"Michael needed to hear me."
"He's running off on a fool's errand, and if he dies out there, I can't save him again," Hiram said. "That's your fault, girl. He's hell-bent on saving something that ain't even real anymore."
"I'm real!" she snapped. "More real than you."
He looked down at himself, in all the glorious Technicolor, and Claire felt stupid saying it. Of course he was more real, or at least had more power. "I said it before: the house likes you. Doesn't mean I have to like you. It's all instinct. I'm the brain, Claire. And I've decided you're dangerous. You keep blundering about, touching things you're not allowed to handle. You're a toddler in a room full of glass."
"Don't you mean I'm dangerous to you?" she asked.
Hiram smiled, but it was a terribly cold kind of thing. "I should have ripped you up and thrown you out when you first crossed over."
Claire backed off instinctively. There was something real about him, even though he was a ghost, just like her. Hiram had power. More than she'd thought. What had he said? Something about his bones in the foundations and his blood in the mortar . . . ugh. But that would make him very strong, she guessed. And very territorial. He was part of the house, but the house was still something else, with its own will. The house had saved her, and Hiram didn't agree.
Dangerous.
He was drifting in her direction, even though he wasn't seeming to move. Claire hesitated for a second, and as she did, he rushed at her. She had the absolute certainty that if he touched her, got hold of her with those strong, grabbing hands, he would rip her to pieces.
Claire shrieked and dropped straight through the floor. It was all she could think of . . . and suddenly she was falling through wood, dirty pipes, a totally startled rat, a freak-out number of cockroaches, and into the dark, creepy basement, which, with the lights out, was super-awful creepy.
It was also dangerous. She heard Hiram's soft, bodiless laugh. "I'm in the foundations, girl. You think you can fight me better down here?"
Claire wasn't actually sure she could fight him at all, but he was absolutely right: this was the last place she wanted to try. Instead, she arrowed herself up, fast, blurring through the floor, through the parlor, up again into the second floor, and . . .
. . . Into the secret room, which was directly overhead but on the attic level. This was Amelie's retreat, from when the house had originally been built (Hiram, she guessed, had been around even then). It had always been Claire's special retreat when things got intense, and now she hesitated there, trembling, waiting for Hiram to come screaming through the walls after her.
But he didn't. She listened, she extended her new and very awkward senses (this being-dead thing took work), and she sensed . . . nothing. It was as if this room existed in a different house altogether. It even felt different . . . and, she realized with a sudden shock, it definitely looked different, because the lights were on, and she could see the dusty red velvet of the sofa, and the brown wood, and the colored jewellike glass of the Tiffany lamps.
Color.
When she closed her eyes, she could actually feel Hiram, but he was outside the room. He'd hit the floor and bounced off, and now he was circling around like a shark, looking for a way inside.
Somehow, Amelie's influence made this a refuge not just on the physical level but on this level, too.
She was safe, as long as she stayed here.
Not only that, but she could actually see herself, like a very faint transparent image, and when she tried sitting down on the couch, she actually felt gravity.
It was as close to real as she'd been all day, it seemed, and she curled up on velvet she could almost feel, and closed her eyes.
Michael will be back, she told herself. Soon. And Myrnin will be with him.
She was going to get out of this.
She had to get out of this.
Claire didn't sleep, exactly, but the stillness and soft peace of the room made her . . . drift. When she heard the snap of the lock on the door, though, she came bolt upright on the couch in terror.
Hiram had a way in.
Only . . . he didn't. It wasn't Hiram at all. She heard footsteps on the stairs, and then Shane was standing there in the room, saying, "Claire?" He sounded anxious. "Claire, are you here?"
"Yes," she said.
His head snapped around, and his eyes widened. He heard me. No, he sees me!
"Claire," Shane said, and the relief in his voice was intense. He hesitated for a second, then pointed at her. "Don't move." He clumped down the stairs and yelled, "I found her! She's in here!"
"Okay!" Eve yelled back. "Um, do you want me to come up, or - ?"
"No," he said. "Not right now."
"I'm taking a shower, then."
Eve, Claire thought with a smile, always showered when she was nervous and worried. She was probably very worried about Michael.
Shane closed the door to the hall and said, "There goes the hot water." He walked back up the steps and looked at the couch, at her. "I can see you," he said.
"Really? I'm solid?" She looked down at herself. She wasn't, really, at least to her own eyes. More like a genuine ghost - there, not there.
Shane reached out slowly and touched her arm, and where he touched . . . where he touched, it felt real. Looked real. "Yeah," he said. It sounded very soft, and not very steady. "Solid." He sat down on the couch and, before she could even think about moving, grabbed her and hugged her close. Where he touched her, where her body pressed against his, everything felt right again, as if he was anchoring her back into the world. He kissed her, and it was just exactly right, all the sensations, all the tastes, the warm velvety feel of his lips . . . so amazing.
She didn't exactly know how it had happened, but he was stretched out on the couch, and she was lying on top of him, and it was so delicious and sweet and wonderful. His fingers stroked through her hair, and it swept down to brush his face.
"You make me real," she said, in wonder. "It's you."
He didn't say anything. Not with words. It was all just a blur after that, beautiful and strange and perfect, and she didn't want to let go of him, not ever.
But when she finally opened her eyes again and looked, she realized that there was something wrong. Shane was asleep next to her, curled tight against her, but he was . . . faded. The colors of his skin, his hair, they were pale now. Almost as black-and-white as they had been downstairs, out of this room.
And she was brighter. More vivid.
She'd taken it from him.
Claire stood up and backed away from the couch. Shane mumbled and reached for her, but she stayed where she was, at arm's length. "I can't," she whispered. "It's - the room, it's Amelie's room; it's doing something to us. . . ."
"It's making you real," he said. "It's okay."
"No, no, it's not. You're fading, Shane. And I can't do this."
She looked real now, and felt real, but not at this cost. Not ever.
"Claire . . ." Shane tried to get up, but he was weak, and he almost fell. He sank back on the couch, looking pale. "Whoa. Dizzy."
"You have to go," she said. "You have to leave me here. I'll be okay until Myrnin comes. Please, Shane. You can't stay."
"I'll go," he said. "But only if you give me one last kiss."
She didn't want to, but she couldn't help herself, either. He stood up, braced himself, and walked toward her. She backed away, but the wall behind her stopped her; if she went beyond it, Hiram was there, waiting.
Shane kissed her. It was hot and lovely and full of promises, and then he stepped back, smiling.
But he looked even more faded.
"Go," she whispered. "Go now, Shane. Please. I love you, and you have to go."
He picked up his jeans and stepped into them, grabbed his shirt, and threw it on as well. "I'm not losing you," he said. "I'm telling you that. I'm not."
She smiled at him, and watched him go.
Then she stretched out on the velvet couch, in the ghost of his warmth, and just for a while, she closed her eyes and dreamed.
Chapter Fourteen
MICHAEL
The thing most people forget, when they start talking about being a vampire, is that it's lonely. It's supposed to be lonely. Vampires are predators. They're more like tigers roaming territories than they are wolves, who hunt together in a cooperative group. Tigers don't form packs. They're alone, and they're supposed to be.