And it was happening so fast. Claire felt light-headed, pleasantly tired, even though somewhere deep inside she was shrieking in protest.

Just close your eyes, Amelie’s voice was saying gently, far away. Just close your eyes and sleep now.

And then something hit her and knocked her away, halfway across the room and into a heavy wooden table with a gigantic bowl of dried flowers. It all crashed to the carpet, spilling shattered glass and broken petals, and Claire was lying on her side, staring up at the wall. There was a painting there, something famous, with dark paint and bright bursts of color all done in furious layers and peaks. She blinked slowly, not quite comprehending what had just happened, and saw a bright spot of red closer to her than the painting.

Blood. Blood on her hand—no, on her fingers, welling out as if she’d been stabbed with a hundred pins.

It hurt in a sudden, blazing ignition of feeling, and she realized what had just happened. It crashed in on her fast and hard, and she felt terror rip through her. She squirmed back and up, sitting against the corner, holding her injured hand close to her chest.

Oliver was helping Myrnin unwrap Amelie’s fingers from his wrist. As soon as it was done, Myrnin fell to the floor and half crawled, half slid into another corner, cradling his wrist just as Claire was holding her own injured fingers. He looked … appalled. And scared.

Oliver was standing between the two of them and the bed. Amelie hadn’t moved. Not at all. Oliver looked as furious as Claire had ever seen him, face as sharp and pale as bone, eyes like coals smoldering red beneath the black. “You idiots,” he snapped, and came toward Claire. When she flinched, he looked even angrier. “I’m not set to hurt you, stupid girl. Let me see your hand.”

She was all too aware of the red pooling in her palm, but he didn’t wait for her consent; he snatched her arm, vamp fast, and stretched it out to inspect the wound. If the blood itself affected him at all, he showed no signs of it. He took a moment, then let her go, strode away, and came back with a small white towel, which he pitched into her lap. “Clean yourself,” he said. “I told you very clearly you were not to enter this room. I never took you for this much of a fool. And you, Myrnin. What the devil were you thinking?”

“We need the key,” Claire said. Her teeth were inexplicably chattering, and she felt ice-cold inside, as if she’d lost a lot of blood, not just a little. Maybe it was shock. “The k-k-key to the armored truck, downstairs. W-we need to use it to g-get to the water plant. Myrnin said she had it.”

“The key?” Oliver almost laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It wasn’t only the key, was it?”

Myrnin raised his head then. “I needed to find out just how much you’ve been lying to me about her condition. A considerable amount, it seems to me.”