The Morganville Vampires (Books 1-8)

by Rachel Caine

  And then . . . then it was as though the bulbs all dimmed again.

  ‘‘Go on, take it,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘The dose in your hand will last for an hour or so. In that time, I can teach you a great deal. Enough, perhaps, for us to understand where we should be going.’’

  This time, Claire didn’t hesitate licking up every last bit of the red crystals.

  Myrnin was right; the crystals lasted for a little more than an hour. He took some as well, one at a time, carefully measuring them out and making them last until finally even a red crystal couldn’t drive the growing confusion out of his eyes. He was getting anxious by the end. Claire started closing the books and stacking them up on the table—the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, practically buried in volumes. Myrnin had jumped her from one book to another, pulling out a paragraph here, a chapter there, a chart from physics, and a page from something so old he had to teach her the language before she could understand.

  I learned languages. I learned . . . I learned so much. He’d shown her a diagram, and it hadn’t been just a diagram—it had been three dimensional and as intricate as a snowflake. Morganville hadn’t just happened; it had been planned. Planned around the vampires. Planned by the vampires, carried out by Myrnin and Amelie. The Founder Houses, they were part of it— thirteen bright, hard nodes of power in the web, holding together a complex pattern of energy. It could move people from one place to another, via the doorways, although Claire didn’t yet understand how to control them. But the web could do more. It could change memories. It could even keep people away, if Amelie wanted it to do that.

  Myrnin had shown her the journals, too, with all his research conducted over the last seventy years into the vampire’s sickness. It was chilling, the way his notes degenerated from meticulous to scrawls at the end, and sometimes into nonsense.

  Some part of her still wondered if she shouldn’t just stand by and let it happen, but Myrnin . . . what he knew, what he’d accomplished—and she’d never learned so much, never, not from anyone.

  Maybe just a little. Maybe I could help him just a little.

  The influence of the crystals was dimming now, and Claire felt horribly tired. There was a steady ache in her muscles, a feverish throb that told her this stuff wasn’t exactly kind to the human body. She could feel every heartbeat pounding through her head, and everything looked so dark. So . . . so confusing.

  She felt a breath of air stir against her cheek, and she turned toward the stairs. Michael was descending, moving faster than she’d ever seen him, and he came to a fast halt when he saw her sitting beside Myrnin.

  ‘‘He’s supposed to be—’’

  ‘‘Locked up in a cage? Yeah, I know.’’ Claire knew she sounded bitter. She didn’t care. ‘‘He’s sick, Michael. He’s not an animal. And anyway, even if you lock him up, he’ll get out.’’

  Michael looked young to her, all of a sudden, although he was older than she was. And a vampire, on top of that. ‘‘Claire, get up and come to me. Please.’’

  ‘‘Why? He’s not going to hurt me.’’

  ‘‘He can’t help what he does. Look, Sam told me how many people he’s killed—’’

  ‘‘He’s a vamp, Michael. Of course he’s—’’

  ‘‘How many he’s killed in the last two years. It’s more than all the other vampires in Morganville combined. You’re not safe. Now, get up and walk over here.’’

  ‘‘He’s right,’’ Myrnin said. He was losing it, Claire could see that, but he was desperately hanging on to being the man who’d been with her for the last hour. The gentle, funny, sweet one, ablaze with excitement and passion for showing her his world. ‘‘It’s time for you to go.’’ He smiled, showing teeth—not vampire teeth. It was a very human kind of expression. ‘‘I do all right on my own, Claire, or at least there’s rarely anyone for me to harm. Amelie will send someone to look after me. And I usually can’t leave here, once I—forget things. It’s too difficult for me to find the keys, and I can’t remember how to use them once I have them. But I never forget how to kill. Your friend is right. You should go, please. Now. Continue your studies.’’

  It was stupid, but she hated leaving him like this, with all the light going out in his eyes and the clouds of fear and confusion rolling in.

  She didn’t mean to do it; it just happened.

  She hugged him.

  It was like hugging a tree; he was so surprised, he was as stiff as a block of wood. She wasn’t actually sure how long it had been since anybody had touched him like this. For a second he resisted her, and then his arms went around her, and she felt him heave a great sigh. Still not a hug, not really, but it was as close as he was likely to get.

  ‘‘Go away, little bird,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Hurry.’’ She backed away. His eyes were strange again, and she knew they were out of time. Someday, he won’t come back. He’ll just be the beast.

  Michael was beside her. She hadn’t heard him cross the room, but his hand closed around hers, and there was real compassion in his face. Not for Myrnin, though. For her.

  ‘‘You heard him,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Hurry.’’

  She bumped into the table, and the small jar of red crystals shuddered a little, nearly tipping over. She grabbed it to put it back upright, and then thought, What if he loses this? He loses stuff all the time.

  She would only be keeping it safe, that was all. It helped him, right? So she ought to make sure he didn’t knock it over or throw it away or something.

  She slipped it into her pocket. She didn’t think Myrnin saw, and she knew Michael didn’t. Claire felt a hot burst of something—shame? Embarrassment? Excitement? I should put it back. But really, she’d never find it again if he moved it around. Myrnin wouldn’t remember. He wouldn’t even know it was gone.

  She kept looking back, all the way up the stairs. By the time they were halfway out, Myrnin had already forgotten them, and he was restlessly flipping through a pile of books, muttering anxiously to himself.

  Gone already.

  He looked up at them and snarled, and she saw the hard glint of fangs.

  She hurried to the door at the top of the stairs.

  9

  Michael wasn’t talking to her, and that was bad. He wasn’t sullen, like Shane got from time to time; he was just thoughtful. That made the drive uneasily quiet. It was fully dark out, not that she could see through the window tinting, anyway.

  The world didn’t seem real to her anymore, and her head ached.

  ‘‘This is the deal you made with Amelie,’’ Michael said. ‘‘To work for him.’’

  ‘‘No. I made the deal with Amelie; then she told me to work for him. Or learn from him.’’

  ‘‘Is there a difference?’’

  Claire smiled. ‘‘Yeah. I don’t get paid.’’

  ‘‘Brilliant plan, genius. Is anybody paying you?’’

  Actually, she had no idea. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, to ask Amelie for money. Was that normal, to get paid for a thing like this? She supposed it was, if she was supposed to risk her life with Myrnin on a regular basis. ‘‘I’ll ask,’’ she offered.

  ‘‘No,’’ Michael said grimly. ‘‘I’ll ask. I want to talk to Amelie about this whole thing, anyway.’’

  ‘‘Don’t get all older-brother on me, Michael. It’s not safe. You may be one of them now, but you’re not—’’

  ‘‘One of them? Yeah, I know that. But you’re way too young for this, Claire, and you don’t know what you’re doing. You didn’t grow up in this town; you don’t understand the risks.’’

  ‘‘What, death? I understand that one pretty well already.’’ She was feeling tired and achy, but also strangely annoyed with Michael’s protectiveness. ‘‘Look, I’m fine, okay? Besides, I learned a lot today. She’ll be happy, trust me.’’

  ‘‘Amelie’s mood isn’t what bothers me,’’ Michael said. ‘‘It’s you. You’re changing, Claire.’’

  She looked straight
at him. ‘‘Like you haven’t?’’

  ‘‘Cheap shot. Look, I’m sick of having to tiptoe around Shane. Don’t make me do it with you, too.’’ Ah, now Michael was annoyed, too. Great.

  ‘‘Tell you what? I’ll stop nagging you about your life if you’ll stay out of mine. You’re not my brother, you’re not my dad—’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘I’m the guy who says if you get to stay in the house.’’

  He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. ‘‘Michael—’’

  ‘‘You made a deal with Amelie without talking to anyone, and then you covered it up. Look, the only reason you even came clean was because I saw the bracelet. If I hadn’t, you’d still be lying to us. That doesn’t exactly make you the ideal housemate.’’ Michael paused for a second. ‘‘And then there’s Shane.’’

  ‘‘How am I to blame for Shane?’’

  ‘‘You’re not. But I can’t deal with both of you, not now. So just straighten up, Claire. No more lying, and no more risk-taking, all right? I’ll convince Amelie to let you out of these sessions with Myrnin. You’re too young to be doing this; she ought to know that.’’

  No more lying. No more risk-taking. Claire shifted and felt the bottle in her pocket, and had a flash of that perfect clarity again. She wondered what Michael would have to say about her letting Myrnin give her the crystals. Probably nothing. He was talking about throwing her out of the house, right? So he probably didn’t care at all.

  The car slowed and turned, then bumped down a rutted drive. Home.

  Claire bolted before Michael could say anything else to her.

  Shane was in the kitchen, pouring himself a beer. He toasted her silently, took a sip, and nodded toward a pot on the stove. ‘‘Chili,’’ he said. ‘‘Extra garlic.’’

  Michael was closing the kitchen door, and he sighed. ‘‘When is this going to stop?’’

  ‘‘When you quit sucking blood?’’

  ‘‘Shane—’’

  ‘‘Don’t get pissy. I made yours garlic-free.’’ Shane looked at her again, and frowned a little. ‘‘You okay?’’

  ‘‘Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?’’

  ‘‘Just—I don’t know. Whatever.’’ He slung an arm over her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. ‘‘Bad day, probably.’’

  Let’s see, she’d been threatened by Eve’s brother, had her wrist cut, and then played keep-away with Myrnin for hours. Did that qualify as a bad day in Morganville? Probably not. No body count.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Michael pushed past them and through the door into the living room. Claire pulled free of Shane’s arm and went to the stove to ladle herself a bowl of chili. It smelled hot and delicious. But mostly hot. She tasted a drop and nearly choked; was it usually this molten-lava wicked spicy? Everything felt raw to her right now. She supposed that was a side effect of the crystals.

  ‘‘I thought I heard you,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Weirdest thing, I heard your voice today. Right out of the air. I thought you—I kept thinking about Michael, how he used to be during the daytime. . . .’’

  When he was a ghost. ‘‘You thought I was—?’’

  ‘‘I thought maybe something happened,’’ he said. ‘‘I called your cell number, the new one.’’

  She’d left it in her backpack. Claire reached down and unzipped the pocket, then checked the phone. Three calls, all from Shane. With voice mails. ‘‘Sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘I didn’t hear it. Guess I need to turn the ringer up.’’

  He looked at her very steadily, and she felt the cold spot in her center, the place that had chilled while she’d been with Myrnin, slowly warm. ‘‘You worry me,’’ he said, and put his hand on her cheek. ‘‘You know that, right?’’

  She nodded, and hugged him. Unlike Myrnin, he was warm and solid, and his body just molded right into hers, perfect and sweet. When he kissed her she tasted beer and chili, but only for a second. After that, it was pure Shane, and she forgot all about Myrnin, and any kind of physics except friction. Shane backed her up against the stove. She felt the low heat of the burner at her back, but she was too preoccupied to worry much about bursting into flames from outside sources. Shane just had that effect on her.

  ‘‘I missed you,’’ he whispered, brushing her damp lips with his. ‘‘Want to go upstairs?’’

  ‘‘What about my chili?’’

  ‘‘Get it to go.’’

  There were good things about the way she felt tonight, she decided; her nerves might be raw, but that only made his touch all the sweeter. She would have felt awkward, usually, and uncertain, and scared, but it seemed like the afternoon that had started with Jason and ended with Myrnin’s snarl had burned all that out of her.

  ‘‘Not hungry,’’ she said breathlessly. ‘‘Come on.’’

  She felt as wild and free as a little kid, running up the steps with Shane in hot pursuit, and when he grabbed her around the waist, spun her around into his room, and kicked the door shut, she squealed in delight. And wiggled to fit herself against his warm, hard body as she kissed him again, breathless and flying.

  He kissed as though their lives depended on it. As though it were an Olympic event and he intended to earn a medal. Somewhere in the back of her head she was chattering to herself, warning that this was going to go too far, that she was just making things worse for both of them, but she couldn’t help it. Before long they were stretched out together on Shane’s bed, and his big, warm hands were teasing under the hem of her shirt, stroking the fluttering skin of her stomach and stealing her breath. She lost it all when he spread his fingers out, pressing his palm flat against her, and she felt an almost irresistible impulse to feel those hands all over. Everywhere. Her heart was hammering hard enough to make her dizzy, and it was all just so . . .

  Perfect.

  She reached down and pulled up her shirt. Slowly, feeling the cool air slip over tender skin.

  Up, to the bottom line of her bra. Then up.

  Shane stopped.

  ‘‘I want to,’’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘‘Please, Shane. I want to.’’ She sat up and reached for the clasp on her bra, and unhooked it. ‘‘Please.’’

  He pulled back from her and sat up, head down. When he looked up he licked his lips, and his eyes were wide and dark, and she could fall into them, fall forever.

  ‘‘I know,’’ he said. ‘‘Me too. But I made promises, and I’m going to keep them. Especially the one to your parents, because your dad said he’d hunt me down like a dog.’’ Shane gave her a wild, bitter smile. ‘‘Sucks to be me.’’

  ‘‘But—’’ She felt her bra slipping, and quickly grabbed to hold it in place. She felt ridiculous now, and wounded.

  He sighed. ‘‘Don’t, Claire. It’s not like I’m a saint or anything; I’m not, and trust me, for you, a saint would buy a condom and go to confession. But it’s not about that. It’s about keeping my word, and around here, my word is all I’ve got.’’

  She wanted him with a red fury that was all out of character for her, but somehow, the way he said it, the way he looked her straight in the eyes, she felt all that fall away and the fury turn into something pure, hot, and silver.

  ‘‘Besides,’’ Shane said, ‘‘I’m all out of condoms, and I hate confession.’’

  He put his arms around her and hooked her bra with an ease that showed he had plenty of practice.

  She threw a pillow at him.

  Somebody was rummaging around outside the house.

  Claire woke up with a start, instantly tense, as she heard the distant rattle of metal. She rolled out of bed and peeked out of the blinds. Her bedroom window looked out on the back, a glorious corner vantage point, and she had a clear view of the fence, and the trash cans on the other side.

  Somebody was definitely out there, a black shape in the moonlight. Claire could see him moving around but couldn’t tell what he was doing. She reached for her cell phone and dialed 911, and told the operator she needed either Joe Hess or Trav
is Lowe. Detective Lowe picked up the call, sounding wide-awake even at three in the morning; Claire described what she was seeing in a whisper, as if whoever was across the yard might hear her.

  ‘‘It’s probably Jason,’’ she said. She heard the scratch of pen on paper on the other end of the phone.

  ‘‘Why Jason? Can you see his face?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ she admitted, ‘‘but Jason told me—he practically admitted it. About the dead girl. I think it’s Jason, honest.’’

  ‘‘Did he threaten you, Claire?’’

  The cut on her wrist was still throbbing. ‘‘I guess you could say so,’’ she said. ‘‘I was going to tell you about it, but I—I had things to do.’’

  ‘‘More important than keeping us in the loop? Never mind. What happened?’’

  ‘‘Shouldn’t I tell you when you get here?’’

  ‘‘Patrol car’s already en route. Where did you see him today?’’

  ‘‘At the university,’’ she said, and told the story. He didn’t interrupt her, just let her talk, and she could hear him continuing to take notes.

  When she paused for breath, Lowe said, ‘‘You know that was stupid, right? Look, next time you see him, you start screaming bloody murder. And put me and Hess on speed dial. Jason’s nobody to play around with.’’

  ‘‘But—we were in public. He wouldn’t have—’’

  ‘‘Ask Eve about why he ended up in jail in the first place, Claire. Next time, don’t hesitate. This isn’t about you being strong; this about you living through the day, all right? Trust me.’’

  She swallowed hard. ‘‘I do.’’

  ‘‘Is he still there?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I can’t see him. He might’ve gone.’’

  ‘‘The patrol car ought to be there in just a couple of seconds; they’re doing a silent approach. You see them yet?’’

  ‘‘No, but my room faces the alley.’’ Something moved in the yard, and she felt a lurch of pure adrenaline. ‘‘I think—I think he’s in the yard now. Coming to the house. To the back.’’