He hissed and dropped it on the desktop in surprise. His fingers looked burned—in fact, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming from them. But it was a black box, not …

Claire picked it up, or tried to. It was very heavy. When she scratched it with her thumbnail, the paint peeled off and bright metal was revealed.

Silver.

“Locked,” she said. “Do you have the key?”

“Cherub, do I look like I have any keys to anything in this room? The doors I just knocked down would argue against that, I’d think. Here.” He snatched up a letter opener—steel, not silver—and set it against the lock. “Hold the box still.”

She did, and he hit the letter opener sharply on the end with the heel of his hand, and it drove into the lock and snapped it. Claire folded back the hinged top and said, “Oh, no.”

Because there were literally dozens of keys in the box, and not a one of them was labeled. They had colored tags, but that didn’t mean anything to her or, she could tell, to Myrnin. He shook his head and said, “Bring the box. Damnation, I believe her security is coming.” He glared at her injured right hand, then took hold of a heavy velvet curtain over the window and ripped it down. It didn’t make the room that much lighter, since darkness was falling fast. Myrnin smothered the box in the thick velvet and scooped it up. “Well? What are you waiting for? Run!”

She didn’t know what they were really running from, and wasn’t in any mood to find out. She’d memorized turns this time—right out the door, down the hall, left, then another left—and then she spotted the vampire guards at the end of the long stretch of corridor.

And her friends, waiting.

“Why is there a bloody towel on your hand?” Shane demanded, and then he spotted Myrnin behind her. “Maybe that question’s for you, asshole. What happened?”

“She touched something she shouldn’t have, and we don’t have time for this. Here.” Myrnin shoved the curtain-swaddled box at Eve, who yelped at how heavy it was. Michael took it from her. “It’s full of keys. Find the ones we need. Careful of the silver, there’s a good lad.” He didn’t pause, just hurried on with Michael and Eve in his wake. “To the garage!”

That left Shane still holding Claire. He didn’t let go. “What happened to your hand?” he asked. “Because if it was him—”

“It wasn’t.” Well, that was debatable, but she wasn’t about to tell Shane; there was enough tension between him and Myrnin already. “It was Amelie. She’s turning into … one of them. The draug.” She stripped off the towel and showed him her hand, and the red pinpricks of bite—or stings—that covered her fingers. He winced. “We don’t have much time to save her.”

“If we can,” he said, and lifted her injured hand to his lips. His kiss felt so good that it washed relief all the way through her. “I know you. You’re going to try like hell to make everything right again.”