by Rachel Caine
Michael parked and turned off the car. As Eve reached for her door handle, he said, ‘‘Guys.’’ She waited. They all waited. ‘‘I didn’t exactly get any instant upgrade on knowledge when I—when I changed, but I’m damn sure of one thing. This Bishop, he’s real trouble. Trouble like maybe we’ve never seen before. And I’m worried. So watch each other’s backs. I’ll try—’’
He didn’t seem to know how to finish that. Eve reached out to touch his face, and he turned toward her, lips parted. The look that went between them was so naked it felt wrong to see it. Shane cleared his throat.
‘‘We’re all on it, man,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll be okay.’’
Michael didn’t answer, but then, Claire figured maybe there wasn’t much to say. He got out of the car, and the others followed. The evening was getting cold, and the wind fluttered around Claire’s hair and clothes, looking for skin to chill. Finding it, too. She wrapped her jacket closer and hurried after Michael toward the back door.
Inside, the kitchen was exactly as they’d left it— messy. Pots and pans still on the stove, though thankfully they’d remembered to turn off the burners before they’d left. The smell of stale bacon grease and rubbery gravy hung heavy in the air, barely cut by the aroma of old, overcooked coffee.
They didn’t stop. Michael led them straight through the kitchen door, into the living room.
Bishop was gone. So were his two pretty hangers-on. It was just Amelie and Oliver, sitting alone at the large wooden table. They’d carelessly shoved aside plates and cups and glasses into a tottering pile, and between them was a chessboard. Nothing Claire recognized that belonged in the house; it looked old, and well used. Beautiful, too.
Amelie was playing white. She ignored their entry as she contemplated the chessboard. Across from her, Oliver leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sent the four of them an unreadable look. He seemed right at home, which made Claire fume, and she could only imagine how Michael felt about it. Oliver had killed Michael—ripped away his human existence and trapped him in a twilight state between human and vampire— right here in this house. In fact, almost on this very spot. It had been brutal, and murderous, and Michael had never for a second forgotten who and what Oliver was, however he appeared.
Amelie had offered Michael the chance to escape from that trap, and he’d taken it even at the cost of becoming a true vampire. So far, he didn’t seem to regret it. Much.
‘‘You’re not welcome here,’’ Michael said to Oliver, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘‘Waiting for the house to evict me? Keep waiting,’’ he said. ‘‘Amelie, you really should teach your pets manners. Next thing you know, they’ll be clawing the carpet and spraying the drapes.’’
She didn’t look up. ‘‘Do try to be civil,’’ she replied. ‘‘You’re a guest in their house. My house.’’ She moved a piece on the chessboard. ‘‘Be seated, all of you. I dislike having people stand.’’
It had the force of royal command, and before she could think about it, Claire was sliding into one of the dining-table chairs, and Shane was settling in next to her. Eve hesitated, then took a chair as far away from Oliver as possible.
That left one empty chair, and it was next to Oliver. Michael shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall.
Amelie gave him a glance, but didn’t force the issue. ‘‘So you have met Mr. Bishop,’’ she said. ‘‘And he has most assuredly met you. I wish this had not happened, but since it has, we must find ways to guard you against him and his associates.’’ Oliver took one of her bishops and set it aside. She had no visible reaction. ‘‘Otherwise, I fear this house will be in the market for new tenants soon.’’
Oliver laughed. He stopped laughing when Amelie made her next move, and concentrated on the chessboard with a fierce, blank expression.
‘‘Who is Bishop?’’ Michael asked.
‘‘Exactly who he says he is. He has no reason to lie.’’
‘‘So he’s your father?’’ Claire asked. There was a long silence, one not even Oliver broke; Amelie raised her cool gray eyes and focused on Claire’s face until Claire felt the urge, not just to look away, but to run.
Amelie finally said, ‘‘In a sense, at least, as you might understand such things. Both my human and immortal bloodlines flow through him. Oliver, do hurry. I feel the need to go home before the sun rises.’’
The sun wasn’t anywhere close to rising, which must have been Amelie’s bone-dry idea of a joke. Oliver moved a pawn. Amelie took it effortlessly.
Michael chimed in. ‘‘Maybe the better question is, where is Mr. Bishop?’’
‘‘Gone,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I packed him off in a nice limousine with a driver. He’ll be staying at one of the Founder Houses.’’
‘‘Which one?’’ Claire felt a sudden surge of illness, one that got worse as neither of the vampires answered. ‘‘It isn’t my parents’ house, right? Right?’’
‘‘I’d rather you not be aware of his exact location,’’ Amelie said, which wasn’t an answer, certainly not the right answer. She moved her white queen in a long, deliberate scrape down the chessboard. ‘‘Checkmate.’’
Oliver studied the board, then studied her with equal annoyance as he tipped over his doomed black king. ‘‘We need to discuss this,’’ he said. ‘‘Obviously.’’
‘‘Your tragic lack of strategic skills?’’ Amelie’s frost-colored brows slowly rose. ‘‘I am deliberating what to do about our guests. For now, go home, Oliver. And thank you for coming.’’
She said it without a trace of irony—she could dismiss him like a servant, but at least she thanked him. Oliver’s eyes went even darker, but he got up without comment and walked out into the kitchen. Claire heard the door slam behind him.
Amelie took in a deliberate breath, then let it out. She rose to her feet and nodded to Michael. ‘‘I think you’ll be safe enough here tonight,’’ she said. ‘‘Let no one enter, not for any reason.’’ A quick, almost invisible flicker of a smile. ‘‘Except for me, of course. Me, you cannot stop.’’
‘‘What about Oliver?’’ Shane asked.
‘‘His invitation to enter has been revoked. He won’t be able to bother you unless you do something foolish. ’’ Which, from the look Amelie gave him, she considered hardly unlikely. ‘‘Bishop is my affair, not yours. Go about your business, and stay out of this. All of you.’’
‘‘Wait, my parents—’’
Amelie didn’t wait. With silent grace, she left the table and walked up the stairs, and as her luminous pale figure disappeared at the top, Shane said, ‘‘Where the hell is she going? There’s no door up there.’’
Claire knew. She knew all too well. ‘‘However she does it, she’s gone.’’ They all looked at her, even Michael. ‘‘There must be some way out. What’s she going to do, bring her pajamas and crash on the couch?’’
‘‘Do you think she has any?’’ Eve asked. ‘‘Because I’m betting she sleeps in the nude.’’
‘‘Eve!’’
‘‘What? Come on. Can you really see her in flannel footies? Bunny slippers?’’
Michael sank into the chair Amelie had vacated, and stared at the chessboard. He slowly reset it, but Claire could tell he wasn’t really thinking about the game. ‘‘Shane,’’ he said. ‘‘Go make sure we’re locked up, would you?’’
Shane nodded and left, heading straight for the kitchen first. Claire sat across from Michael, in the chair Oliver had occupied. ‘‘You’re worried,’’ she said.
‘‘No,’’ Michael said, and picked up the white knight, to turn it over and over in his pale fingers. ‘‘I’m scared. If this guy’s got Amelie and Oliver nervous, we’re way out of our league. Morganville is way out of its league.’’
He looked up at Eve, who didn’t respond except to press her lips tighter together. Claire heard Shane’s footsteps as he went toward the front door, checked the lock and dead bolt, and then went on to t
est the windows.
‘‘We should get some rest,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Could be a long day tomorrow.’’
As he got up, Eve’s hand grazed his, just a very light caress, and the two of them locked stares for about a half second.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Eve agreed. ‘‘I should rest, too.’’
Claire threw a stray magazine at her. ‘‘Get a room.’’
‘‘Paying for one already,’’ Eve shot back. ‘‘And I’m going to get my money’s worth, too.’’
She jogged up the stairs, pausing near the top to throw a glance back down toward Michael, who had the most luminous smile on his face. He shook his head, like he couldn’t believe what was going through his mind, and cleared his throat when he saw Claire watching him.
‘‘Discreet,’’ Claire said. ‘‘You guys ought to hang a towel on the doorknob or something.’’
‘‘Quiet.’’ But Michael was smiling, and when he smiled, her heart just soared. She loved seeing him happy. He was usually so . . . focused. ‘‘If you need anything, you know where to find me.’’
‘‘Yeah, you think?’’
He waved and followed Eve upstairs.
Shane came back from checking all the ground-floor entry points, and dropped into the chair Michael had vacated. ‘‘Where’d they go?’’
She pointed straight up.
‘‘Oh.’’ He knew, all too well. ‘‘So. Want to play a game?’’
‘‘I want to call my parents,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Do you seriously think Amelie let Mr. Bishop stay in their house?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said. ‘‘Call if you think it’ll help.’’
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed information; her parents had a new listing, since they’d just arrived in Morganville. While she waited for an answer, Shane reached across the table and took her free hand in his, and the warm touch of his skin made her feel a little less nervous.
Until her mom answered the phone, at least. ‘‘Claire! I didn’t expect you to call so soon. Are you ready to come home?’’
She froze for a second, then said, as calmly as possible, ‘‘No, Mom. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Everything all right?’’
‘‘Of course everything’s all right. Why wouldn’t it be?’’
Claire squeezed her eyes shut. ‘‘No reason,’’ she said. ‘‘I just wanted to check in and see how you were settling in. How’s the house?’’
‘‘Well, it’s a fixer-upper, you know. Needs some wiring, and an absolute mountain of decorating, but I’m looking forward to that.’’
‘‘That’s great. And—so, you don’t have any guests or anything?’’
‘‘Guests?’’ Her mother laughed. ‘‘Claire, honey, we barely have sheets on our mattress right now. I’m not ready for guests!’’
That, at least, was a relief. ‘‘Great. Well—Mom, I have to go. Good night.’’
‘‘Good night, sweetheart. I’m looking forward to having you home.’’
Claire hung up, and Shane slipped an arm around her waist. ‘‘Hey,’’ he said. ‘‘They’re okay?’’
‘‘For now. But he could get to them, right? Anytime he wants.’’
‘‘Maybe. But he could get to us just as easily. Look, you can’t help them right now, but he’s got no good reason to hurt them. It’ll be okay.’’
Shane was the optimist. That was how you knew things were really bad. . . . Claire forced a smile, opened her eyes, and tried to be a brave little toaster. ‘‘Yeah,’’ she said. ‘‘Yeah, it’ll be fine. No problem.’’
His dark eyes searched hers, and she knew that he could see she was lying. But he didn’t call her on it, probably all too familiar with the concept of denial. ‘‘So,’’ he said. ‘‘Care for a nice, civilized game of chess?’’
A thump, and the unmistakable sound of a muffled giggle, drifted through the ceiling from the second floor. Approximately where Eve’s room would be.
‘‘Hey!’’ Shane yelled up. ‘‘Turn down the porn soundtrack! Trying to concentrate here!’’
More laughter, quickly stifled. Shane focused back on Claire, and Claire felt her lips curling into a more genuine kind of smile.
‘‘Chess,’’ she said. ‘‘Your move, tough guy.’’
Another thump from upstairs. Shane shook his head and tipped over his king. ‘‘What the hell. I surrender. Let’s hook up a video game and kill some zombies.’’
3
In the morning, it was ... the morning. For a precious few seconds when Claire woke up, nothing was wrong, nothing at all. Her body hummed with energy, and the birds were singing outside, and the sun burned in warm stripes across her bed.
She squinted at the alarm clock. Seven thirty. Time to get up if she intended to make it to her first class and still have any margin for coffee.
It wasn’t until she was in the shower, and the hot water was pounding sense back into her head, that she realized that all was not well. Her parents were in town. Her parents were on the radar screen of the monsters.
And her parents wanted her to move back in with them.
That put an end to her good mood, and by the time she padded down the steps, dragging her textbook-loaded backpack and carrying her shoes, she was frowning. The house was a mess. Nobody had done the chores, including her. The kitchen was still a wreck, with breakfast congealing in the pans. She muttered to herself as the coffee brewed, dumped filthy dishes and pans in the sink to soak in hot water, and left a snarky note for her housemates. Especially Shane, who’d slacked even more than was normal.
Then she put on her shoes and walked to school.
Morganville looked just like any other dusty, sleepy town in the daylight: people out driving to work, jogging, pushing strollers, walking dogs. College students with backpacks as she got closer to the campus. The casual visitor never knew, at least during the daytime, that this place was so vastly screwed up.
Claire supposed that was the point.
She spotted some trucks delivering to local businesses; did those drivers know? Did they just come and go without incident? Was there some off-limits rule for the vamps about whom they could hunt and whom they couldn’t? There would have to be. Having the state police descend on Morganville wouldn’t be helpful for the vamps. . . .
‘‘Hey.’’
Claire blinked. A car was idling next to her, barely keeping pace as she walked. A red convertible, harsh and shiny as fresh blood in the sun. In it, three girls with identically false smiles.
The driver was Monica Morrell, the daughter of the town’s mayor. Claire’s worst human enemy from day one of her tenure in Morganville. Monica had mostly recovered from her recent brush with death by drugs, or at least she looked that way—glossy as the car, and just as hard. Her blond hair was shiny and casually styled, her makeup perfect, and if she looked just a shade more pale than usual, it was hard to tell.
‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said, and made sure to drift farther over on the sidewalk, out of easy grabbing range. ‘‘How are you feeling, Monica?’’
‘‘Me? Great. Couldn’t be better,’’ Monica said brightly. There was something way darker in her eyes than in her tone. ‘‘You tried to kill me, freak.’’
Claire stopped dead in her tracks. ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘I didn’t do that.’’
‘‘You gave me that drug. It almost killed me.’’
‘‘You took it from me!’’ The red crystals, the ones that she’d stolen from Myrnin. The ones that, however briefly, had seemed like a good idea. Not so much once she’d seen their effect on Monica, and her own face in the mirror after taking them. They hadn’t hurt her, but their effect on Monica had been shocking.
‘‘Don’t give me that. You nearly killed me,’’ Monica said. ‘‘I’d file charges, but with you being the Founder’s pet and all, that won’t do any good. So we’ll just have to find some other way to make sure you pay. Just wanted to give you a heads-up, bitch—this isn’t done. It isn’
t even started. It is on.’’
She gave Claire a cold, hard smile, and accelerated away with a screech of rubber on pavement.
Claire shifted her backpack nervously and looked around. Nobody had paid attention, of course. It didn’t pay, in Morganville, to get into anybody else’s business.
She was on her own out here. Eve worked on campus, but Claire didn’t want to drag her friends into this. They had enough problems already, and Monica was all her own.
Like it or not.
But as she passed the recessed doorway of a boarded-up shop, she sensed someone watching her.
She tried to dismiss it as imagination, but there really was someone watching her. She couldn’t make him out for a few seconds, and then she did, with another unpleasant shock. Heroin-addict-skinny, pale, stringy hair. Wearing black. Eve’s brother.
‘‘Jason,’’ she said, and involuntarily looked around for help. Nobody there, nobody she could turn to. Not even a passing police car—and the police definitely wanted to talk to Jason, after his run-in with Shane.
It hit her again: He’d stabbed her boyfriend. Tried to kill him. The cops said it was self-defense, but she knew better.
Jason took his hands out of his coat pockets and held them up. ‘‘Don’t scream,’’ he said. ‘‘Unless you really feel like it. I’m not going to hurt you. Not in broad daylight on a busy street, anyway.’’
He sounded . . . different. Odder than usual, and that was a pretty high standard of odd.
‘‘What do you want?’’ She clutched the strap of her backpack in a white-knuckled fist. In an emergency, it would make a respectable blunt object. She might knock him down with it, or at least trip him. It was only about a block to Common Grounds—Oliver owed her Protection once she was inside the building, even from human enemies.
‘‘Stop freaking, genius. I’m not here to hurt you.’’ He put his hands back in his jacket pockets. ‘‘How’s Shane?’’