“Then I have no use for it,” Oliver snapped. “We will proceed without your assistance. If what’s been reported is correct, we have cut off the draug’s major method of advancement. They are pinned in two spots: this end of town”—he slapped the map with a pale, strong hand—“and here, at the treatment plant.” Another hard slap. “It’s time to launch attacks. We’ll use the weapons we have if we must, but we can’t delay.”

“Why not? Magnus already has all the vampires he can get for his blood gardens; if he draws unfortunate humans, they won’t last, and it’s the equivalent to animal blood for us. It can’t sustain him long. They can’t raise the call. They can’t reproduce now. Let them wait until we are ready,” Myrnin said. He sounded smug. Too smug, Claire thought, and Oliver must have thought so, too, because he reached out, grabbed the lapels of Myrnin’s lab coat, and dragged him very close.

“I. Do not. Take orders. From you,” Oliver hissed. “You take orders from me, witch. And for as long as I find you useful, you’ll enjoy your privileged status. Once you’re a liability, we’ll revise the terms of your … employment. Are we understood?”

“Amelie—”

“Is dying,” Oliver said. His face looked hard as a bone knife. “Sentiment aside, we cannot leave a vacuum of power, and you know that. Without leadership, the vampires will battle each other in bloodline conflicts, run wild, attract attention. She has been a strong, fair leader. I hope I can be half as much.”

“Which half?” Myrnin asked. “Not fair, surely.”

Oliver’s fangs extended to their full, terrifying length, and he hissed like a cobra. Myrnin didn’t flinch. And didn’t fight.

Oliver shoved him away. “Do as you like,” he said. “But don’t get in my way. Any of you.”

He stalked out, throwing the door open and leaving it that way, and Claire pulled in a long, slightly shaky breath. Myrnin straightened the lapels on his lab coat with an irritated snap of fabric.

And another figure stepped into the doorway.

Shane. Carrying a glass of what looked like sweet, delicious, life-giving Coke, and a sandwich. Michael was with him, carrying another plate. On it was … a bag of type O, it looked like.

“Hey,” Shane said. “Hope we’re not interrupting. He’s in a mood.”

“You are a Greek god,” Claire said, and grabbed the Coke and sandwich. She hesitated then, mortified, and said, “Uh, these are for me?”

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said. Michael silently handed the plate to Myrnin, who bit into the bag without even the pretense of politeness. “Okay, that’s disturbing.”

“Sorry,” Myrnin mumbled, and kept sucking. Claire turned her back. Funny; a year ago, seeing something like that would totally have put her off her meal, but nothing was going to separate her from a turkey sandwich now. She took a giant, delicious bite, chewed, and washed it down with tingling soda.

So much better.