“Not get to me? Michael, my father is saying I have to move!”

“You don’t,” Michael said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Claire’s father, who’d been frowning, turned a dark, unhealthy color of red in the face. “You damn well do,” he snapped. “You’re my daughter, Claire, and until you turn eighteen, you’ll do what I tell you. And you—” He leveled a finger at Michael. “If I have to bring charges against you—”

“For what?” Michael asked mildly.

“For—look, don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. If I find out that my daughter’s been— been . . .” Dad didn’t seem to be able to work up the words. Michael continued to watch him steadily, with no sign of comprehension.

Claire cleared her throat.

“Dad,” she said. She felt color blazing in her cheeks, and her voice was barely steady. “If you’re asking if I’m still a virgin, I am.”

“Claire!” Her mom’s voice cracked sharply across the last of her sentence. “That’s enough.”

Total silence at the table. Not even Michael seemed to know where to take the conversation from there. Eve looked like she was having a hard time deciding whether to laugh or wince, and finally dug into her chocolate sundae as the best possible response.

Michael’s cell phone rang. He opened it, spoke softly, listened, and closed it without replying. He signaled the waitress. “We have to go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Back to the house. Amelie wants to see us.”

“You’re coming home with us,” Dad said to Claire, who shook her head. “Don’t argue with me—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she has to come with us right now,” Michael said. “If Amelie says it’s the right thing to do, I’ll bring her to your house myself. But we’ll drop you off on the way, and I’ll let you know as soon as possible.” It was said respectfully, but without any room for argument, and there was something about Michael in that moment that just couldn’t be pushed.

Dad’s face set, still red, and very hard. “This isn’t over, Michael.”

“Yes sir,” he said. “That much I know. We haven’t even started yet.”

The drive back was even more uncomfortable, and not just physically; Claire’s father was livid, her mother embarrassed, and Claire herself was so mad she could barely stand to look at either of them. How could they? Even if Mr. Bishop had done something to them, screwed with their heads, they’d bought into it completely. They’d always said they trusted her, always said that they wanted her to make her own decisions, but when it came right down to it, they wanted her to be their helpless little girl, after all.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She’d come too far for that.

Michael pulled to a stop in front of her parents’ new house—another big Gothic-style house, looking almost exactly like their own except for the landscaping out front. Her parents’ Founder House had a spreading live oak tree towering over the property that rustled like dry paper in the evening breeze, and the trim was painted what looked like, in the dark, a dull black.

Claire’s dad leaned in to give her one last look. “I expect to hear from you tonight,” he said. “I expect you to tell me when you’re coming home. And by home, I mean here, with us.”

She didn’t answer. After extending the look for way too long, her dad shut the car door, and Michael accelerated smoothly away—not too quickly, but not slowly, either.

And they all breathed an audible sigh of relief when the house faded into the darkness behind the car. “Wow,” Shane said. “Dude’s got a glare on him. Maybe he really does belong here in Morganville.”

“Don’t say that,” Claire said. She was fighting with all kinds of emotions—anger at her parents, frustration with the situation, worry, outright fear. Her parents didn’t belong here. They’d been just fine where they were, but Amelie had to uproot them and bring them here. Having Claire’s parents where she could control them gave her more leverage.

And now it gave Mr. Bishop leverage, too.

Shane took her hand. “Easy,” he said. “Like Michael said, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to go. Not that I wouldn’t feel better if you were someplace a hell of a lot safer.”

“I don’t think the Danvers house will be safer,” Michael said. “They don’t understand the rules, or the risks—they’re too new here. I think Bishop’s trying to play with Amelie’s head, and whatever we think about her, he’s worse. I guarantee it.”

Claire shuddered. “Was it Amelie who called you at the restaurant?”

“No,” Michael said, and there was a grim tone in his voice. “That was Oliver. I have to admit, I’m not feeling real good about this. Oliver’s never really been on her side—maybe he’s taken Bishop’s. In which case we could be going home to a trap.”

“Do we have a choice?” Shane asked.

“Don’t think so.”

“Then screw it. I’m getting tired.” Shane yawned. “Let’s go get eaten. At least then I can get some sleep.”

Nobody thought it was funny—least of all Shane, Claire suspected—but they didn’t have any better ideas, and Michael drove home. Morganville was silent outside the dark-tinted windows; Claire could barely see dim gleams of lights, and they might have been the few and far-between streetlamps, or the glow from house porch lights. It was a lot like being in a space capsule, but with better upholstery.

Michael parked and turned off the car. As Eve reached for her door handle, he said, “Guys.” She waited. They all waited. “I didn’t exactly get any instant upgrade on knowledge when I—when I changed, but I’m damn sure of one thing. This Bishop, he’s real trouble. Trouble like maybe we’ve never seen before. And I’m worried. So watch each other’s backs. I’ll try—”

He didn’t seem to know how to finish that. Eve reached out to touch his face, and he turned toward her, lips parted. The look that went between them was so naked it felt wrong to see it. Shane cleared his throat.

“We’re all on it, man,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

Michael didn’t answer, but then, Claire figured maybe there wasn’t much to say. He got out of the car, and the others followed. The evening was getting cold, and the wind fluttered around Claire’s hair and clothes, looking for skin to chill. Finding it, too. She wrapped her jacket closer and hurried after Michael toward the back door.

Inside, the kitchen was exactly as they’d left it— messy. Pots and pans still on the stove, though thankfully they’d remembered to turn off the burners before they’d left. The smell of stale bacon grease and rubbery gravy hung heavy in the air, barely cut by the aroma of old, overcooked coffee.

They didn’t stop. Michael led them straight through the kitchen door, into the living room.

Bishop was gone. So were his two pretty hangers-on. It was just Amelie and Oliver, sitting alone at the large wooden table. They’d carelessly shoved aside plates and cups and glasses into a tottering pile, and between them was a chessboard. Nothing Claire recognized that belonged in the house; it looked old, and well used. Beautiful, too.

Amelie was playing white. She ignored their entry as she contemplated the chessboard. Across from her, Oliver leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sent the four of them an unreadable look. He seemed right at home, which made Claire fume, and she could only imagine how Michael felt about it. Oliver had killed Michael—ripped away his human existence and trapped him in a twilight state between human and vampire— right here in this house. In fact, almost on this very spot. It had been brutal, and murderous, and Michael had never for a second forgotten who and what Oliver was, however he appeared.

Amelie had offered Michael the chance to escape from that trap, and he’d taken it even at the cost of becoming a true vampire. So far, he didn’t seem to regret it. Much.

“You’re not welcome here,” Michael said to Oliver, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.