"Claire. That's a technicality. Your mom ordered you to do it tonight. Do you really think they'll just let that go?"
"Probably not. It would at least give me time to try and convince Amy not to say anything—that if she keeps her mouth shut, we'll both be okay. The pack might not make her a gardien, but maybe I can get her to keep the secret anyway. If I can find a way to fix things without killing her, they might just force me to become a seule. They might not kill me, as long as the pack's not at risk."
"They'll make you leave the pack?" His mouth fell open.
Claire closed her eyes, trying to stay calm—to hold on to the glimmering, butterfly-winged feeling she'd had when she realized she couldn't push Amy over the bridge.
The doorbell rang, and Claire's eyes flew open.
Matthew stepped over to the door and peered through the peephole.
Claire watched as the color drained from his face.
"Who is it?" she asked, fear tugging at her voice.
He edged back into the kitchen, his eyes wild. "It's Amy," he whispered. "Shit."
"Perfect," Claire said. The edges of her vision had gone fuzzy, and she had an elated, half-crazed feeling that was out beyond the limits of panic. "No time like the present. Let's talk to her."
Matthew moved toward Claire, brushing the hair off her forehead. "Please. Not yet. Let—let me talk to her. Go hide somewhere, and let me see if I can figure out what happened. Why she's here. Please, Claire. Let me try first."
She looked at his anguished face and knew that she loved him too much to say no.
Besides, there was time now.
There was plenty of time.
"Okay," she agreed.
"Oh, thank God. Okay"—he stared around the room— "you can't go upstairs—she might see you go past the front window. It'll have to be the basement. It's the only place."
"Fine," she said, stretching up to kiss him. She'd meant it to be a quick, reassuring kiss, but the chaos and frenzy of the last few hours turned into need. Matthew's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him with a force that made her gasp. His mouth pressed against hers. The current that passed between them was dizzying. Claire wound her hands around his neck, tracing a path with her fingertips from his hairline down below his collar.
Amy knocked on the front door. Panting, he pulled away from her.
"Downstairs," he reminded her. "Please. Wait for me."
"Okay," she said, breathless. She turned and headed for the door, darting down the stairs. Standing in the shadows that pooled on the basement floor, Claire strained to listen to what was going on above her.
She heard the click of the latch and Matthew sounding surprised.
"Hey, Amy—what are you doing here?"
It was hard to hear Amy's response. The wind carried her voice away from the house.
"Really? That's weird. Maybe they forgot," Matthew said. Claire could hear his footsteps. "Come on in."
They moved into the living room, and one of them—Amy or Matthew, she couldn't tell which—swung the door shut behind them. Claire found her fingers curling unconsciously into fists. Amy and Matthew were too far away. Even her hearing wasn't good enough to get through that many closed doors. Cursing the fact that the basement didn't extend below the living room, she slipped back around to the bottom of the stairs, trying to hear.
"So, what, uh, what brings you by?" Matthew's voice was tense. Claire could practically see him sitting on the arm of his mother's chintz-covered chair anxiously bouncing his knee.
"It's about Claire, actually." Amy's voice was still faint, and Claire crept up a few steps. "I'm really worried that I've made a huge mess of the whole situation, and I don't know what to do about it." She sounded genuinely miserable, and Claire blinked in surprise.
"Okay . . ." Matthew's voice was slow, careful, and suspicious. Claire squeezed her eyes shut. He really was a terrible liar.
Amy said something, but her voice had gotten so soft that Claire couldn't hear.
Crap.
She didn't want to go any farther up the stairs—they creaked terribly, and besides, she'd be completely exposed if someone opened the basement door. But the only other way she'd be able to hear—really hear—was if she was in her wolf form.
She bit her lip. She'd be able to change back long before anyone saw her, but she'd sworn she'd never transform inside again. And Matthew's basement, with all the lycanthropy books that reeked of Dr. Engle, was even worse than her bedroom.
She hesitated, trying to decide if she could stand the terror of being trapped inside. But whatever Amy was saying up there, Claire needed to hear it.