Michael sighed. “Truthfully? No. I grew up here, and so did Eve and Shane. We’re just kind of used to it.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Absolutely.”

It hit her then that there was another impossible thing she’d nearly forgotten about, in the press of panic, and she started to blurt it out, then looked around to be sure Shane and Eve were nowhere in sight. “What about, you know? You?” She pointed at him.

“Me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Right. Upstairs.”

She expected him to take her to the secret room Shane had shown her, but he didn’t; instead, he took her to his own room, the big one on the corner. It was about twice the size of her own room, but didn’t have much more furniture; it did have a fireplace—empty this time of year—and a couple of chairs and a reading lamp. Michael settled in one. Claire took the other, feeling small and cold in the heavy leather seat. The wing chair was about twice her size.

“Right,” Michael said, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk about this morning.” But having said that, he didn’t seem to know how to start. He fidgeted, staring at the carpet.

“You died,” Claire said. “You vanished.”

He seemed glad to have something to respond to. “Not exactly, but—yeah. Close enough. You know I used to be a musician?”

“You still are!”

“Musicians play someplace besides their own houses. You heard Shane at dinner. He’s pushing to find out why I’m not playing gigs. Truth is, I can’t. I can’t go outside of this house.”

She remembered him standing in the doorway, white-faced, watching Shane face off with Brandon. That hadn’t been caution; he wanted to be out there, fighting next to his friend. But he couldn’t.

“What happened?” she asked softly. She could tell it wasn’t going to be an easy story.

“Vampire,” he said. “Mostly they just feed, and eventually they kill you if they feed hard enough. Some of them like that kind of thing, not all of them. But—this one was different. He followed me back from a gig and tried—tried to make me—”

She felt her face burn, and dropped her gaze. “Oh. Oh God.”

“Not that,” he said. “Not exactly. He tried to make me a vampire. But he couldn’t. I guess he—killed me. Or nearly, anyway. But he couldn’t make me into what he was, and he was trying. It nearly killed us both. When I woke up later, it was daylight, he was gone, and I was a ghost. Wasn’t until night came that I realized I could make myself real again. But only at night.” He shook his head slowly, rubbing his hands together as if trying to wash off a stain. “I think the house keeps me alive.”

“The house?” she echoed.