Michael was sitting in his comfortable armchair, with Eve snugged against him like a happy cat, and Shane and Claire had the sagging, much-abused sofa. Not for the first time, Michael considered that they’d really have to start taking better care of the place. Home improvement never seemed to get high up on the priority list, though. Or, at least, not as high as staying alive in a town that wanted to kill them at least twelve hours of every day. Tonight, though, it seemed quiet. Gentle. Normal. The TV was playing silently in the background; Shane had turned it on, which meant he was going to be loading up a game anytime now, and soon they’d be taking turns shooting zombies and trash-talking each other.
But Michael’s mind kept worrying at the problem of Kiril Rozhkov, and what the vampire wanted with his wife. For all her attitude and toughness, she was still human, and fragile. And precious to him.
“Claire,” he said. “How do you feel about asking Amelie for a favor?”
“Not so good,” she replied. “Why can’t you?”
It was a fair question. He was, after all, her creature; she’d made him a vampire, and he was part of her own bloodline. That entitled him to certain privileges, normally. “She’s keeping her distance,” he said. “We had a—difference of opinion.”
By which he meant she was still cold toward him because of his marriage to Eve. She still didn’t approve, though she hadn’t actively stopped him from doing it; it had nothing to do with Eve herself, but more with the principle of humans and vampires making those kinds of commitments, and the general attitude of vampires (and humans) about it. Amelie needed to stay above the fray, and right now, he was the fray.
“I guess,” Claire said. “You want me to ask her about Rozhkov?”
“Yes. I just need a clue about the guy—how dangerous he is, how worried I should be.”
“We,” Eve said, without raising her head from where it rested against his chest. “How worried we should be.”
“We,” he agreed, and looked at Claire. “Please?”
She grinned. Even though she’d grown up over the years he’d known her—grown into a capable, calm, intimidating young woman, really—she still looked like she was ten when she smiled like that. “Since you said please,” she said. “Thanks for the tat, Eve. It’s supercool.”
She excused herself and went upstairs to make the call, and Shane (as Michael had predicted) loaded up Dead Rising and went to work slaughtering the undead. Eve uncurled herself from her place at Michael’s side and took up the other controller, and before a minute had gone by, they were insulting each other nonstop, in colorfully hilarious ways.
Michael’s fingers itched to pick up his guitar and play, but he also knew it was probably the wrong time. Instead, he went upstairs and knocked softly on Claire’s closed bedroom door.
She opened it. Her cell phone was in her hand, but she put it on her dresser and walked back to her bed to sit down.
“Rozhkov is bad news,” she said to him.
“Kinda got that already.”
“Amelie wouldn’t say much. She just said not to let him inside.”
“I wish she’d imparted that wisdom a little earlier. Like before we let him inside.”
Claire smiled a bit, but she looked pale and serious as she stared at him. “She didn’t say it in so many words, but Eve’s in danger. I could read between the lines. I don’t know why he wants her, but if he does, it’s not for fashion tips and henna tattoos.”
“She’s not going to like being guarded.”
“Nope,” Claire said, and the smile grew wider. “She’s not going to like it a bit. We should probably take turns so we all get the blame equally.”
“She’s not going out after dark.”
“You’re going to have to tell her that yourself, because I am not sticking my hand in that wasps’ nest.”
It wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation, for certain. “I guess it’s my job. Thanks for helping watch out for her.”
“We look out for each other. We’re family. It’s what we do. Is that the door?”
Michael had heard it, too—the doorbell was broken, so it made a weird buzzing sound that was sometimes hard for human ears to hear, but Claire had found a way of attuning herself to it even from up here. To him, it sounded like a fly buzzing in his ear—annoying, and alarming.
Even more alarming when Eve yelled out, “I’ll get it!” from downstairs.
Michael didn’t think; he just moved. It was rare he engaged the speed vampire life had given him, at least here in the house; he’d grown so used to mimicking human behavior around his friends and with Eve that it came almost naturally. But just now, with the prickling awareness of danger seeping into him, he didn’t even consider appearances.
Shane yelped when Michael passed by him, but Michael was gone and down the hallway before the sound even registered. Eve was at the end of the hallway, cracking the door open. She wasn’t as careful as she should have been, but the fact that Rozhkov was a vampire, and the house was on alert about him, had probably lulled her into a false sense of security.
It wasn’t Rozhkov out there. It was a human—a scared one. Michael recognized him as Mr. Lockhart, from down the block. “Please,” the man said, as Michael joined Eve at the door. “Please, you’ve gotta help me. He’s in my house.”
“Who?” Eve asked. “What’s going on?”