“Better than volunteering us for breakfast,” Shane pointed out, and Eve snorted.

“You,” she said, and pressed a finger into the center of his well-worn T-shirt. “You, mister. You’re making gravy.”

“You do want us all to die, don’t you?”

“Shut up. I’ll do the biscuits and bacon. Michael—” She turned, looking at him with big dark eyes, made almost anime-wide by the Goth eyeliner. “Coffee. And I think you have to be the private eye here. Sorry.”

He nodded. “I’ll go make sure I know what they’re doing when I finish here.”

Assigning Michael the barista and spy duties made sense, but it left the three of them the majority of the work, and none of them were exactly future chefs in training. Claire struggled with the scrambled eggs. Eve cursed the bacon grease in a fierce whisper, and whatever Shane was making, it didn’t really look that much like gravy.

“Can I help?”

They all jumped at the voice, and Claire whirled toward the kitchen door. “Mom!” She knew she sounded panicked. She was panicked. She’d forgotten all about her parents—they’d come in with Mr. Bishop, and Bishop’s friends had moved them into the not-much-used parlor at the front of the house. In the great scheme of scary things, Bishop had taken the forefront.

But there was her mother, standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling a fragile, confused smile and looking . . . vulnerable. Tired.

“Mrs. Danvers!” Eve jumped in, hurried over, and guided her to the kitchen table. “No, no, we’re just— ah—making some food. You haven’t eaten, right? What about Mr. Danvers?”

Her mother—looking every year of the forty-two she claimed not to be—seemed tired, vague, kind of out of focus. Worried, too. There were lines around her eyes and mouth that Claire couldn’t remember seeing before, and it scared her.

“He’s—” Claire’s mom frowned, then leaned her forehead on the palm of her hand. “Oh, my head hurts. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Your husband, where is he?”

“I’ll find him,” Michael said quietly. He slipped out of the kitchen with the grace and quickness of a vampire—but at least he was their vampire. Eve settled Claire’s mom at the table, exchanged a helpless look with Claire, and chattered on nervously about what a long drive it must have been to Morganville, what a nice surprise it was that they were moving to town, how much Claire was going to enjoy having them here. Etc., etc., etc.

Claire numbly continued to rake eggs back and forth in the skillet. This can’t happen. My parents can’t be here. Not now. Not with Bishop. It was a nightmare, in every way.

“I could help you cook,” Mom said, and made a feeble effort to get up. Eve glared at Claire and mouthed, Say something! Claire swallowed a cold bubble of panic and tried to make her voice sound at least partly under control.

“No, Mom,” Claire said. “It’s fine. We’ve got it covered. Look, we’re making extra in case you and Dad are hungry. You just sit and relax.”

Her mom, who was usually a control freak deluxe in the kitchen, prone to take command of something as error free as boiling water, looked relieved. “All right, honey. You let me know if I can help.”

Michael opened the kitchen door, and ushered in Claire’s father. If her mom looked tired, her dad just looked . . . blank. Puzzled. He frowned at Michael, like he was trying to work out exactly what was happening but couldn’t put his finger on it.

“What’s going on around here?” he barked at Michael. “Those people out there—”

“Relatives,” Michael said. “From Europe. Look, I’m sorry. I know you wanted to spend some time with Claire, but maybe you should just go on home, and we’ll—”

He paused, then turned, because someone was standing in the kitchen door behind him. Following him.

“Nobody’s going anywhere,” said the other one of Bishop’s vampire companions—the guy. He was smiling. “One big happy family, eh, Michael? It’s Michael, isn’t it?”

“What, we’re on a first-name basis now?” Michael got Claire’s dad inside the kitchen and closed the door in the other vampire’s face.

“Right. Let’s get you guys out of here,” he said to Claire’s parents, and opened the back door, the one that led out into the backyard. “Where’s your car? Out on the street?”

Outside the night looked black and empty, not even a moon showing. Claire’s dad frowned at Michael again, then took a seat at the kitchen table with his wife.

“Close the door, son,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Sir—”

Claire tried, too. “Dad—”

“No, honey, there’s something strange going on here, and I’m not leaving. Not until I know you’re all okay.” Her father transferred the frown back to Michael again. “Just who are these . . . relatives?”

“The kind nobody wants to claim,” Michael said. “Every family’s got them. But they’re just here for a little while. They’ll be leaving soon.”

“Then we’ll stay until they do,” Dad said.

Claire tried to focus on the scrambled eggs she was making.

Her hands were shaking.

“Hey,” Shane whispered, leaning close. “It’s okay. We’ll all be okay.” He was a big, solid, warm presence next to her, stirring what could not possibly really be gravy. She knew this mainly because Shane’s sole culinary ability came in the genre of chili. But at least he was trying, which was new and different, and probably showed just how seriously he was taking all this.

“I know,” Claire said, and swallowed. Shane’s arm pressed against hers, a deliberate kind of thing, and she knew if his hands weren’t full, he’d have put his arms around her. “Michael won’t let them hurt us.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Eve joined them at the stove, whispering fiercely. She scowled at the frying bacon. “He can’t stop them. Best he can do is get himself really hurt in the process. So maybe you ought to call Amelie again and tell her to get her all-powerful ass over here now.”

“Yeah, good idea, piss off the only vampire who can help. Look, if they were going to kill us, I don’t think they’d ask for eggs first,” Shane said. “Not to mention biscuits. If you ask for biscuits, clearly, you think you’re some kind of a guest.”

He had a point. It didn’t really stop the trembling in Claire’s hands, though.

“Claire, honey?” Her mom’s voice, again. Claire jumped and nearly flipped a spatula full of eggs out onto the stove top. “Those people. What are they really doing here?”

“Mr. Bishop—he’s, uh, waiting for his daughter to come pick him up.” That wasn’t a lie. Not at all.

Claire’s father got up from the table and went to the coffeepot, which had wheezed itself full; he poured two mugs and took them back to the table. “Have some coffee, Kathy. You look tired,” he said, and there was a gentle note in his voice that made Claire look at him sharply. Her dad wasn’t the most emotional of guys, but he looked worried now, almost as worried as Mom.

Dad drained his coffee like it was water after a hot afternoon of lawn mowing. Mom listlessly creamed and sugared, then sipped. Neither of them spoke again.

Michael slipped out the kitchen door, taking mugs of coffee out to the others. When he came back, he closed the door and leaned against it for a minute. He looked bone white, strained, worse than he had in the months since he’d been transformed fully into a vampire. Claire tried to imagine what they’d said to him to make him look like that, and couldn’t even begin to guess. Something bad. No, something horrible.

“Michael,” Eve said tensely. She nodded toward Claire’s parents. “More coffee?”

He nodded and moved away from the door to pick up the coffeepot, but he never made it to the breakfast table. The kitchen door opened again, and Mr. Bishop and his entourage entered the room.

Tall and haughty as nineteenth-century royalty, the three vampires surveyed the kitchen. The other two vampires were pretty, young, and frightening, but Mr. Bishop was the one in charge; there was no mistaking it. When his gaze fell on her, Claire flinched and turned back to the sizzling eggs.