Bite Club mv-10

by Rachel Caine

  “Does this have to do with my father?”

  That was an extremely dangerous question, because it did, in a small and indirect way, but to answer yes meant spilling everything. It was ninety percent no, anyway. “Not directly,” Claire said. “But it might help.”

  “Hmmm. And do you think she’d actually help you?” Amelie sat down at her desk, looking every inch the woman in charge. “I think you don’t know this Kim very well. She loathes you, in particular, more than anyone else. Even more than me, I believe.”

  “Because of Shane. Yeah, I know. She likes him.”

  Amelie just shrugged, completely uninterested in mere mortal feelings.

  “I think she’ll help me on this. Please. Just let me talk to her. I do need her help.”

  Amelie drummed her pale-pink-painted fingernails on the desk in a slow rhythm, staring at Claire with those unsettling gray eyes. Her phone gave a low buzz for attention. She ignored it. “I don’t like you assuming that you have the run of my office, Claire. Are we understood?”

  “Yes.”

  More drumming. Claire couldn’t stop glancing at those long, shapely, pale fingers, with their razor-sharp (and perfectly manicured) nails. As Amelie probably intended.

  “All right,” Amelie said. “I’ll give you access for five minutes. If you can get that person to agree, I will let her help you on this…project. But she cannot leave her confinement. Are we understood?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Amelie said. “You’re not going alone.” She pressed a button on the phone, which had stopped buzzing, and said, “Bizzie. Please get Michael Glass to my office immediately.”

  “Ma’am,” Bizzie’s disembodied voice said. “Oliver is calling for you.”

  “Oliver can wait. I want Michael here. Send a car.”

  “Yes, Madam Founder.”

  “You, Claire,” Amelie said, lifting her finger from the phone button, “will sit and be quiet. I am greatly annoyed with your behavior. I realize that it is all the rage among young people to defy authority, but I do not tolerate it. Not in my presence.”

  “It’s not—” Oh, what was the use? Claire dropped her book bag to the floor and sat, folding her arms. She knew that looked defensive. She didn’t care. “I’m not defying you. It’s just that I want to be sure of things before I tell you about them.”

  “That’s quite an interesting assumption to make, as I may not require the gift of your expertise,” Amelie said. “For instance, I am well aware that my father, Bishop, is missing. I am also aware that several vampires once loyal to him have been acting oddly, and several who were not are now missing. I am aware that Gloriana’s presence in this town is somewhat…unsettling for many, although perhaps not for Oliver.” She sounded just a shade sharp on that last part. About Oliver? Weird. “Has Gloriana, perhaps, decided to practice her wiles on your Shane, then?”

  That was way too close to the truth. “Oliver says she’s not interested in human boys that way.” That was true. It just didn’t quite answer the question. “She went after Michael; that’s what Eve said.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. But it seems to have passed without any significant bloodshed.” More fingernail drumming. When Claire glanced at Amelie’s face, she saw the vampire was staring out her tinted windows, which minimized the rising sun. There was a distant expression on her face. Amelie could look almost as young as Claire herself sometimes; she’d probably been only about twenty when she’d become what she was now. But just now, she looked her actual age, with all the weight of centuries on that smooth, unlined face. “You’re well aware how dangerous this town is, Claire. But what you may not understand, not fully, is that it is held together by will. My will. Without my influence, vampires would fight for control, and humans would be slaughtered in the streets. Not all my kind have the vision to understand that such behavior is…counterproductive to the long-term survival of my species. Like some of your own contemporaries, younger vampires want what they want, when they want it, regardless of consequences.” She paused for a moment. Claire didn’t know if she was supposed to say anything, so she kept quiet. “I’ve been struggling to educate them for many years. And, in truth, I’m growing tired of the struggle. I remember what it was like when I had no responsibilities, no worries. And that is beginning to seem quite good to me.”

  That seemed ominous. “What…what do you mean?”

  Amelie’s gray gaze came back to her, but the expression didn’t change. “Morganville is an experiment,” she said. “One I’ve fostered and encouraged for a long time, in human terms, and even for a significant period in vampire measures. But it doesn’t seem to me that my kind have learned much about living among humans productively. Or that humans have learned how to tolerate our differences. Oliver thinks it’s a fool’s errand, you know. And he may be right about that.”

  “It’s not,” Claire said. “I know there are problems; there are always problems. People—people can’t even live with each other without violence and problems, much less with you. But somehow we manage. We can manage.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” Amelie said softly. “And I’ve fought for that principle. I’ve bled for it. I’ve buried loved ones for it. But what if I’m wrong, Claire? What if Morganville is a folly of arrogance? You know as well as I that there are humans who will never accept living with us. And vampires who will never accept living with humans. What are we fighting so hard to prove?”

  Claire didn’t know how they’d gotten to this; it felt completely wrong to be having this conversation. She wasn’t old enough; she didn’t understand where it was coming from. And hearing that Amelie had doubts…that hurt. And it scared her. So many things crashing down. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with that feeling, she realized with a start. That was a new and entirely unpleasant sort of thought.

  It actually made her blink.

  She fell back on something her parents had taught her. “Anything worthwhile is worth fighting for,” Claire said. “Not always with guns and stuff. But with…taking a stand. Right?”

  Amelie seemed to focus on her again. For a few seconds she regarded her, frowning, and then smiled just a little. “So I recall,” she said. “Not all wars are waged with bullets and swords, indeed. Some are wars of wills and ideas. It’s good we both remember that.” The smile faded. “But not all ideas win the war, and not all wills are strong enough. Darkness can descend so easily.”

  “It won’t here,” Claire said. “We just have to be stronger.”

  Amelie inclined her head, but Claire couldn’t tell if it was agreement. She frowned again, this time at the phone, and after a hesitation, pushed the intercom button. “Bizzie?” she asked. “Have you confirmation that Michael is in the car?”

  The answer came back immediately. “No, Founder. The car is there, but the others in the house report that Michael Glass is not there.”

  “Not there,” Amelie repeated. “Very well. Call his cell phone. I believe he has one of those. I will wait.”

  Bizzie left the speaker on as she dialed. It rang and rang on the other end, and then Michael’s recorded voice said, “Michael Glass’s phone. Leave a message,” over the sound of his guitar. It cut off. Bizzie said, “Madam? No answer.”

  “I can hear that,” Amelie said. She looked at Claire. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No,” Claire said. She felt her stomach tightening unpleasantly. “He—We all went home last night. I don’t know why he’s not there.” But she did. Deep down, she did. Michael had tried something, something that had got him in trouble—and, worse, he hadn’t even told anyone.

  Eve was going to kill him. And if Eve didn’t, Claire decided she’d be next in line. The idea of Michael going missing now made her feel as shaky as if the earth under her feet had moved. Michael was a rock; even the first time she’d met him, as a half ghost, he’d been the calmest and most capable one of the group.

  But this time, if he’d gone off on his own,
he’d made a mistake. A big one.

  Amelie must have read something on her face, because she said, “Have my car brought around, Bizzie. The usual complement of guards.”

  “Yes, Founder.”

  Amelie rose to her feet. Claire just stared at her in confusion, until she said, “I am, of course, going with you. And you will tell me where you believe Michael might have gone, because I am not losing yet another of my people to this mystery.”

  Claire resisted the urge to say, Yes, Founder, and silently—in defeat—followed her to the limousine.

  By usual complement, Amelie must have meant “more vampires than a Dracula convention” because besides Amelie and her driver, there were two silent, suit-wearing guards in sunglasses, and a heavily tinted town car carrying four more that followed along. Amelie ignored their presence—but then, she’d grown up in an age when servants were no more than moving furniture—and leaned forward, hands clasped. She still sat like a lady, knees together and demurely angled, even though she was wearing pants. “Now,” she said. “You will tell me everything you declined to tell me earlier. We are past the amusingly amateur portion of this problem. If you know where my father is, or even suspect you have a clue, no matter how small, you will tell me.”

  Claire felt sick, hot, and trapped—mostly because she was trapped, no doubt about it. She squeezed her eyes shut and said, “If I tell you everything, you have to make me a promise.”

  Ominous silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the road noise beneath the car. Claire had no idea where they were heading, and realized that she’d just done the same thing Michael had: she’d taken off without letting anyone know where she was going. She could disappear just as quickly. She risked a look at Amelie, and saw the same expectant, waiting expression. No anger yet.

  Amelie smiled, very slightly—in fact, if Claire hadn’t known her as well as she did, she’d never have seen it at all. “You’re always asking for promises, Claire. Sometimes that seems charming, as if you simply expect me to be honorable enough to keep them.”

  “How about today?” Amelie inclined her head. That wasn’t a yes, though; Claire could see it in the cold glitter of her eyes. “It’s just that if Shane…if Shane’s got anything to do with this, it’s because he’s been glamoured. By Gloriana. It’s not his choice. And he’d never, ever help Bishop. You know that.” It came out in a rush, and even to her ears, it sounded incoherent.

  Amelie straightened, settled back in her seat, and said, “From the beginning.”

  Claire tried. She thought about holding some things back, but the truth was that it was all going to come out sooner rather than later, and lying to Amelie’s face…well, that wasn’t a good strategy. Amelie was understanding sometimes. Still, Claire cringed when she had to mention Shane. All she could think about was how bad it had been when he’d been accused of the murder of one of Amelie’s own, when he’d been trapped and condemned and she’d felt so useless to save him.

  Here it was again—that black, swelling, suffocating sense of utter helplessness.

  Amelie made no comments and had no physical reactions to what Claire said. She looked not at Claire, but at the scenery beyond the tinted window—visible to her eyes, presumably, though Claire felt like she was confined in a crowded black box—while she listened. When Claire finally paused, feeling short of breath, Amelie inclined her head slightly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “A very honest accounting. I had wondered how much you’d try to conceal from me. I’m pleased you didn’t attempt it.”

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds. “You knew.”

  “Of course I knew,” Amelie said. “Most things, at least. The Web site is new, and therefore of great interest; I have operatives tracing its origins now, though you are entirely correct that a more expert approach will be needed. But the role of Gloriana and Vassily—these things were already known to me and to Oliver.”

  Oliver. Of course. “He was keeping an eye on her for you,” Claire realized. “That’s why he was hanging around her.”

  “Gloriana believes it is due to her own charm, of course, but Oliver is not so easily manipulated as that. He knows her too well, and has good reason to be wary of her and her motives.” Amelie finally looked at her, unsmiling. “How my father is involved in all this is somewhat of a mystery, but it will be solved.”

  “Do you know where he is? Bishop?”

  “No.” Amelie looked away again. “One thing he’s very good at is hiding when he feels threatened. He’s within the town’s borders. Alerts would have gone off if he’d crossed the boundaries. We’ll find him, even should he be buried in the dirt like some hunting spider.” She sounded bitter and cold at the end, and Claire shivered a little. “When he’s found, I will ensure that this particular danger to us doesn’t return. You have my word on that.”

  The car slowed, and Amelie nodded to one of her guards, the one sitting on her left side. He nodded back, and as the limousine drifted to a smooth stop, he immediately opened the door and exited. Claire couldn’t have tried to get out even if she’d wanted to; there were two guards between her and the outside.

  And Amelie didn’t move. She sat, composed and erect, until the first man looked back into the car and said, “Clear, Founder.” Then there was a sudden scramble from the guards on both sides, and Claire and Amelie were left sitting across from each other, temporarily alone. Amelie began to slide toward the exit.

  “Wait,” Claire said. “Shane.”

  Apart from a very small hesitation, Amelie didn’t respond to that at all. She simply continued on her way. A guard offered her a hand, and she left the car in a graceful stride.

  Claire gulped air and scrambled out to follow.

  There was a moving wall of black-suited vampires around Amelie, escorting her away from the idling limousine and up a covered walkway leading to……

  Claire blinked. She knew this building. She’d been in it at least five or six times, mostly to add or drop classes, pay fees—that kind of thing. It was the Admin Building of Texas Prairie University—closed, of course. Nobody around.

  Amelie’s guards had keys.

  Inside, they didn’t proceed the way Claire had always been, toward the main processing area; instead, Amelie turned left, down a paneled hallway filled with the fading photographs of university presidents, donors, and not-very-famous alumni. It ended in what looked like a blank wall, except for an ornate brass lock plate.

  This one Amelie herself unlocked, with a key she kept in the small clutch purse she carried. She didn’t bother to open it; she had people to do that for her. She merely handed it over. Claire trailed her into the next room and was surprised when only two of the guards came in behind her. One of them shut the door, which sounded like it locked with a snap.

  They were in a plain concrete room with a white table that was, as far as Claire could tell, bolted to the floor, as were the two chairs on either side of it. There was a big steel ring locked onto the table on one side. Apart from that, it couldn’t have been more blank and boring.

  Only two chairs. Claire wondered if she was supposed to sit across from Amelie, but no, that didn’t make any sense unless she was the one being questioned. Unfortunately, that wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

  It was a guilty relief to hear the sound of metal grinding and doors opening and closing somewhere else. Finally, a thick silver door on the far wall slid open and a guard came in, wearing not a black suit, but a black knit sports shirt and blue jeans. There was a hard-to-see emblem embroidered in the same color on the shirt. Amelie’s Founder symbol.

  He was a vampire—that much was obvious from the unnatural shade of his skin—but other than that, he looked boringly mundane. An all-American kind of guy, no different from half the boys Claire went to college with daily. Neatly cut brown hair, a friendly and professional smile, a confident set to his expression. He looked more like a personal trainer than a prison guard.

  He stepped aside, and Ki
m shuffled in.

  Claire drew in a sharp breath. She remembered Kim way too well; she’d been a lying, traitorous bitch, but she’d started out okay enough. She’d always had a kind of bizarre charm, but there was no trace of that now. Her face was pale, set, and expressionless; Claire saw faces like that in the hospital when she’d visited her dad after his last heart attack. People who looked like that were focused on just getting through the minute, the hour, the day. They had no future and no hope of one.

  Kim’s hair had grown out long around her shoulders, and part of it was still dyed Goth black, but the rest was dirty blond. Her visible piercings were no longer so visible, even in her ears, because she wore no jewelry at all. She was wearing a knit shirt like Mr. All-American, only hers was in bright yellow. The embroidery on the front read prisoner in giant black letters, with Amelie’s symbol up in the corner. Claire guessed it was the same on the back. She wore stretchy, yoga-style pants and sandals.

  Her fingernails were short, and two were bleeding from where she’d bitten too deep. No funky nail polish now. Kim looked sad and alone and more than a little frightened, especially when she saw Claire and Amelie.

  She fixed on Claire, though, and took a step forward. Her guard tapped her on the shoulder gently, and Kim looked away and went still. He guided her to the chair. Without a word, she sat and put her hands on the table.

  He pulled out a set of handcuffs and hooked one to her right wrist and one to the steel ring on the table. Then he stepped back and turned into a parade-rest statue near the metal door.

  Kim kept staring down. Where was all that bad attitude she’d displayed from the beginning? Or the bitterness? Or the crazy—that was what Claire remembered her best for at the end. Now she was just…empty.