She went very slowly. Very carefully. ‘‘Myrnin?’’ She said it quietly, because he’d hear her; he’d told her that his ears were sensitive because of the silence and his lack of company.

He didn’t answer.

‘‘Myrnin?’’ Claire could see the hard edge of light at the bottom of the steps. He had everything on, it looked like—the light had a funny color, a mixture of fluorescent bulbs and oil lamps, candles and incandescents. ‘‘Myrnin, it’s Claire. Where are you?’’

She almost missed him, because he was so still. Myrnin was usually in motion of some kind—moving fast, like a hummingbird, from one bright attraction to the next. But what was standing in the center of the room looked like Myrnin—only completely still. Vampires did breathe, a little; the blood they took from humans needed oxygen, Claire had figured out, although a lot less than in a normal person. But his chest was still, his eyes were open and staring, and he wasn’t moving at all. Not even to look at her. His attention was focused somewhere off to the side.

‘‘Myrnin?’’ She put her bag down slowly. ‘‘It’s Claire. Can you hear me?’’

His chest rose just a fraction, and he whispered, ‘‘Get out. Go.’’

And tears slid out of his wide, staring eyes to run down his pale cheeks.

‘‘What is it? What’s wrong?’’ She forgot about caution, and moved toward him. ‘‘Myrnin, please tell me what’s wrong!’’

‘‘You,’’ he said. ‘‘This is wrong.’’

And then he just—collapsed. Dropped like his knees had given out, and the rest of him followed. It wasn’t a graceful fall, and it would have hurt a normal human, maybe badly. Myrnin’s head hit the floor with a solid crack, and Claire crouched down next to him and put her hand on his chest—not sure what she was doing, what she was supposed to be feeling for. Not his pulse—vampires didn’t have one, at least not that humans could detect. She knew that from leaning against Michael.

‘‘I can’t do this,’’ Myrnin said. His cold hand flashed out and grabbed hold of her arm, hard enough to bruise. ‘‘Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to come!’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’ Claire tried to pull free, but she might as well have been pulling against a bridge cable. Myrnin could snap her bones, if he wanted. Or even if he got careless. ‘‘Myrnin, you’re hurting me. Please—’’

‘‘Why?’’ He shook her, and she could see the panic in his eyes. That made her take a deep breath and forget the ache where he was holding her. ‘‘You weren’t supposed to come back!’’

‘‘Amelie sent me a note. She said I had only two days to learn—’’

Myrnin groaned and let her go. He covered his eyes with his hands, dry-scrubbed his face, and said, ‘‘Help me up.’’ Claire put a hand under his arm and managed to get him upright, leaning against a solid lab cabinet that seemed like it was bolted to the floor. ‘‘Let me see the note.’’

She went back to the stairs, grabbed her backpack, and produced the note. Myrnin unfolded it in shaking hands and looked at it intently.

‘‘What? Is it a fake?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said slowly. ‘‘She sent you to me.’’ He dropped the note in his lap, as if it had gotten unbearably heavy, and rested his head against the hard surface of the lab cabinet. ‘‘She’s lost hope, then. She’s acting out of fear and panic. That isn’t like her.’’

‘‘I don’t understand!’’

‘‘That’s exactly the problem,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘You don’t. And you won’t, child. I explained this to her before—even the brightest human can’t learn this quickly. And you are so very young.’’ He sounded tired and very sad. ‘‘Now we come to the last of it, Claire. Think it through: Amelie sent you to me, knowing that I do not believe you are the solution to my problems. Why would she do that? You know what I am, what I do, what I crave. Why would she put you in front of me if she didn’t want me to—to—’’ He seemed to be begging her to understand, but he wasn’t making any sense. ‘‘You don’t know what she is capable of doing, child. You don’t know!’’

There was so much fear in his voice, and in his face, that she felt a real sense of dread. ‘‘If she didn’t want you to teach me, why did she send me?’’

‘‘The question is, why—after being so careful to provide you with escorts—would she send you to me alone?’’

‘‘I—’’ She stopped, remembering. ‘‘Sam said to ask you about the others. The other apprentices. He said I wasn’t the first—’’

‘‘Samuel is quite intelligent,’’ Myrnin said, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. ‘‘You glow, you glow like the finest lamp. So much possibility in you. Yes, there have been others Amelie sent to learn. Vampires and humans. I killed the first one almost by accident, you must understand, but the effect—you see, the more intelligent the mind, the longer my clarity lasts, or so we thought at first. The first bought me almost a year without attacks. The second . . . mere months, and so on, in ever-decreasing cycles as my disease grew worse.’’

‘‘She sent me here to die,’’ Claire said. ‘‘She wants you to kill me.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘Clever, isn’t she? She understands my desperation so well. And you do glow so brightly, Claire. The temptation is almost—’’ He shook his head violently, as if trying to throw something out of his mind. ‘‘Listen to me. She seeks to fend off the inevitable, but I can’t accept this trade. Your life is so fragile, just beginning; I can’t steal it away for half a day, or an hour. It’s no use.’’

‘‘But—I thought you said I could learn—’’

He sighed. ‘‘I wanted to believe, but it isn’t possible. Yes, I could teach you—but you’d be nothing more than a gifted mimic, a mechanic, not an engineer. There are things you cannot do, Claire, not for years at best. I’m sorry.’’

Myrnin was saying that she was stupid, and Claire felt a hot, strange spark of anger. ‘‘Let go of my arm!’’ she snapped, and he was surprised enough that some of the blankness in his dark eyes went away, replaced with concern. He slowly relaxed his fingers. ‘‘Explain it to me. You’re not all-knowing; maybe you forgot something.’’

Myrnin smiled, but it was a shadow of his usual manic grin. ‘‘I assure you, I probably have,’’ he agreed. ‘‘But Claire, attend: already, my muscles disobey me. Soon I won’t be able to walk, and then my voice will lock in my throat. And then blindness, and madness, and I will end my days locked in a black, dark place, screaming silently as I starve. If there were any shred of hope that I could avoid that fate, don’t you think I would seize it?’’

He said it so . . . calmly. As if it had already happened. ‘‘No,’’ Claire said. She couldn’t help it. ‘‘No, that isn’t going to happen.’’ She’d somehow thought that he’d just . . . fade away. Without pain. But this kind of torture—he didn’t deserve it. Not even Oliver deserved to have this creeping up on him. ‘‘How— Do you know what causes it?’’

Myrnin smiled, but the smile looked bitter. ‘‘I thought I did, once. Amelie knows much of what I’ve forgotten, but you may find your clues in the notebooks. I was cautious, of course, but if you look closely, you may find my theories. In any case, it no longer matters. I can feel myself slipping into the black. There’s no return.’’

‘‘How do you know?’’

‘‘I’ve seen it happen. It’s always the same. Amelie will lock me away because she’ll have no choice; she must try to keep the secret, and it will take me a very long time to die, because I am so very old.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Doesn’t matter. Not now. All that matters is that you go home, child, and never come back. I can’t imagine I would have the unexpected strength of will to refuse such a lovely warm gift twice.’’

It was stupid. She didn’t like Myrnin, she couldn’t. He was scary and strange and he’d tried to kill her not just once, but at least twice.

So why did she feel like she wanted to cry?

‘‘What if we use the crystals?’’ she blurted. Myrnin’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘I learned, when you had me take them. What if we use them now? Both of us? Would that help?’’

He was already shaking his head. ‘‘Claire, it’s a fool’s quest. Even if we continue research on the cure, there’s not enough time—’’

‘‘The cure to your disease!’’ She felt a sudden surge of hope as she dug through her backpack and came up with the shaker of crystals. ‘‘Isn’t this what you’ve done so far?’’

‘‘It is. Clever of you to discover that. But the point is, it’s taken years to develop it, and it’s at best only a temporary measure. Even a large dose will wear off in a few hours for either one of us, and the consequences for you . . .’’

‘‘But if we can come up with a cure, a real cure?’’

‘‘It’s naïve to think that we could perfect such a thing in mere hours. No, I think you had better go. I have been quite noble today. You really should let me enjoy it while I can.’’ He looked at the shaker in her hands, and for a second she thought she saw a spark of that quick interest that had driven him so hard in earlier meetings. ‘‘Perhaps—if I show you the research, you could carry that part of it onward. For the others.’’

‘‘Sam said you were all sick. Even Amelie.’’

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘As I am, so shall they all be. Every vampire who lives will suffer this in the next ten years, unless it is stopped.’’

Ten years! No. Not Michael.

She couldn’t stand by without trying to stop it, at least for him.

 
‘‘Amelie brought us to Morganville to buy us time, to find a way to ensure our survival. She believed— she believed that humans might hold the keys to this plague, and she also believed that we could no longer afford to live as we had, preying in the night or hiding. She thought that humans and vampires could live in cooperation, and find the solution to our illness together. That quickly became impossible, of course; she realized, after telling the first few vampires, that they would go mad knowing what was to come, that they would kill indiscriminately. So it became a secret, a terrible secret. She told them part of the truth, that she was seeking a cure to what makes us sterile. Never the rest.’’

‘‘So—Morganville’s a kind of lab. She’s trying to find a cure, and protect all of you at the same time.’’

‘‘Exactly so.’’ Myrnin rubbed his hands over his face again. ‘‘I’m getting tired, Claire. Best give me the crystals.’’

She poured out a few in his hand. He met her eyes. ‘‘More,’’ he said. ‘‘The disease has advanced. I will need a large dose to stay with you, even for a while.’’

She poured about a teaspoon out. Myrnin popped it into his mouth, made a face at the bitterness, and swallowed. A shudder went through him, and she actually saw the weariness and confusion fade. ‘‘Excellent. That really was an amazing discovery. Too bad about the doctor; really, he was very bright.’’ Oh dear. Myrnin was swinging toward the manic now, thanks to the drugs. That was dangerous. ‘‘You’re very bright. Perhaps you could read through the notes.’’

‘‘I—I’m just now starting advanced biochemistry—’’

‘‘Nonsense, your native ability is clear.’’ He pointed toward the shaker of crystals in her hand. ‘‘Take it.’’

‘‘No. It’s your medicine, not mine.’’

‘‘And it will help you keep up with me, because we have very little time, Claire, very little.’’ His eyes were bright and clear, like a bird’s, and with about as much affection. ‘‘There are two ways you can assist me. You can take the crystals, or you can help me extend this period of clarity in other ways.’’

She sat back on her heels. ‘‘You said you wouldn’t.’’ ‘‘Indeed. But you see, the disease makes me a sentimental fool. If I am to find an heir to my knowledge, and find a cure for my people, then I can’t be burdened with such considerations.’’ His gaze brushed over her, abstract and hungry. ‘‘You burn so very brightly, you know.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ she muttered. ‘‘You said.’’ She hated this. She hated that Myrnin could change like this, go from friend to enemy in the space of a minute. Which one was real? Or was any of it?

Claire shook half a teaspoon of the crystals into her palm.

‘‘More,’’ Myrnin said. She added a couple, and he reached out, took the shaker, and poured a heaping mound of it into her hand. ‘‘You have a great deal to learn, and you are operating from such a disadvantage. Better safe than sorry.’’

She didn’t want to take it—well, she did, a little, because the strawberry smell of the crystals brought back flashes of the way the world had looked: diamond clear, uncomplicated, simple.

Hard not to want that.

Myrnin said, ‘‘Take it, or I will have to take you, Claire. We have no more moves on our chessboard.’’

She poured the crystals onto her tongue and almost gagged from the bitterness. The strawberry flavor was overwhelmed by it, and the aftertaste was rotten and cold on her tongue, and she thought for a second she might throw up. . . .

And then everything snapped into hot, sharp, perfect focus.

Myrnin no longer looked strange and pathetic; he was a burning pillar of energy barely contained by skin. She could see that he was sick, somehow; there was a darkness in him, like rot at the heart of a tree. The room took on a fey glitter. Neurotransmitters, she thought. Her brain was rushing a million miles an hour, making her giddy and breathless. My reaction time must be ten times faster.

Myrnin bounded up to his feet, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to the shelves, where he began frantically pulling down books. Notebooks, textbooks, scraps of handwritten paper. Two black-bound composition books, the same kind Claire used in lab class. Even a couple of the cheap blue books she used for essay tests. Everything was crammed with fine, perfect handwriting.

‘‘Read,’’ he said. ‘‘Hurry.’’

All she had to do was flip pages. Her eyes captured things, like cameras, and her brain was so fast and efficient that she translated and comprehended the text almost instantly. Nearly two hundred pages, and she paged through as fast as her fingers could go.

‘‘Well?’’ Myrnin demanded.

‘‘This is wrong,’’ she said, and flipped back to the first third of the notebook. ‘‘Right here. See? The formula’s wrong. The variable doesn’t match up with the prior version, and the error gets replicated going forward—’’

Myrnin gave out a fierce, sharp cry, like a hunting hawk, and snatched the book away from her. ‘‘Yes! Yes, I see it! That fool. No wonder he sustained me only for a few days. But you, Claire, oh, you are different.’’

She knew she ought to be afraid of the slow, predatory smile he gave her, but she couldn’t help it.

She smiled back.

‘‘Give me the next one,’’ she said. ‘‘And let’s start making crystals.’’

 
When it wore off, it hit Myrnin first. He took more, but she could see it wasn’t really working this time. Diminishing returns. That was why he’d only taken a few crystals last time, to prolong the effects even if the change hadn’t been as dramatic.

This crash was like hitting a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

It started when he lost his balance, caught himself, and knocked a tray off the lab table; he tried to catch it in midair, a feat he’d been more than capable of an hour before, and missed it completely. He stared at his hands in frustration and viciously kicked the tray. It sailed across the room and hit the far wall with a spectacular clatter.

Claire straightened up from spreading the crystals out on the drying tray. She could feel the effects, too—her brain was slowing down, her body aching. It had to be worse for Myrnin, because of the disease. It was wrong to do this, she thought. Wrong, because his manic phase always led to dementia, and he’d wanted so badly to be himself again.

But the crystals drying on the tray could change that, or at least, she hoped they could. It wasn’t that Myrnin had been wrong, but that his last assistant had made mistakes; whether deliberate or not, Claire couldn’t tell. But the crystals in the tray would be more effective, and longer lasting.

Myrnin could stabilize again.

‘‘It isn’t a cure,’’ Myrnin said, as if he were reading her thoughts.

‘‘No, but it buys you time,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Look, I can come tomorrow. Promise me you’ll leave these here, all right? Don’t try to take them yet; they’re not ready. And they’re more powerful, so you’ll have to start with a small dose and work up.’’

‘‘Don’t tell me what to do!’’ Myrnin barked. ‘‘Who is the master here? Who is the student?’’

This was familiar, and dangerous. She lowered her head. ‘‘You’re the master,’’ she said. ‘‘I have to go now. I’m sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?’’

He didn’t answer. His dark eyes were fixed on her, and she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Or even if he was thinking. He was right on the edge.

Claire took the shaker of the less effective crystals and stuffed it in her backpack—there wasn’t that much left, but enough for one more dose for them both, and if he did something to the crystals during his manic phase, they might need it. She needed to ask Amelie for some kind of strongbox where she could store things. . . .

‘‘Why?’’ Myrnin asked. She looked up at him, frowning. ‘‘Why are you helping us? Isn’t it better for humans if we waste away and die? By helping me, you help all vampires.’’

Claire knew what Shane would have done. He’d have walked away, considered it a win all around. Eve might have done the same thing, except for Michael.

And she . . . she was helping. Helping. She couldn’t even really explain why, except that it seemed wrong to turn away. They weren’t all bad, and she couldn’t sacrifice people like Sam and Michael for the greater good.

‘‘I know,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Believe me, I’m not happy about it.’’

‘‘You do it because you’re afraid,’’ he said.

‘‘No. I do it because you need it.’’

He just stared at her, as if he couldn’t figure out what she was saying. Time to go. She shivered, shouldered her backpack, and hurried for the stairs. She kept looking behind, but she never saw Myrnin move. . . . Even so, he was in a different place, closer, every time she looked. It was like a child’s game, only deadly serious. He wouldn’t move while she was looking at him.

Claire turned and walked backward, staring at him. Myrnin chuckled, and the sound echoed through the room like the rustle of bat wings.

When her heels hit the steps, she turned and ran.

He could have caught her, but he didn’t. She burst through the doors of the shack into the alley, breathing hard, sweating, shaking.

He didn’t follow. She didn’t think he could, past the steps. She wasn’t sure why—maybe the same way that Morganville itself kept people in town, or wiped their memories, kept Myrnin confined in his bottle.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stir, and then she heard a voice. Whispering and indistinct. Shane? What was Shane doing here?

He was inside. He was inside and he was in trouble; she had to go to him. . . .

Claire found herself reaching for the door to the shack before she knew what she was doing.

‘‘Myrnin, stop it!’’ she gasped and pulled away. She turned and ran down the alley toward the relative safety of the street.

It was only when she got there that she saw it was already nightfall.

Eddie wouldn’t come for her after dark, and she was a long way from home. Too far to walk.

Claire was about to dial Michael at home when she spotted a police car cruising slowly down the cul-de-sac. Not a vampire squad car—this one had only light tinting on the front windows, although the back was blacked out. Claire squinted against the harsh brightness and waved. The effects of the crystals were ebbing fast, and she felt clumsy, strange, and exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. She’d have taken a ride with Satan in his big red handbasket if it had helped her get off her feet for a few minutes.

The cruiser pulled to a stop, and the passenger-side window rolled down. Claire bent over to look inside.

Officer Fenton. ‘‘You shouldn’t be out by yourself,’’ he said. ‘‘You know better. Everybody’s looking for you. Your friends called you in as missing.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ she said. That hadn’t even occurred to her. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been away. ‘‘I just—can I get a ride home? Please?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘Hop in.’’ She did, gratefully, and buckled herself in. Everything ached now—her head, her eyes, every muscle in her body. And she had the feeling it was going to get worse before it got better. ‘‘Speaking of your friends, how are they? Heard about that thing with Shane. Damn shame.’’

‘‘He’ll be okay,’’ she said.

‘‘And the other one? Michael?’’

‘‘Yeah, he’s fine,’’ she said. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Just checking. Probably good to keep an eye on him, since he was the target of the hit in the first place,’’ Fenton said. He turned the patrol car in a slow, crunching circle and headed back out, away from the alley. ‘‘Since the guy was looking for him, specifically.’’

Claire’s head hurt too much for conversation. ‘‘I guess,’’ she agreed faintly. And then some last flash of cognitive clarity put together strings of chemicals, and she felt her heartbeat jump and hammer harder. ‘‘How did you know that?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘I mean, about Sam not being the real target? He was unconscious when you found him. He couldn’t have said anything.’’

‘‘Unconscious, crap. He was dead.’’

‘‘But anyway, he couldn’t have said—’’ Things clicked into place, and the pattern looked bad. Very bad. ‘‘You were there before the sirens.’’

‘‘What are you talking about?’’

‘‘When we first looked out, we saw you parked behind Sam’s car and we just thought you’d found him there. But you didn’t just find him lying in the street—’’

Officer Fenton pressed the gas pedal, and the cruiser shot forward at a high rate of speed. He turned on the lights. She heard the harsh clicking sound they made, and the night was flooded with flashes of blue and red strobes.

‘‘Where are you taking me?’’

‘‘Shut up.’’

Claire put her hand on the door handle, but they were going so fast she knew she couldn’t jump. She’d be badly hurt, at the very least. ‘‘If you hurt me, the Founder—’’

‘‘That’s what we’re counting on,’’ Fenton sneered. ‘‘Shut up.’’

 
Shane would have totally gotten off on the whole vampire-killer-secret-society thing. Claire just wanted to go home. Badly.

In addition to Officer Fenton, the group that gathered in the shed behind the photo processing store included Fenton’s wife, the unpleasant nurse who treated Claire as though she were carrying some totally disgusting disease. She even wore latex gloves to tie Claire to the chair.

Claire barely recognized the others. One was a maintenance worker from the university; she’d seen him a few times. One was a bank teller. One was the smooth-faced, unremarkable guy who’d delivered Amelie’s note to her that afternoon. He’d killed her courier, Claire found out. He spent a lot of time tracking down who worked for Amelie and trying to find out where she stayed.

He was the one who leaned over into her space, hands braced on the arms of the chair, and said, ‘‘We don’t much care for collaborators. Even little underage ones.’’

Claire’s mouth felt foul and dry, and she was shaking now with the aftereffects of the crystals. Myrnin had been right: the consequences weren’t going to be pleasant. ‘‘Captain Obvious, I presume,’’ she said.

He laughed. He had nice, white teeth, no sign of vampire fangs. ‘‘Aren’t you the clever one. Living up to your reputation, I see.’’ He tapped a finger on her gold bracelet. ‘‘Not too many breathers have ever seen the Founder, much less become her pet. Sam Glass was the last one, before you. Did you know that? This is his bracelet you’re wearing. Probably sized down a little, though.’’

She squirmed a little, but the ropes were too tight. ‘‘What do you want with me?’’

‘‘Leverage,’’ said Officer Fenton. ‘‘Vamps seem to like you.’’

‘‘Not all of them,’’ Claire said. If they asked Oliver to come running to her rescue, it wasn’t too likely he’d so much as yawn. ‘‘And if you think Amelie’s going to sacrifice herself for me, you’re crazy.’’ Amelie had already sold her down the river, by sending her to Myrnin with the clear expectation that Myrnin would . . . eat her. The fact that he hadn’t was just Claire’s good luck. ‘‘In fact, I don’t think any of them would raise a finger—’’

‘‘Michael Glass would,’’ Captain Obvious said. ‘‘And he’s the one we want. She knows that, of course. She’s done everything she could to keep him away from us.’’ He flipped open the phone and pressed something on speed dial. ‘‘Tell him where you are.’’

Claire glared. ‘‘No.’’ She clamped her lips shut as she heard Michael’s distant hello on the other end. I’m not going to talk; I’m not going to make a sound. . . .

The door at the back of the shed opened, and someone came in. Thin, greasy, dressed in a black leather jacket with a hole in the pocket. Crazy eyes. Fang marks on his neck.

Jason.

He took the phone from Captain Obvious. ‘‘Hey, Mikey, it’s Jason. Just shut up and listen. I’ve got Claire, and I’m thinking about all the things I can do with her until you get here. Better hurry.’’

‘‘No!’’ Claire blurted, and realized it was a mistake. She’d just confirmed that she was there, and now Michael wouldn’t have any choice, would he? ‘‘Michael, don’t!’’

She could hear the sound of Michael’s voice, but not what he was saying. Jason put the phone back to his ear and listened. ‘‘Yeah, that’s right. You’ve got half an hour to show, or I’ll bring her home in pieces. Oh, and it’s not a trap; it’s a business proposition. You walk in alone, you both walk out alive.’’ Pause. ‘‘Where? Oh, come on, man. You know where. The captain’s waiting.’’

He snapped the phone shut, tossed it in the air, and caught it, smiling. His eyes never left Claire.

Michael wouldn’t do it. He just wouldn’t be that stupid, right? But Shane was in the hospital. He didn’t have anybody he could turn to for help except the other vampires, and they wouldn’t lift a finger to save Claire. She wasn’t sure anymore that Amelie would bother, unless she was just saving her as Myrnin’s midnight snack.

The door to the shed opened again, and both Captain Obvious and Jason turned to look.

Detective Travis Lowe stepped inside and closed the door, and for a second Claire felt a wild jolt of relief and satisfaction, but it faded just as quickly. Lowe looked at Jason and Captain Obvious as though he was expecting to find them there, and when his gaze moved to Claire, he didn’t react except to seem angry and harassed.

Oh God. He was one of them. Whoever them might be.

‘‘Could you screw this up any more?’’ he asked, low and vicious. ‘‘I told you, Glass isn’t important. We don’t need to do this.’’

‘‘He’s the youngest. He’s a symbol, man,’’ Captain Obvious said. ‘‘And he was one of us. He’s a traitor.’’

One of us? Did he mean—no, he couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t mean that Michael knew these people, that he’d been part of this skanky little conspiracy . . . but Jason had acted as though Michael knew where they were.

Nurse Fenton destroyed that hope by saying, ‘‘We’ve already been over this. Michael knows too much. If he decides to talk, we’re all dead. We can’t take the risk. Not anymore.’’ She shot her husband a dark look. ‘‘If you hadn’t screwed up—’’

‘‘Don’t blame me! Vampire car pulling out of the vampire’s house, how was I supposed to know it wasn’t him?’’

Of course. No wonder that had bothered her all along—the house had woken all of them up not because of the threat to Sam, but the threat to Michael, its owner. Even though Michael wasn’t there, it was reacting to intent.

Officer Fenton hadn’t been the first man on the scene; he’d been the one who staked Sam and left him to die, then pretended to be Johnny-on-the-spot. If Richard Morrell hadn’t shown up to scoop and run, he would have succeeded.

Claire swallowed hard and focused on Detective Lowe. ‘‘I thought you were a good guy.’’

Something weary and painful passed across his face. ‘‘Claire—’’ He shook his head. ‘‘It’s not as simple as that. Not in Morganville. You don’t just get to be one thing around here.’’

‘‘It’s not his fault,’’ Jason said, and grinned like a wolf. ‘‘If he wants his partner back, he’s not going to do anything stupid.’’

Detective Hess. They had him. No wonder she hadn’t seen him for days—and no wonder Lowe had been acting weird. She looked more closely at Officer Fenton, and found he had a dark bruise on his left cheek that matched the scrapes on Detective Lowe’s knuckles. He’d been in the house, maybe with Detective Hess, and Lowe had taken a swing at him.

Lowe’s eyes were dark and full of misery, and he looked away from Claire. ‘‘The kid has nothing to do with this,’’ he said.

‘‘The kid hangs with the top-shelf vampires,’’ Nurse Fenton shot back. ‘‘How many humans do you know with access to the Founder? She doesn’t even let her own kind get close! Of course she’s got something to do with this. Probably a lot more than you know.’’

Truer than Nurse Fenton knew. Claire thought about what she’d learned from Myrnin—the vampire sickness, the wormhole doorways through town, the network of Founder Houses—and realized that she knew enough to destroy Morganville.

She did her best to look scared and clueless. The first part, at least, wasn’t much of a stretch.

When Jason sauntered over and put his hand on Claire’s shoulder, she flinched. He smelled like a garbage heap in the summer, and she caught a lingering hint of blood from his coat. He stabbed Shane. And he’d smiled about it, too.

‘‘Get your hands off me,’’ she said, and turned to stare right at him. ‘‘I’m not afraid of you.’’

Lowe grabbed Jason by the arm, swung him around, and slammed him face-first into the rough wooden wall of the shed. ‘‘Me neither,’’ he growled. ‘‘And I’m not tied to a chair. Leave her alone.’’

‘‘Big hero,’’ Nurse Fenton said bitterly. ‘‘You and Hess, you’re both pathetic.’’

‘‘Am I?’’ Lowe twisted Jason’s arm painfully high. ‘‘I’m not the one raping and killing girls for fun.’’

‘‘Jason’s not the one doing it, either,’’ Fenton said. ‘‘He just likes to talk about it.’’

Claire said, ‘‘Then how’d he know about the one in our basement?’’

They all looked at her. ‘‘I never saw a report about any body in your house,’’ Lowe said. ‘‘Just the one in the alley.’’

Jason laughed, a dry crack of sound. ‘‘They moved it. Hey, Claire, you ever think that maybe it wasn’t me? Maybe it was one of your two boyfriends inside the house. Shane, he ain’t too stable, you know. And who knows about Michael these days?’’

She wanted to scream at him, but she saved her strength. She had thin wrists, and Captain Obvious hadn’t done a very good job of tying her; she could feel a little give in the ropes, and she wouldn’t need much slack to slip at least one hand free. The rough surface of the rope sawed at her skin, but she kept pulling, trying not to make it too obvious, and felt a sudden sharp pain in her wrist as the cut Jason had given her broke open again, sending a slow trickle of blood down her wrist.

It helped, along with the sweat running down her arms. She coughed, and at the same time pulled, and her right hand slipped free of the ropes with a fiery scrape. She kept it behind her back and started working on the knot holding her left hand to the crossbar of the chair.

‘‘So what are you?’’ she asked, to fill the silence and keep them from noticing what she was doing. ‘‘Vampire hunters?’’

‘‘Something like that,’’ Officer Fenton said.

‘‘Not that I’ve noticed,’’ Claire sniffed. ‘‘Shane’s dad blew into town and killed all the vampires that I know about. What have you done?’’

‘‘Shut up,’’ Nurse Fenton said flatly. ‘‘You’ve been here months, if that. You have no idea what this town is like to live in. When we’re ready, we’ll act. Frank Collins had the right idea, but he wasn’t much of a planner.’’

‘‘So you’re planning a revolution,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Not just random attacks.’’

‘‘Would you stop telling the prisoner our plans?’’ Captain Obvious snapped. ‘‘Jesus, don’t you watch movies? Just shut up!’’

‘‘She’s not going to tell anybody,’’ Officer Fenton said, in such an offhand way that Claire’s heart sank.

They didn’t intend to keep any promises to Michael. No way were they letting Michael, or her, walk out of here alive.

But fifteen minutes later, the door burst open and a vampire rushed in, wrapped in a heavy blanket. The greasy smell of cooking flesh filled the shed, and then the vampire kicked the door closed and collapsed against it, gasping. Smoke rose up from him in a thick, choking cloud. In a few places, Claire could see blackened skin beneath the covering.

‘‘About time,’’ Fenton growled. Then he picked up a black stick from a crate next to him and drove it into the vampire’s chest. For a second Claire thought that it was a stake, but then she saw sparks, and the vampire went down in a tangle of blankets and smoke.

He’d been Tasered.

Captain Obvious brought out a wooden stake and rolled the vampire over. Claire screamed. Somehow, she’d been avoiding thinking of him as Michael, but the flash of golden hair and the pale shape of his face were unmistakable.

His blue eyes were open, but he couldn’t move. There were burned patches on his hands and arms, but he was alive. . . .

Captain Obvious positioned the stake.

Claire lurched to her feet and spun to her right. Her left hand was still tied to the crossbar of the chair, but the momentum helped her swing it with bone-breaking force right into Captain Obvious’s back. He crumpled against the wall. Claire grabbed the chair in both hands and used it as a shield as Officer Fenton jabbed the Taser at her, knocking it aside, and managed to hit him in the gut with at least one of the chair’s legs as she screamed for help. He stumbled backward.

Travis Lowe cursed and flicked handcuffs onto Jason’s wrists. ‘‘Sit,’’ he ordered, and pulled his gun. He looked strained and grim, but determined. ‘‘Back up, Fenton. You too, Christine. Turn and face the wall.’’

‘‘You can’t do this,’’ Officer Fenton said. ‘‘Trav, if you cross us—’’

‘‘I know. You’ll get me. I’ll try not to pee all over myself in terror.’’ Lowe nodded to Claire, who was undoing the last of the knots holding the chair to her left hand. ‘‘Put the cuffs on them. I’ll cover you.’’ He tossed her an extra two sets, and she fumbled the unfamiliar weight in her numbed fingers. As she bent to pick them up, Captain Obvious—down, not out— reached over Michael’s still body, grabbed her foot, and yanked. Claire cried out and fell, and Captain Obvious dragged her backward.

Lowe spun, aiming his gun, but it was too late. Captain Obvious had a knife, a big, wicked thing, and he put it to Claire’s throat, right under her chin. It felt cold, then hot as it pressed into the tender skin. ‘‘Put it down, Jeff,’’ Lowe barked. He took a threatening step forward. ‘‘I mean it; I will put you down.’’

He got Tasered in the back. Claire watched him convulse and fall, and felt panic well up inside. They’ll kill us now. All three of us. Four, counting Joe Hess, who was being held prisoner somewhere else.

She heard a sharp, loud crack, and a pale strong hand exploded through the boards beside Captain Obvious’s head, grabbed him, and pulled. The entire section of boards broke away, and Captain Obvious was yanked backward. Claire felt the knife slide along her neck, but it didn’t have any force behind it. He dropped it, flailing for balance, and then he was outside in the bright, dusty sunlight, and there was a dry snapping sound.

Dressed in a black leather trench coat, a black broad-brimmed hat, and black gloves, Oliver stepped into the shed. He gave them all a vampire smile.

‘‘Well, that was refreshing,’’ he said. He reached down and pulled Michael up to a sitting position next to Claire, then stepped in front of them.

‘‘Could’ve come sooner,’’ Michael whispered. He was shaking all over, but he was coming out of his paralysis. Claire hugged him. He fumbled in his pocket, came up with a handkerchief, and pressed it to Claire’s neck. She hadn’t even realized she was bleeding.

Oliver ignored them and walked toward the Fentons, who tried to get to the door. He flashed ahead of them with that easy snakelike speed vampires could display when they wanted, and Claire shuddered at the looks on their faces.

They knew what was going to happen to them.

‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘There’ll be a fair trial. Since Samuel didn’t die, and you didn’t succeed today, you won’t burn for what you’ve done.’’ He reached for Christine Fenton’s wrist, ripped her sleeve, and exposed her silver bracelet. It fit tightly around her wrist, but he slid a finger underneath the metal and it split along an invisible seam. He dropped the bracelet in his pocket, then did the same to Officer Fenton.

The places where their bracelets had been were sickly pale, and Christine kept rubbing hers, as if the shock of open air on the skin was painful.

‘‘Congratulations,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I release you from your contracts.’’

And then he grabbed Christine. Claire had a glimpse of his fangs flashing down, silvery and sharp, and then he slammed the woman against the wall of the shed and bit.

Claire hid her face against Michael’s chest. He put his hand on her hair and held her there, turned away from the sight of Christine Fenton dying.

She heard the woman’s body hit the floor and then Oliver, his voice thick and dark, say, ‘‘Your turn now.’’

A sharp, snapping sound, and another body hit the floor.

When Michael let her go, Claire didn’t look at the bodies. She couldn’t.

She looked at Oliver, who was staring down at Travis Lowe. The detective was just starting to stir. ‘‘What about this one?’’ he asked. ‘‘Friend or foe?’’

He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He grabbed Lowe by the collar and lifted him off the ground.

‘‘Friend! Friend!’’ Claire blurted frantically, and saw Lowe’s eyes close in relief. ‘‘His partner’s missing. I think they were holding him somewhere.’’

Oliver shrugged, clearly not interested. He dropped Lowe back to the ground and turned a slow circle. ‘‘There was another one,’’ he said. ‘‘Where is he?’’ He pulled in a deep breath, then let it out with a disgusted cough. ‘‘Jason. Well, well.’’

Sometime while Oliver had been busy killing the Fentons, Jason had escaped out the door, and Michael hadn’t stopped him. Maybe too weak, maybe just worried for Claire. But anyway, Jason was long gone.

‘‘I’ll find him,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I’ve been tolerant, so long as he didn’t threaten our interests, but enough.’’ He glanced down at Michael and Claire. ‘‘Go home.’’ He stalked away, out into the sun, without a backward glance. Three dead bodies, and he didn’t even pause.

Travis Lowe managed to pull himself to a sitting position, groaning, and rested his head in his hands. ‘‘I hate Tasers.’’ He looked up and fixed his bloodshot gaze on Claire. ‘‘You’re okay? Let me see your throat.’’

She moved the handkerchief. There was just a thin smear on the cloth. Her wrist was worse; she tied the cloth around it as a makeshift bandage and thought, I’m going to have to buy Michael some new ones.

Though why she thought of that now, she had no idea. Maybe she just wanted to imagine normal life.

Because this definitely wasn’t normal.

Michael stood up and helped Claire to her feet, then Lowe. He pulled keys from his pocket and tossed them to Lowe. ‘‘Pull the car in with the trunk facing the door,’’ he said. ‘‘Open it and honk when you’re ready.’’

Lowe nodded and went outside, into the blinding sun. Michael put both hands on Claire’s shoulders and looked down at her, then cupped her cheeks in his palms.

‘‘Don’t do that again,’’ he said.

‘‘I didn’t do anything. I got a ride from a cop, that was all—’’

‘‘Not that,’’ he said. ‘‘Myrnin. Don’t do it again. You can’t go back. He’ll kill you next time.’’

He knew where she’d been. Well, she supposed it hadn’t been hard to figure out.

‘‘You shouldn’t have come,’’ she said. ‘‘You knew it was a trap; what are you, crazy?’’

‘‘I called Oliver,’’ Michael said.

‘‘You didn’t!’’

‘‘It worked, didn’t it?’’

She looked around at the dead people in the shed. ‘‘Yeah.’’

He looked ill for a second and started to say something, but then the horn honked outside, and he changed it to, ‘‘Ride’s here.’’

She nodded, and walked out into the dazzling glare. Something brushed by her, moving fast, and then the trunk of the sedan slammed closed before she’d taken more than two steps.

Claire trudged to the passenger side of the car. Exhausted and aching, and feeling a stupid need to cry, she said nothing at all on the ride home.