Myrnin said, “She’s right, boy. But Claire—Magnus will be looking for you. Be careful. You’re at risk, too.”

Claire held up the brim of the stupidly large cowboy hat and nodded to Michael and Myrnin both. “I’ll be back,” she said. “And I’m getting you out of here.”

Michael didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “I know. Just take care of yourself.”

Claire crouched down next to Shane and stared into his blank eyes for a long moment. “Can you hear me?” she asked, and put her hands on his face. He still needed a shave. “Sweetie, please, talk to me. Can you?”

“Claire,” he said, and a long, agonizing shudder went through him. “Are you really here?” He reached up and touched her fingers. Held them. “Are you?”

“Always,” she said. She kissed him, and felt something in him responding, urgent and desperate for reassurance. “You have to stay with me, Shane. I need you.” She dropped her voice to a bare whisper, lips right at his ear. “You promised me something, and you’d better not be backing out now.”

When she pulled back, though, the panic was worse, not better, and he said, “What’s her name? Claire, what’s her name?”

He wasn’t making any sense at all. She felt tears threaten, but she didn’t have time. Get him safe, then get him back. That was all she could do. “I’ll be back,” she said.

Michael said, “Claire. I’ll look after him.”

He always does, Claire thought. For all that Shane hated the vampire side of Michael, Michael never let them down. She never doubted that he would protect them, not for a second. She never doubted any of them, really. Eve, Michael, Shane … they were her family.

Looking at him right now, she felt a surge of breathtaking love, for Michael, and for what the four of them were, together.

“What?” Michael asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I just want to hug you right now,” Claire said. “You’re the most fantastic—” She couldn’t finish that, suddenly, because her throat closed up on her, and her vision dissolved into sparkles, refracted by tears. She cleared her throat, blinked, and said, “Never mind.”

He understood. She could see it in his eyes. “Nobody’s dying today,” he said. “Go.”

She ran.

It reminded Claire, stupidly, of running through the sprinklers when she was a little kid, squealing with delight as cold water slapped against her skin; she’d had a sunshine-yellow swimsuit when she was six, she remembered, with a big pink sun on it.

This was not nearly as fun.

The second she’d stepped outside the shed door, she’d had to revise her plan, because the umbrellas she’d left by the entrance were gone—carried off, she assumed, by the draug. She’d been hoping for the extra protection, but that was clearly not happening.

So she gripped the heavy, gritty weight of the wrench in her hand and took off running.

The draug were around her; she could see them in flickers, hidden in the falling streams of water. They weren’t quite manifesting in human form; that must take energy, and a lot of it, and they weren’t quite as strong now as they’d been before. They weren’t singing. We’ve hurt them, she thought, and felt a fierce surge of pride along with the adrenaline.