Inside, the kitchen was exactly as they'd left it - messy. Pots and pans still on the stove, though thankfully they'd remembered to turn off the burners before they'd left. The smell of stale bacon grease and rubbery gravy hung heavy in the air, barely cut by the aroma of old, overcooked coffee.
They didn't stop. Michael led them straight through the kitchen door, into the living room.
Bishop was gone. So were his two pretty hangers-on. It was just Amelie and Oliver, sitting alone at the large wooden table. They'd carelessly shoved aside plates and cups and glasses into a tottering pile, and between them was a chessboard. Nothing Claire recognized that belonged in the house; it looked old, and well used. Beautiful, too.
Amelie was playing white. She ignored their entry as she contemplated the chessboard. Across from her, Oliver leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sent the four of them an unreadable look. He seemed right at home, which made Claire fume, and she could only imagine how Michael felt about it. Oliver had killed Michael - ripped away his human existence and trapped him in a twilight state between human and vampire - right here in this house. In fact, almost on this very spot. It had been brutal, and murderous, and Michael had never for a second forgotten who and what Oliver was, however he appeared.
Amelie had offered Michael the chance to escape from that trap, and he'd taken it even at the cost of becoming a true vampire. So far, he didn't seem to regret it. Much.
"You're not welcome here," Michael said to Oliver, who raised his eyebrows and smiled.
"Waiting for the house to evict me? Keep waiting," he said. "Amelie, you really should teach your pets manners. Next thing you know, they'll be clawing the carpet and spraying the drapes."
She didn't look up. "Do try to be civil," she replied. "You're a guest in their house. My house." She moved a piece on the chessboard. "Be seated, all of you. I dislike having people stand."
It had the force of royal command, and before she could think about it, Claire was sliding into one of the dining-table chairs, and Shane was settling in next to her. Eve hesitated, then took a chair as far away from Oliver as possible.
That left one empty chair, and it was next to Oliver. Michael shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall.
Amelie gave him a glance, but didn't force the issue. "So you have met Mr. Bishop," she said. "And he has most assuredly met you. I wish this had not happened, but since it has, we must find ways to guard you against him and his associates." Oliver took one of her bishops and set it aside. She had no visible reaction. "Otherwise, I fear this house will be in the market for new tenants soon."
Oliver laughed. He stopped laughing when Amelie made her next move, and concentrated on the chessboard with a fierce, blank expression.
"Who is Bishop?" Michael asked.
"Exactly who he says he is. He has no reason to lie."
"So he's your father?" Claire asked. There was a long silence, one not even Oliver broke; Amelie raised her cool gray eyes and focused on Claire's face until Claire felt the urge, not just to look away, but to run.
Amelie finally said, "In a sense, at least, as you might understand such things. Both my human and immortal bloodlines flow through him. Oliver, do hurry. I feel the need to go home before the sun rises."
The sun wasn't anywhere close to rising, which must have been Amelie's bone-dry idea of a joke. Oliver moved a pawn. Amelie took it effortlessly.
Michael chimed in. "Maybe the better question is, where is Mr. Bishop?"
"Gone," Oliver said. "I packed him off in a nice limousine with a driver. He'll be staying at one of the Founder Houses."
"Which one?" Claire felt a sudden surge of illness, one that got worse as neither of the vampires answered. "It isn't my parents' house, right? Right?"
"I'd rather you not be aware of his exact location," Amelie said, which wasn't an answer, certainly not the right answer. She moved her white queen in a long, deliberate scrape down the chessboard. "Checkmate."
Oliver studied the board, then studied her with equal annoyance as he tipped over his doomed black king. "We need to discuss this," he said. "Obviously."
"Your tragic lack of strategic skills?" Amelie's frost-colored brows slowly rose. "I am deliberating what to do about our guests. For now, go home, Oliver. And thank you for coming."
She said it without a trace of irony - she could dismiss him like a servant, but at least she thanked him. Oliver's eyes went even darker, but he got up without comment and walked out into the kitchen. Claire heard the door slam behind him.
Amelie took in a deliberate breath, then let it out. She rose to her feet and nodded to Michael. "I think you'll be safe enough here tonight," she said. "Let no one enter, not for any reason." A quick, almost invisible flicker of a smile. "Except for me, of course. Me, you cannot stop."
"What about Oliver?" Shane asked.
"His invitation to enter has been revoked. He won't be able to bother you unless you do something foolish. " Which, from the look Amelie gave him, she considered hardly unlikely. "Bishop is my affair, not yours. Go about your business, and stay out of this. All of you."
"Wait, my parents - "
Amelie didn't wait. With silent grace, she left the table and walked up the stairs, and as her luminous pale figure disappeared at the top, Shane said, "Where the hell is she going? There's no door up there."
Claire knew. She knew all too well. "However she does it, she's gone." They all looked at her, even Michael. "There must be some way out. What's she going to do, bring her pajamas and crash on the couch?"