One of the bikers.

She looked around and saw three more, all armed, pointing weapons at the van—and then, she saw Shane’s father walking up, as easy as if the whole town and every vampire in it hadn’t been hunting him through the night. He even looked rested.

“Monica Morrell,’” he said. “Come on down! See what you’ve won.’”

Monica froze where she was, holding on to one of the hanging leather straps. She looked at the guns, at Gina, who was kneeling with her hands in the air, and then helplessly at Claire.

She was afraid. Monica—crazy, weird, pretty Monica—was actually scared. “My father—’”

“Let’s talk about him later,’” Frank said. “You get your sweet ass down here, Monica. Don’t make me come and get you.’”

She retreated farther into the van. Shane’s dad grinned and motioned two of his bikers inside. One grabbed Gina by the hair and dragged her out to sprawl in the street.

The other one grabbed Monica, struggling and spitting, and handcuffed her to the leather strap in the back. She stopped fighting, amazed. “But—’”

“I knew you were going to do the opposite of what I told you,’” Frank said. “Easiest way to keep you in the van was to tell you to get out.’” He opened the driver’s-side door and stuck a gun in Jennifer’s face. “You, I don’t need. Out.’”

She slid down, fast, and kept her hands high as Frank pushed her toward the bikers. She sat down next to Gina on the curb and put her arms around her. Funny, Claire had never thought of those two as being friends in their own right, just as hangers-on for Monica. But now they seemed…real. And really scared.

“You.’” Shane’s dad turned to look directly at Claire. “In the back.’”

“But—’”

One of the bikers put his gun close to her head. She swallowed and scrambled into the van, claiming the leather seat that Monica had so recently tumbled out of. Shane’s father got in after her, then a sweaty load of bikers. One of them got in the driver’s seat, and the van lurched into gear.

It hadn’t taken but a minute, Claire figured. In Morganville, at this hour, nobody probably even noticed. The streets looked deserted.

She looked at Monica, who stared back, and for the first time, she thought she really understood what Monica was feeling, because she felt it, too.

This was a very bad thing.

The van lurched through a long series of turns, and Claire tried to think of an easy way to get to her cell phone, which was in the pocket of her jeans. She’d dropped Eve’s back at the car, when Monica had slammed her face-first into the dashboard…. She managed to get her fingers hooked in her pocket, casual-like, and touched the metal case. All I have to do is dial 911, she thought. Eve had probably already reported the abduction, if Eve was okay enough to talk. They could trace cell phones, right? GPS tracking or something?

As if he’d read her mind, Shane’s dad came to her, stood her up, and patted her down. He did it fast, not lingering like some dirty old man, and found the phone in her pocket. He took it. Monica was yelling again, and trying to kick; one of the bikers was doing the same thing as Frank, although Claire thought it was more feeling up than patting down. Still, he found her cell, too—a Treo—and slid open the van door to pitch them out into the street. “Kill ’em!’” he yelled to the driver, who pulled the van into a U-turn and went back the other way. Claire didn’t hear the crunch, but she figured the phones were nothing but electronic bits.

The turning and lurching continued. Claire just hung on, head down, thinking hard. She couldn’t get word out, but Eve would have. Detective Hess, Detective Lowe? Maybe they’d come running.

Maybe Amelie would send her own people to enforce her Protection. That would be pretty fabulous right about now.

“Hey,’” Monica said to Shane’s dad. “Stupid move, asshole. My dad’s going to have every cop in Morganville on you in seconds. You’re never going to get away, and once they have you, they’ll throw you in a hole so deep, even the sewer will seem like heaven. Don’t touch me, you pig!’” Monica writhed to get away from the stroking hands of the biker next to her, who just smiled and showed gold-capped teeth.

“Don’t touch her,’” Shane’s dad said. “We’re not animals.’” Claire wondered where all this sudden White Knight syndrome came from, because he’d been willing to let his boys do whatever to her and Eve back at the Glass House. “Take her bracelet.’”

“What? No. No! It doesn’t come off, you know that!’”

The biker reached down and took a small pair of bolt cutters from a pouch on his belt. Claire gasped in horror as the biker grabbed Monica’s arm. Oh God, she thought, he’s going to cut off her hand….

But he just sliced through the metal bracelet, instead, yanked it off her wrist, and tossed it to Shane’s father. Monica glared at him, trembling, and slapped him. Hard.

He drew back a hand to slap her back. “Leave it,’” Shane’s father said. He was staring at the bracelet. The outside was the symbol, of course; Claire couldn’t read it, but she figured it was Brandon’s symbol, and now that Brandon was dead, she wondered who picked up his Protection duties. Maybe Oliver…

On the inside was inscribed Monica’s full name: MON

ICA ELLEN MORRELL. Shane’s dad grunted in satisfaction.

“You want a finger, too?’” the biker asked, snipping the shears. “No trouble.’”

“I think this makes the point for us,’” Shane’s dad said. “Get us underground, Kenny. Move.’”

The guy driving—Kenny, at least now Claire knew one of their names—nodded. He was a tall man, kind of thin, with long black hair and a blue bandanna. His leather vest had a naked girl on a Harley on the back, and it matched the tattoos down the arm that Claire could see. Kenny expertly navigated the confusing streets and turns of Morganville, moving fast but not dangerously fast, and then all of a sudden…darkness.

Kenny flicked on the lights. They were in a storm drain, a huge concrete tunnel big enough to fit the van—though barely—and it was heading down at a steep angle into the dark. Claire fought to get her breath. She didn’t really like closed-in places, or the dark…. She remembered how freaked-out she’d been sealed in the hidden pantry room at the Glass House, not so many days ago. No, she didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.

“Where are you taking us?’” she asked. She meant it to sound tough, but instead it sounded like what she was: a scared sixteen-year-old, trying to be brave. Great.

Frank Collins, hanging on to one of the leather straps, looked at her with something strange in his eyes—almost, she thought, respect. “Not taking you anywhere,’” he said. “You get to deliver the message.’” And he pitched her Monica’s severed bracelet. “Tell the mayor that if I don’t hear that my son’s been set free before tomorrow at dawn, pretty little miss here gets to find out what fire is really like. We’ve got us a nice blowtorch.’”

She didn’t like Monica. In fact, she kind of hated her, and she thought Morganville would be a much better place if Monica just…disappeared.

But nobody deserved what he was talking about.

“You can’t do that,’” she said. “You can’t.’” But she knew, looking around at the grinning, sweaty crew he’d brought with him, that he could do that, and a lot worse. Shane was right. His dad was seriously sick.

“Kenny up there’s going to pull up to a ladder soon,’” Frank continued. “And I’m going to want you to get out of the van, Claire. Go up the ladder and push open the grate. You’ll be right in front of the Morganville City Hall. You walk up to the first cop you see and you tell him you need to see the mayor about Frank Collins. And you tell him that Frank Collins has his daughter, and she’s going to pay for the life she already took, not to mention the one they’re about to. Got it?’”

Claire nodded stiffly. Monica’s bracelet felt cold and heavy in her fingers.