“Of course.” Amelie didn’t seem to be; she was holding her swords down, almost not seeming to know what to do with them.

Oliver took one step toward her, and the weapons snapped up and targeted him so fast, Claire blinked. Oliver raised one over his head in a pose that made her think of a scorpion’s stinger, and circled to the right. Amelie circled, too, keeping the distance between them…until suddenly she was moving, two light, quick steps, a sudden jump that ended in a sliding lunge, and both her épées hit targets, one slicing across Oliver’s leg, the other under his arm. He whirled and hit her in the back with an underhand stroke—or tried to. She must have known it was coming, because she bent forward, graceful as a willow, and rolled up on her knee to parry the next lunge.

And that was just the start.

“You know,” Eve said distantly, about five minutes later, as the two vampires were still circling, slashing, hacking, and scoring points on each other, “I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t ever piss him off. Or her. Again.”

“You think?” Claire whispered back. “Jeez. It’s like The Terminator meets Buffy.”

“How do they decide who wins? I mean, clearly, they’re hitting each other, but they don’t even pretend those are going to hurt….”

“I don’t think it matters,” Claire said.

She was proven right just thirty seconds later, when Amelie reached down and tapped the point of one épée three times on the floor. Oliver, moving in for a lunge, veered off at the last second and went to a neutral position.

“Done?” he asked.

“Most enjoyable,” she said. “Thirty-two mortal touches for you; thirty-one for me. But I don’t mind losing to a master, Oliver.” She bowed slightly, swords down.

He bowed back, a little more deeply. “Nor do I,” he said. “But winning is always better. You’re favoring your right again, you know.”

“I noticed. We can’t all overcome nature’s disadvantages so easily.”

They exchanged a smile, a real one, and Claire exchanged a look with Eve. Eve cleared her throat.

“Are you still here?” Oliver asked without changing his expression. He didn’t look away from Amelie. “Leave.”

“Right,” Claire said. “Going.”

She picked up Eve’s stuff and walked with her to one of the small changing rooms to strip off the sweat-damp uniforms. Eve stuffed hers into the bag and stripped off her pink shirt. Claire gasped at the forming bruise, which was at least three inches across and looked very painful.

“Dammit,” Eve said. “That’s going to show over my bra. Got to rethink the wardrobe for the next few days.” She probed at the bruise with a fingertip and winced. “Nothing broken, just a nice reminder not to screw around with Ollie on the pointy-object dance floor.”

“I can’t believe you fought him.”

“Fought him? Damn, girlfriend, I got a touch on him. You know how difficult that is? I’ve been a serious fencer for years, but I never even got close to a touch on anybody without a pulse. He used to duel for real, you know. Without the safety tips on the blades.”

Claire could believe it. What she couldn’t get her head around was that Eve thought that was cool.

Maybe, she thought, fencing isn’t my sport after all.

Michael was home when they arrived, and surprisingly, he wasn’t playing guitar. He was sitting on the couch in Shane’s customary spot, playing a game. “Hey,” he said as Claire and Eve entered. “Nobody made dinner.”

“Nobody but you was home to eat it,” Eve said. “And I’m taking a wild guess that you didn’t make it, either.”

“Nope.” He killed a zombie with a chainsaw, and ducked instinctively as another one lunged at him out of the shadows on the screen. “Guess we’re all going to bed hungry, like the bad children we are.”

“Guess not.” Eve winked at Claire, who held up a grease-stained bag. “Seriously, you couldn’t smell the burgers? Is your vampire nose on the fritz, Michael?”

“I was hoping I was imagining the burgers.”

“Shut up. I got you one made extra rare. With pickles. I know you like pickles.”

Michael paused the game and put the controller aside, and as he stood up, the door opened and Shane came in. He nodded to Michael as he dropped his canvas bag in the hallway, next to Eve’s. “Who got burgers?”

“See, he can smell the burgers!” Eve yelled from the kitchen.

Michael ignored that. “You guys go to the gym?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “The martial arts guy is pretty hard-core.”

“I got a bruise!” Eve shouted. “Big one! Right over my heart! Guess who put it there?”

Michael raised his eyebrows at Shane, who held up his hands. “Not me, man. I never touched her.”

“Oliver!” Eve backed out of the kitchen door, holding plates, balancing them like a pro. “Michael, here’s your almost-cooked one. Shane, got you the jalapeño burger. Me and Claire have plain old boring ones.”

“We’re branching out into different forms of junk food,” Michael said. “Exciting.”

“Shut up. Do you want your juice warmed up?” Juice, Claire figured, was Eve’s new code for blood. Well, technically, it was juice, Claire supposed. People juice.

“I’ll get it,” Michael said. “Thanks. Shane, Claire—Cokes?”

“Yes!” Claire yelled, at the same time Shane did. He walked over to put his arm around her and bent to kiss her.

“Jinx,” he whispered.

“I like this version of jinxies better than the one I did in grade school,” she said. He tasted like salt and metal, but it still seemed sexy—and so did the way his damp T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. She’d never thought sweaty was all that sexy before, but Shane…well. Shane rocked it.

“So, what did you do at the gym?” he asked. “I thought I saw you on the stair machine.”

Oops. Busted. “I was on it for a while,” she said. “Then Eve took me to teach me how to fence.”

“Not so much how to fence as how to hold a sword and not drop it,” Eve said. “And then I fought Oliver to a draw.”

Shane fluttered his hands. “Oh, and then we were all elected as ice princesses and asked to go to Disneyland!” He rolled his eyes.

“Laugh all you want. I’m going to look way better in full skirts than you,” Eve said. “And besides, I’m not lying. I got a mortal touch on Oliver. Ask your girlfriend.”

“She hit him with her sword,” Claire said, when both Michael and Shane looked at her. “I saw it.”

“And then, to make sure I knew my place, he practically rammed his épée through my heart, but, you know, details. Hence the bruise.” She dragged down the neckline of her shirt to show off the top of it. Shane whistled appreciatively—not at her assets, Claire felt sure. The bruise. That was Shane, through and through.

“I didn’t know fencing was a contact sport,” he said. “I thought it was more, you know, a pretend sport. Like golf. Or competitive eating.”

“Hey, golf is hard.” Eve shrugged. “Anytime you want me to whip your lame ass on eighteen holes, let me know.”

“I got whipped enough, thanks.” Shane flopped down in his chair and pulled the plate toward him. “I could eat roadkill, I’m so hungry. Without hot sauce.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I have no idea what’s really in these burgers,” Eve said. Michael came out of the kitchen and put three cold cans of Coke on the table, and one sports bottle that might have possibly held juice. Warm juice. Claire was glad it was opaque. “Dinner together. Wow. This is an event.”

It was, recently. They’d all been doing their own thing so much, it had been more like two of them eating together, or maybe three. Having all four at the table was great for a change. Eve chattered on about work, and how awesome the fencing room (the salle?) was at the new gym. Michael put in a few tidbits about what was happening with his music, which was still up in the air after their road trip to Dallas to get his demo recorded. It was sounding positive, but Michael was all about the caution and pessimism.