by Rachel Caine
“Myrnin—you’re scaring me,” Claire said, and reached out. “Please, tell me what’s going on!”
He took her hand and raised it to his mouth in an old-fashioned gesture that made her skin tingle, especially when she felt the cool brush of his lips against her skin. His eyes were very dark in the dim light of her study lamp, and she didn’t think he’d ever looked more…human. Crazy, maybe, but so very human.
“I hope I am scaring you,” he said. “When things seem calmest, that is the time you should fear the most; it’s when you have the most to lose. It’s not your enemies who are likeliest to hurt you. It is, always, those you trust. And you have trusted Amelie too far.”
He hadn’t let go of her hand, and she was starting to feel flushed and awkward about it. “I’ve trusted you, too,” she said. And he gave her a sad, slightly manic smile.
“Yes, and that too is a mistake,” he said. “As you’ve known from the first moment you met me, I am not reliable.”
“I think you are,” Claire said softly. “I really do. Myrnin—please. Please don’t go away. You—you matter. To me.”
There was just a flicker of warmth, something, and for a moment she thought…But then Myrnin’s face shut down, and he let go of her hand. Where his fingers had touched hers, her skin felt ice-cold.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s dreadfully unfair to say things like that when this is likely the last time we will speak, and we both know you don’t mean what you say. It’s pure selfishness that you want to keep me here.” His tone had a harder edge than she was used to hearing from him, and his expression was deathly still.
She felt an unexpected surge of anger. “Didn’t you just accuse me of not being selfish enough?”
“Don’t play at word games with me. I was a master of it before your country even existed.”
“You can’t just go! Where will you—”
“Blacke,” he said, cutting her off. “For a start. Morley and I do not get along well, but he and the quite-frightening librarian woman have built a rough approximation of a town where vampires are welcome. It will do until I gather resources to settle elsewhere more congenial. You’d do better to think of yourself. Without me to help protect you, you are likely to end up dead, Claire. I should regret that. You’ve been the least useless apprentice I’ve ever had.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? I’m the least useless?”
It burst out of him in a furious, low-voice rush. “Yes, of course that’s all I’m going to say, because there’s no point in it, no point at all in telling you that I’m lonely, that it’s been so long since I could discuss books and theories and science and metaphor and alchemy and philosophy, and that is a desperately lonely thing, Claire. Even for someone who has killed to stay alive, there’s a point where life—where existence—just seems…worthless, without some deeper connection. Do you understand?”
She was afraid to, really, but she gulped down a deep breath, and said, “You’re saying that you care for me.”
Myrnin froze, staring at her. He really was amazing, she thought; when he had that light in his eyes, it was possible to see past the crazy behavior and clothing chaos and recognize him as just…beautiful. The longing in his face was breathtaking.
But he said, in a low voice, “Not as you would understand it. What I admire in you is…intellectual. Spiritual.”
She actually laughed a little. “You love me for my mind.”
He sighed. “Yes. In a sense.”
“Then stay.”
“And watch you torn apart between Amelie, Oliver, and this town? Helpless to stop it?” He shook his head. “Better I go.”
“No,” she said, and grabbed at his sleeve. The old fabric of his jacket had an odd texture to it—cloth that had survived a hundred years or more past its makers. He could have avoided her, of course, but he didn’t. He simply waited. “You can’t go! You fought the draug to save the town!”
“I won’t fight Amelie, and for as long as Oliver holds sway over her, she’s dangerous to us all. So what do you propose I do? They’ll come for me, sooner or later; I’ve always been a thorn in Oliver’s side, and he’ll want me dealt with before long. If I’m lucky, he’ll do it before he comes after you and your friends, relieving me of the burden of standing by for that.”
“Amelie won’t let him hurt you.”
“Won’t she?” Myrnin’s face set hard, and he seemed to be remembering something very unpleasant. “Oliver has a talent for corruption. He had the same skill in breathing life. The atrocities men committed in his name were legion and legendary, and those were mere mortals acting on his behalf. Vampires can be infinitely more cruel. Let enough of us lose our better instincts to that, and there will be a kind of—fever. A madness that sweeps us away, and we won’t care about promises of good behavior, or even about our own survival. I’ve seen it happen to entire towns of vampires. They just…break.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face in a sharp, dry motion, and the sound reminded her of bones shattering. “I don’t wish to see it again. And I certainly don’t wish to be part of it.”
“Then make her listen to you. You’re one of her oldest friends!”
“Friends count for little when they cross lovers,” he said. “You’re old enough to know that. And it is why I can’t—” He shook his head. “Why I can’t stay.”
She felt she would choke on tears, suddenly. He stepped forward and took both her hands in his cool ones. For a moment, she thought he intended to kiss her, and for a panicked moment she wasn’t sure if she ought to stop him, wanted to stop him…but then he just touched his forehead to hers and held it there.
“Hush, now,” he said, and there was so much sweetness in his voice. “I don’t want to see you cry. I’m nothing to cry over.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
He pulled back, still close, very close, too close. There was a faint crimson flicker deep in his eyes, like a distant thunderstorm. “Take care,” he said. “Promise me.”
“I will,” she said. “Myrnin—”
He kissed her. It was so fast that she couldn’t move to prevent it, even if she’d wanted to; it was also quick, and light, and cool, and then…
Then he was gone.
Claire leaned out the window and saw him scrambling in a blur down the tree. He jumped the last ten feet, landed smoothly on his white patent leather shoes, and looked up at her in silence, then held up a pale, long-fingered hand.
She held hers up in response. Tears blurred her view of him, before they broke free of her eyes and rolled hot down her cheeks.
When she blinked, the yard was empty, except for the broken branch he’d been standing on when she’d first spotted him.
Claire gulped in several deep, cold breaths of night air, then slammed the window shut and sat down on her bed. She felt…She didn’t know how she felt. Just wrong. She wanted to talk, but she couldn’t to Shane, not about this; he wouldn’t understand, not about this.
Eve. Maybe she could talk to Eve…. But she could hear the shouting from downstairs, and Eve’s voice was gleefully announcing her victory over Shane in the game. Upstairs felt like a whole world away from that.
Claire stretched out on her bed, closed her eyes, almost ill with how wrong that had been, how guilty she was about that whole conversation. But she’d needed to have it with him; she knew that.
She flinched and bolted upright at a knock on the door, both arms instinctively crossing over her chest. “Who is it?”
“What do you mean, who is it?” Shane eased the door open and studied her. Oh. Of course, that was Shane’s knock; she knew it very well. “What’s up? You all right? You look scared.”
She felt a surge of feeling so fierce that it burned in her cheeks and made her stomach churn, and for a second she didn’t even know what it was, until her brain kicked back in.
It was shame.
“No,” she said, and her voice sounded shaky. “No, I just—I had a dream. A
bad one.” Liar.
He gave her a grin that made the shame bite deeper, then sank down on the bed next to her. “Shouldn’t have come up here and gone to sleep, then. Come on, sleepyhead. It’s too early for you to crash out.”
He kissed her, and he felt warm and sweet and strong and most of all, alive…and she fell into it eagerly, almost desperately. The kiss went on, and on, damp and slow, like something perfect in a dream, and she pressed close and into his arms, and all the storm inside her turned into peace, a peace so strong she could feel it glowing in her blood. She sighed onto his lips, into his mouth, and he was smiling, his hair brushing gently over her face like a ghost’s caress.
“You make me happy,” she whispered. She meant it literally—he’d just led her out of a strange, dark place and into sunlight, and the relief was so great that she felt tears in her eyes. “So happy.”
Shane pulled back and looked at her with an expression of absolute focus. His smile was blinding. “I was about to tell you the same thing,” he said, and brushed his fingers over her face. “Cheater.”
For an awful second she thought he knew about Myrnin, standing here in her room, but then with a wave of icy relief she realized he was talking about her beating him to the punch. She gave him a shaky smile. “Got to be quick.”
“Oh,” he said, and kissed her very lightly, moving his lips down her throat, “I really don’t think I do.”
She laughed, because the joy just became a pinpoint of light inside her, bright and searing, and she rolled him over and sprawled on top of him and kissed him again, and again, and again, until everything was a burst of brightness, everywhere in the world.
And when it faded, when it was dark and quiet again, she listened to the strong, fast beat of his heart with her head on his chest, and thought, I’m sorry. She wasn’t even sure what she was apologizing for, or even to whom it was directed. Myrnin? Herself? Shane? Maybe she’d let them all down, somehow.
But not again.
Never again.
Shane fell asleep next to her, out like a light, but Claire found herself humming with energy and too restless to try to close her eyes. She went out into the quiet hallway, closed the door, and sank down against the wall, turning her phone over and over in her hands. Might as well, she thought. It was late, but her parents were used to that, and they were always going on about how she didn’t call enough.
Claire dialed before she could think better of it. Her mom answered on the second ring, her tone anxious. “Claire? Are you all right, honey?”
“Fine,” Claire said. She felt a deep surge of guilt, because what did it say about her that her mom assumed she was in deep trouble every time she bothered to call? “Sorry I haven’t been to see you lately. How’s Dad? Is he doing all right?”
“Your dad’s fine,” her mom said firmly. “Except he worries about you, and so do I. He was hoping you could come home and visit soon. Any chance of that? If you want to bring your boyfriend, I suppose that’s okay.” She didn’t sound so very enthused about that. It wasn’t that she and Dad disapproved of Shane, exactly, but they were…cautious. Very cautious.
“I might do that,” Claire said. “So, are you still doing that book club thing?”
“Oh yes; I just read the best mystery novel, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Maybe you’ve heard of it…?”
“Yes, Mom, I’ve heard of it. And there are movies.”
“I didn’t think there were any theaters in Morganville.”
“There are a couple,” Claire said. “But I watched it as a rental. You should do that.”
“Oh, I have to do it over the Internet now; it seems so complicated.”
“It’s not. I could show you—”
“You know me and technology, sweetie. So, how’s school?”
“Fine,” Claire said. She knew she ought to say something more, something important, but she couldn’t seem to come up with anything much. My vampire boss, who would like to maybe be my boyfriend, just dropped in to tell me he was running away because Morganville’s too dangerous. That was a lot to dump on an unsuspecting parent, on so many levels. “Thanks for the lovely birthday gift.” It had really been lovely—Claire had been expecting an out-of-fashion dress or a gift card or something, but instead she’d gotten a hand-bound book that had pictures of her from babyhood on, with space to add more. She’d already put in some photos of her and her friends, and her and Shane. Suddenly it reminded her that she’d never taken a picture of Myrnin…and now maybe she never would.
“That’s a relief. You know, I think you work too hard at those classes. We’d be so happy to see you, honey. Do you think you might be able to come out this weekend?” Claire’s parents lived only a few towns away, in a house that they wouldn’t have been able to afford except that Morganville’s Founder had bought it for them, in a fit of conscience over their daughter’s contributions to vampire survival. Her parents had also once understood about the vampires, but not anymore. Those memories had faded almost to nothing—a deliberate action by the vamps, or by Amelie in particular. And that was okay. Claire preferred it that way—she liked them thinking she was in a safe place, with people who loved her. It was half true, anyway—the second half.
“Maybe I can try,” she said. If Myrnin was right, she might not have much choice in getting out of town soon. “Mom—I know you were disappointed at me about not going to MIT when they called me, but…”
“I trust you, sweetie. I was just afraid you’d made that decision because of—well, because of Shane. If you really made it because you weren’t ready to go, then that’s all right. I want you to do things the way that’s most comfortable for you. Your dad agrees.” There was an indistinct mumble in the background that might have been her dad agreeing, but more likely it was just the opposite, and Claire smiled.
“Shane’s not in charge of what I do,” she said. “But I won’t lie. I didn’t want to leave him here, either. So maybe there’s a little bit of that in there.”
“I—honey, I know you don’t want to hear this again, but are you sure you’re not plunging into something too quickly with him?”
It was a familiar subject, and Claire felt a white-hot stab of annoyance. Never thought of that, Mom. Wow, what insight! She wouldn’t say it…. She’d rarely been sarcastic to her parents, but that didn’t stop her from thinking it. Older people so often thought they’d been through everything, experienced everything…but it wasn’t true. Few of them had ever lived in Morganville, for instance. Or apprenticed to a vampire with poor impulse control.
“I’m not,” Claire said. She’d learned that short answers worked best; they made her sound adult and certain. Overexplaining only opened the door for more lectures. “I know you’re concerned, Mom, but Shane’s a really good guy.”
“I know you wouldn’t stay with him if he wasn’t—you’re a very smart girl. But it does concern me, Claire. And your father. You’re just eighteen. You’re too young to be thinking about spending a lifetime with someone. You’ve hardly even dated anyone else.”
Claire was just about fed up with the You’re too young litany. She’d heard it from the time she was old enough to understand the words. The format might change, but the song remained the same: too young to do whatever it was she most wanted to do. And she couldn’t resist saying, “If you hadn’t said I was too young to go to MIT at sixteen, I would never have come to Morganville.”
It was true, but it was a little cruel, and her mother fell silent in a way that told Claire she’d scored. It’s not a game, she reminded herself, but she couldn’t help a little surge of satisfaction, anyway.
When her mom restarted the conversation, it was about her new hobby, which had something to do with remodeling the house. Claire listened with half an ear as she flipped pages in her textbook that she’d opened on her lap. She still had another twenty pages of material to digest, and calling home was having the desired effect: it was making her forget all about Myrnin, and what he’d said, and focus b
ack on her studies.
The door to her room opened unexpectedly, and Shane was standing there, bed-headed and yawning. He waved at her. She pointed to the phone and mouthed Mom. He nodded, stepped over her, and headed for his own room. Knowing him, he’d be facedown in dreamland in five minutes.
Claire grabbed her stuff and went back into her own room. Mom still hadn’t paused for breath, and except for a few noncommittal uh-huhs, Claire was just a conversational spectator.
A second after she settled in on the bed, there was another knock at the door—not Shane this time, because it was much more tentative. Claire covered the phone and called, “Come in!”
It was Miranda, who stepped inside and looked around with interest. Claire mouthed to her, I’m on with my mom. Miranda nodded and went to stare at the large bookcase in the corner of the room. She began pulling out titles.
“Mom, I’ve got to go,” Claire said. “My friend Miranda’s here. I told you about her. She’s the new one in the house.”
“Oh, okay. Love you, pumpkin. Your dad says he loves you, too. Can’t wait for you to take a look at the carpet samples. I’m sure you can help us decide on that. Maybe this weekend?”
“Thanks, Mom. I love you, too. Yeah, maybe this weekend.”
She hung up and dropped her cell back in her pocket as Miranda wandered over with a couple of books. “Do you mind if I borrow these?” she asked. “I don’t sleep anymore.”
“Any time,” Claire said. “Did you like Star Wars?”
“Yes,” she said. Miranda sat down on the bed next to her. She was a small-framed girl, and she seemed even more fragile than Claire, who’d at least put on some muscle these past few years, if she hadn’t grown much taller. Miranda had the seeming physical strength of a stick insect. That was deceptive, of course; Miranda wasn’t really alive in the same way Claire was, and she could draw on the considerable power of the Glass House when she had to, so she could probably break bricks with her hands if necessary.
