Текст книги "Feast of Fools"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: Rachel Caine
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“Apologize,” he told her. “Beg my forgiveness for threatening me.”

“Bite me!” she snapped.

The vampire’s eyes flared like hot crystal, and he lunged for Eve. Michael moved faster than Claire had ever seen him, just a confusing blur, and then the stranger was hurtling into the stove. He caught himself with both hands out, and she heard the sizzle as his palms hit the burners, followed by an enraged cry of pain.

This was going to get really bad, and there was nothing, nothing, they could do.

Shane grabbed Eve by the shoulder, Claire by the arm, and he hustled them into the corner by the breakfast table, where they had at least partial cover. But that left Michael on his own, fighting out of his weight class against something more like a wildcat than a man.

It didn’t take long, maybe a few seconds, before Michael’s strength failed. The stranger threw Michael to the kitchen floor and straddled him, fangs down and gleaming. The temperature in the kitchen plummeted to icy chill, cold enough that Claire could see her own breath as she panted in fear. That low-frequency rumble began again, jittering plates and glasses and pans.

Eve screamed and fought to get free of Shane’s hold, not that she could do anything, anything at all—

The back door shuddered and crashed open under a single, overpowering blow. Wood splinters flew across the room, and Claire heard the locks snap like ice breaking.

Oliver, the second-scariest vampire in town (the first, some days), stood at the back door, staring inside. He was a tall man, built like a runner, all wiry muscles and angles. Tonight, he’d dispensed with his usual nice-guy disguise; he was in black, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His face looked like carved bone in the moonlight.

He slapped an open palm against the empty air of the doorway, and it smacked into a solid barrier. “Fools!” he shouted. “Let me in!”

The stranger laughed, and yanked Michael up to a sitting position, fangs poised just over his neck. “Do it and I’ll drain him,” he said. “You know what that will do. He’s too young.”

Claire didn’t know, but she knew it couldn’t be anything good. Maybe not even survivable.

“Invite me in,” Oliver repeated, in a deadly soft voice. “Claire. Do it now.”

She opened her mouth, but she was interrupted.

“No need for that,” said a cool female voice. The cavalry had finally arrived.

Amelie moved Oliver aside and walked through the invisible barrier like it wasn’t there—which, to her, it wasn’t, as Amelie was technically the creator and owner of the house. She was without her usual attendants and bodyguards, but there was no mistaking that she, not Oliver, was in charge by the way she swept across the threshold.

As always, Claire thought of her as a queen. Amelie was wearing a perfectly tailored yellow silk suit, and her pale hair was piled in a glossy crown on top of her head and secured with gold and diamond pins. She wasn’t especially tall, but the aura she gave off was as powerful as an unexploded bomb. Her eyes were cold and very wide, and focused completely on the intruding vampire threatening Michael.

“Leave the boy alone,” she said. Claire had never heard her use that tone, not ever, and she shuddered even though it wasn’t directed toward her. “I rarely kill our own, but if you test me, François, I’ll destroy you. I only give one warning.”

The other vampire hesitated only for a second, then let go of Michael, who collapsed back full length on the floor. François rose to his feet in a single smooth, graceful motion, facing Amelie.

And then he bowed. Claire didn’t have a lot of experience with seeing men bow, but she didn’t think that one looked exactly respectful.

“Mistress Amelie,” he said, and the vampire teeth folded back into his mouth, discreetly hidden. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“And amusing yourself at my expense while you do,” she said. Claire didn’t think she’d blinked at all. “Come. I wish to talk with Master Bishop.”

François smirked. “I’m sure he wishes to speak with you, as well,” he said. “This way.”

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 strangers 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.

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 test 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.”