Claire 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."
"Claire - " Shane 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 her.
And the red flickered a little.
She held out the bottle.
"Drink it," she said. "You'll feel better. Trust me, Michael. Please."
He was staring into her eyes.
And this time, she 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 her hand, popped the cap, and tipped the bottle, guzzling the contents as fast as he could swallow.
He didn't look away.
Neither did she.
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," Claire said. "She got in your head. She can do that. She - "
Shane was gone. While she'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, Shane had told her.
Claire headed for the living room. Michael tried to stop her, but he seemed weak. Sick. She remembered how shaken Shane had been.
Why not me? Why doesn't she control me?
Maybe she couldn't.
Shane was sitting on the couch beside Ysandre, and his shirt was unbuttoned. Ysandre was running her hands up and down Shane's chest, tracing invisible lines, and as Claire watched, the vampire began to nibble on Shane's neck. Not seriously, as in not drawing blood, but little teasing nips. Licks.
Shane's face was still and blank, but his eyes were pools of panic. He doesn't want this, Claire realized. She's making him.
Claire 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," she said. "And get your claws out of my boyfriend."
Ysandre's eyes narrowed. Claire felt something brush at her 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. Shane 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 Claire, who had no choice but to try to catch it; she did, but the contents splattered cold over her 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," Claire said. She 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 her feet, painful and shocking, and hit Ysandre and Fran?ois 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. Fran?ois and Ysandre staggered to their feet, covered their heads, and ran for their car.
Claire stood in the doorway, spattered with cold blood, and yelled, "And don't come back!"
The power cut off, and the sudden emptiness left her shaking. Claire clung to the door for a few seconds, long enough to see them drive away, and then staggered back to the living room. Shane sat on the couch with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, head in his hands.
Shuddering.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded convulsively without looking up at her. Michael opened the kitchen door and came straight to her. He had a towel, and he scrubbed the blood off her 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," she said. She felt sick and shaky, and perched on the couch next to Shane. Shane was buttoning his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, and didn't seem very steady, either.
"Shane?" 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," Shane said, and went upstairs. He wasn't moving like Shane, not at all - too slow, too heavy, too . . . defeated.
Michael had made the promise, but Claire 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 Shane. 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 Shane.
It was really the only thing Claire could think of that might help.