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She swept in front of him. “I know my own home, François—I don’t require a guide.” A quick glance over her shoulder, to where Oliver still stood silently at the door. “Come inside, Oliver. I will replace the Protections against you later, on behalf of our young friends.”

  He raised his eyebrows and crossed the threshold. Michael was just sitting up. Oliver extended a hand to him, but Michael didn’t take it. They exchanged a look that made Claire shiver.

  Oliver shrugged, stepped over him, and followed Amelie and François into the other room.

  When the kitchen door swung shut, Claire let out a long, relieved breath, and heard Eve and Shane do the same. Michael rolled painfully to his feet and braced himself against the wall, shaking his head.

  Shane put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, man?” Michael gave him a thumbs-up answer, too shaken to do anything more, and Shane slapped his back and grabbed the collar of Claire’s shirt as she rushed past him, heading for the door of the kitchen. “Whoa, whoa, Flash, where do you think you’re going?”

  “My parents are in there!”

  “Amelie’s not going to let anything happen to them,” Shane said. “Get your breath. This isn’t our fight, and you know it.”

  Now Shane was talking sense? Wow. Was it opposite day? “But—”

  “Your parents are okay, but I don’t want you rushing in. Got it?”

  She nodded shakily. “But—”

  “Michael. Help me out here. Tell her.”

  Michael was doing the vampire equivalent of gasping for air, but he nodded, eyes unfocused and vague. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “They’re okay. That’s why François came after me, because I got between him and your mom.”

  “He went after my mom?” Claire flung herself toward the door of the kitchen, and this time Shane barely managed to hold on.

  “Dude, that was not the kind of help I was looking for,” Shane said to Michael, and wrapped both arms around Claire to hold her in place. “Easy. Easy, Amelie’s in there, and you know she’ll keep things under control—”

  Claire did. After a second’s thought, it made her struggle harder, because Amelie was perfectly capable of seeing Claire’s parents as expendable if it served her needs. She saw Claire as expendable, off and on. But Shane didn’t let go until she jabbed an elbow back and felt him stagger and release his grip. She didn’t realize what she’d done . . . until she saw a thin line of red on his T-shirt, and Shane thumped himself down hard in the nearest available chair.

  She’d hit him where he’d been stabbed.

  “Dammit!” Eve hissed, and yanked Shane’s shirt up to expose his chest and stomach—still bruised—and the white bandages, which were staining fresh with blood. Claire could even smell it . . .

  . . . and as if she were in a dream, or a nightmare, she turned to look at Michael.

  His eyes weren’t vague and unfocused anymore. No, they were wide and intent and very, very scary. His face was still and white, and he wasn’t breathing at all.

  “Get the bleeding stopped,” he whispered. “Hurry.”

  Michael was right. Shane was bait in a shark tank, and Michael was one of the sharks.

  Shane was staring back at him as Eve poked and probed at his bandages, making sure they were tight. “I think it’s okay, but you need to be careful,” she said. “These bandages need to be changed. You might have popped a stitch or something.”

  She put her shoulder under Shane’s and helped him to his feet. Shane was still watching Michael, and Michael didn’t seem to be able to physically look away from the bloody slash of bandage on Shane’s stomach.

  “Want some?” Shane asked. “Come and get it, bat boy.” He was almost as pale as Michael, and his expression was tight and furious.

  Michael somehow managed to smile. “You’re not my blood type, bro.”

  “Rejected again.” But some of the wildness in Shane’s eyes eased. “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” Michael turned toward the closed kitchen door for a moment. “They’re talking. Look, I’m going to go in and get your parents, Claire. I want everybody together who’s still—”

  “Breathing?” Shane asked.

  “In danger,” Michael said. “Back in a second.” He hesitated just a breath, then added, “See if you can fix him up while I’m gone.”

  And then he was out the door, moving unnaturally fast, as if it was a relief to get away from the smell of Shane’s blood. Claire swallowed and exchanged a look with Eve. Eve looked just as shaken as she felt, but she moved quickly on with priorities. “Okay. Where’s the first aid kit?”

  “Upstairs,” Claire said. “In the bathroom.”

  “Nope, it’s down here,” Shane said. “I moved it.”

  “You did? When?”

  “Couple of days ago,” he said. “Figured it would be better where I could get to it, since I’m the one who’s usually getting bandaged. Look under the sink.”

  Eve did, and hauled out a big white metal box marked with a red cross. She opened it up and pulled out supplies. “Shirt off.”

  “You only love me for my abs.”

  “Shut up, loser. Shirt off.”

  With a glance toward Claire, Shane pulled it over his head and tossed it on the breakfast table next to him. Claire took the shirt to the sink, where she rinsed it in cold water, watching as Shane’s blood tinted the water light pink. She didn’t like to watch what Eve was doing; seeing the damage that Shane put himself through made her feel sick and frail, because he’d done it—as always—for other people. For her, and Eve.

  “Done,” Eve pronounced a few minutes later. “You’d better not bleed all over my nice clean bandages, or I’ll stick a sale price on you and put you on the corner for the next neck-muncher.”

  “You’re such a bitch,” Shane said. “Thanks.”

  She gave him an air kiss and a wink. “Like most girls wouldn’t line up to play nurse with you. Right.”

  Claire felt an unwelcome, completely surprising surge of jealousy. Eve? No, it was just Eve’s usual teasing. Nothing else, right? She wasn’t—she wouldn’t. She just wouldn’t.

  Claire wrung out the shirt until her hands ached, then pressed it between two towels to try to get it as dry as possible. She handed it to Shane while Eve was busy putting the unused supplies back in the box, and helped him drag the damp fabric over his head and down his chest. She couldn’t help but let her fingers brush down his skin, and to be honest, she didn’t really try. In fact, she might have moved a little more slowly than she should have.

  “Feels good,” Shane said, very quietly, in her ear. “You okay?”

  Claire nodded. He touched her lightly under the chin to lift it, and studied her face closely.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re okay.” He brushed her lips with his and looked past her at the kitchen door as it opened.

  Michael, with Claire’s parents in tow. The knot in Claire’s chest, the one tied tight around her heart, eased a couple of precious notches.

  Her parents looked . . . blank. Frowning, as if they’d forgotten something important. When her mother’s eyes focused on her, Claire dredged up a smile.

  “Weren’t we going to have dinner?” her mother asked. “It’s getting very late, isn’t it? Were you going to cook, or—”

  “No,” Michael said. “We’ll go out.” He grabbed his car keys from the hook next to the door. “All of us.”

  Chapter 2

  There weren’t a lot of choices for late-night dining in Morganville for those who weren’t of the fanged persuasion, but there were a few places near the campus, most notably a twenty-four-hour diner. They ended up in an uncomfortable bunch around a table, the four of them plus Claire’s parents, after an even more uncomfortably close ride in Michael’s big vampire-tinted car.

  The hamburgers were good, but Claire couldn’t concentrate on the taste. She was too busy watching the people outside the diner. Some were college students, laughing in groups in the parking lot, ignoring the occasional pale-looking stra
ngers walking nearby. Claire was reminded of videos of lions pacing along with antelopes as they grazed, waiting for one or two to fall behind.

  She wanted to warn those kids, and she couldn’t. The gold bracelet on her wrist made sure of that.

  Michael, predictably, had to bear the brunt of parental conversation. He was just better at it, and he had a soothing kind of presence that made everything seem . . . normal. Claire’s parents didn’t exactly remember what had happened back at the house; more of Mr. Bishop’s influence, Claire was sure. She hated that he’d messed with their heads, but in a way she was relieved, too. One less thing to have to worry about.

  Her dad’s attitude with Shane was enough.

  “So,” Dad said, as he pretended to concentrate on his pot roast, “how old are you again, son?”

  “Eighteen, sir,” Shane said, in his most blandly polite voice. They’d been over this. Repeatedly.

  “You know my daughter’s only—”

  “Almost seventeen, yes sir, I know.”

  Dad frowned more deeply. “Sixteen, and sheltered. I don’t like her living in a house with a bunch of hormone-crazy teenagers—no offense, I’m sure you mean to do right, but I was young myself once. Now that we’re in town, with a place of our own, it’s probably better that Claire move in with us.”

  Claire had not been expecting that. Not at all. “Dad! You don’t trust me?”

  “Honey, it’s not about trusting you. It’s about trusting the two adult men you’re living with. Especially one I can see you’re getting very close to, even though you know that’s not very smart.”

  Fury burst open inside of her, and all she could see beyond the haze of red was Shane, standing between her and Eve, defending their lives while putting his own at risk.

  Shane, turning away from her time after time because he was better—better by far—than she was at self-control.

  Claire sucked in a deep breath and was about to let it out in a torrent of words, at top volume, when Shane’s hand came down over hers and gripped it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right about that. You don’t know me, and what you do know you probably don’t much like. I’m not really parent friendly. Not like Michael.” Shane jerked his chin at Michael, who was trying to shake his head no, don’t do it. “I think maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be better if Claire moved back in with you for a while. Give you a chance to get to know all of us, especially me.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Claire whispered fiercely. She didn’t care that Dad could probably hear, and Michael certainly could. “I don’t want to go anywhere!”

  “Claire, he’s right. You’d be safer there. Our house isn’t exactly a fortress, in case what happened today didn’t sink in yet,” Shane replied. “Hell, between strangers cruising in and out, my dad’s threat to come back and finish what he started—”

  Claire threw down her fork. “Wait just a minute. You’re telling me it’s for my own good, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Michael? Jump in anytime!”

  Michael held up his hands in surrender. He’d had enough, and Claire couldn’t really blame him.

  Eve, though, cleared her throat and waded right into the conversational swamp. “Mr. Danvers, honest, Claire’s perfectly fine with us. We all look after her, and Shane’s not the kind of guy who’d take advantage—”

  “Wouldn’t say that,” Shane said, way too mildly. “I’m exactly that kind of guy, really.”

  Eve sent him a dirty look. “—and besides, he knows we’d both kill him if he tried. But he wouldn’t do it. Claire’s fine where she is. And she’s happy, too.”

  “Yes,” Claire agreed. “I’m happy, Dad.”

  Michael still hadn’t spoken. He was, instead, watching Claire’s father with a strange kind of intensity; at first she thought, He’s trying to put some kind of vampire whammy on him, but then she changed her mind. It was more like Michael was honestly puzzled, and trying to figure out what to say next.

  Her father hadn’t heard a word that anyone had said. “I want you to move home, Claire, and that’s that. I don’t want you staying in that house anymore. End of discussion.”

  Her mother wasn’t talking, which was unusual, too; she just stirred her coffee slowly and tried to look interested in the food on the plate in front of her.

  Claire opened her mouth to shoot back a heated, not very respectful reply, but Michael shook his head and put his hand over hers. “Don’t waste your breath,” he said. “This isn’t their idea. Bishop planted the suggestion.”

  “What? Why would he do that?”

  “No idea. Maybe he wants us separated. Maybe he just likes messing with people. Maybe he wants to piss off Amelie. But the important thing is, I don’t think you ought to let this get to you—”

  “Not get to me? Michael, my father is saying I have to move!”

  “You don’t,” Michael said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  Claire’s father, who’d been frowning, turned a dark, unhealthy color of red in the face. “You damn well do,” he snapped. “You’re my daughter, Claire, and until you turn eighteen, you’ll do what I tell you. And you—” He leveled a finger at Michael. “If I have to bring charges against you—”

  “For what?” Michael asked mildly.

  “For—look, don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. If I find out that my daughter’s been— been . . .” Dad didn’t seem to be able to work up the words. Michael continued to watch him steadily, with no sign of comprehension.

  Claire cleared her throat.

  “Dad,” she said. She felt color blazing in her cheeks, and her voice was barely steady. “If you’re asking if I’m still a virgin, I am.”

  “Claire!” Her mom’s voice cracked sharply across the last of her sentence. “That’s enough.”

  Total silence at the table. Not even Michael seemed to know where to take the conversation from there. Eve looked like she was having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or wince, and finally dug into her chocolate sundae as the best possible response.

  Michael’s cell phone rang. He opened it, spoke softly, listened, and closed it without replying. He signaled the waitress. “We have to go,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Back to the house. Amelie wants to see us.”

  “You’re coming home with us,” Dad said to Claire, who shook her head. “Don’t argue with me—”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but she has to come with us right now,” Michael said. “If Amelie says it’s the right thing to do, I’ll bring her to your house myself. But we’ll drop you off on the way, and I’ll let you know as soon as possible.” It was said respectfully, but without any room for argument, and there was something about Michael in that moment that just couldn’t be pushed.

  Dad’s face set, still red, and very hard. “This isn’t over, Michael.”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “That much I know. We haven’t even started yet.”

  The drive back was even more uncomfortable, and not just physically; Claire’s father was livid, her mother embarrassed, and Claire herself was so mad she could barely stand to look at either of them. How could they? Even if Mr. Bishop had done something to them, screwed with their heads, they’d bought into it completely. They’d always said they trusted her, always said that they wanted her to make her own decisions, but when it came right down to it, they wanted her to be their helpless little girl, after all.

  Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She’d come too far for that.

  Michael pulled to a stop in front of her parents’ new house—another big Gothic-style house, looking almost exactly like their own except for the landscaping out front. Her parents’ Founder House had a spreading live oak tree towering over the property that rustled like dry paper in the evening breeze, and the trim was painted what looked like, in the dark, a dull black.

  Claire’s dad leaned in to give her one last look. “I expect to hear from you tonight,” he said. �
�I expect you to tell me when you’re coming home. And by home, I mean here, with us.”

  She didn’t answer. After extending the look for way too long, her dad shut the car door, and Michael accelerated smoothly away—not too quickly, but not slowly, either.

  And they all breathed an audible sigh of relief when the house faded into the darkness behind the car. “Wow,” Shane said. “Dude’s got a glare on him. Maybe he really does belong here in Morganville.”

  “Don’t say that,” Claire said. She was fighting with all kinds of emotions—anger at her parents, frustration with the situation, worry, outright fear. Her parents didn’t belong here. They’d been just fine where they were, but Amelie had to uproot them and bring them here. Having Claire’s parents where she could control them gave her more leverage.

  And now it gave Mr. Bishop leverage, too.

  Shane took her hand. “Easy,” he said. “Like Michael said, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to go. Not that I wouldn’t feel better if you were someplace a hell of a lot safer.”

  “I don’t think the Danvers house will be safer,” Michael said. “They don’t understand the rules, or the risks—they’re too new here. I think Bishop’s trying to play with Amelie’s head, and whatever we think about her, he’s worse. I guarantee it.”

  Claire shuddered. “Was it Amelie who called you at the restaurant?”

  “No,” Michael said, and there was a grim tone in his voice. “That was Oliver. I have to admit, I’m not feeling real good about this. Oliver’s never really been on her side—maybe he’s taken Bishop’s. In which case we could be going home to a trap.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Shane asked.

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Then screw it. I’m getting tired.” Shane yawned. “Let’s go get eaten. At least then I can get some sleep.”

  Nobody thought it was funny—least of all Shane, Claire suspected—but they didn’t have any better ideas, and Michael drove home. Morganville was silent outside the dark-tinted windows; Claire could barely see dim gleams of lights, and they might have been the few and far-between streetlamps, or the glow from house porch lights. It was a lot like being in a space capsule, but with better upholstery.