Glass Houses

Chapter 14

N o sign of Shane on Monday morning, but she got up way early—just after Michael would have evaporated into mist, in fact. She showered and grabbed a Pop-Tart from the cabinet for breakfast, washed the dishes that had been dumped in the sink from last night’s disaster of Parental Dinner—hadn’t that been Michael’s job? — and emptied out her backpack to stuff in the metal canister (to return to the chem lab, which made it borrowing, not stealing) and the Bible with its concealed secret.

And then she thought, It won’t do any good if they just steal it from me, and took it out again and put it on the shelves, wedged in between an old volume 10 of the World Encyclopedia and some novel she’d never heard of. Then she stepped out, locked the door, and began walking toward the school.

The chem lab was busy when she arrived between classes, and she had no trouble slipping into the supply room to put the canister back in place, after carefully wiping her fingerprints from everything she could think of. That moral duty done, she hustled to the admissions office to put in her paperwork to withdraw from school. Nobody seemed surprised. She supposed that there were a lot of withdrawals. Or disappearances.

It was noon when she walked down to Common Grounds. Eve was just arriving, yawning and bleary-eyed; she looked surprised to see Claire as she handed over the cup of tea. “I thought you weren’t supposed to leave the house,” she said. “Michael and Shane said—”

“I need to talk to Oliver,” Claire said.

“He’s in the back.” Eve pointed. “In the office. Claire? Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” she said. “I think something’s about to be right for a change.”

The door marked OFFICE was closed. She knocked, heard Oliver’s warm voice telling her to enter, and came in. He was sitting behind a small desk in a very small room, windowless, with a computer running in front of him. He smiled at her and stood up to shake her hand. “Claire,” he said. “Good to see you’re safe. I heard there had been some…unpleasantness.”

Oliver was wearing a tie-dyed Grateful Dead T-shirt and blue jeans with faded patches on the knees—not so much style as wear, she figured. He looked tired and concerned, and she thought suddenly that there was something about him a lot like Michael. Except that he was here in the daytime, of course, and at night, so he couldn’t be a ghost. Could he?

“Brandon is very unhappy,” he said. “I’m afraid that there’s going to be retaliation. Brandon likes striking from an angle, not straight on, so you’d better watch out for your friends, as well. That would include Eve, of course. I’ve asked her to be extra careful.”

She nodded, heart in her throat. “Um…what if I have something to trade?”

Oliver sat down and leaned back in his chair. “Trade for what? And to whom?”

“I—something important. I don’t want to be more specific than that.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be, if you want me to act as any kind of go-between for you. I can’t trade if I don’t know what I’m offering.”

She realized she was still holding her teacup, and put it down on the corner of the desk. “Um…I’d rather do it myself. But I don’t know who to go to. Whoever can order Brandon around, I guess. Or even higher than that.”

“There is a social order to the vampire community,” Oliver agreed. “Brandon’s hardly at the top. There are two factions, you know. Brandon is part of one—the darker side, I suppose you could say. It depends on your viewpoint. Certainly, from a human standpoint, neither faction is exactly lily-white.” He shrugged. “I can help you, if you’ll let me. Believe me, you don’t want to try to contact these people on your own. And I’m not sure they’d even allow you to do so.”

She bit her lip, thinking about what Michael had said about the deals in Morganville. She wasn’t good at it; she knew that. And she didn’t know the rules.

Oliver did, or he’d have been dead a long time ago. Besides, he was Eve’s boss, and she liked him. Plus, he’d been able to keep Brandon from biting her at least twice. That had to count for something.

“Okay,” she said. “I have the book.”

Oliver’s gray eyebrows came down into a straight line. “The book?”

“You know. The book.”

“Claire,” he said slowly, “I hope you understand what you’re saying. Because you can’t be wrong about this, and you absolutely can’t lie. Bluffing will get you, and all your friends, killed. No mercy. Others have tried, passing off fakes or pretending to have it, then running. They all died. All of them. Do you understand?”

She swallowed again, convulsively. Her mouth felt very dry. She tried to remember how it had felt last night, being warm and full of light, but the day was cold and hard and scary. And Shane wasn’t here. “Yes,” she whispered. “I understand. But I have it, and I don’t think it’s a fake. And I’m willing to trade for it.”

Oliver didn’t blink. She tried to look away, but there was something about him, something hard and demanding, and she felt a real surge of fear. “All right,” he said. “But you can’t do this by yourself. You’re too young, and you’re too fragile. I’ll undertake this for you, but I’ll need proof.”

“What kind of proof?”

“I need to see the book. Take photographs of at least the cover and one inside page, to prove that it’s legitimate.”

“I thought vampires couldn’t read it.”

“They can’t, at least according to legend. It’s the symbol. Like the Protection symbols, it has properties that humans can’t really understand. In this case, it confuses the senses of vampires. Only humans can read the words inside—but a photograph removes the confusion, and vampires will be able to see the symbol for what it is. Wonderful thing, technology.” He glanced at the clock. “I have a meeting this afternoon that I can’t postpone. I’ll come to your house this evening, if that’s all right. I’d like a chance to speak with Shane and Eve, as well. And your other friend, the one I’ve never seen come in—Michael, correct? Michael Glass?”

She found herself nodding, a little alarmed and not even sure why she should be. It was okay, wasn’t it? Oliver was one of the good guys.

And she had no idea whom else she could turn to, not in Morganville. Brandon? Right. There was a good option.

“Tonight,” she echoed. “Okay.”

She stood up and walked out, feeling strangely cold. Eve looked up at her, frowned, and tried to come after her, but there were people crowding at the coffee bar, and Claire hurried to the door and escaped before Eve could corner her. She didn’t want to talk about it. She was sickly certain she’d just made a terrible mistake, but she didn’t know what, or why, or how.

She was so caught up in it, lost in her own head and lulled by the hot safety of the sun, not to mention people on the streets, that she forgot not all the dangers came at night in Morganville. The first warning she had, in fact, was the low rumble of an engine, and then she was being knocked off-balance and stumbling against the sun-heated finish of a van door, which slid aside.

She was being pushed from one side, pulled from the other, and before she could do more than yelp, she was in the van, bodies were piling on top of her, and the van door slammed shut on the sun. She slid on the carpeted floor as the van accelerated off, and heard whoops and laughter.

Girls’ laughter.

Somebody was kneeling on her chest, making it hard to breathe; she tried to twist and throw her off, but it didn’t work. When she blinked away stars she saw that the person on top of her was Gina, looking freshly made-up and fashion perfect, except for the sick gleam in her eyes. Monica was kneeling next to her, smiling a tight, cruel little smile. Jennifer was driving. There were a couple of other girls in the van, too, ones she remembered from the basement confrontation at the dorm. Apparently, Monica was still recruiting, and these two had made the cut to Advanced Psycho School.

“Get off me!” Claire yelled, and tried to bat at Gina; Monica grabbed her hands and yanked them over her head, painfully hard. “Bitch, get off!”

Monica punched her in the stomach, driving out what little air she had, and Claire whooped for breath. Gina’s weight made it incredibly hard to breathe. Could you kill somebody like this? Smother a person like this? Maybe if the victim was small…like her…

The van was still going, taking her farther and farther away from safety.

“You,” Monica said, leaning over her, “really pissed me off, fish. I don’t forget things like that. Neither does my boyfriend.”

“Brandon?” Claire wheezed. “Jeez, at least get one with a pulse!”

For that, she got punched again, and this time it hurt bad enough she started to cry, furious and helpless. Gina put a hand around her neck and began to squeeze. Not enough to kill her, just enough to hurt and make it even harder to gasp for precious little air.

They could keep this up for hours if they wanted. But Claire thought they probably had a lot more in store.

Sure enough, Monica reached in her pocket and brought out a lighter, one of those butane ones with a long, bright flame. She brought it close to Claire’s face. “We’re going to have a barbecue,” she said. “Roast freak. If you live, you’re going to be hideous. But you shouldn’t worry about that, because you probably won’t live, anyway.”

Claire screamed with whatever she had, which wasn’t much; it startled Monica, and it positively scared Jennifer, who was driving; she twisted to look back, turning the wheel while she did.

Mistake.

The van careened to the right, and smashed into something solid. Claire flew through the air, with Gina riding her like a magic carpet, crashed into the padded back of the seats, and Monica and Gina rolled in confusion as the van skidded to a stop.

Claire shook off her panic and lunged for the van door. She bailed out. The van had plowed into the rear of another car, parked along the side, and car alarms were going off. She felt dizzy and almost fell, then heard Monica yelling furiously behind her. That pulled her together, fast. She began running.

This part of downtown was mostly deserted—shops closed, only a few pedestrians on the street.

None of them would look at her at all.

“Help!” she yelled, and waved her arms. “Help me! Please—”

They all just kept walking, as if she were invisible. She sobbed for a second in horror, and then pelted around the corner and skidded to a stop.

A church! She hadn’t seen a single one the entire time she’d been in Morganville, and there one was. It wasn’t a big one—a modest white building, with a small-sized steeple. No cross on it, but it was unmistakably a church.

She darted across the street, up the steps, and hit the doors at a run.

And bounced off.

They were locked.

“No!” she yelled, and rattled the doors. “No, come on, please!”

The sign on the door said that the church was open from sundown to midnight. What the hell…?

She didn’t dare think too much. She jumped off the steps and ran around the side, then the back. Next to the Dumpster there was a back door with a glass window in it. It was locked, too. She searched around and found a broken piece of wood, and swung it like a baseball bat.

Crash!

She scraped her arm reaching through the broken window for the lock, but she made it, and slammed the door behind her. She locked it, frantically looked around, and found a piece of black poster board to prop against the blank space where the window had been. Hopefully, it would pass a quick glance.

She backed away, sweating, aching now from the crash and the run, and turned to go into the chapel. It was unmistakably a chapel, with abstract stained-glass windows and long rows of gleaming wood pews, but there was no cross, no crucifix, no symbol of any kind. The ultimate Unitarian church, she guessed.

At least it was empty.

Claire sank down on a pew midway back through the sanctuary and then stretched full length on the red velvet padding. Her heart was beating fast, so fast, and she was still so very scared.

Nobody knew where she was. And if she tried to leave, Monica might…

They were going to burn me alive.

She shivered and wiped tears from her cheeks and tried to think, think of something she could do to get out of this. Maybe there was a phone. She could call Eve or Shane? Both of them, she decided. Eve for the car, Shane for the bodyguard duty. Poor Shane. He was right—she really ought to stop calling him every time she needed brute strength. Didn’t seem fair, somehow.

Claire froze, unable to breathe, as she heard a soft noise in the chapel. Like fabric moving. A bare whisper, maybe just a curtain moving in the air-conditioning breeze, right? Or…

“Hello,” said the very pale woman leaning over the pew and looking down on her. “You would be Claire, I believe.”

Once the paralyzing terror receded just a little, Claire finally placed her. She knew she’d seen her; it had been just a split-second glance, but this was the woman—the vampire—who’d been brought to Common Grounds in a limousine after closing time.

What was she doing in a church?

Claire slowly sat up, unable to take her eyes off of the woman, who was smiling slightly. Light filtered in softly from the stained-glass windows and gave her a golden glow.

“I followed you,” the woman said. “Although in truth, I do like this church quite a bit. Very peaceful, don’t you think? A sacred place. And one that grants those within it a certain…immunity from danger.”

Claire licked her lips and tasted salt from sweat and tears. “You mean you won’t kill me here.”

The smile stayed intact. If anything, it widened a little. “I mean exactly that, my dear. The same goes for my guards, of course. I assure you, they’re present. I am never left alone. It is part of the curse of the position I hold.” She smiled and tilted her head an elegant fraction. Everything about her was elegant, from the shining golden crown of her hair to the clothes she was wearing. Claire wasn’t much for noticing fashion, unless it was worn by girls kicking the crap out of her, but this outfit looked like something out of old formal photographs from her mother’s time. Or grandmother’s.

“My name is Amelie,” the woman continued. “You are, in a sense, already acquainted with me, although you might not be aware of it. Please, child, don’t look so frightened. I absolutely assure you that no harm will come to you with me. I always give very clear warning before I do anything violent.”

Claire had no idea how to look any less frightened, but she clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. Amelie sighed.

“You are very new to our town,” she said, “but I have rarely seen anyone disturb quite so many hornets in such a short time. First Monica, then Brandon, and then I hear you turn to my dear Oliver for advice…and now I see you running for your life through my streets…. Well, I find you interesting. I find myself wondering about you, Claire. About who you are. Why you are.”

“I’m—nobody,” Claire said. “And I’m leaving town. My parents are taking me out of school.” It suddenly seemed like a really good idea. Not so much running away as retreating.

“Are they? Well, we’ll see.” Amelie made a shrug seem like a foreign gesture. “Do you know who I am?”

“Somebody important.”

“Yes. Someone very important.” Amelie’s eyes were steady in the dim light, of no real color—gray, maybe? Or blue? It wasn’t color that made them powerful. “I am the oldest vampire in the world, my dear. In a certain sense, I am the only vampire who matters.” She said it without any particular sense of pride. “Although others may have differing opinions, of course. But they would be sadly, and fatally, wrong.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

“No, I do not expect you to.” Amelie leaned forward and put lean, elegant, white hands on the wooden pew in front of her, then rested her pointed chin on top of them. “Somehow you have become mixed up in our search for the book. I believe you know the one I mean.”

“I—uh—yes.” No way was she going to confess what she had sitting at home. She’d made that mistake once already. “I mean, I know about all the—”

“Vampires,” Amelie supplied helpfully. “It is not a secret, my dear.”

“Vampires looking for it.”

“And you just happened to stumble into the operation at the library, in which we were combing through volumes to find it?”

Claire blinked. “Does it belong to you?”

“In a way. Let’s say that it belongs to me as much as it belongs to anyone alive today. If I am, strictly speaking, living. The old word was undead, you know, but aren’t all living things undead? I dislike imprecision. I think we may have that in common, young lady.” Amelie tilted her head a little to the side. Claire was reminded, with a chill, of a nature film. A praying mantis studying its food-to-be. “Vampire is such an old word. I believe I shall commission the university to find another term, a more—what is the new saying? — user-friendly term for what we are.”

“I—what do you want?” Claire blurted. And then, ridiculously, “…sorry.” Because she knew it sounded rude, and however scary this vampire, or whatever, might be, she hadn’t been rude.

“That’s quite all right. You’re under a great deal of stress. I shall forgive your breach of manners. What I want is just the truth, child. I want to know what you have found out about the book.”

“I—um, nothing.”

There was a long silence. In it, Claire heard distant noises—somebody tugging on the front door of the church.

“That’s unfortunate,” Amelie said quietly. “I had hoped I would be able to help you. It appears that I cannot.”

“Um—that’s it? That’s all?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Amelie sat back again, hands folded in her lap. “You may go the way you came. I wish you luck, my dear. You are going to need it. Unfortunately, mortal life is very fragile, and very short. Yours could be shorter than usual.”

“But—”

“I can’t help you if you have nothing to offer me. There are rules to life in Morganville. I can’t simply adopt strays because they seem winsome. Farewell, little Claire. Godspeed.”

Claire had no idea what winsome meant, but she got the message. Whatever door had been opened—whether it led to good things or bad—had slammed shut on her now. She stood up, wondering what to say, and decided that saying nothing might be the very best thing…

…and she heard the back door crash open.

“Oh, crap,” she whispered. Amelie looked at her in reproach. “Sorry.”

“We are in a house of worship,” she said severely. “Really, did no one teach your generation any sort of manners?”

Claire ducked behind a pew. She heard fast footsteps, and then Monica’s voice. “Ma’am! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were—”

“But I am,” Amelie said coolly. “Morrell, aren’t you? I can never keep any of you straight.”

“Monica.”

“How charming.” Amelie’s voice changed from cool to ice-cold. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Miss Morrell. You do not belong here. My seal is on this place. You know the rules.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think—”

“Often the case, I suspect. Go.”

“But—there’s this girl—did she—?”

Amelie’s voice turned to a hiss like sleet on a frozen window. “Are you questioning me?”

“No! No, so sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I’m sorry….” Monica’s voice was fading. She was backing away, down the hall. Claire stayed where she was, trembling.

She almost screamed when Amelie’s pale form rose up over the edge of the pew again and gazed down at her. She hadn’t heard her move. Not at all.

“I suggest you go straight home, little Claire,” Amelie said. “I would take you there, but that would imply more than I think I can afford just now. Run, run home. Hurry, now. And—if you have lied to me about the book, remember that many people might want such a valuable thing, and for many reasons. Be sure of why they want it before you give it over.”

Claire slowly took her hands away from her head and slid onto the seat of the pew, facing the vampire. She was still scared, but Amelie didn’t seem…well…evil exactly. Just cold. Ice-cold.

And old.

“What is it?” Claire asked. “The book?”

Amelie’s smile was as faded as old silk. “Life,” she said. “And death. I can tell you no more. It wouldn’t be prudent.” The smile vanished, leaving behind only the chill. “I believe you really should go now.”

Claire bolted up and hurried away, checking over her shoulder every other step. She saw other vampires coming out—she hadn’t spotted them, not a one of them. One of them was John, from the library. He grinned at her, not in a friendly way. One of his eyes was milky white.

She ran.

Wherever Monica and her friends had gone, it wasn’t the way Claire ran—and run she did, the whole way to Lot Street. Her lungs were burning by the time she turned the corner, and she was nearly in tears with gratitude at the sight of the big old house.

And Shane, sitting on the front steps.

He stood up, not saying a word, and she threw herself at him; he caught her and held her close for a few seconds, then pushed her back for a survey of damage.

“I know,” she said. “You told me not to go. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, looking grim. “Inside.”

Once she was in, with the door safely locked, she babbled out the whole story. Monica, the van, the lighter, the church, the vampire. He didn’t ask any questions. In fact, he didn’t even blink. She ran out of words, and he just looked at her, expressionless.

“You,” he finally said, “had better like the inside of your room, because I’m locking you in there, and I’m not letting you out until your parents come to load you in the car.”

“Shane—”

“I mean it. No more bullshit, Claire. You’re staying alive no matter what I have to do.” He sounded flatly furious. “Now. You need to tell me about Michael.”

“What?”

“I mean it, Claire. Tell me, right now. Because I can’t find him anywhere, and you know what? I can never find him during the day—damn! Did you feel that?” She did. A cold spot, sweeping across her skin. Michael, trying to tell her something. Probably Hell no, don’t tell him. “We can’t get through this if we’re not straight with each other.” Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Is he—you know—one of them? ’Cause I need to know that.”

“No,” she said. “No, he’s not.”

Shane closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, hands to both sides of his head. “God, thank you. I was going nuts. I thought—I mean, it’s one thing to be a night person, but Michael—I was—I thought—”

“Wait,” Claire said, and took a deep breath. Cold settled over her again—Michael, trying to stop her. She ignored it. “Quit it, Michael. He needs to know.”

Shane took his hands away from his head and looked around, then frowned at her. “Michael’s not here. I checked. I searched the damn place from top to bottom.”

“Yes, he is. Cold spot.” She held out her hand and waved it through the refrigerated air. “I figure he’s standing…right here.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be back in about two hours, when the sun goes down. You can see him then.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Michael. He’s a ghost.”

“Oh, come on! Bullshit! The dude sits here and eats dinner with us!”

She shrugged, threw up her hands, and walked away. “You wanted to know. Fine. Now you know. And by the way? I’m fine.”

“What do you mean, he’s a ghost?” Shane caught up with her, came around her, and blocked her path. “Oh, come on. Ghost? He’s as real as I am!”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Ask him. Better yet, watch him at dawn. And then tell me what he is, because ghost is about all I know to call him. The thing is, he can’t leave the house, Shane. He can’t help us. He’s stuck here, and during the day, he can’t even talk to us. He just—drifts.” She batted away the cold air again. “Stop it, Michael. I know you’re pissed. But he needs to know.”

“Claire!” Shane grabbed her and shook her out of sheer frustration. “You’re talking to thin air!”

“Whatever. Let go, I’ve got things to do.”

“What things?”

“Packing!” She pulled free and went upstairs, two steps at a time. Shane always slammed his door when he was mad; she tried it out. It helped.

The cold spot followed her. “Dammit, Michael, get out of my room, you pervert!” Could you even be a pervert if you were dead? She supposed you could, if you had a working body half the time. “I swear, I’m going to start taking my clothes off!”

The cold spot stayed resolutely put until she got the hem of her T-shirt all the way up to her bra line, and then faded away. “Chicken,” she said, and paced the room, back and forth. Worried and more than a little scared.

Shane pounded on the door, but she stretched out on her bed, put a pillow over her face, and pretended not to hear him.

Dusk came, pulling a blue gauze over the sky; she watched the sun sink halfway down the horizon, then unlocked her door and stormed out. Shane was just coming out of Michael’s bedroom. Still looking for someone he wasn’t going to find. Not the way he thought, anyway.

“Michael!” Claire yelled from her end, and felt the cold settle around her like an icy blanket. Shane spun around, and she felt the mist gather, thick and heavy, and then she actually saw it, a faint gray shape in the air….

Eve’s door flew open. “What in the hell is going on around here?” she yelled. “Could you guys keep it down to aircraft-carrier noise?”

…And then Michael just…appeared. Midway between all three of them, forming right out of a thick gray heavy mist, taking on color and weight.

Eve screamed.

Michael collapsed to his hands and knees, retching. He fell on his side, then rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. “Shit!” he gasped, and just stayed there, fighting for breath. His eyes looked wet and terrified, and Claire realized that it was like this for him every day. Every night. Frightening beyond anything she could even imagine.

Claire looked down the hall at Shane. He was frozen in place, mouth open, looking like a cartoon of himself. Eve, too, from her angle.

Claire walked over, held out a hand to Michael, and said, “Well, I guess that settles things.”

He gave her a filthy, wordless look, and took her hand to pull himself up. He staggered and leaned against the wall for support, shaking his head when she tried to help. “In a minute,” he said. “Takes a lot out of you.”

Eve said, in a high, squeaky, airless voice, “The ghost! You’re the ghost Miranda was talking about! Oh my God, Michael, you’re the ghost! You bastard!”

He nodded, still concentrating on breathing.

Eve got control of her voice and squealed, “That is without a doubt the coolest damn thing I have ever seen in my entire life!”

Shane looked…pale. Pale and shaken and—how predictable was this? — pissed. Michael met his eyes, and the two of them looked at each other for a long, silent second before Shane said, “This is why you asked me to come back.”

“I—” Michael coughed. When he sagged this time, Eve threw his arm around her shoulders. He looked surprised, then pleased. “Not just because—”

“I get it,” Shane said. “I get it, man. I do. What the hell happened while I was gone?”

Michael just shook his head. “Later.”

No, it wasn’t that Shane was pissed after all, Claire realized. He turned away and pounded down the stairs before she could say anything, but she’d seen his eyes. She knew.

He lost Alyssa. Now he thinks he’s lost Michael, too. She didn’t know how that felt, not really; she could imagine, but she was—she knew it—sheltered. She’d never really lost anybody, not even a grandparent. Grief was something in TV shows, in movies, in books.

She had no idea what to say to him. She’d thought that he’d just take it in stride, the way Shane seemed to take things, but…

“Claire,” Michael said. “Don’t let him leave.”

She nodded and left Eve supporting Michael in the hallway, the two of them looking surprisingly comfortable with the whole living-dead-not-dead thing. She supposed that if a ghost had to have a girlfriend, well, Eve was just about the best choice there was.

Shane was standing downstairs, just…standing. Not paying much attention to her or anything else. She reached out, ready to tap him on the shoulder, let him know she was here even if she was no help at all, but just then, there was a knock on the front door.

“I swear to God, if that’s Miranda—,” he grated. His fists were clenched at his sides.

“No, I think it’s for me,” Claire said, and darted around him to run down the hallway. She checked the peephole first, and sure enough, there was Oliver, standing on the doorstep and looking uncomfortable. She supposed he had good reason…. Jeez, hanging around anywhere after dark in Morganville had to be like hanging an EAT ME sign on your back.

She unlocked the door and swung it open.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “Where are they? Shane and Eve?”

“Inside,” she said, and pulled it open wider, the universal signal for Come in. He didn’t. He held up a hand instead, waved it in the air in front of him with a puzzled frown. “Oliver?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask me in,” he said. “It seems this house has some very detailed Protections in place. I can’t come in unless you ask.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.” She was about to ask him inside when it occurred to her that maybe it wasn’t the best idea, just asking people in without okaying it with the rest of the Glass House first. Especially since she was living here only another day. “Um, can you wait just a second?”

“No, Claire, I really can’t,” Oliver said impatiently. He was still wearing the hippie gear from Common Grounds, but somehow he looked…different. Odd. “Please invite me in. I don’t have time to wait.”

“But I—”

“Claire, I can’t help you if you won’t trust me! Now quickly, before it’s too late, let me in!”

“But I—” She pulled in a deep breath. “All right. I invite you—”

“No!” It was a roar from behind her, absolutely terrifying, and she threw herself to one side and covered her mouth with both hands to hold in her scream. It wasn’t Shane bearing down on her; it was Michael. Shane was behind him, and Eve. “Claire, get back!”

Michael looked like an avenging angel, and nobody argued with angels. Claire scurried backward, still holding her hands over her mouth, as Michael strode past her, right up to the doorway. The edge of his territory.

Oliver looked disappointed but, she saw, not particularly surprised. “Ah, Michael. Good to see you again. I see you’re surviving nicely.”

Michael didn’t say anything, but from Claire’s vantage point to the side, she saw the look he was giving Oliver, and it frightened her. She hadn’t thought Michael could get that angry.

“What do you want here?” he asked tightly. Oliver sighed.

“I know you won’t believe me,” he said, “but in truth, I had the best interests of your young friend at heart.”

Michael laughed bitterly. “Yeah. I’ll bet.”

“Also your friend Shane—” Oliver’s eyes darted past Michael to lock on Shane, then Eve. “And of course my dear sweet Eve. Such a fine employee.”

Michael turned slowly to look at Eve, whose eyes were wide with what Claire hoped was horror. Or at least confusion. “You know each other?” Eve blurted. “But—Michael, you said you didn’t know Oliver, and—”

“I didn’t,” Michael said, and turned back, “until he killed me. We were never formally introducted.”

“Yes,” Oliver said, and shrugged. “Sorry about that. Nothing personal about it; it was an experiment of sorts that didn’t quite work out. But I’m pleased to see you survived, even if not quite in the form that I’d hoped.”

Michael made a sound Claire hoped never to hear again from any person, living or dead. It was Eve’s turn to clap her hands over her mouth, then quickly take them away to yell, “Oh my God! Oliver!”

“We can discuss my moral shortcomings later,” he said. “For now, you need to let me inside this house, and as quickly as possible.”

“You have got to be kidding,” Michael said. “I think one of us dead in here is good enough. I’m not letting you in to kill the rest.”

Oliver studied him silently for a long moment. “I’d hoped to be able to avoid this,” he finally said. “Your little Claire is quite the prodigy, you know. She says she’s found the book. I think she has quite a promising future in Morganville…provided she survives the night.”

Michael looked like he wanted to vomit. His eyes darted to Claire, then away. “Doesn’t matter. Go away. Nobody’s asking you in.”

“No?” Oliver smiled widely, and his fangs came down with lazy slowness. That was absolutely the scariest thing Claire had ever seen, that and the sincerity in his eyes. “I think someone will. Sooner or later.”

“I’d say over my dead body, but I think you already made that point,” Michael snapped. “Thanks for the visit. Now fuck off, man.”

He started to close the door. Oliver held up a hand—not like he was trying to stop him physically, just a warning—and his fangs folded up to leave his face kind and trustworthy again. Like…the face of a really cool teacher, the kind who made school worth living through. That, Claire thought, was a bigger betrayal than anything else.

“Wait. Do they understand why they’re here, Michael? Why you risked exposing your secrets to them?” Michael didn’t stop. The door was swinging closed on Oliver. “Shane, listen to me! Michael needed someone living to activate the house Protection! You think he cares about you, he doesn’t! You’re just arms and legs for him! Beating hearts! He’s no different from me!”

“Except for the not-bloodsucking part, you freak!” Shane yelled, and then the door slammed shut on Oliver’s face. Michael threw the bolt with shaking fingers. “Christ, man. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I—about what?” Michael asked, not turning to face him. He looked pale, Claire saw. Scared.

“Any damn thing! How did this happen, Michael? How did you get to be—?” Shane made a gesture that was vague enough to mean anything. “Was he trying to, you know, vamp you out?”

“I think so. It didn’t work. This is as far as I got.” Michael swallowed hard and turned to face him. “He’s right about the Protections. The house won’t enforce any Protection unless there’s someone living in it. I don’t exactly count. I’m—part of it now. I did need you.”

“Whatever, man. I don’t care about that. I care that you went and got yourself drained by some damn leech while my back was turned—”

“He can’t be a vampire,” Eve said suddenly. “He can’t. He’s my boss! And…and he works days! How is that even possible?”

“Ask him,” Michael said. “Next time you go to work.”

“Oh, right, as if I didn’t just quit that job!” Eve moved up beside Michael and put her arms around him. He hugged her back, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they’d been doing that all along—which, Claire admitted, maybe they had and she just hadn’t known. Michael stroked Eve’s hair. “God, I am so sorry!”

“Not your fault,” he said. “Not anybody’s fault except his.”

“How’d you—?”

“I played a set at Common Grounds. I didn’t know he owned the place. I was dealing with a guy named Chad—”

“Oh. Right. Chad died,” Eve said.

“Wonder how that happened?” Shane put in acidly.

“This guy—Oliver, but I never knew his name—said he was a musician and he was looking for a room to rent. I thought it was a good idea. He came over to see the house.” Michael closed his eyes tight, like he couldn’t bear to see the pictures in his head again. Not that it would help, Claire knew. “As soon as I asked him in. I felt it. But it was too late, and—he had friends.”

Shane cursed, one harsh word that boomed off the wood floor like a gunshot, and leaned back against the wall, head down. Slumped. “I should have been here,” he said.

“Then we’d both be dead.”

“And you still will be,” said Oliver’s voice through the door. “Eve, my dear. Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Let me in.”

“Leave her alone!” Michael roared, and turned to face the door.

Claire saw something happen in Eve’s face—the will go out of it, the light go out of her eyes. Oh no, she thought, frozen, and tried to open her mouth to warn Michael.

Before she could do it, Eve said, “Yes, Oliver. Come inside.”

And the lock snapped on the door with a crisp, bright ringing sound, and the door drifted open on the night, and Oliver stepped over the threshold.