Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(35)

“I know I’m not supposed to eavesdrop, and I try not to, really, but it’s hard when you’re invisible during the daytime,” Miranda said. “I mean, you’re drifting around bored and there’s nobody to talk to. You can’t even watch TV unless someone else turns it on, and then you have to watch whatever they want—”

“Mir, focus. Why would you say they’re moving out?”

“Because they’re talking about it,” she said. “Eve thinks that it’s hard to feel married when they’re just living the same life, you know? When it’s here, with you and Shane. I know she moved into Michael’s bedroom, but she doesn’t feel like anything really changed. Like, they’re married for reals.”

Claire had honestly never thought about it. It had just seemed, in her mind, like marriage wouldn’t change anything—wouldn’t mean any difference at all in the way Michael and Eve felt around her and Shane. They’d already been, ah, together, after all. Why should it matter? “Maybe they just need some time.”

“They need space,” Miranda said. “That’s what Michael said, anyway. Space and privacy and nobody listening to them all the time.”

Well, Claire could understand the privacy part. She always felt odd about that, too. Even as big as the Glass House was, sometimes it felt very crowded with five people in it. “They shouldn’t move out,” Claire said. “It’s Michael’s house!”

“Well, I can’t move, can I?” Miranda said, and kicked her feet. She was wearing cute sneakers, pink with an adorably weird brown bunny face on them. “I don’t want them to go, though. Claire—what happens to me if you guys all leave? Do I just…stay here? Forever? Alone?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Claire said, and sighed. She grabbed a pillow and flopped backward, holding it tight against her chest. “God, this can’t happen now. Like everything wasn’t complicated enough!”

Miranda lay flat, too, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t feel right tonight. The house feels…It feels weird. Anxious, maybe.” The Glass House had its own kind of rudimentary life force to it—something Claire didn’t exactly understand but could feel all around her. And Miranda was right. The house was on edge. “I think it’s worried about us. About what’s going to happen to us all.”

Claire remembered Myrnin’s anxious, determined expression, his insistence that she leave town, and felt a chill.

“We’ll be fine,” Claire said, and hugged the pillow tighter. “We’ll all be fine.”

It was as if the universe had heard her, and responded, because all of a sudden she heard the crash of glass downstairs. Miranda stood bolt upright and closed her eyes, then opened them to say, “The front window. Something broke it.”

Claire raced her downstairs, with Shane stumbling out of his room in a daze to follow. They found Michael and Eve already there.

The window in the parlor was broken out, and a brick was lying on the carpet in a spray of broken glass. Wrapped around it was another note. Nobody spoke as Michael unfastened the string that held it on and read it, then passed it to Eve, who passed it to Shane, who passed it to Claire.

“Wow,” she said. “I didn’t think they could spell perverts.”

“It’s getting worse,” Eve said. “They’re not going to let this go, are they?”

Michael put his arms around her and hugged her tight. “I’m not going to let anything happen,” he said. “Trust me.”

She let out a sigh of relief and nodded.

Shane, ever practical, said, “I’ll get the plywood and hammer.”





FIVE





OLIVER




When Amelie slept, she seemed little more than a child, small and defenseless, bathed in moonlight like a coating of ice. Her skin glowed with an eerie radiance, and lying next to her, I thought she might well be the most magnificent and beautiful thing I had ever seen.

It destroyed me to betray her, but I really had no choice.

I slipped quietly away through the darkness of this, her most secret of hideaways; it was where Amelie kept those treasures she had preserved through years, through wars, through every hardship that had fallen over her. Fine artworks, beautiful clothes, jewels, books of all descriptions. And letters. So many handwritten letters that seven massive ironbound chests couldn’t contain them all. One or two, I thought, might have come from my own pen. They would not have been love poems. Likely they had been threats.

I moved silently through the rooms to the door, and out into the jasmine-scented garden. It was a small enclosure, but bursting with colorful flowers that glowed even in the darkness. A fountain played in the center, and beside it stood another woman. I’d have mistaken her for Amelie, at a glance; they were alike enough in coloring and height and form.

But Naomi was a very different kind of woman altogether. Vampire, yes; old, yes. And a blood sister to the Founder, through their common vampire maker, Bishop…but where Amelie had the power to command vampires, to force them to her will, Naomi had always wielded her power less like a queen and more like a seductress, though she had little interest in the flesh—or at least, in mine.

Amelie appeared to be made of ice, but inside was fire, hot and fierce and furious; inside Naomi, I knew, was nothing but cold ambition.