“In the subcategory of Completely Awesome,” Shane said, and stole some of her fries. Eve stabbed at him with a fork, but missed.

The bell over the door chimed, and it wasn’t that Claire was really looking, exactly; she was too busy laughing. But something about the woman who came in caught her eye. Maybe it was because she was clearly a vampire, and from the way she dressed and the hair, she’d probably last cared about fashion in the 1940s. She looked eerily out of place here, where most of the vamps were wearing casual, modern clothes, even if their hairstyles seemed a little iffy.

She looked around the diner as if she were trying to locate someone. The waitress Helen steered in her direction, and must have asked her if she needed help, because the woman focused in on her immediately.

And then she attacked her. Just . . . cold, flat-out bit her. It was so fast Claire couldn’t react at all, at first; it seemed so totally random, so wrong that her brain kept insisting she wasn’t seeing it.

Other people reacted, though. Father Joe, for one; he jumped up and raced to help. So did a tableful of vampires seated near the door. It took all of them to wrestle the vamp off of Helen, who collapsed back against the counter, holding a shaking hand to her bleeding throat. Her knees buckled, and she fell. Other diners bent down to check her as the vamps continued to fight with the stranger. She was acting crazy now, yelling in a language Claire didn’t recognize at all. Finally, they got her out the door and off into the night.

For some reason, Claire hadn’t moved at all. Most of the people hadn’t. Maybe they’d been afraid to draw attention. She felt, suddenly, like a small, defenseless animal in a room full of predators.

“Uh, Mike?” Shane asked. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said. “But it was freaking weird.”

Helen was okay, it appeared, although she wouldn’t have been if the vamp had been able to do her worst. Father Joe offered to drive her to the hospital, and the cook came out of the back to keep order and make sure nobody ran out on their checks. He was a vampire, which for some reason struck Claire as immensely odd. A vampire fry cook just seemed . . . wrong. But then again, they were really great burgers. Being immortal gave you lots of time to perfect your grilling technique, Claire guessed.

As they paid their check and headed for the door, Claire overheard one of the vampires saying to another, “Did you understand what she said?”

And the other vampire said, “She was screaming that it was all wrong.”

“What was all wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and shrugged. “The world? She’s off her head.”

And once again, Claire felt that shiver.

Something wasn’t right in Morganville.

She just knew it.

She woke up early the next morning, and felt as if she could’ve slept for a dozen more days. Nobody else was stirring, and Claire decided not to wake them up; she showered and dressed as quietly as possible, and sneaked out the front door while the mist was still on the ground outside, and the sun was just coming up.

Morganville was pretty at this time of day—still, quiet, cleaner somehow than it seemed in full light. She’d always liked early mornings here better than any other time.

Mostly, though, she liked the fact that sunrise signaled most vampires to head for their beds. Except Myrnin, who hardly ever seemed to rest at all.

She walked the streets as lights came on in houses, cars began to move again, and people started their usual days. A construction crew had gotten busy early, lots of guys in flannel shirts, jeans, and work boots hammering and sawing in the clean morning light. It felt . . . new. And good.

There was a car parked in the middle of the street up ahead. Claire frowned and slowed, watching it—it wasn’t pulled to the curb; it was just sitting there, blocking whatever traffic might eventually come by. As she watched, a girl only a little older than she was—maybe nineteen or twenty—opened the driver’s-side door and got out. She stood there next to the car, looking around.

It was eerily familiar. It was like Alex, sitting by the side of the road, seeming so lost.

But this girl had clearly been heading somewhere. She was dressed for an office. Claire could see a laptop and a purse in the passenger seat. And there was a sealed cup steaming the scent of coffee into the air from the cup holder in the door.

The girl caught sight of Claire, and waved her over. Claire hesitated, remembering what kind of reception she’d had from Alex, but finally went. She stopped out of grabbing range and said, “Are you having car trouble?” Because that made the most sense, obviously.

The girl looked at her and said, “I can’t find my mom’s office.”

“I . . . Excuse me?”

“I know it’s around here somewhere. My God, I go there all the time! It’s ridiculous! Look, can you help me?”

“Uh . . . sure,” Claire said cautiously. “What’s the name of the office?”

“Landau Realty.”

Claire had never heard of it. “You’re sure it’s around here?”

“I’m sure. It was right there. But the sign’s gone, and there’s nobody inside. I’ve been up and down the street. There’s not even a note. It’s ridiculous! I was there yesterday!”

A man came out of another building down the street, carrying a briefcase. The girl yelled at him. “Hey, mister! Where’s Landau Realty? Did they move?”

He hesitated, frowning, and then walked over, tucking his newspaper under his arm. “Excuse me?”

“Landau Realty,” the girl repeated. “God, really? Has everybody gone crazy?”

“You’re . . . Laura, right? Iris’s daughter?”

“Yes! Yes, Iris is my mom.” Laura breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Look, her office was right here, and I don’t understand. . . .”

The man was looking at her very oddly. He also looked at Claire, as if she ought to be doing something. She had no clue. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Laura, look—I don’t know what happened, but you know where your mom is. She . . . she died last year. The office was closed up. I attended the funeral. So did you.”

Laura stared at him, wide-eyed, and shook her head. “No. No, that’s not true. I’d remember—”

She stopped. Just . . . stopped. It was like someone hit a reset button in her head, because all of a sudden she looked older, and her face just crumpled with the weight of misery. “Oh, God,” she said, and put both hands to her mouth. “Oh, God, I remember that. I remember—What was I thinking? Why did I . . . ? Oh, God, Mom . . .” She burst into tears and got back into her car, slamming the door as she fumbled for a tissue out of her purse.

The man hesitated, then decided he really didn’t want to hang around to be a shoulder to cry on. He walked away quickly, like whatever had gotten into Laura might be contagious.

Claire hesitated. She felt like she ought to do something, but suddenly getting to Myrnin’s lab seemed much more important.

Her conscience was cleared by Laura Laudau blowing her nose, wiping her eyes, putting her car in drive, and heading off down the street, still crying.

Something was very, very wrong.

It’s the machine, Claire thought.

It had to be the machine.

When she went to see Myrnin about it, though, things didn’t go as she’d planned. Not at all.

First, as she descended the stairs, she found that the lights were all off. That wasn’t like him; Myrnin had no real concept of energy conservation, and he couldn’t be bothered to turn things off if they were already on. Power failure, Claire thought, but when she located a switch on the wall and threw it, all the sconces on the walls lit up with a reassuring golden glow, spilling color and life through the room.

Myrnin was lying stretched out on one of the lab tables, wearing a crimson dressing gown that had seen better days—at least fifty years ago. His eyes were closed, and he seemed . . . dead. Asleep? But Myrnin didn’t sleep, not really. She’d seen him nap occasionally, but he’d wake at the slightest sound.