it was getting hot in the car.

Ten more minutes, and she started to feel anxious. The neighborhood seemed deserted—no people on the street, even in the bright sunlight. Even for Morganville, that didn’t seem . . . normal. She didn’t know this area, hadn’t been through it before, and she wondered what went on around here.

Before Claire could decide to do something really stupid, like investigating on her own, Detective Lowe came out of the house and, after rapping on the window for her to unlock the door, got back in the car. He looked, if possible, even more tired. Depressed, almost.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’ she asked. The sheets tacked up as curtains twitched in the window of the house, as if somebody was peering out at them. ‘‘Sir?’’

‘‘Quit calling me sir,’’ Lowe snapped, and put the car in gear. ‘‘And it’s none of your affair. Stay out of it.’’

There was blood on his hand. His knuckles were scraped. Claire pulled in a fast breath, her eyes widening as she noticed, and he sent her a narrow glance as the car accelerated away down the deserted street. ‘‘Were you in a fight?’’ she asked.

‘‘What did I just tell you?’’ Detective Lowe had never been angry before, not with her, but she could tell he was being pushed pretty far. She nodded and turned face forward, trying too keep herself still. It wasn’t easy. She wanted to ask questions, a dozen of them. She wanted to ask him where Detective Hess had gone. She wanted to find out who lived in that house, and why Lowe had gone there. And whom he’d hit, to scrape up his knuckles like that.

And why he was so desperately angry that he’d snap at her.

Lowe didn’t enlighten her about any of it. He pulled the car to a stop with an abrupt jerk of brakes, and Claire blinked and realized that she was home. ‘‘You need another ride, call a taxi,’’ Lowe said. ‘‘I’m on police business the rest of the day.’’

She climbed out and tried to thank him, but he wasn’t listening. He was already flipping open his cell phone and dialing one-handed as he put the car in gear with the other. She barely got the door shut before he pulled away from the curb.

‘‘Bye,’’ she said softly, to the empty air, and then shrugged and went inside.

Michael was sitting in the living room, playing guitar. He looked up and nodded at her when she came in. ‘‘Eve went to the hospital,’’ he said. ‘‘She must have just missed you.’’

Claire sighed and slumped down on the couch. ‘‘They won’t let her in. Visiting hours are over.’’ She yawned and curled up, tucking her feet under her. She ached all over, and everything seemed too bright, and not quite right. ‘‘Michael?’’

‘‘Yeah?’’ He was working out a chord progression and was focused on the music; his response didn’t mean he was listening, really.

‘‘Shouldn’t you be asleep? I mean, don’t vampires—?’’

He was listening after all. ‘‘Sleep during the day? Yeah, mostly. But I—couldn’t. I keep thinking . . .’’ The chord progression turned minor, then wrong, and he grimaced. ‘‘I keep thinking that I should have fixed this crap with Shane by now. I don’t know if he’s going to get over it, not really. Not in the ways that count. And I hate it. I can’t stop thinking—I don’t want him doing this stuff. Not without me watching his back.’’

Claire leaned her head against the battered black pillow on the corner of the couch. It smelled like spilled Coke, a little, but mostly it smelled like Shane, and she gladly turned her face into it and took a deep breath. It made it seem like he was here, at least for a second.

‘‘He wouldn’t hate you so bad if he didn’t love you, at least a little bit,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll be okay. We’re going to stay together, right? The four of us?’’

Michael looked up, and for a second she wasn’t sure what he was going to say; but then he said, ‘‘Yeah. We’ll stay together. No matter what.’’

It felt like a lie, and she wished he hadn’t said it.

She fell asleep, listening to him compose a new song, and dreamed about vibrating strings and doorways that led nowhere, and everywhere. Someone was watching her; she could feel it, and it wasn’t Michael. It wasn’t warm and kind; it wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe, and there was something wrong, wrong, wrong. . . .

She nearly fell off the couch, she jerked so hard. Michael wasn’t there, and his guitar was in the case on the table. Claire squinted at the clock. It was nearly two o’clock, and she’d slept through lunch, but it wasn’t hunger that had woken her up. She’d heard something.

It came again, a thumping knock on the front door. She yawned and pushed back the blanket that Michael had draped over her, and, still trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes, padded to the door.

She had to stand on tiptoes at the peephole to see out. Some guy, nobody that clicked any immediate recognition—not Jason, at least. That was good. Claire looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign Michael had heard. She had no idea where he’d gone.

She opened the door. The guy standing outside looked up and held out a padded mailer with stickers on it; she took it and read her own name on it. ‘‘Oh,’’ she said, preoccupied. ‘‘Thanks.’’

‘‘No problem, Claire,’’ he said. ‘‘Be seeing you.’’

There was something way too familiar about the way he said it. She jerked her head up, staring at him, but she still didn’t know him. He was just . . . normal. Average height, average weight, average everything. There was a silver bracelet on his wrist, so he was human, not vampire.

‘‘Do I know you?’’ she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. ‘‘Hey, wait! Who are you?’’

He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early-afternoon heat, frowning, but she’d left her shoes off, and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet; she’d fry like bacon.

She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn’t know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn’t answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.

She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately—heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.

It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who’d dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.

‘‘Everything okay?’’ Michael’s voice came from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.

‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘Just mail.’’

‘‘Good stuff?’’

‘‘Don’t know yet; I haven’t read it. Probably junk.’’

‘‘Enjoy the fact that you don’t have electricity, water, cable, Internet, and garbage to pay for,’’ he said. ‘‘Look, I’m going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There’s stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry.’’ A brief pause. ‘‘Don’t open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf.’’

‘‘Michael, tell me you’re not putting blood in our refrigerator.’’

‘‘I told you not to open it. So you’ll never know.’’

‘‘You suck!’’ Of course he did; he was a vampire. ‘‘I mean, not in a good way, either!’’

‘‘Eat something! I’m sleeping.’’ And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.

Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, as though it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.

It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.

It read:

 
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.

Amelie wasn’t happy.

That wasn’t good.

Two days. And Michael could go with her only in the evenings. . . .

She couldn’t wait.

Claire checked in her backpack. The red crystal shaker was still inside, safely zipped into a pocket.

If she took Michael’s car—no, she couldn’t. She’d never be able to see through the tinting, even if she felt confident in her ability to drive it. And Detective Lowe wasn’t going to give her a ride. She could try Detective Hess, but Lowe’s attitude had made her gun-shy.

Still, she couldn’t just go out alone.

With a sigh, she called Eddie, the taxi driver.

‘‘What?’’ he snapped. ‘‘Don’t I get a day off? What is it with you?’’

‘‘Eddie, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I need a favor.’’ Claire hastily checked her wallet. ‘‘Um, it’s a short trip, I’ll pay you double, okay? Please?’’

‘‘Double? I don’t take checks.’’

‘‘I know that. Cash.’’

‘‘I don’t wait. I pick up, I drop off, I leave.’’

‘‘Eddie! Double! Do you want it or not?’’

‘‘Keep your panties on. What’s the address?’’

‘‘Michael Glass’s house.’’

Eddie heaved a sigh so heavy it sounded like a temporary hurricane. ‘‘You again. Okay, I come. But I swear, last time. No more Saturdays, yes?’’

‘‘Yes! Yes, okay. Just this time.’’

Eddie hung up on her. Claire bit her lip, slipped the note from Amelie into her bag, and hoped Michael had been serious about going to bed. Because if he’d eavesdropped on her, even by accident, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

It took five minutes for Eddie to arrive. She waited on the sidewalk, and jumped in the back of the battered old cab—barely yellow, after so much sun exposure—and handed Eddie all the cash she had. He counted it. Twice.

Then he grunted and flipped the handle on the taxi meter. ‘‘Address?’’

‘‘Katherine Day’s house.’’ One thing Claire had learned about riding with Eddie—you didn’t need numbers, only names. He knew everybody, and he knew where everybody lived. All the natives, anyway. The students, he just dropped on campus and forgot.

Eddie threw an arm over the back of his seat and frowned at her. He was a big guy, with a lot of wild dark hair, including a beard. She could barely see his eyes when he frowned, which was pretty much always. ‘‘The Day House. You’re sure.’’

‘‘I’m sure.’’

‘‘Told you I’m not staying, right?’’

‘‘Eddie, please!’’

‘‘Your funeral,’’ he said, and hit the gas hard enough to press her back into the cushions.