CLAIRE

Michael looked like the walking dead when he arrived back in the waiting room, where Claire was getting coffee for the eleven-mil ionth time from the machine; it ate her quarters, again, but she'd learned from one of the nurses-not the one who'd threatened Eve, thank God-how to kick the side of the dispenser in just the right spot to get the container to drop and produce about a half cup of oily, disgusting swil that kind of tasted like coffee.

It was better than nothing. But not much better.

She almost dropped the cup when she saw the boys arrive. Shane had a guarded, solemn expression, but Michael looked as though he'd been to the gates of hel and back and returned without the souvenir T-shirt.

"She's sleeping," Claire said, before either of them could speak. "Hey, are you all right? Michael?"

"Fine," he said. His blue eyes looked oddly stark and empty, and there were dark smudges under them, as if he'd been robbed of a week's sleep in just the past few hours. "I need to see her."

"Just be careful not to wake her," Claire said. "She's pretty woozy, and in some pain. The doctor said she'l probably be better in the morning.

They're going to let her go then, so we can take her home. She just can't do much for a while."

"Good," he said. He hardly even glanced her way, but he took the coffee cup out of her hand and tossed back the near-boiling contents in a single gulp, crushed the paper, and dropped it on the floor as he stalked off, heading for Eve's room. Claire bent and picked up the trash.

"Wow," she said, looking after him. "What the hel , Shane?"

"Wish I knew," he said. "That was the weirdest couple of hours I've ever had. Roy-that was okay, fine, I get it. But then we went to see Cap-"

By which she understood Captain Obvious, without it being spel ed out. "They made me wait outside toward the end. Whatever they said in there, it was bad. He's looked like that ever since. Like somebody cut his guts out and made him swal ow them."

"So you know who it is? Cap, I mean?" She kept it in a bare whisper, glancing around at the empty waiting room. Shane nodded. "Who?"

"Better you don't know," he said. "Trust me, I wish I didn't. I'm starting to wish I didn't know a lot of things."

They settled into the chairs in the waiting area, and Shane put his arm around her...and they were just getting comfortable when Shane turned his head and said, "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Claire felt drowsy and content nestled against his shoulder, but now that he'd woken her allthe way up again, she did hear something-raised voices.

"That's Eve," Shane said, and stood up. "Something's wrong." Claire sighed and followed him on aching legs down the hal , past the empty nursing station, and arrived just as he pushed the door open.

Eve was crying. Not just crying a little, but crying in shocked, awful, painful sobs, even though she was holding her abdomen with both hands as if it were agony to even try to breathe. Michael was standing at the end of her bed, staring at her without any expression at allon his face. He'd always looked like an angel, Claire thought, but now he looked like one of those cold, remote, vengeful ones, the kind that carried swords.

It was terrifying.

"How can you say that?" Eve said, in between painful gulps for air. Crying was hurting her; Claire could hear it in the little hitching whimpers between the words. "God, Michael, don't-please-"

"What the hel is going on?" Shane demanded, and got in Michael's face. "What did you say to her?"

"The truth. Marrying her was a mistake from the beginning," he said. "And I want it over, Eve. I'll get the papers done, and you sign them, and we're finished. It's better for us both. The two of us together-Captain Obvious is right. Amelie is right. It's sick, and it shouldn't be allowed to continue. It's going to get innocent people kil ed."

"Dude, don't do this," Shane said, and reached out. Michael batted his hand away before it reached his shoulder. "Maybe you think this is going to keep her safe somehow, but it's not the right way, okay? And it's not the right time. I know you don't want to hurt her. I heard you back there, with Cap. I know you're just trying to protect her-"

"Do you?" Michael turned that empty look on Shane, and stopped him dead. "You don't know a damn thing about me, man."

Shane actually laughed. "You're kidding, right? I know everything about you. You're my best friend."

"Think so?" Michael said, and then before Claire was ready, before she was even aware he was moving, he had turned and grabbed hold of her.

Michael Glass, holding her in his arms.

And bending.

And kissing her.

With tongue.

Expertly.

It took her by so much surprise that Claire could only make a muffled sound of shock and surprise at first, and she didn't even try to resist; her body reported in sensations in a rush-the cold strength of him, the softness of his lips, the taste, the absolute authority of it...and then her rational brain kicked in and screamed in horror.

Michael Glass was kissing her in front of Shane. And Eve.

And he was doing a damn good job of groping her along with it, with his hands slipping beneath her shirt.

Shane yel ed something, and Claire felt him trying to pul her free, but Michael held on with relentless strength. She was suddenly terrified to be between the two of them, like a rag between two possessive pit bul s, and then Michael let go just as fast as he'd grabbed on. That sent her crashing back into Shane, and Shane into the wal , with his arms wrapped around her. Claire's mouth felt bruised and wet, and her shirt was bunched up just below her bra line; she frantically tugged it down and tried to wipe her lips at the same time, not doing a very good job of either.

Michael was watching her, and the look in his eyes was awful. It wasn't love. It wasn't anything she could understand at all.

"I've been wanting to do that for years," he said. "Just so you know. Did you see that coming, best friend? Maybe it's been going on for a while.

Maybe ever since she moved in. How do you know?"

"You son of a-" Shane pushed Claire out of the way and came at Michael, but Michael just shoved him back again against the wal and held him there, ignoring his blows. He was looking now at Eve, who was gasping and crying, curled in on herself on the bed as if he'd punched her in an open wound.

"We're done?" he asked her.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Get out." It would have been a scream, Claire thought, except that Eve couldn't get the breath to make that happen.

Michael let go of Shane and walked away, stiff-armed the hospital door open, and disappeared in less than five seconds.

But what he left behind felt like an explosion that was still happening, the shock waves rippling on and on and on....

Shane turned on Claire. "What the hell was that?"

"Why are you asking me?" she shot back, shocked, and scrubbed her mouth again. "I didn't ask for it!"

"He wouldn't just-" Shane was the one looking terrible now, and almost as betrayed as Eve. "Is that the first time? Is it?"

"What? What are you saying?" She felt sick to her stomach. One minute ago, everything had been fragile, but okay; now the whole world seemed to be splintering around her, breaking into unrecognizable fragments. "I didn't do anything wrong!" She remembered, with a horrible wrench, that Shane had once secretly worried about that, about her and Michael having a thing behind his back. It had never happened, but now-now it was back, allthat paranoia, and the anger. Michael had chosen exactly the right spot to hit to break their trust apart. "How can you even think I would-"

"God, get out," Eve said in a smal , broken voice. "Just get out. Both of you." She was crying still , but quietly now, and allher monitors were beeping and flashing red lights. "Jesus, please, go!"

The nurses came in then, crowding around Eve's bed to adjust machines and poke needles ful of meds into the hanging saline bags. As Shane pushed her out into the hal , Claire heard the frantic fast beating of Eve's pulse monitor slow down. They were putting her back to sleep. Maybe, if they were lucky, Eve would think it was alla drug dream in the morning. No. She won't be that lucky.

Shane let go of her, and she rounded on him, still trying to pul her shirt down to a decent level. "I didn't do anything," she insisted, again. "And I never kissed him! He kissed me; you saw that."

"He did it like he knew exactly what you liked," Shane said. "Like he was used to doing it. And you weren't exactly struggling."

"I didn't know what to do! God, Shane-it was fast, and I didn't know-I didn't want that! How can you think that he and I were-"

"I don't know," Shane said, and stuck his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched tight. "Maybe because my best friend thought it was perfectly okay to stick his tongue down your throat to make his point? Because I'm pretty sure he didn't have to do that just to break up with Eve. He didn't have to be that cruel."

"Shane-Shane! Wait!"

He was walking away from her, heading down the hal way with his head down. Leaving her, too.

Claire stood there, shocked and alone, feeling like the only sane person left in the world, and when the enormity of it hit, really hit, she burst into tears and curled up in a bal on the worn old couch in the corner of the waiting room.

How did I feel about it? She didn't want to ask herself that. She didn't want to remember the warm rush of feelings underneath the confusion and horror of the moment, or the way her heart had speeded up, and her body betrayed her right down to the core. I didn't want it. I didn't.

Wel , hadn't she always thought Michael was a hottie? Yes, she had. She'd always noticed, and every once in a while she'd had the occasional little fantasy-but that was normal; that was what happened when you were around someone a lot, not-not this. Never this.

He hadn't wanted her. He'd used her, viciously and with cold calculation, to drive Eve away, and Shane. Each of them was alone now, in a world that didn't want or need them.

Why would you do that, Michael? It didn't make any sense. Even if he'd decided not to stay with Eve, Michael was a good man, a nice man; he would have done it gently and with as much kindness as possible because he did love Eve; he did. She couldn't have been so wrong about that.

And when he'd left here before, he'd been a knight on a mission, hel -bent on avenging her. When he'd come back...

Claire gulped back the horrible, hurtful tears, and wiped her face, and tried to think through the problem, as if it were happening to someone else. What makes someone turn around like that, turn on his friends?

No. That wasn't the question. The question was, what would make a vampire turn on his friends...and there was only one answer to that, really. Claire thought of Bishop, Amelie's vampire father, who could infect another vampire with his bite and command his absolute loyalty. Amelie had a measure of that same power, but hers came in a different form. Bishop was unquestionably dead, so could it be Amelie? Would Amelie have broken Michael, as she'd once threatened to do, and made him do this?

Claire shuddered. If Amelie had done it, if this wasn't Michael's real wil , then there were four victims of his cruelty, not three.... Michael himself was the first, and the most badly wounded of them all.

And even if it was true, even if this was no real choice of Michael's, the problem was...How was she going to prove it?

In the end, Claire slept in the hospital chapel-it was quiet, calm, deserted, and she needed the spiritual support just now. She wished that Father Joe would make an appearance.... He was a great listener, and she desperately needed to talk to someone.

But in the end, she fel asleep reading the Bible through tear-swol en eyes, and tried to find some kind of comfort. If she did, she didn't remember.

Claire tried to cal Shane six times in the morning, but her cal s went to voice mail; texts went unanswered. She was surprised to see him show up around noon, but he hadn't come to talk to her, though she had a moment's pitiful hope.... He walked straight past her with a plastic bag, ignoring her, and into Eve's room.

When he came back outside, he sat across the waiting room and stared at the floor.

"Shane?" She took some tentative steps toward him. She wanted to burst into tears, but she knew it would only make things worse if she did.

"Please, please talk to me. Please-"

"I brought her clothes," he said. "Then I'm driving you both home. Then I'm getting the hel out for a while. You take care of Eve. You do that for me."

"But-"

"Michael's stuff's already gone," he said. "He packed up last night. I don't know where he went, so don't ask me."

"Shane, please look at me." She sank down on a chair next to him. He smel ed like sweat, as if he'd gone to the gym and hadn't stopped to shower. He didn't shift his gaze away from a dedicated examination of the stained tile floor. "I've never had anything going with Michael, ever. I don't know why he did that, but it's not what you're thinking. I've never cheated on you. I wouldn't. I've been thinking that maybe-maybe Amelie made him do this. Because I really don't think this was Michael, not the real Michael, do you?"

He didn't answer her. They sat in silence for a few dark seconds, and then a nurse rounded the corner and said, "She's ready to go."

Shane shot to his feet as if the chair had a catapult built in, and was halfway to Eve's room before Claire managed to follow, feeling slow, clumsy, and achingly lost.

Eve looked terrible-no makeup, chalky skin, bruises discoloring her swol en face. She'd let her hair fal forward to hide the worst of it, but it also hid any trace of how she felt seeing Claire come around the corner.

That was probably a blessing, Claire thought, with a horrible surge of unearned guilt. I didn't kiss him! He kissed me! But she couldn't insist on that, not with Eve so torn up with grief, and so badly hurt.

And I left her lying there on the sidewalk, bleeding, she thought. I can't forget that, either.

Shane held a wheelchair still as Eve practically fel into it; she kept her head bowed, and her hands over her stomach as if she were afraid it might break open. Claire hurried forward and took a plastic bag of clothes from the nurse, and some paperwork and pil s. "Give her two of these twice a day," the nurse said. "And let her sleep. She's going to need it. No lifting anything heavier than a book for at least two weeks. She's to see the doctor again on Thursday. Someone wil have to bring her to and from the appointment. No driving at alluntil he lifts the restriction."

Claire nodded mutely, barely able to clock in the instructions; her heart was a mess of hurt, from worry for Eve, grief over Shane, anger at Michael. Now we have to go home and pretend everything is okay, she thought, and the concept was pretty appal ing. But what choice did she have? Leave? She couldn't. Eve needed someone, and Shane had already made it clear he'd rather run away. Michael already had.

Shane pushed the wheelchair fast, not waiting for Claire; she hurried to catch up, but the elevator doors closed in her face. Neither of her housemates looked at her directly.

She took the stairs down a floor and met them as Shane put the brakes on the wheelchair and helped Eve move shakily into the front passenger seat of the hearse.

"I can drive," Claire offered. Shane ignored her, and walked to that side of the car. He got in and started the engine, and she hardly had time to run to the back and climb into what Eve had cheerfully named Dead Man's Corner before he hit the gas for home.

It was a terrible few minutes. Claire clutched the soft bag of clothing; it smel ed of Eve's latest BPAL perfume and a metal ic tang she thought had to be blood. She'd wash them herself, make sure they were nice and clean before she returned them. Shane wouldn't think of that. It was something she could do, a little act of love.

Shane was careful on the drive home, avoiding the bumpy spots, and pul ing up to the front curb without any jerky sudden stops. He even picked Eve up and carried her inside, waiting impatiently as Claire opened the front door.

Once Eve was settled on the sofa, with the old afghan tucked around her and a pil ow beneath her head, Shane said, "You can handle nurse duties, right?" He headed for the door, again.

"Where are you going?"

"None of your business," Shane said. Claire heard the door slam behind him and felt tears clawing at her throat; honestly, it was so incredibly painful, she wanted to throw herself facedown on her bed and cry herself into oblivion. It was worse when she looked around and saw that Michael's music things were missing. He'd even taken the leather armchair with him, the one he liked to sit in while he played.

The house felt cold, hard, and empty without Shane and Michael, and without the love among allof them that had made it home.

Claire sank down beside Eve, put her head on the sofa cushions, and tried not to think about it.

"It's not your fault," Eve said, very quietly. Claire jerked her head up, hope bolting through her, but Eve wasn't smiling, and there was nothing in her swol en face that Claire could interpret as forgiveness. "He had doubts allalong; I knew that. I was just-stupid enough to think he was worried about me. So maybe it's better we get it over with. It just hurts so much."

She wasn't talking about the physical pain.

"I don't know why he did...what he did, or why he said those things, but it isn't true, Eve. Please believe me."

Eve closed her eyes and sighed as if almost too depressed to listen. "Al right," she said in a very faint, flat voice. "Doesn't matter."

Claire held her friend's loose, cool hand, and the two of them sat in silence for a long time before Claire's cel rang.

"Hel o?" Her voice sounded strangled and rough; she hardly recognized it herself.

"Honey?" It was her mother. "Oh, Claire, what's wrong?"

That did it. Claire could handle the rest of it, but not that, not the compassionate warmth of her mother's voice.

She cried, and it allcame out, in hitching, halting bursts-Shane, Michael, Eve, her fear, allof it. But mostly Shane, and how she was afraid it was allruined, forever, allthat bright and beautiful future she'd thought was so perfectly laid out. Somehow, she even managed to blurt that she was worried about Myrnin, too, which led to a line of questions she'd rather not have answered, but the confessional dam had well and truly busted open, and there was no going back. The cal lasted at least an hour, and at the end of it, Claire lay huddled on the parlor floor, wishing the world would just suck her down into its molten core and end her misery.

She finally got her mind back in place enough to say, "I'm sorry, Mom...Why did you cal me?"

"I just felt you needed me," her mother said. "It's a mother's instinct, sweetheart. Come home, Claire. Just come home and let us take care of you. You'l get through this; I know you wil . You're a very strong girl. It'l be okay."

"I'l come," Claire whispered. "As soon as I can." She didn't have anything left to stay for, did she?

She hung up and went to give Eve her medication.

Eve was well enough by nightfal to take some food, though not a lot. Claire made her soup in a cup, and then put her back to bed with the TV softly playing a movie she knew Eve liked well enough to sleep through.

They didn't talk much.

Miranda came back about the time that Claire was rinsing out the soup cups.

"I'm sorry," Miranda said, and hugged her. Claire threw her arms around the girl and squeezed tightly; for the first time, she felt like someone had truly forgiven her and understood how she felt. "I couldn't do anything today. Michael left; he wouldn't say anything to me, and then Shane-he drank too much, you know. It scared me. I thought he was going to do something-something bad. But he didn't."

It would have scared Claire, if she'd known it. "But Eve's okay; that's the important thing," she said. "We'l -we'l fix this. Somehow."

"Is it true?" Miranda pulled back to hold her at arm's length. "Shane said-Shane said you were with Michael, behind his back. But you weren't, were you?"

"No. No, never!"

"I believe you." Miranda held her hands and sat her down at the kitchen table. "I did what you asked. I got out and tried to listen to what the other ghosts were saying. I didn't talk to them, exactly, because it's dangerous to get their attention; they were still following Jenna, trying to tel her things, so that's why I was able to hear so much."

For the first time, Claire felt a surge of something that might have been hope. "Did you hear anything about Myrnin?"

"No," Miranda said. "I'm sorry. But I did hear something weird; maybe it could mean something." The hope was just a pale flicker now, but Claire nodded anyway. "One of them said a spider was in a hole under the white tree. And another one said-Claire, I'm really not sure this is about him at all, you understand-that something was climbing up, but the sun would burn it away."

That didn't help at all. Claire felt a white-hot urge to break something in frustration, or punch a wal , Shane-style, but she knew it wouldn't help.

Nothing would help, except figuring something out for a change.

Think, she told herself. Breathe. If she could find Myrnin, that would be something, at least. Something positive, in allthis devastation.

Something climbing. Hole by the white tree. Was he climbing up in a hole by a white tree? That didn't make any sense. There weren't any white trees in Morganville. Was he even here, in this town? If he wasn't, she couldn't help him at all.

No, he's here. Think. Think!

White tree. That had to mean something. It must be a landmark, so it had to be something she could remember. But what...?

"The ghost who was talking about the white tree," Claire said. "Do you know where he came from?"

"I think he died at the Sleep Inne over near the edge of town. You know that one?" Claire did. It was bland and forgettable, and there were no trees of any kind that way. "I guess his body is buried in the cemetery."

The cemetery, Claire thought. They'd remarked on it from the first, how it alllooked so photogenic. That big dead tree, Angel had said. Such a striking color.

Because it was dead, and it was...

Claire's eyes opened wide. "The tree. The cemetery tree, it's white, right?"

"I guess. It's dead and the bark is allpeeled off and it looks white."

"So it's at the cemetery," Claire blurted, and opened her eyes. "It's got to be there, whatever this-this hole is. That's where Myrnin is. He's in the hole, in water. And there's some kind of a grate on top, with a cross; Jenna said she saw that in a vision. Mir, I have to go, right now. Can you stay with Eve?"

"I-wel , yes, but you can't go out there in the dark, allalone!"

"I have to. Myrnin may be the only one left who can help us get through this, and your other ghost said the sun wil burn it away. If he's in a hole in the ground, and the sun comes up, he could burn in there. I can't let that happen."

"I can't go with you! If I did, the other ghosts-they'd be allover me. I have to stay in the house. And Eve's too sick."

"Then I'll cal Shane," Claire shot back, and pulled out her phone. She paced as it rang, and rang, and rang, and went to voice mail. She hung up and texted him, with a 911. No details. And finally, after five long minutes, he cal ed back.

"Don't hang up," she said. "I need your help."

"Is it Eve?"

"No," she said reluctantly.

"Then no."

"Wait! Wait, listen to me. I have to go to the cemetery. There's-someone's in trouble, Shane. If you don't go with me, I have to go alone.

Please. I know you're angry at me, but-but be angry tomorrow. Tonight, just please, do this for me." He was silent on the other end, but she could hear the uneven hitch of his breathing. "Shane, please. One time."

"Who's in trouble?"

She'd been afraid he'd ask that. But she couldn't lie. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and said, "Myrnin."

Shane hung up. Claire screamed, a raw and wild sound, and threw the phone violently on the table. Miranda's eyes were round as saucers.

"Wow," she said. "So...you're not going?"

"No," Claire said grimly. "I am going. Alone."

Eve's hearse was still parked out on the curb. Miranda argued with Claire allthe way out to the picket fence, but she wasn't listening anymore. She'd put on Eve's long leather coat over her jeans and plain black shirt, and brought along a heavy canvas bag ful of weapons, plus her own backpack, which had allkinds of things she might need-even textbooks, if she got study time. At the very least, they were a kind of paper-based armor she could put between herself and something attacking her.

"But-what do I do if you don't come back?" Miranda asked frantically as Claire settled in the driver's seat. The Grim Reaper on the dash shivered and nodded its head, eye-lights flashing. "Claire! Who do I cal ?"

"Cal Shane," she said. "Maybe he'l feel bad if I'm dead. But make sure Eve's okay, and give her the medication she needs just before sunrise. Do not let her get up and do anything, and if she starts to run a fever, cal the hospital and get them to send the ambulance. Promise me."

"I wil ." Miranda looked on the verge of tears. "This is bad. This is a really bad idea...."

"I'm open to suggestions." When the other girl didn't offer any, Claire shook her head. "Wish me luck."

"I-" Miranda sighed. "Good luck. I'll wait for you to come back, and if you're not back before sunrise, I'll cal ...somebody. Amelie. I'll call Amelie."

"Don't do that," Claire said. "Because it might be Amelie. Okay?"

"But-"

Claire didn't give her time to argue.

The hearse drove differently from any other car she'd tried in her very limited driving experience.... It was heavy, hard to manage, and had terrible stopping distance, as she found when she rolled through a stop light while pumping the brakes. Luckily, no Morganville police cruisers caught sight of her. She passed some custom-tinted vampire cars. No one tried to stop her.

Claire drove the mile, give or take, out to the cemetery, which brushed the limits of the Morganville township. The place was surrounded by a thick stone wal and had heavy wrought-iron gates; the lightning-struck dead white tree loomed high, allspiky branches and intimidating angles. The gates were locked, of course. Claire considered ramming them, but she knew Eve would never forgive her for it, so she strapped the canvas bag over her shoulders, on top of her backpack, and climbed. The iron was cold and slick under her fingers, but there were plenty of crossbars, and she managed to make it to the top, then slipped down the other side.

Morganville Cemetery was an old one, back to pioneer days, ful of time-sanded headstones that were hardly readable anymore, thanks to the constant wind. What grass there was grew fitfully. Nobody visited here with any reliability; the newer cemetery, Redeemer, was closer to the center of town, and that was where present-day burials were done. This was mostly just here for historical value.

It wasn't a very likely spot for vampires to hang out, at least; there hadn't been anyone with a pulse visiting the place in years. But it was still plenty creepy, all right-shadows like black knives across the ground, harsh and sharp in the moonlight. Tree branches rattled like dry bones. Claire was headed for the tree when she saw the vampires appear on top of the wal and drop easily down, landing without breaking their stride.

There were two of them, moving together. One had pale hair; the other had graying locks.

Amelie and Oliver?

She dropped to the ground behind a large carved angel and hoped that it would be enough to hide her. She also hoped she hadn't landed on one of the huge fire ant mounds that dotted the grounds; if she had, this was going to be a very short and unpleasant adventure. If the fire ants didn't bite her into a coma, the vampires would.

They passed fairly close to where she was hiding, and luck was with her; the wind had shifted, carrying her human scent away from them. And it was not Amelie with the pale hair shifting in the breeze, Claire realized, as she caught sight of the girl's face, her smile, her dimples.

That was Naomi. Walking with Oliver. But Naomi was supposed to be dead. Of course, Claire thought in horror. Bishop's other daughter. She might have the same powers, too. If Naomi and Oliver were in it together, Naomi could have turned Michael against them.

And Amelie didn't know.

The two of them strol ed through the weeds, through tombstones and tumbleweeds, and came to a halt under the white tree. Oliver dragged a fal en piece of marble away, and Claire heard it grate on metal.

She was also close enough to hear the voices, and she heard Oliver say, "No need to go down after him. Between this and the morning sun, he's finished." He reached into his pocket and came out with a bottle Claire recognized-one of the weapons that Shane had first developed. Then he shared it with Captain Obvious and his crew. And then with the vampires, to use against the draug...It was silver nitrate. Oliver had on gloves, but he still handled the bottle carefully as he opened the top, then poured it into the ground-no, not into the ground.

Through the metal grate on the ground.

Claire heard Myrnin's scream of raw pain and fury, and she had to press both hands to her mouth to keep quiet. There was a splashing sound, and scraping, as if he were clawing his way up from a great distance below.

"He won't get far," Naomi said. "No vampire's strong enough to make it allthat way to the top before sunrise, and the silver in the grate wil keep him in. If he fal s, the silver in the water wil finish him. well done, Oliver. Now go back to Amelie. Our little chess pawns are almost allin place. We'l play our last moves soon."

"Yes," he said, "my queen."

"Your white queen," Naomi said, and laughed. "I like the sound of that. You're a useful blunt instrument, Oliver. I shal keep you in my court when I take my rightful place."

"Amelie," he said, and it seemed it was hard for him to get the words out. "What of Amelie?"

"What about her?" Naomi asked. She was staring down through the grate, to where she'd just condemned Myrnin to death. "A wise ruler never leaves a rival at her back. Though I might consider a merciful exile, if you beg hard enough on her behalf. Would you, Oliver? Beg?"

He said nothing. He stood with his hands locked behind his back, and from what Claire could see of him, his face was hard as stone and his eyes flaring red.

"Obviously not," Naomi said. "Your personal dignity was always more important to you than mere emotion, wasn't it? Very well ." She leaned over the grate. "Myrnin? I leave you to your gods." She put her fingers to her mouth and blew him a delicate little kiss, and then she and Oliver turned away, drifting soundlessly through the deserted graveyard, then up and onto the wal .

Then Naomi turned and looked right at Claire's hiding place, and smiled. "Did you really think I wouldn't see that ridiculous car, or sense your presence? Since your friend Eve is indisposed, I assumed it would be you rushing to the rescue," she said. "I think our little friend has outlived her usefulness after all, though it would have been a nice finishing move to use her to plant a dagger in Amelie's back. Michael. Take her off the board."

Claire gasped, because Michael jumped up on the wal next to Naomi, scanned the graveyard, and fixed his gaze right where she was.

Naomi nodded. "Adieu, Claire. It's too bad there wil be no place for you in the Morganville we are to create."

She left.

And then Michael jumped down and came at her.

Claire ran.

Michael wasn't even trying hard, Claire thought; there was no real reason he couldn't catch her within ten feet. He was very, very fast, and she wasn't; the heavy leather coat she'd decided to wear was weighing her down, and so was the weapons bag. She wanted to leave it, but she didn't dare.

Are you really going to try to kill him? she asked herself, and didn't have any idea of the answer. She tripped over a fal en, tilted grave marker and went flying, rol ed, and the canvas bag ripped open on a jagged piece of broken marble. The fabric was tough, but it had weakened along the zipper, and things spil ed out through the gap.... The first one she laid hands on was a plastic Baggie ful of random silver chain links, scavenged from old jewelry Eve had bought through the Internet. It made a nice, heavy handful as Claire opened it, and as she stumbled to her feet, she twisted and threw it at Michael.

The silver hit him, and where it struck skin, she saw sparks; it was more surprising than painful, but it slowed him down, giving her a moment to sort through her other available choices. She passed over the silver nitrate; she didn't want to hurt him-she really didn't.

Her hands closed on Shane's silver-tipped basebal bat, which was the biggest thing in the canvas bag, and she yanked it out.

She didn't even have time to prepare a decent swing as Michael lunged forward, but she did manage to get the coated end of the wood into place so that his momentum took him chest-first into it; the silver scorched him hard, and he veered off with a cry of pain.

Then it was a temporary standoff as Claire set her feet and took up a batter's stance, ready and watching as he paced beyond her reach.

"Michael?"

He didn't answer. His face looked as immobile and frozen as that of the marble angel behind him.

"Michael, please don't do this. I know this isn't your fault; Naomi's using you. I don't want to hurt you. I swear...."

"Good," he said. "That makes it easy."

"But I wil !" she finished, and took a swing at his knees as he came into reach. He jumped over the bat, landed lightly, and sprang for her with hands outstretched.

Something hit him in the neck with a soft, coughing hiss, and Michael landed off-balance, staggered, and shook his head in confusion. There was something sticking out of his neck.

A dart.

He pulled it out, looked at it in confusion, and turned away from Claire, toward the wal ...and sitting on top of it, with a heavy rifle in his hands, was Shane Col ins.

"Sorry, man," Shane said. He kicked free and dropped off the wal , flexing his knees and loading another dart into the tranquilizer gun. He aimed as he walked toward them. "You're going to feel real damn bad for a while. Don't make me hit you again. I'm not sure it won't killyou."

Michael growled something, but he was already losing his ability to function; he went down to one knee, then pitched forward to his hands, and then slowly sank down on his side. His back arched in a silent scream.

Claire dropped the bat and tried to go to him, but Shane caught her by the waist and lifted her up to stop her. She kicked and twisted, but he held her. "You get close to him, he could finish the job," he said. He slung her around and sent her stumbling well away from Michael, and from himself. "You came to get Myrnin. Go get him. I'll cover you."

There was still no hint of forgiveness in him, either for Claire or-as he looked at his fal en, suffering friend-for Michael. He was here to fulfil a duty as he saw it, and that was all.

But it was more than she'd ever expected. It was something.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Shane nodded, not meeting her eyes, and racked the second tranquilizer dart into place as he watched Michael writhe painfully on the ground.

Claire raced over the uneven graves toward the white tree; even uncovered, the silver grate, circular with bars that formed a simple cross, was almost invisible until she nearly stepped onto it. That would have probably broken her ankle. The grate was locked in place with an old, rusted lock, and Claire whaled at it frantically with the silver-tipped bat until it broke in two.

She threw back the cold, tarnished metal and tried to see into the dark. Nothing. Not even a hint of life.

"Myrnin?" She shouted it down. She had to cover her nose from the smel that rose up from the narrow little hole-rot, sewage, mold, a toxic brew of the worst things she could imagine. "Myrnin! Can you hear me?"

Something thumped down on the ground next to her, and Claire looked up to see that Shane had tossed over a coil of nylon rope he'd retrieved from the weapons bag. She nodded and unwrapped it, tied off one end around the dead tree, and dropped the other down into the hole. "If you can hear me, grab the rope, Myrnin! Climb!"

She wasn't sure for long moments whether he was there, or even whether he could get out. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was already gone.

But then she felt the rope suddenly pul taut, and in seconds, she saw something pale appear in the dark below, gradually becoming clearer as it moved up toward her.

Myrnin climbed as if he'd learned how from his pet spider, swarming up with frantic speed. He had burns on his face and hands and lower legs, silver burns, but that didn't slow him down, and when he reached the top of the hole, Claire grabbed his forearms and dragged him out on the side that wasn't blocked by the raised silver grate.

He col apsed on his back, foul water bleeding out of his soaked and ruined clothes, out of his matted black hair, and after a second of silence he whispered, "I knew you'd come, Claire. I knew you would. Dear God, you took your time."

She took his hand, and sat down next to him.

Shane was standing fifty feet away, beside Michael, but he looked up and jerked his chin in a silent question. Is he okay? She nodded.

It wasn't much, she thought. It wasn't anything to build any kind of hope upon, just that he was wil ing to show up here, wil ing to fire a rifle, throw her a rope.

But she'd take it. It was horrifying to her how pitifully grateful she was just for that smal est hint of a smile he gave her, before he turned his back.

"You're very sad," Myrnin said. He sounded faint and distant, as if he'd been a long way off in more ways than one. "You smel like tears. Did he break your heart?"

"No," Claire said, in a very soft whisper that she hoped Shane couldn't hear from where he stood. "I broke his."

"Ah," Myrnin said. "Good for you." He sat up, and suddenly leaned over to throw up a horrifying amount of black water. "Pardon. well , that was distressing.... Oh no..."

He col apsed back on the ground, as if too weak to rise, and shut his eyes tight. His whole body was shaking and twitching, and it went on for a horribly long time. She didn't know what to do for him, except put her hand on his shoulder. Beneath the slimy clothes, she could feel his muscles locked and straining as if he were having an epileptic seizure.

He finally relaxed and took in a deep, slow breath before he opened his eyes and said, "We have to go, Claire. Quickly."

"Where?" she asked, because she was cold and scared and couldn't think of any place, any place at all, that might be safe now.

"To safety," he said. "Before it's too late."

"But you-you're not well enough to-"

Before she could finish, he was off stalking barefoot through the weeds toward the exit. He tore the chain off the fence with one hard pul and shoved the gates open with a rusted shriek.

Then he looked back with a red glow in his eyes and said, "Bring Michael. None of this is his fault. I won't allow him to suffer for it."

Shane hadn't moved during allof this, but now he bent down and pulled the tranquilizer dart out of Michael's neck. "It's going to be a few minutes before he's well enough to stand up."

"Then drag him," Myrnin said. "Unless you'd like to enjoy the comfort of my little oubliette. I'm sure Naomi wil be sending Pennyfeather in a moment to be certain allof us are dead, and I'd rather not be here to oblige her. Now, children."

He clapped his hands and disappeared beyond the gates, and in a moment, Claire heard Eve's car start up with a roar.

She went back to Shane and took one of Michael's arms as he grabbed the other. Their eyes met, briefly.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Yeah," he said. "Me, too."

But she wasn't sure if they were talking about the same things at all.