Oliver looked frustrated enough to claw steel. “No, we are not debating it. The girl clearly has a connection to Amelie. It’s the one way we can guarantee she will come to us.”

“Don’t be stupid. Amelie may have a connection to her, but Claire is eminently replaceable,” Myrnin said. “No offense, my dear, but you’re human. Humans are, by definition, replaceable.”

“So are vampires,” Pennywell said. “Including you, you bedlamite wretch.”

“I was never in Bedlam,” Myrnin said. “Although I hear you picked off inmates there when the rats ran scarce.”

That must have been a serious vampire insult or something, because Pennywell launched himself across the space to latch his hands around Myrnin’s throat.

Myrnin didn’t even bother to react. He yawned.

“Oliver,” he said, “control your beast before I am forced to.”

Pennywell snarled. His fangs snapped down.

Myrnin’s eyes sparked red, and he grabbed Pennywell’s wrist in his hand and twisted.

Bones snapped. Pennywell howled, clearly shocked at Myrnin’s strength. From the look on his face, Oliver hadn’t exactly expected it, either. Myrnin shoved Pennywell back to his place, pointed a finger at him, and smiled. “Next time, I will take your fangs,” he said. “Then you’ll be a toothless tiger. I don’t think you’d enjoy it. Play nicely, witchfinder.”

“Boys,” Oliver said coolly, “the question at hand is an important one: Do we allow Amelie to continue to run Morganville? Or do we use the girl to take it from her control, once and for all?”

Myrnin sighed. “You do understand that Amelie is aware of your intentions? That she’s planned for your eventual rebellion? Because it was plain as the moon that you’d betray her, sooner or later.”

“I’d hate to disappoint,” Oliver said. “And she has become weak. The weak can’t lead.”

“I’ve known Amelie a very long time, and I would never describe her as weak.” Myrnin lit up another cigar, with much puffing and use of a lighter with a hot blue flame. Claire almost choked on the smoke. Her eyes burned and teared, and she had to wipe them clear. “Wounded, perhaps. Less certain of herself than before. But not weak, which you will discover if you think to push her.”

Oliver frowned at him. “I thought you were with me in this.”

“Did I say that? Well, I’m not very reliable, as you know.” Myrnin closed his eyes in delight as he drew in the smoke from the cigar. “You very nearly succeeded in bribing me with these excellent Cubans. I haven’t had the like since Victoria was still Queen of England. But in the end, I must remain loyal to my lady. And I really can’t allow you to torment my apprentice. After all, that’s my job.”

“I thought that might be the case,” Oliver said.

He pulled a stake from inside his coat and slammed it into Myrnin’s chest.

Claire screamed and lunged for Oliver, or at least she started to—the limousine violently swerved, sending them all flying, and Claire ended up on the carpeted floor with Myrnin’s deadweight on top of her. Something hit them, hard, and Claire felt the car lift, twist in the air, and slam down on its top, sending her and Myrnin in a tangle to the roof of the limo.

Oliver and Pennywell had somehow stayed in their seats—holding themselves in by main force, apparently. Claire fought free of Myrnin’s body, panting and disoriented. She wasn’t hurt, or at least she didn’t feel hurt, but everything seemed a little odd. Too bright. Too sharp. Pennywell’s eyes were bright red, and his fangs were out.

Oliver was looking at her like lunch, too.

The side window had broken out when the car rolled. Claire grabbed Myrnin’s shoulders, crawled backward through the wrecked window, and dragged him along with her. As soon as she had his chest clear of the limo, she wrapped both hands around the stake and yanked it free with a wrench.

“Ahhhhhh!” Myrnin screamed, and came bolt upright, both hands slapping at his chest. “My God, I hate that!”

Pennywell dropped down onto his legs like some pale jumping spider. Myrnin slammed a boot into his face and crawled free of the wreckage, grabbing Claire as he rose to his feet. There was blood staining his shirt, and some on his face where he’d been cut by flying glass, but he looked fine, really.

Angry as hell, though.

Pennywell crawled out of the limo. His expression was no longer empty; it was full of hate. “Heretic,” he hissed. “Witch. I’ll see you burn, you and your familiar.” He cast a venomous look at Claire, too, and she swallowed hard.

“What’s a familiar?” she asked Myrnin.

“A demonic spirit who aids a witch,” he said. “Usually in the form of a black cat, but I suppose you’d do. Although in my experience you are not nearly demonic enough.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Myrnin raised his eyebrows and thrust his chin at Pennywell. “Well? Are you waiting for your lynch mob to bring your spine?”

Claire had a very nasty flash of intuition. “Where’s Oliver?”

And then a cold hand closed around her neck, choking off her breath and igniting blind panic inside. She was pulled away, completely off balance and out of control, and saw Myrnin spinning toward her but not quickly enough; she was moving away from him, off into the dark. . . .

It all freeze-framed for her: Myrnin, bloody and wide-eyed, reaching out for her. Pennywell smirking from where he stood near the wreckage of the limo. The smoking sedan that had sent the limo rolling—hood crumpled like used tinfoil.

That was a vampire car.

And the driver’s side door was open.

Claire choked, gasped for breath, and tore at the hand holding her throat closed. No good. Her fingernails didn’t concern him any more than her heels when she kicked backward.

“Hush,” Oliver chided her, and squeezed harder. “I’d like to say this will hurt me more than you, but that wouldn’t be strictly true—”

He broke off with a stunned gasp, and his hand slid away from Claire’s throat. She stumbled forward two steps, both hands holding her aching neck, and then looked back.

Oliver was staring down at his chest, where the point of a stake had emerged from his rib cage.

“Damn,” he said, and pitched down to his knees, fighting it all the way.

Michael was behind him.

Michael had just staked Oliver.

He dashed around the older vampire and grabbed Claire. “You okay?”

She couldn’t get words out through her bruised throat, but she nodded, eyes wide. In seconds Myrnin was there, too, picking her up and dumping her unceremoniously into Michael’s arms. “Take her,” he said. “Oliver is not going to be pleased, boy. Better go.”

“I had to,” Michael said. “I had to stake him. He was going to kill her.”

“In point of fact, he wasn’t; he was going to hurt her so badly that Amelie would feel it, that’s all. But that’s not what I meant. You crashed a car into the limousine. Oliver loves his limousine.”

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it without thinking of anything to say to that.

Myrnin, watching Pennywell, said, “Michael, take the girl and go. I have things to do here. Do leave the stake where it is—I can’t have Oliver interfering just yet. The witchfinder and I have old debts to settle.” When Michael hesitated, Myrnin’s dark eyes flashed toward him in command.

“Take her.”

Michael nodded, and Claire lost all sense of where she was, except that she was held firmly in his arms, and moving fast. Lights flashed by, moving too quickly for her to focus on. The burning in her throat died down from a bonfire to a slow broil, and she tried clearing it. It felt like gargling with glass, but she got a weak sound out.

Michael slowed to a normal human-speed run, then a walk, and Claire saw that they were back at the TPU theater. Eve, Shane, and Kim were standing in front of Eve’s car. Two of them looked shocked; Kim just looked like none of it was much concern of hers.