Even the best nights had to come to an end.
Claire was getting ready for bed when she heard Eve scream—not the shriek of Stop tickling me, you jerk, but a full-out cry of alarm, one that went through the house like a buzz saw. She pulled on her pajama top, grabbed her robe, and pelted out into the hall. Shane was already there, heading downstairs, still dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose T-shirt.
When they got to the front hall, they found Michael sitting on the floor, holding a bloody girl in his arms. Eve was snapping the locks on the front door shut.
“Miranda,” Michael said, and moved the bloody hair away from her face. “Miranda, can you hear me?”
Claire realized with a breathless shock that it was Eve’s sometime friend Miranda—just a kid, really, at that gawky stage where girls both yearned to be and feared to be women. Mir had filled out a little since the last time Claire had seen her—not quite as scary thin—but she still looked like a waif.
A wounded one. There was a gash in her head, and blood dripping down her neck to patter on Michael’s blue jeans and fingers.
“Ow,” Miranda whispered, and began to cry. “Ow. I hit my head—”
“You’re okay, you’re safe now,” Eve said. She dropped to her knees across from Michael and held out her arms; Michael quickly transferred the girl over. His pupils had gone to pinpoints, and he seemed—different. “Michael, maybe you’d better go—wash up.”
He nodded stiffly and pushed past Shane and Eve, heading upstairs so quickly he was just a blur.
“Ambulance?” Shane asked.
“No! No, I can’t!” Miranda sounded frantic. “Please, don’t send me there. You don’t know—you don’t know what they’ll do—the fire—”
Eve kept hold of the girl, somehow, though Miranda was flailing like mad. “Okay, chill, we won’t. I promise. Relax. Shane—maybe the first aid kit? Towels and hot water?”
“I’ll help,” Claire said, and she and Shane took off for the kitchen. When she glanced back, she saw that Miranda had stopped fighting and was lying exhausted in Eve’s arms. “What the hell happened to her?”
“Morganville,” Shane said, and shrugged. He stiff-armed the kitchen door and went straight for the cabinets under the sink. The first aid kit was getting a lot of play, Claire thought as she turned on the hot water and gathered up some clean kitchen towels.
Miranda’s first aid session wasn’t as bad as Claire had feared—the head wound was bloody but superficial, and Eve fixed it with some butterfly bandages.
The holes in Miranda’s neck looked fresh, though. When Eve asked about them, Miranda looked embarrassed and pulled up the collar of her shirt. “None of your business,” she said.
“It’s Charles, right? Son of a bitch.” Eve had a problem with vampires who preyed on the underage— in fact, from what Claire had gathered, so did a lot of the other vampires. There were laws against it, after all. She wondered whether Amelie knew about Charles and Miranda. Or cared. “You can’t let him gnaw on you like this, Mir! You know that!”
“He was so hungry,” Miranda said, and hung her head. “I know. But it didn’t hurt, not really.”
That made Claire want to throw up. She exchanged a look with Shane.
“There’s a guy who needs staking,” he said.
Miranda looked up sharply. “That’s not funny!”
“Do I have on my funny face? Miranda, the guy’s a pedophile. The fact that he just sucks your blood instead of—” Shane paused, staring at her. “It is instead of, right?”
It was impossible to tell if Miranda even understood what he was getting at, but Claire thought she did, and it made the girl deeply uncomfortable. Miranda tried to get out of the chair they’d put her into. “I need to go home.”
“Whoa, whoa, you can barely stand up,” Eve said, and managed to get her settled again. “Claire, would you check on Michael? See if he’s okay?”
In other words, there were questions Shane and Eve were about to ask, personal questions. Claire nodded and went upstairs. The bathroom door was closed. She knocked softly.
“Michael?”
No answer. She tried the handle. Locked.
Claire turned at what sounded like footsteps down the hall, but she saw no one. She didn’t hear the door unlock, but when she looked back, the bathroom door was open, and Michael was standing about two inches away from her.
She stumbled backward. Instead of just washing up, he’d showered; his hair was damp and curling and darker than usual, and he was wearing a towel around his waist. There was a lot more of Michael on display than she was used to, and it was . . . impressive.
Claire backed away, all the way to the wall.
“Sorry,” he said. Not as if he really was. He sounded annoyed, stressed, and jittery. “She’s still here.” It wasn’t a question, but Claire nodded anyway. “She can’t stay. We need to get her out of here.”
“I don’t think she’s in any shape to go,” Claire offered. “She seemed pretty hysterical. Shane and Eve are—”
“I can still smell her blood,” Michael interrupted her. “I washed it off of me. I took off my clothes. I showered. None of that matters, I can still—she has to go. Now.”
“What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d—” She hesitated, then made a drinking motion.
“I did.” Michael rubbed his face with both hands. “Guess I burned it off tonight at the show. I’m hungry, Claire.”
It cost him a lot to say it. Claire gulped, and nodded. “Wait here.”
She went downstairs, past where Shane and Eve were still earnestly talking with Miranda, and into the kitchen. At the very back of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator sat some bottles that might have been full of beer, and weren’t. There were three of them. She grabbed one without looking too closely at it and made sure it was concealed against her side as she passed the little downstairs group. Nobody really looked her way; they were too intent on keeping their own secrets.
Michael was still waiting, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, arms folded. He straightened when he saw what she had in her hand. She gave it to him silently. Michael never took his eyes off her as he popped the cap with his thumbnail and lifted the cold bottle to his lips. The contents moved more like syrup than blood, and Claire almost gagged.
Michael did gag. But he swallowed it. And kept on drinking until the bottle was empty.
His blue eyes flushed hot red, and then cleared back to their normal color.
She saw something like horror go through him. “I didn’t just do that in front of you.”
“Uh—yeah. You did.” And there had definitely been some kind of challenge in it, too. Some kind of come-on, even. Which was beyond yuck and creepy, and yet . . .
And yet.
Michael wiped his lips with the back of his hand, looked down at the faint smear, and went back to the washbasin to rinse it off.
He stared into the mirror at himself for so long, Claire thought he’d forgotten she was there, and then he said, “Thanks.”
Claire tried to think of something not totally idiotic to say. “Pretty disgusting, isn’t it? When it’s cold?” That wasn’t it.
Luckily, Michael was relieved to have any kind of conversational lifeline, after that weird moment. “Yeah,” he said. “But it keeps the edge off. That’s what’s important.” He rinsed out the bottle carefully, then threw it away and took in a deep breath. “I’ll get dressed. Be there in a second.”
It was a dismissal, but a nice one, and Claire took it at face value this time, and went back to the living room.
Where Shane and Eve were standing together, heads cocked at identical angles, staring.
“What’s going on?” Claire whispered.
“Shhh,” both Shane and Eve hissed, eerily in unison.
Because Miranda was talking in a strange monotone voice, and she looked . . . dead. Unconscious. Only talking.
“I see the feast,” she was saying. “So much anger . . . so much lying. All dead, walking dead, falling down. It’s spreading. It’ll kill us all.”