Claire peered out the peephole, and saw dark, curling hair. A wicked smile.
“Better invite me in,” Ysandre said. “Because you know I’ll just go hurt your neighbors until you do.”
“Michael!” Claire yelled. He was in the living room, working out some new songs, but she heard the music stop. He was at her side before the echoes died. “It’s her. Ysandre. What should I do?”
Michael opened the door and faced her. She smiled at him. François was with her, both of them sleek and smug and so arrogant it made Claire’s teeth itch.
“I want to talk to Shane,” Ysandre said.
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
François raised his eyebrows, reached down, and pulled a bound human form from the bushes on the side of the steps. Claire gasped.
It was Miranda, looking completely terrified. Tied hand and foot, and gagged.
“Let’s put it another way,” Ysandre said. “You can let us in to talk, or we have our dinner alfresco, right here on your veranda.”
There was absolutely no right answer to that, Claire thought, and saw Michael struggle with it, too. He let the silence stretch for so long that Claire was really afraid Miranda would be killed—François seemed glad to have the chance—but then Michael nodded. “All right,” he said. “Come in.”
“Why, thank you, honey,” Ysandre said, and strolled in. François dropped Miranda on the wooden hallway floor and followed her. Claire knelt next to the girl and untied her hands.
“Are you okay?” she whispered. Miranda nodded, eyes as big as saucers. “Get out of here. Run home. Go.”
Miranda stripped off the ropes around her ankles, scrambled up, and escaped.
Claire shut the door and hurried to the living room.
François had shoved Michael’s guitar out of the way and taken the chair. Ysandre sat on the couch, as comfortable as if she owned the world and everything in it. “How kind of you to ask us in, Michael. I didn’t think we got off to a very good beginning. I want to start over.”
François laughed. “Yes,” he said. “We should be friends, Michael. And you shouldn’t be living with cattle.”
“Is this all you have? Because if it is, I think we’re all done.”
“Oh, not quite,” Ysandre said.
“They’re making dinner,” François said. “That’s ironic, don’t you think? When they let ours go.”
“These humans, all they do is eat,” Ysandre said. “No wonder they’re all fat and lazy.”
Shane came out of the kitchen. He wasn’t surprised, Claire saw; he must have heard them. “You’re not invited, ” Shane said. Ysandre kissed her lips toward him.
“Oh, Shane, I really don’t care whether I am or not, and you aren’t anywhere near powerful enough to make me leave,” she said. “It’s Friday, my love. You received the costume I want you to wear for tomorrow?”
Shane nodded unwillingly, like his neck had frozen stiff. His eyes were more than a little crazy.
“You need to go,” Claire said to Ysandre, with a bravado she really didn’t feel.
“What do you think, Michael? Do I?” Ysandre locked gazes with him, and there was something awful in her eyes. “Do I have to go?”
“No,” he said. “Stay.”
Claire gaped.
They make you feel things. Do things, whether you want to do them or not. Shane had said it, but Claire hadn’t imagined that they could do it to other vampires. Even one as young and inexperienced as Michael.
"Michael!"
He didn’t look at her. He seemed completely caught in the web of Ysandre’s attraction.
Claire dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She hesitated over the address book.
“Deciding who to call for help?” François yanked the cell phone out of her hands and threw it across the room. “Amelie won’t thank you for distracting her from all her preparations. She’s busy, busy, busy, making sure everything goes just right to welcome our beloved father properly.”
“Maybe you ought to ask Michael what to do,” Ysandre said, and laughed, showing fang. She pronounced it like Michelle. “I’m sure he’ll help dispatch us. So fierce, isn’t he?”
Michael’s eyes were slowly turning crimson.
They can make you feel things. Do things.
“Shane,” Claire said. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
“I’m not leaving Michael.”
“Michael’s the problem.”
Ysandre laughed. “You really are clever, ma chérie.”
François snapped his fingers in front of Michael’s face. “Dinner’s ready.”
Michael opened his mouth and snarled. Full fangs.
And he turned and fixed his gaze on Claire.
“Oh, crap,” Shane breathed. He grabbed Claire’s arm. “Kitchen!”
They retreated. Shane shoved the table against the swinging door, for all the good it would do, and they backed up toward the rear door.
Claire opened the refrigerator and took Michael’s last two sealed bottles out of the back of the refrigerator. Have to tell Michael to pick up more, she thought, and how weird was that? Running short of blood was getting as normal as needing Coke or butter.
She was gibbering in her head, that was it. And yet, oddly calm.
Michael burst into the room and headed straight for them.
Claire stepped into his path, held out a bottle, and said, “You’re not one of them. You’re one of us. One of us, and we love you.”
“Claire—” Shane sounded agonized, but he didn’t move. Maybe he knew it would have blown everything.
Michael stopped. His eyes were still blazing red, but he seemed to see her.
And the red flickered a little.
She held out the bottle.
“Drink it,” she said. “You’ll feel better. Trust me, Michael. Please.”
He was staring into her eyes.
And this time, she was the one who challenged him. See me. Know what you’re doing.
Push her out.
His eyes flared white. He grabbed the bottle out of her hand, popped the cap, and tipped the bottle, guzzling the contents as fast as he could swallow.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did she.
His eyes faded back to blue, and he lowered the bottle with a gasp. A thin line of blood dripped off his lip, and he wiped it with a trembling hand.
“It’s okay,” Claire said. “She got in your head. She can do that. She—”
Shane was gone. While she’d been so focused on Michael, he’d just . . . disappeared.
The kitchen door was still swinging.
It’ll be easier for her the next time, Shane had told her.
Claire headed for the living room. Michael tried to stop her, but he seemed weak. Sick. She remembered how shaken Shane had been.
Why not me? Why doesn’t she control me?
Maybe she couldn’t.
Shane was sitting on the couch beside Ysandre, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Ysandre was running her hands up and down Shane’s chest, tracing invisible lines, and as Claire watched, the vampire began to nibble on Shane’s neck. Not seriously, as in not drawing blood, but little teasing nips. Licks.
Shane’s face was still and blank, but his eyes were pools of panic. He doesn’t want this, Claire realized. She’s making him.
Claire threw the second bottle of blood at Ysandre. The vampire’s hand came up unbelievably fast to snatch it out of the air before it made contact with the side of her head.
“If you’re hungry, eat,” she said. “And get your claws out of my boyfriend.”
Ysandre’s eyes narrowed. Claire felt something brush at her mind, but it was like walking through a spiderweb, easily broken.
Ysandre flipped the cap from the bottle, sniffed it, and made a disgusted face. “Don’t be so possessive. Shane is at my command. The invitation said so.”
“He’s at your command tomorrow. Not today.”
“How charming. So young for a lawyer.” Ysandre sipped from the bottle, gagged, and shook her head. “Why your vampires subject themselves to this indignity is beyond my understanding. This is rancid. Undrinkable filth.” She threw the bottle back at Claire, who had no choice but to try to catch it; she did, but the contents splattered cold over her face and neck. “Remove it from our presence.” Her eyes took on a horrible dull shine, angry and cruel. “And clean yourself up. You’re as useless as the hospitality you offer.”