That was . . . ominous. There was something extremely unsettling about Rozhkov’s confidence, too; Michael knew that many of the vamps treated him well not so much because of any status of his own, but because Amelie loomed over everything like a severe, sometimes benevolent shadow. Rozhkov didn’t seem to care that much about Amelie’s wishes.
“Get out,” Michael said. “And stay out. The house won’t let you in again.”
He felt the Glass House waking up around him; the place had a sentience to it, and loyalty, and it responded to him and Claire even more than Eve and Shane. It would defend him if Rozhkov was stupid enough to try to force the issue.
Which Rozhkov wasn’t. He walked straight to the front door, donned all his protective gear, and left without another word.
“Well, that was interesting,” Shane said. “What’s up with that guy?”
“He’s sick.”
That got Shane’s immediate attention. “Sick? Sick how?”
“I don’t know,” Michael said, “but if he’s five hundred years old, why is he wearing that much sun protection if he isn’t?”
Michael locked the door and exchanged a look with Shane.
“You going to tell me what he wanted now?”
“Eve,” Michael said. “He wanted Eve. And we have to make sure he doesn’t get her.”
? ? ?
“I don’t know,” Eve said as she painted a henna tattoo on Claire’s left arm. “I think I’m taking it as a compliment. You know, I’m not the one the vamps are always calling. That’d be you, CB. Makes me feel all special.”
“You’re special, all right,” Shane said. “Extra points if you think coming to the notice of some creepy ancient bloodsucker is a good thing. They give you shock treatments for that kind of special.”
“Hey, let me bask in my spotlight for a minute.” Eve put the finishing touches on the tattoo and sat back, tilting her head to consider it. Michael tilted his head, too, trying to see what it was she’d drawn. It looked like a skull with all kinds of ornate flourishes and a way-too-cute bow on top. Girly Goth. It did kind of fit Claire, he had to admit. “Okay, basking’s over. What the hell does he want with me? Because I am the very definition of not useful to them. It’s been kind of my mantra.”
Eve wasn’t kidding. She’d spent her life since the age of about sixteen trying hard to piss off the vampires, mock them, and be utterly uncooperative. It was why she was steadfastly Goth in her look; the vampires found that whole trend distasteful and downright disrespectful. Right now, she was rocking a complex confection of braids that curled and stuck out at odd angles around her head. She’d tinted her midnight-black hair with dark blue in streaks. Between the careful pale makeup, dark eyeliner, pale blue lipstick, and skull-and-spike clothes, she looked intimidating to anyone who didn’t know her.
Of course, if you did know her, Michael thought, you probably loved the holy hell out of her. Eve was just like that.
“I don’t know what he wants,” he said, and reached out to take her hand in his. She gave him a quick, warm smile and leaned in to fit her warmth against his side—sunlight in flesh, his own portable sun that heated but never burned him. “I just know that whatever it is, it can’t be good for you.”
“Well, yeah, that’s kind of a given. I’ve never known a vamp to drop in to make it rain fun. I just can’t figure out . . . me. Why me? Claire’s the one who usually gets that honor.”
“Trust me,” Claire said, inspecting her henna tattoo with a mixture of bemusement and delight. “I’m happy to share that.” She held her forearm out to Shane, who ran his fingers over the ink. Michael saw her shiver, and heard the faint whisper of her heartbeat speed faster. “Do you like it?”
“Is it a training tat?”
She laughed. “Kind of.”
“Then I like it. Hey, want to see my new one?”
“Where is it?” Michael, Eve, and Claire somehow managed to say it in unison, and they all dissolved into laughter at Shane’s wounded expression.
“My back, jackasses. C’mon. Do you think I’m that desperate for attention I tattoo my—”
“Let’s just leave it right there,” Eve interrupted. “Because I’m really afraid I might have to think about that one way too hard.” She looked up at Michael, and for a second he lost himself in the shine of her dark eyes, the intoxicating, exotic spice of her scent. “Michael doesn’t have any tats.”
“Michael doesn’t like needles,” he told her.
“Ironic, coming from a dude who bites people for a living,” Shane said.
“Why do you think I don’t like needles?”