Eve hadn't said a word, but she'd allowed Michael to take her back inside once the cops had pulled away; she'd taken only one look at her brother as he'd been hauled off in handcuffs, but that had been enough. On top of the shock of her father's death, and the trouble with Michael, Eve didn't seem to have any emotion left to spare.
Through common consent, none of us went to bed. We didn't eat. The four of us crammed onto the couch, grateful for the warmth and the company, and put on a movie. A scary one, as it turned out, but I was glad to focus on someone else's problems for a change. Being hunted by a city full of zombies might have seemed like a relief in some ways - at least you knew whom to run from, and whom to run toward. I lay with my head on Justin's chest, listening more to him breathe than to the characters babbling at one another. His hand kept a slow, steady rhythm on my hair, stroking all my tension and fear away.
Eve and Michael didn't cuddle, but after a while, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer, and she didn't resist.
By the time the DVD menu came on after the credits, we were all sound asleep, and trouble was far, far away.
Fridays were usually good days, classwise; even most of the professors were in better moods.
Not this Friday, though. There was a weird tension in the air, along with the increasingly chilly bite to the wind. My first professor of the day had lost his temper over a cell phone going off, and reduced some sophomore sorority girl to tears before exiling her from the class with a flat-out failing grade. My second class didn't go much better; the TA had a headache, maybe a hangover, and was grumpy as hell - too much to bother slowing down as he sped through the lecture, or to answer any questions.
The only good thing about my third hour was that I was confident it would be over in under an hour. Professor Anderson had widely advertised today's supposedly pop quiz; only a complete coma patient wouldn't know to come prepared. Anderson was one of those professors - the ones who gave you plenty of chances, but the test was The Test, full stop. He gave only two a year, and if you didn't do well on both of them, you were screwed. He had a reputation for being a nice guy who smiled a lot, but he'd never yet allowed anybody extra-credit work, or so I had heard.
The history majors liked to call his class Andersonville, which was a not very funny reference to the Civil War prison camp. I had studied my brains out, and I was absolutely sure that I would ace the test, and have extra time left over.
I stopped off in the restroom, since I was a little early, and carefully balanced my backpack against the wall of the bathroom stall as I did my business. I was going over dates and events in my head when I heard a soft, muffled laugh from near the sinks. Something about it made me freeze - it wasn't innocent, that laugh. There was something weird about it.
"I hear there's a test in Andersonville today," a voice said. A familiar one. It was Monica Morrell. "Hey, does this color look okay?"
"Nice," Gina said, fulfilling her job as Affirmation Friend #1. "Is that the new winter red?"
"Yeah, it's supposed to shimmer. Is it shimmering? "
"Oh yeah."
I flushed the toilet, grabbed my backpack, and braced myself for impact. I tried to look as if I didn't care a bit that Monica, Gina, and Jennifer were occupying three out of the four sinks in the bathroom. Or that the rest of the place was deserted.
Monica was touching up her hooker-red lipstick, blowing kisses at her reflection. I kept my eyes straight ahead. Get the soap. Turn on the water. Wash -
"Hey, freak, you're in Andersonville, right?"
I nodded. I scrubbed, rinsed, and reached for the paper towels.
Jennifer snagged my backpack and pulled it out of my reach.
"Hey!" I grabbed for my stuff, but Jennifer dodged out of my way, and then Monica took hold of my wrist and snapped something cold and metallic around it. For a crazy second I thought, She's switched bracelets with me. Now I'm Oliver's property. . . .
But it was the cold metal of a handcuff, and Monica bent down and fastened the other end to the metal post on the bottom of the nearest bathroom stall.
"Well," she said as she stepped back and put her hands on her hips, "I guess you'll be finding out just how tough the little general can be, Ana. But don't worry. I'm sure you're so smart, you'll just fill in those test answers by the power of your mind or something. "
I yanked uselessly at the handcuffs, even though I knew that was stupid; I wasn't going anywhere. I kicked the bathroom stall. It was tough enough to stand up to generations of college students; my frustration wasn't going to make a dent.
"Give me the key!" I yelled. Monica dangled it in front of me - small, silver, and unreachable.
"This key?" Monica tossed it into the toilet in the first stall and flushed. "Oops. Wow, that's a shame. You wait here. I'll get help!"
They all laughed. Jennifer contemptuously shoved my backpack across the floor to me. "Here," Jennifer said. "You might want to cram for the test or something."
I grimly opened my backpack and began looking for something, anything I could use as a lock-pick. Not that I knew the first thing about picking locks, exactly, but I could learn. I had to learn. I barely looked up as the three girls exited the restroom, still laughing.
My choices were a couple of paper clips, a bobby pin, and the power of my fury, which unfortunately couldn't melt metal. Only my brain.
I took the cell phone out of my pocket and considered my choices. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out that Eve or Justin had experience with handcuffs - and getting out of them - but I wasn't sure I wanted to endure the questions, either.
I called the Morganville Police Department, and asked for Richard Morrell. After a short delay, I was put through to his patrol car.
"It's Ana," I said. "I - need some help."
"What kind of help?"
"Your sister kind of - handcuffed me in a bathroom. And I have a test. I don't have a key. I was hoping you - "
"Look, I'm sorry, but I'm heading to a domestic-disturbance call. It's going to take me about an hour to get over there. I don't know what you said to Monica, but if you just - "
"What, apologize?" I snapped. "I didn't say anything. She ambushed me, and she flushed the key, and I have to get to class!"
Richard's sigh rattled the phone. "I'll get there as fast as I can."
He hung up. I set to work with the bobby pin, and watched the minutes crawl by. Tick, tock, there went my grade in Andersonville.
By the time Richard Morrell showed up with a handcuff key to let me loose, the classroom was dark. I ran the whole way to Professor Anderson's office, and felt a burst of relief when I saw that his door was open. He had to give me a break.
He was talking to another student whose back was to me; I paused in the doorway, trembling and gasping for breath, and got a frown from Professor Anderson. "Yes?" He was young, but his blond hair was already thinning on top. He had a habit of wearing sport jackets that a man twice his age would have liked; maybe he thought the tweed and leather patches made people take him seriously.
I didn't care what he looked like. I cared that he had the authority to assign grades.
"Sir, hi, Ana, I'm in - "
"I know who you are, Ana. You missed the test."
"Yes, I - "
"I don't accept excuses except in the case of death or serious illness." He looked her over. "I don't see any signs of either of those."
"But - "
The other student was watching me now, with a malicious light in her eyes. I didn't know her, but she had on a silver bracelet, and I was willing to bet that she was one of Monica's near and dear sorority girls. Glossy dark hair cut in a bleeding-edge style, perfect makeup. Clothes that reeked of credit card abuse.
"Professor," the girl said, and whispered something to him. His eyes widened. The girl gathered up her books and left, giving me a wide berth.
"Sir, I really didn't - it wasn't my fault - "
"From what I just heard, it was very much your fault," Anderson said. "She said you were asleep out in the common room. She said she passed you on the way to class."
"I wasn't! I was - "
"I don't care where you were, Ana. I care where you weren't, namely, at your desk at the appointed time, taking my test. Now please go."
"I was handcuffed!"
He looked briefly thrown by that, but shook his head. "I'm not interested in sorority pranks. If you work hard the rest of the semester, you might still be able to pull out a passing grade. Unless you'd like to drop the class. I think you still have a day or two to make that decision."
He just wasn't listening. And, I realized, he wasn't going to listen. He didn't really care about my problems. He didn't really care about me.
I stared at him for a few seconds in silence, trying to find some empathy in him, but all I saw was self-absorbed annoyance.
"Good day, Miss Ian," he said, and sat down at his desk. Pointedly ignoring me.
I bit back words that probably would have gotten me expelled, and skipped the rest of my classes to go home.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a clock was ticking. Counting down to Bishop's masked ball.
There was one comforting thing about the theory of complete apocalypse: at least it meant I wouldn't have to fail any classes.
Just when I thought my Friday couldn't get any worse, visitors dropped by the house at dinnertime.
I peered out the peephole, and saw dark, curling hair. A wicked smile.
"Better invite me in," Ysandre said. "Because you know I'll just go hurt your neighbors until you do."
"Michael!" I yelled. He was in the living room, working out some new songs, but I heard the music stop. He was at my side before the echoes died. "It's her. Ysandre. What should I do?"
Michael opened the door and faced her. She smiled at him. Francois was with her, both of them sleek and smug and so arrogant it made my teeth itch.
"I want to talk to Justin," Ysandre said.
"Then you're going to be disappointed."
Francois raised his eyebrows, reached down, and pulled a bound human form from the bushes on the side of the steps. I gasped.
It was Miranda, looking completely terrified. Tied hand and foot, and gagged.
"Let's put it another way," Ysandre said. "You can let us in to talk, or we have our dinner alfresco, right here on your veranda."
There was absolutely no right answer to that, I thought, and saw Michael struggle with it, too. He let the silence stretch for so long that I was really afraid Miranda would be killed - Francois seemed glad to have the chance - but then Michael nodded. "All right," he said. "Come in."
"Why, thank you, honey," Ysandre said, and strolled in. Francois dropped Miranda on the wooden hallway floor and followed her. I knelt next to the girl and untied her hands.
"Are you okay?" I whispered. Miranda nodded, eyes as big as saucers. "Get out of here. Run home. Go."
Miranda stripped off the ropes around her ankles, scrambled up, and escaped.
I shut the door and hurried to the living room.
Francois had shoved Michael's guitar out of the way and taken the chair. Ysandre sat on the couch, as comfortable as if she owned the world and everything in it. "How kind of you to ask us in, Michael. I didn't think we got off to a very good beginning. I want to start over."
Francois laughed. "Yes," he said. "We should be friends, Michael. And you shouldn't be living with cattle."
"Is this all you have? Because if it is, I think we're all done."
"Oh, not quite," Ysandre said.
"They're making dinner," Francois said. "That's ironic, don't you think? When they let ours go."
"These humans, all they do is eat," Ysandre said. "No wonder they're all fat and lazy."
Justin came out of the kitchen. He wasn't surprised, I saw; he must have heard them. "You're not invited, " Justin said. Ysandre kissed her lips toward him.
"Oh, Justin, I really don't care whether I am or not, and you aren't anywhere near powerful enough to make me leave," she said. "It's Friday, my love. You received the costume I want you to wear for tomorrow?"
Justin nodded unwillingly, like his neck had frozen stiff. His eyes were more than a little crazy.
"You need to go," I said to Ysandre, with a bravado I really didn't feel.
"What do you think, Michael? Do I?" Ysandre locked gazes with him, and there was something awful in her eyes. "Do I have to go?"
"No," he said. "Stay."
I gaped.
They make you feel things. Do things, whether you want to do them or not. Justin had said it, but I hadn't imagined that they could do it to other vampires. Even one as young and inexperienced as Michael.
"Michael!"
He didn't look at me. He seemed completely caught in the web of Ysandre's attraction.
I dug my cell phone out of my pocket. I hesitated over the address book.
"Deciding who to call for help?" Francois yanked the cell phone out of my hands and threw it across the room. "Amelie won't thank you for distracting her from all her preparations. She's busy, busy, busy, making sure everything goes just right to welcome our beloved father properly."
"Maybe you ought to ask Michael what to do," Ysandre said, and laughed, showing fang. She pronounced it like Michelle. "I'm sure he'll help dispatch us. So fierce, isn't he?"
Michael's eyes were slowly turning crimson.
They can make you feel things. Do things.
"Justin," I said. "We need to get out of here. Now."
"I'm not leaving Michael."
"Michael's the problem."
Ysandre laughed. "You really are clever, ma cherie."
Francois snapped his fingers in front of Michael's face. "Dinner's ready."
Michael opened his mouth and snarled. Full fangs.
And he turned and fixed his gaze on me.
"Oh, crap," Justin breathed. He grabbed my arm. "Kitchen!"
We retreated. Justin shoved the table against the swinging door, for all the good it would do, and we backed up toward the rear door.
I opened the refrigerator and took Michael's last two sealed bottles out of the back of the refrigerator. Have to tell Michael to pick up more, I thought, and how weird was that? Running short of blood was getting as normal as needing Coke or butter.
I was gibbering in my head, that was it. And yet, oddly calm.
Michael burst into the room and headed straight for us.
I stepped into his path, held out a bottle, and said, "You're not one of them. You're one of us. One of us, and we love you."
"Ana - " Justin sounded agonized, but he didn't move. Maybe he knew it would have blown everything.
Michael stopped. His eyes were still blazing red, but he seemed to see me.
And the red flickered a little.
I held out the bottle.
"Drink it," I said. "You'll feel better. Trust me, Michael. Please."
He was staring into my eyes.
And this time, I was the one who challenged him. See me. Know what you're doing.
Push her out.
His eyes flared white. He grabbed the bottle out of my hand, popped the cap, and tipped the bottle, guzzling the contents as fast as he could swallow.
He didn't look away.
Neither did I.
His eyes faded back to blue, and he lowered the bottle with a gasp. A thin line of blood dripped off his lip, and he wiped it with a trembling hand.
"It's okay," I said. "She got in your head. She can do that. She - "
Justin was gone. While I'd been so focused on Michael, he'd just . . . disappeared.
The kitchen door was still swinging.
It'll be easier for her the next time, Justin had told me.
I headed for the living room. Michael tried to stop me, but he seemed weak. Sick. I remembered how shaken Justin had been.
Why not me? Why doesn't she control me?
Maybe she couldn't.
Justin was sitting on the couch beside Ysandre, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Ysandre was running her hands up and down Justin's chest, tracing invisible lines, and as I watched, the vampire began to nibble on Justin's neck. Not seriously, as in not drawing blood, but little teasing nips. Licks.
Justin's face was still and blank, but his eyes were pools of panic. He doesn't want this, I realized. She's making him.
I threw the second bottle of blood at Ysandre. The vampire's hand came up unbelievably fast to snatch it out of the air before it made contact with the side of her head.
"If you're hungry, eat," I said. "And get your claws out of my boyfriend."
Ysandre's eyes narrowed. I felt something brush at my mind, but it was like walking through a spiderweb, easily broken.
Ysandre flipped the cap from the bottle, sniffed it, and made a disgusted face. "Don't be so possessive. Justin is at my command. The invitation said so."
"He's at your command tomorrow. Not today."
"How charming. So young for a lawyer." Ysandre sipped from the bottle, gagged, and shook her head. "Why your vampires subject themselves to this indignity is beyond my understanding. This is rancid. Undrinkable filth." She threw the bottle back at me, I had no choice but to try to catch it; I did, but the contents splattered cold over my face and neck. "Remove it from our presence." Her eyes took on a horrible dull shine, angry and cruel. "And clean yourself up. You're as useless as the hospitality you offer."
"Get out," I said. I felt the power of the house now, gathering like a storm around her. Rushing into the cool silence, crackling with energy. "Get out of our house. Now."
It exploded up through my feet, painful and shocking, and hit Ysandre and Francois like a bolt of invisible lightning. It knocked them flat, grabbed them by the ankles, and dragged them to the front door, which crashed open before they reached it.
Ysandre shrieked and clawed at the floor, but it was useless. In that moment, the house wasn't taking any prisoners.
It threw them out into the sun. Francois and Ysandre staggered to their feet, covered their heads, and ran for their car.
I stood in the doorway, spattered with cold blood, and yelled, "And don't come back!"
The power cut off, and the sudden emptiness left me shaking. I clung to the door for a few seconds, long enough to see them drive away, and then staggered back to the living room. Justin sat on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, head in his hands.
Shuddering.
"You okay?" I asked.
He nodded convulsively without looking up at me. Michael opened the kitchen door and came straight to me. He had a towel, and he scrubbed the blood off my face and hands with rough, anxious movements.
"How did you do that?" he asked. "Even I can't - not on command. Not like that."
"I don't know," I said. I felt sick and shaky, and perched on the couch next to Justin. Justin was buttoning his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, and didn't seem very steady, either.
"Justin?" Michael stood next to him, and his voice was very gentle.
"Yeah, man, I'm fine," he said. His voice was threadbare with exhaustion. "She may own me, but she can't take possession until tomorrow night. I don't think she'll risk coming back here. Not just for me." He looked up at Michael then, and Michael nodded tightly. "I don't want to ask, but - "
"You don't have to ask," Michael said. "I'll look out for you. As much as I can."
They bumped fists.
"I need a shower," Justin said, and went upstairs. He wasn't moving like Justin, not at all - too slow, too heavy, too . . . defeated.
Michael had made the promise, but I was afraid - very afraid - that he wouldn't be able to keep it. Once they were away from this house, isolated and separated, nobody could stop Ysandre from doing whatever she wanted to Justin. To Michael. To anyone.
If Jason had been telling the truth when he'd come by the house looking to talk, then Oliver had had something to say. Maybe he still did.
Maybe, somehow, it would help Justin.
It was really the only thing I could think of that might help.