“I have very little time for soothing your ruffled feathers,” Amelie said. She shifted a little, which was surprising; Amelie was usually very still, very composed. That was almost fidgeting. There was something else unusual about her today—the color of her suit. It was still classic and beautifully tailored, but it was in a dark gray, much darker than Amelie usually preferred. It turned her eyes the color of storm clouds. “Yet you’ve done more than I asked with Myrnin. I am inclined to forgive your impertinence, if you understand that it’s an indulgence on my part. Not a right on yours.”

“I understand,” Claire said. “I just—this masked ball. Myrnin called it a welcome feast. He acted like it had something important to do with Mr. Bishop.”

Amelie’s eyes, which had been regarding her with impersonal focus, suddenly sharpened. “You’ve spoken with Myrnin regarding Bishop’s arrival?”

“Well—he asked me what was happening in town, and—” Claire broke off, because Amelie was suddenly standing. And her bodyguards had moved out of the corners of the room and were very close, close enough to hurt. “You didn’t tell me not to!”

“I told you to stay out of my affairs!” Something pale and hungry flickered in those eyes, as scary in its own way as Mr. Bishop. Amelie deliberately relaxed. “Very well. The damage is done. What did Myrnin tell you?”

“He said—” Claire wet her lips and glanced at the bodyguards hovering terrifyingly close. Amelie raised an eyebrow and nodded, and Claire felt rather than saw them move away. “He said you both thought Bishop was dead, so he was surprised to find out that he’d come to town. He said that Bishop wanted revenge. Against you.”

“What did he tell you about the feast?”

“Only that it was part of some kind of ceremony to welcome Bishop to town,” Claire said. “And that you weren’t going to fight him if you were putting on the feast.”

Amelie’s smile was quick and cold. “Myrnin knows something about the world and its politics. No, I’m not going to fight him. Not unless I must. Did he tell you anything else?”

“No.” Claire sucked up her courage. “Ysandre’s taking Shane. And Michael—I just found out he’s going, and he’s taking Monica. Not Eve.”

“Do you imagine I have the slightest concern for how your friends arrange their romantic affairs?”

“No, it’s just—I want you to invite me. Please. All the vampires are taking humans. Why don’t you take me?”

Amelie’s eyes widened. Not much, but it was enough to make Claire think she’d scored a big-time surprise. “Why would you possibly wish to attend?”

“Monica says it’s the social event of the season,” Claire said. She wasn’t sure a joke was the way to go; she knew Amelie had a sense of humor, but it was obscure.

Today, it was apparently nonexistent.

“All right, the truth is, I’m worried about Michael and Shane. I just want to be sure—sure they’re okay.”

“And how would you go about ensuring that, if I cannot?” Amelie didn’t wait for an answer, because there obviously wasn’t one. “You want to watch the boy, to be sure he doesn’t fall prey to Ysandre. Is that it?”

Claire swallowed and nodded. That wasn’t all, but that was a lot of it.

“It’s a waste of time. No,” Amelie said. “You will not attend, Claire. I tell you this, explicitly, so that we are understood: I cannot risk you in this. You will not be at this event. Neither you nor Myrnin. Is that clear?”

“But—”

Amelie’s voice rose to a shout. “Is that clear?” The fury cut like knives, and Claire gasped and nodded. She wanted to take a step back from the horrible glow in Amelie’s eyes, but she knew that would be a very bad idea. She’d been around Myrnin enough to understand that retreat was a sign of weakness, and weakness triggered attack.

Amelie continued to stare at her, fixed and silent, and there was a wildness to her that Claire couldn’t understand.

“Mistress,” said one of the bodyguards. “We should go.” He made it sound as if they had someplace to be, but Claire had the eerie feeling that he was intervening deliberately. Providing Amelie an excuse to back off.

“Yes,” Amelie said. There was a husky tone to her voice Claire had never heard before. “By all means, let us be done with this. You have heard my words, Claire. I warn you, don’t test me on this. You’re valuable to me, but you are not irreplaceable, and you have friends and family in this town who are far less useful.”

There was no mistaking that for anything but an outright threat. Claire nodded slowly.

“Say the words,” Amelie said.

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good. Now don’t bother me again. You may go.”

Claire backed away toward the stairs. She even backed down two steps before turning and hurrying down the rest, and when she was halfway there, she realized that the control to open the door from inside lay at the top, in the couch where Amelie sat.

If Amelie didn’t want to let her out, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Claire reached the landing at the bottom. The door was still closed. She looked back up the stairs and saw shadows moving, but heard nothing.

The lights went out.

“No,” she whispered, and fear came down like a bucket of freezing water, from head to toe. Her hand reached out blindly to stroke the closed door. “No, don’t do this—”

Something had changed in Amelie. She wasn’t the cool, remote queen she’d been before. She was more—animal. More angry.

And Claire finally admitted it to herself: Amelie was more hungry.

“Please,” she said to the dark. She knew there were ears listening. “Please let me go now.”

She heard a sharp click, and the door moved under her fingertips, swinging inward. Claire grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled it open. She was suddenly in the hall, and when she looked back, the door was closing.

She collapsed against the wall, trembling.

That went well, she thought sarcastically. She wanted to scream, but she was almost sure that would be a very, very bad idea.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, and Claire heard the clump of heavy shoes on the wood floor.

“Eve?” she called.

“Yeah.” Eve sounded exhausted. “Coming.”

She looked even worse than she sounded. The red outfit that had flattered her so much before seemed to scream now, overpowering her; she seemed ready to drop, and from the state of her makeup, she’d already shed a lot of tears.

“Oh,” Claire said. “Eve . . .”

Eve tried for a smile, but there wasn’t much left. “Pretty stupid to be upset about Monica, right? But I think that’s why it hurts so bad. It’s not like he’s taking somebody halfway nice or anything. He has to pick the walking social disease.” Eve wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her eyeliner and mascara had made a true Gothic mess, trickling in dirty streaks down her pale cheeks. “Don’t try to tell me he was ordered to do it. I don’t care if he was—he could have told me first. And why aren’t you arguing with me?”

“Because you’re right.”

“Damn right I’m right.” Eve kicked open the door to her room, walked in, and threw herself facedown on the black bed. Claire clicked on the lights, which mostly consisted of strings of dim white Christmas lights and one lamp with a bloodred scarf draped over the shade. Eve screamed into her pillow and punched it. Claire perched on the corner of the bed.

“I’m going to kill him,” Eve said, or at least that was what it sounded like filtered through the pillow. “Stake him right in the heart, shove garlic up his ass, and—and—”

“And what?”

Michael was standing in the doorway. Claire jumped off the bed in alarm, and Eve sat up with her pillow clutched in both hands. “When did you get home?” Claire demanded.

“Apparently just in time to hear my funeral plans. I especially like the garlic up the ass. It’s . . . different.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not finished,” Eve said. She slithered off the bedspread, dropped the pillow, and faced Michael with her arms crossed. “I’m also going to stake you outside in the sun, on top of a fire ant mound. And laugh.”