He nodded again, but didn’t have a chance to reply because Shane reached in, took Claire’s hand from Michael’s, and said—not seriously, thank God—“Stop vamping up my girl, man. She needs coffee.”

“Don’t we all,” Michael said, and smacked Shane on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “Vamping up your girl? Dude. That’s low.”

“Digging for China,” Shane agreed, straight-faced. “Come on.”

Claire could follow the smell of brewing caffeine all the way to Eve like a trail of dropped coffee beans. It gave the sterile, funereal, windowless Elders’ Council building a weirdly homey feel, despite the chilly marble walls and the thick, muffling carpets.

The hallway opened into a wider circular area—the hub in the wheel—that held a huge round table in the center, which was normally adorned by an equally large fresh floral arrangement … adding to the funeral home vibe. But that had been pushed to the side, and a giant, shiny coffee dispenser had been put in its place, along with neat little bowls of sugar, spoons, napkins, cups, and saucers. Even cream and milk pitchers.

It was surreal to Claire, as if she’d stepped out of a nightmare and into a fancy hotel without any transition. And there, emerging from another door that must have led to some sort of kitchen, came Eve, with a tray in her hands, which she slid onto the other side of the big table.

Claire stared, because although it was Eve, it didn’t really look like her. No Goth makeup. Her hair was down, loose around her face and falling in soft black waves; even without her rice-powder coverage, her skin was creamy pale, but it looked movie-star beautiful. Natural-look Eve was stunning, even wearing borrowed clothes … though she’d found a retro fifties black pouf-skirted dress that really suited her perfectly.

She had a red scarf tied jauntily around her neck to hide the bites and bruises that Michael—starving and crazy from being dragged out of the pool—had inflicted on her.

She, and this setup, all looked a little too perfect. Shane and Michael exchanged a look, and Claire knew they were communicating the same thought.

Eve gave them a bright smile and said, “Good morning, campers! Coffee?”

“Hey,” Michael said, in such a soft and tentative voice that Claire felt her stomach clench. “You should be resting.” He reached for her, and Eve flinched. Flinched. Like he’d tried to hit her. His hand dropped to his side, and Claire couldn’t look at his face. “Eve—”

She spoke in a rush, running right over the moment. “We have hot coffee, all the good stuff—sorry I couldn’t get mocha up and running, but this place has a serious espresso deficiency … oh, and the croissants are hot out of the oven, have one.”

“You baked?” Shane’s eyebrows threatened to levitate right off his face.

“They were in one of those pop-open rolls, moron. Even I can bake those.” Eve’s smile wasn’t so much bright, Claire thought, as it was totally breakable. “I don’t think anybody ever used the kitchen in here, but at least it was stocked up. There’s even fresh butter and milk. Wonder who thought of that?”