Midnight Alley

Nobody was at the table. Instead, a group of at least ten was standing at the other side of the room, looking down.

Some of them turned to look, and Claire's gaze fixed irresistibly on Oliver. She hadn't seen him since he'd threatened her life, trying to lure Shane out of hiding, and as he stood up now she had a flash of that again, how icy and hard his hands had been around her throat. How scared she'd been.

Oliver snarled, low in his throat but loud enough to be heard, and his eyes were like a wolf's. Not human at all.

"I see you brought the criminal for punishment," he said, and moved toward them.

Gretchen looked at Hans, and then shoved Claire behind her. "Stop," she said. Oliver did, mostly in surprise. "The girl asked to come, to see her Patron. We have no proof she is guilty."

"If she lives in that house, then she's guilty," Oliver said. "You surprise me, Gretchen. When did you begin taking the side of the breathers?"

She laughed, but it had a bright, false sound to it. She said something in a language that Claire didn't recognize, and Oliver spat something back, and Hans put a big hand on Claire's shoulder.

"She's our responsibility," he said. "And she's Amelie's property. Nothing to do with you, Oliver. Move."

Oliver, smiling, raised his hands and backed away. Hans moved Claire forward, past him, and she felt his stare on the back of her neck, as real as knives.

The circle of people parted as Hans approached. It was mostly (Claire guessed) vampires; they didn't wear tags or anything, but most of them had the same cool pale skin, the same whip-snake quickness when they moved. In fact, the only two humans — breathers? — she saw were Mayor Morrell, looking miserably uncomfortable as he stood near the edge of the group, and his son Richard. Richard's uniform was damp in places, and it took Claire a few seconds to realize that it was wet with blood.

Sam's blood.

Sam was lying on his back on the carpet, with his head cradled in Amelie's lap. The elder vampire was kneeling, and her hands were stroking gently through Sam's bright copper hair. He looked pale and dead, and the stake was still in his chest.

Amelie's eyes were closed, but opened as Hans pushed Claire toward her. For a long second the older vampire didn't seem to recognize Claire at all, and then weariness flashed through her expression, and she looked down at Sam, her fingers trailing across his cheek.

"Claire, assist me," she said, as if they were continuing a conversation Claire hadn't even been in on. "Give her room, please."

Hans let go, and Claire felt a wild urge to run, run out of this room, get Shane and just go, anywhere but here. There was something too big to understand in Amelie's eyes, something she didn't want to know. She started to take a step back, but Amelie's hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist and pulled, and Claire fell to her knees on the other side of Sam's body.

He looked dead.

Really, really dead.

"When I tell you, take hold of the wood and pull," Amelie said, her voice low and steady. "Not until I tell you."

"But — I'm not very strong — " Why wasn't she asking Richard? Asking one of the vampires? Oliver, even?

"You are strong enough. When I tell you, Claire." Amelie closed her eyes again, and Claire scrubbed her damp palms nervously over her blue jeans. The wooden stake in Sam's chest was round, polished wood, like a spike, and she couldn't tell how deep it was in his body. Was it in his heart? Wouldn't that kill him, once and for all? She remembered they'd talked about other vampires who'd gotten staked, and they'd died ...

Amelie's expression suddenly twisted in pain, and she said, "Now, Claire!"

Claire didn't even think. She fastened her hands around the stake and pulled, one massive yank, and for a terrifying second she thought it wouldn't work, but then she felt it sliding free, scraping against bone as it went.

Sam's whole body arched, like he'd been shocked with one of those heart machines, and the circle of vampires moved back. Amelie kept hold of him, her fingers white as bone where they pressed on the sides of his head. Her eyes flew open, and they were pure blazing silver.

Claire scrambled backward, clutching the stake in both hands. Someone plucked it out of her grip — Richard Morrell, looking grim and tired. He put it into a plastic bag and zipped it shut.

Evidence.

Sam went limp again. The wound in his chest was bleeding a steady slow trickle, and Amelie took off her jacket — white silk — and folded it into a pad to press it against the flow. Nobody spoke, not even Amelie. Claire sat there feeling helpless, watching Sam. He wasn't moving, not at all.

He still looked dead.

"Samuel," Amelie said, and her voice was low and quiet and warm. She bent closer to him. "Samuel. Come back to me."

His eyes opened, and they were all pupil. Scary owl eyes. Claire bit her lip and thought again about ru

Sam blinked, and his pupils began to shrink slowly to a more normal size. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Breathe in," Amelie said, in that same quiet, warm tone. "I'm here, Samuel. I won't leave you." She stroked fingers gently over his forehead, and he blinked again and slowly focused on her.

It was like there was nobody else in all the world, just the two of them. Amelie was wrong, Claire thought. It isn't just that Sam loves her. She loves him just as much.

Sam looked from Amelie to the circle of people, searching it for someone. When he didn't find the right one, he looked at Amelie again. His lips formed a name. Michael.

"Michael is safe," Amelie said. "Hans. Fetch him here."

Hans nodded and left, walking quickly. Michael. Claire realized with a jolt that she'd forgotten he'd be here, forgotten all about him in the shock of all that had happened. Sam was, at least, looking better with every passing second, but Amelie continued to press the makeshift bandage to the wound in his chest.

Sam's hand crept up, clumsy and slow, to cover hers, and for a long few seconds they looked at each other silently, and then Amelie nodded and let go.

Sam held the bandage in place and, with Amelie's help, pulled himself to a sitting position. She helped him lean against the wall.

"Can you tell us what happened?" she asked him. Sam nodded, and Claire looked up to see Richard Morrell crouching down, notebook and pen at the ready.

Sam's voice, when it finally came, was soft and thin, and it was clearly an effort for him to speak at all. "Went to see Michael," he said.

"But Michael was here, with us," Amelie said. "We summoned him during the night."

Sam's hand — the one not occupied holding the jacket to his chest — rose and fell, helplessly. "Sensed he wasn't home, so I backed out of the drive. Someone pulled open the car door — taser, couldn't fight back. Staked me while I was down."

"Who?" Richard asked. Sam's eyes closed briefly, then opened.

"Didn't see. Human. Heard the heartbeat." He swallowed. "Thirsty."

"You must heal first," Amelie said. "A few more moments. Is there anything at all you can tell us about this human who attacked you?"

Sam's eyes opened again, with an effort. "He called me Michael."

Michael arrived just in time to hear that last part. He looked at Claire, wide-eyed, then crouched down beside Sam. "Who did? The one who did this?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know who. Male, that's all I know. He used your name. I think he thought I was you." Sam's lips curled in the pale ghost of a smile. "Guess he didn't see the hair before he staked me."