"I should," she said softly. "The other night--"
"Claire. Please be straight with me. Are you moving out?"
She was holding the cross now, cradling it, and it felt warm as the sun against her fingers. "I can't," she said. "I have to do laundry first, and that might take a month. You saw the pile."
He laughed, and it was as if all the strength went out of him. He sat down on his unmade bed, hard, and after a moment, she walked around the end and sat next to him. He put his arm around her.
"Life is a work in progress," Shane said. "My mom used to say that. I'm kind of a fixerupper. I know that."
Claire sighed and allowed herself to relax against his warmth. "Good thing I like highmaintenance guys."
He was about to kiss her--finally--when they both heard a sound from overhead.
Only there was nothing overhead. Nothing but the attic.
"Did you hear that?" Shane asked.
"Yeah. It sounded like footsteps."
"Oh, well, that's fantastic. I thought it was supposed to be exitonly or something." Shane reached under his bed and came up with a stake. "Go get Michael and Eve. Here." He handed her another stake. This one had a silver tip. "It's the Cadillac of vampire killers. Don't dent it."
"You are so weird." But she took it, and then dashed to her room to grab the thin silver knife Amelie had given her. No place to put it, but she poked a hole in the pocket of her jeans just big enough for the blade. The jeans were tight enough to keep the blade in place against her leg, but not so much it looked obvious, and besides, it was pretty flexible.
She hurried down the hall, listening for any other movement. Eve's room was empty, but when she knocked on Michael's door, she heard a startled yelp that sounded very Evelike. "What?" Michael asked.
"Trouble," Claire said. "Um, maybe? Attic. Now."
Michael didn't sound any happier about it than Shane had been. "Great. Be there in a second."
Muffled conversation, and the sound of fabric moving. Claire wondered if he was getting dressed, and quickly tried to reject that image, not because it wasn't awesomely hot, but because, well, it was Michael, and besides, there were other things to think about.
Such as what was upstairs in the attic.
Or who.
The door banged open, and Eve rushed out, flushed and mussed and still buttoning her shirt. "It's not what you think," she said. "It was just--oh, okay, whatever, it was exactly what you think. Now, what?"
Something dropped and rolled across the attic floor directly above their heads. Claire silently pointed up, and Eve followed the motion, staring as if she could see through the wood and plaster. She jumped when Michael, who'd thrown on an unbuttoned shirt, put a hand on her shoulder. He put a finger to his lips.
Shane stepped out of his room, holding a stake in either hand. He pitched one underhand to Michael.
Where's mine? Eve mouthed.
Get your own, Shane mouthed back. Eve rolled her eyes and dashed into her own room, coming back with a black bag slung across her chest, bandolierstyle. It was, Claire assumed, full of weapons. Eve fished around in it and came up with a stake of her very own. It even had her initials carved in it.
"Shop class," she whispered. "See? I did learn something in school."
Michael pressed the button to release the hidden door, and it opened without a sound. There were no lights upstairs that Claire could see. The stairs were pitchblack.
Michael, by common consent, went first, vampire eyes, and all. Shane followed, then Eve; Claire brought up the rear, and tried to move as silently as possible, although not really all that silently, because the stairs creaked beneath the weight of four people. At the top, Claire ran into Eve's back, and whispered, "What?"
Eve, in answer, reached back to grip her hand. "Michael smells blood," she whispered. "Hush."
Michael flicked on a light at the other end of the small, silent room. There was nothing unusual, just the furniture that was always here. There were no signs anybody had been here since the Goldmans and Myrnin had departed.
"How do we get into the attic?" Shane asked. Michael pressed hidden studs, and another door, barely visible at that end of the room, clicked open. Claire remembered it well; Myrnin had shown it to her, when they'd been getting stuff together to go to Bishop's welcome feast.
"Stay here," Michael said, and stepped through into the dim, open space.
"Yeah, sure," Shane said, and followed. He popped his head back in to say, "No, not you two. Stay here."
"Does he just not get how unfair and sexist that is?" Eve asked. "Men."
"You really want to go first?"
"Of course not. But I'd like the chance to refuse to go first."
They waited tensely, listening for any sign of trouble. Claire heard Shane's footsteps moving through the attic, but nothing else for a long time.
Then she heard him say, "Michael. Oh man . . . over here." There was tension in his voice, but it didn't sound like he was about to jump into handtohand combat.
Eve and Claire exchanged looks, and Eve said, "Oh, screw it," and dived into the attic after them.
Claire followed, gripping the Cadillac of stakes and hoping she wasn't going to be forced to try to use it.
Shane was crouched down behind some stacked, dusty suitcases, and Michael was there, too. Eve pulled in a sharp breath when she saw what it was they were bending over, and put out a hand to stop Claire in her tracks.
Not that Claire stopped, until she saw who was lying on the wooden floor. She hardly recognized him, really. If it hadn't been for the gray ponytail and the leather coat . . .
"It's Oliver," she whispered. Eve was biting her lip until it was almost white, staring at her former boss. "What happened?"
"Silver," Michael said. "Lots of it. It eats vampire skin like acid, but he shouldn't be this bad. Not unless--" He stopped as the pale, burned eyelids fluttered. "He's still alive."
"Vampires are hard to kill," Oliver whispered. His voice was barely a creak of sound, and it broke at the end on what sounded almost like a sob. "Jesu. Hurts."
Michael exchanged a look with Shane, then said, "Let's get him downstairs. Claire. Go get some blood from the fridge. There should be some."
"No," Oliver grated, and sat up. There was blood leaking through his white shirt, as if all his skin were gone underneath. "No time. Attack on City Hall, coming tonight--Bishop. Using it as a--diversion--to--" His eyes opened wider, and went blank, then rolled up into his head.