“I’m not worried,” she said. She really wasn’t. “I’m scared, too. And what happens when Michael and Eve aren’t there for us? Because we’re in the same boat, right? I have some respect from the vamps, but your family…”
“Yeah, the Collins family went out of its way to make itself unwelcome around here. And vampires don’t forget. Ever.” He sighed and snuggled her closer against him. “You know, we really should get some sleep. It’s almost three in the morning, and you’ve got class today, right?”
She did. Her heart wasn’t in it, but she couldn’t afford to blow off any more lectures; the old days of professorial indulgences were over. Her newly minted grade B was enough to prove that. “Just a little longer,” she said. “Please?”
“Can’t say no to that.”
And they fell asleep, spooned together on the couch and wrapped in the afghan, until a crashing noise—shockingly loud—brought Claire awake with a flailing spasm.
She couldn’t get her breath to ask, but Shane vaulted over her, landed cat-footed on the wood floor, and ran to the hallway. He was gone only a second before he came back at a dead run. “Fire!” he yelled, and slammed through the kitchen’s swinging door as Claire fumbled on her shoes. He came back in seconds, toting the big red extinguisher. “Get Michael and Eve up, and get out of the house through the back door!”
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer her; he was already gone, pelting back down the hall. As she flew up the stairs, she heard him opening the front door, and she smelled acrid smoke.
Michael, dressed and ready, already had the bedroom door open, and Eve was belting a red silk kimono around her body. She took one look at Claire’s face and slipped her feet into untied Doc Martens. “Let’s go,” she said, and led the way down the steps. Michael split off from them at the bottom, heading for the front; he grabbed up a heavy rug, yanking it like a magician right out from under the couch, and ran to join Shane in fighting the fire.
Claire and Eve went out the back. “What happened?” Eve asked as she flipped the locks open. “We heard something, but—”
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Whatever it was, it was loud.”
She started to plunge outside, but Eve held her back, craned her head out the door, and took a careful survey of the dark yard before saying, “Okay, go.”
It was a mistake. A bad one.
Because they didn’t look up.
The vampire dropped down behind them, cutting them off from the house, and Claire didn’t even notice his appearance until she heard Eve give a little surprised gasp. That was all she had time for, because in the next instant he was already right behind them, with his hands closed around Claire’s shoulders…
But only to shove her violently out of the way.
She fell and rolled, fetching up with a painful slam against the bark of the old live oak tree that Myrnin had climbed to get into her bedroom. It wasn’t Myrnin who’d dropped in this time. This was Pennyfeather, a pallid, long-faced friend of Oliver’s who reminded her of a skeleton held together with string and a covering of flesh. He wasn’t interested in Claire. Not at all.
He had hold of Eve, fingernails shredding the red silk of her robe. She screamed and tried to break free, but he was too strong; Claire could see the gouges in Eve’s arms that his claws left as she struggled to get free.
“If you want to be one of us,” Pennyfeather said with a dreadful grin, “one of us really should oblige you. Your husband seems incapable of doing his duty.”
That sounded awful, and as the implication sank in, Claire gasped and tried to get up. She didn’t have anything to fight him—no stakes, no knives, not even a blunt object—but she couldn’t just let him…do whatever he was going to do. As she scrambled up, her hand fell on a tree branch—broken, with curled-up, dried leaves along its length.
It was sheared off in a sharp, angular point toward the thicker end. The break looked fresh, and it took Claire a moment to realize that it was this branch that had broken under Myrnin’s feet as he launched himself through her window the night before.
She grabbed it and launched herself into a run at Pennyfeather, yelling at the top of her lungs. It was a war cry, coming from someplace deep and primal inside, and she should have been afraid, she should have felt awkward or tentative or stupid, but she just felt filled with red, red fury, and determination.
She’d already lost Miranda tonight. She wasn’t losing Eve, too.
Eve saw her coming, and her dark eyes widened. Pennyfeather was too intent on pulling Eve’s head to the side and prepping his fangs for the bite to notice, and Claire had an instant of clarity to realize that if she kept going, heading straight for them, she was likely to skewer Eve along with the vampire.
So Claire changed course, ran past them, whipped around, and lunged, full extension, just like Eve had taught her to do when they’d been messing around with fencing foils. She put her whole body into it, the straight line of her back continuing the same angle as her stiffened left leg, and her right arm extended up, out, and she slammed her weapon into Pennyfeather’s back, neatly to the left of center.
The branch was too thick to make it completely through the ribs, but it shocked him, and he gave a shriek that made the hair stand up on Claire’s arms. He let go of Eve, and she toppled forward in a heap of tattered red silk, crouched, and spun to face him with a look on her face so murderous that Claire was momentarily shocked. Pennyfeather didn’t notice. He was too busy trying to claw the wood out of his back, but even when he grabbed hold, the springy wood bent, and he only managed to scrape it partly free before it snapped out of his hand.
“Get the bag,” Eve snapped to Claire, and she nodded and dashed back into the kitchen. In seconds, she had hold of one of the black canvas totes they kept ready, but by the time she’d made it back outside, Pennyfeather had yanked the branch free, ripped it to pieces, and was stalking toward Eve with a low, furious growl and one piece still held as a club in his clawed hand.
There was no time to get to Eve. Claire did the next best thing; she spun around and flung the bag. It arced through the air and hit the grass at Eve’s feet, spilling out a confusion of objects, but Eve didn’t hesitate over choices. She grabbed a small bottle, popped the plastic cap, and threw the contents in Pennyfeather’s face.
Silver nitrate.
His growl turned to a howl, rising in volume and pitch until it hurt Claire’s ears, and he sheared off from making his run at Eve to claw at his face. The liquid silver clung like napalm, and burned about as fiercely. Claire grabbed the bag, stuffed items inside as fast as possible, and grabbed Eve’s wrist. “Come on!” she yelled, and they ran around the side of the house, feet sliding on the loose white gravel.
Michael and Shane were at the front, and between the last blast of the fire extinguisher and smothering flaps of the rug, they’d put out a fire that had blackened a ten-foot section of the exterior of the house. Broken glass lay around the base of it, and as they got closer, Claire smelled the sharp, almost-sweet stench of gasoline.
There was something pinned to their front door, too, fluttering pale in the night breeze.
Michael dropped the rug and flashed at vampire-speed to catch Eve in his arms. He must have smelled the blood from her cuts, Claire thought; she could see the faint, iridescent shine of his eyes. “What happened?” he asked, and touched the claw slashes on her kimono. “Who did this?”
“Pennyfeather,” Claire said. Now that the adrenaline rush was passing, she felt weirdly shaky, and she was beginning to realize how many things she’d done that could have gone badly wrong for her. For Eve, too. “It was Pennyfeather. He was—he was going to bite her.”