by Rachel Caine
Claire didn’t wait. She pushed over a thumb drive toward Monica. “There’s an electronic file on there,” she said. “It’s password protected. If you can figure out the password, you can have the answers.”
Monica’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“You said I had to give them to you. I did. That’s what I wanted Oliver to see. Now you have them, so we’re done. No comebacks. Right?”
“You put them under a password?”
“One you can guess,” Claire said. “If you did the homework. Or can read fast.”
“You little bitch.” Monica’s hand flashed out—not for the thumb drive, but for Claire’s arm. She crushed it to the table, her nails digging in deep enough to draw blood. “I told you, I’ll fry your ass.”
“With you, I know that’s not an empty threat,” Claire said. “Alyssa Collins is proof of that.”
Monica went very still, and something flickered across her eyes—shock? Maybe even regret and guilt. “I’m not taking this thing. You give me the answers without the password.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “Did you specify how she had to give you the answers?”
“No,” Claire said. “She just said I had to. I did. Hey, this is the nicest way I could have done it. I could have given it to her in Latin or something.”
“Let go of her,” Oliver said mildly. When Monica didn’t, his tone turned icy. “Let. Go.”
She pulled her hand back and folded her arms over her chest, glaring at Claire, her jaw set hard. “This isn’t over.”
“It is,” Oliver said. “Not her fault you made a poor definition of what it was you wanted from her. She satisfied all requirements. She’s even given you a reasonable chance of discovering the password. Take it and walk away, Monica.”
“This isn’t over,” Monica repeated, ignoring him. When she reached for the thumb drive, Oliver’s pale, strong hand slapped down over it, and over her fingers, holding her in place. Monica yelped. It must have hurt.
“Look at me,” he said. Monica blinked and focused on his face, and Claire saw her pupils widen. Her lips parted a little. “Monica Morrell, you are my responsibility. You owe me respect, and you owe me obedience. And you will leave Claire Danvers alone. If you have cause to attack her, you will tell me first. I will decide whether or not you can take action. And you do not have my permission. Not for this.” He let go. Monica yanked her hand back and cradled it against her chest. “Now, take your business and your coffee elsewhere. Both of you.”
Monica reached out and snatched up the small memory stick. As she did, Claire said, “The thumb drive cost me ten bucks.” Monica’s glare reached nuclear levels, but since Oliver was still sitting there, she dug in her tiny purse, found a crumpled ten-dollar bill, and flung it over the table to Claire. She smoothed it out, smiled, and put it in her pocket.
“If you’re quite finished,” Oliver said. “Leave. Monica, go first. I won’t have you doing anything messy. I’m not your maid.”
Monica sent him a look that was definitely not a glare; it was much more scared than angry. She picked up her purse, the coffee, and stalked to the door. She didn’t look back as she piled into her convertible and burned rubber pulling out.
“One of these days,” Oliver said, still looking toward the street, “you’re going to be too clever for your own good, Claire. You do realize that.”
She did, actually. But sometimes, it was just impossible to do anything else.
“I guess you’re coming with us tonight?”
Oliver turned his head to look at her this time, and there was something so cold and distant in his eyes that she shivered. “Did you hear me when I told you to leave? I don’t like being used to settle your problems.”
She swallowed, picked up her stuff, and left.
The afternoon was spent with Myrnin at his freaky mad-scientist lab, which was actually much nicer after the renovations he’d done: new equipment; computers; nice bookcases; decent lighting instead of crazy turn-of-last-century things that emitted sparks when you tried to turn them off or on.
Still, no matter how nice the decor, Myrnin was never less than half crazy. He was under pressure from Amelie, Claire knew; with the death—could computers die?—of Ada, the town’s master computer; he was struggling to figure out a way to make a replacement, but without putting a human brain into it, which Claire strongly discouraged, seeing how well that had worked out with Ada, and the fact that Claire herself was almost certainly the next candidate.
“Computers,” Myrnin said, then shoved the laptop she’d put out for him aside and glared at it as if it had personally insulted him. “The technology is entirely idiotic. Who built this? Baboons?”
“It works fine,” Claire said, and took command of the computer to bring up the interface she’d designed. “All you have to do is explain to me how Ada was connected into the portal and security systems, and I can build some kind of connector. You can run it right from this screen. See?” She’d even gotten an art student at the school to design the interface in a steampunky kind of way, which she thought would make him feel more at home. Myrnin continued to frown at it, but in a less aggressive way. “Try it. Just touch the screen.”
He reached out with one fingertip and pressed the screen over the icon of the shield. The security screen came up, all rusted iron and ornamental gears. He made a humming sound in the back of his throat and pressed again. “And this would control the programming.”
“Yeah, it’s GUI—a graphic user interface.”
“And this program would be able to detect vampires and humans, and treat them differently?”
“Yeah. We just use heat-sensing technology. Vampires have a lower body temperature. It’s easy to tell the difference.”
“Can it be cheated?”
Claire shrugged. “Anything can be cheated. But it’s pretty good.”
“And the memory alteration?”
That was a problem—a big problem. “I don’t think you can actually do that with a computer. I mean, isn’t that some kind of vampire mind thing?” Because Ada had, in fact, been a vampire. And the machine that Myrnin had built to keep her brain alive had somehow allowed her to broadcast that vampire power on a wide field. Claire didn’t really understand it, but she knew it worked—had worked.
“That’s a rather large failure. What’s this?” Myrnin tapped an icon that had a radar screen icon. Nothing happened.
“That’s an early-warning system, to monitor approaches to town. In case.”
“In case what?”
“In case someone like Mr. Bishop decides to visit again.”
Myrnin smiled and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. “There is no one like Mr. Bishop,” he said. “Thank the most holy. And this is excellent work, Claire, but it doesn’t solve our fundamental problem. The difference engine needs programming to allow for removal of dangerous memories. I know of no other way to achieve what we need than to interface it with a biological database.”
“A brain.”
“Well, if you want to be technical.”
Claire sighed. “I am not getting you a brain, because I am not that kind of lab assistant, Dr. Frankenstein. Can we go through the map again?”
The map was a giant flowchart that stretched the length of the lab, on giant notepads. She had painstakingly mapped out every single if, then, and and/or that Myrnin had been able to describe.
It was huge. Really huge. And she wasn’t at all sure it could be done, period—except that he had done it, once, to Ada.
She just wanted to take the icky brain part out of the equation.
“It’s so much easier,” Myrnin insisted as they walked the row of pages. “The brain is capable of processing a staggering number of calculations per second, and is capable of incorporating variables and factors that a mere computer cannot. It’s the finest example of a calculating machine ever developed. We’re fools not to use it.”
“Well, you’re not putting my brain
into a machine. Ever.”
“I wouldn’t.” Myrnin picked a piece of lint from his shiny vest. “Unless it was the only answer, of course. Or, of course, unless you weren’t using it anymore.”
“Never. Promise.”
He shrugged. “I promise.” But not in any way that mattered, Claire thought. Myrnin’s promises were kind of—flexible. “You’re leaving town the rest of the week?”
“Yeah, we’re leaving tonight. You’ll be okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” He clasped his hands behind him and paced back and forth, staring at the charts. He was wearing shorts today, and flip-flops, of course—like some homeless surfer from the waist down, some Edwardian lord from the waist up. It was strange, and ridiculously Myrnin. “I’m not an infant, Claire. I don’t need you to take care of me. Believe me.”
She didn’t, really. Yes, he was old. Yes, he was a vampire. Yes, he was crazy/smart—but the crazy part was always as strong as, or stronger than, the smart part. Even now.
“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?” she asked him. He turned and looked at her, and looked utterly innocent.
“Why in the world would I do that?” he asked. “Have a good time, Claire. The work will still be here when you return.”
She shut down the laptop and closed the lid, packing it up to put it away. As she did, he finally nodded at the machine. “That’s not bad,” he said. “As a start.”
“Thanks.” She was a little surprised. Myrnin didn’t often give out random compliments. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Certainly. Why wouldn’t I be?”
There was just something off about his mood. From visiting her parents to the way he was restlessly prowling the lab—he just wasn’t his usual, unsettlingly manic self. He was a different manic self.
“I wish I were going with you,” he finally said. “There. I’ve said it. You may mock me at your will.”
“Really? But—we’re just going for Michael, really.” That wasn’t true. It was a chance to get out of Morganville, experience life out in the real world. And she knew it would be amazing to feel free again, even for a little while. “Couldn’t you go if you wanted?”
He sat down in his leather wing chair, put on his spectacles, and opened a book from a pile next to it. “Could I?” he asked. “If Amelie didn’t wish me to leave? Not very likely.”
She’d never considered that Myrnin, of all people, could be just as trapped in Morganville as everybody else. He seemed so ... in control, somehow, at the same time he was wildly out of control. But she could see that of everyone in town, Amelie would trust Myrnin the least in terms of actually exiting the town limits. He had too much knowledge, too much insanity brewing around in that head of his.
As careful as Amelie was, she’d never take the risk. No, Myrnin, of everybody in Morganville, would be the next to last to leave, right before Amelie herself. He was her—pet? No, that wasn’t right. Her asset.
It had never really occurred to Claire that he might not altogether like that.
“Sorry,” she said softly. He waved at her, a shooing motion that left her feeling a little lost. She genuinely liked Myrnin, even though she was always intensely aware, these days, of the limits of that friendship—and of the dangers. “Call me if you—”
“Why? So you’ll come running back to Morganville?” He shook his head. “Not likely. And not necessary. Just go, Claire. I’ll be here.”
There was a grim sound to that she didn’t like, but it was getting late. Michael had said to be ready at six, and she needed to pack for the trip.
When she looked back, Myrnin had given up the pretense of reading and was just staring off into the distance. There was something horribly sad about his expression, and she almost turned back....
But she didn’t.
4
The Glass House was chaos when Claire opened the door. Mostly that was Eve and Shane, fighting stereo wars and yelling at each other upstairs. Eve was favoring Korn; Shane was fighting back by blasting “Macarena” at the limit of the boom box knob. There was no sign of Michael, but his guitars were cased and sitting in the living room, along with a duffel bag and a rolling cooler that looked like it could hold any normal drinks. Claire just wasn’t sure what it did hold, and she didn’t open it to find out.
She dropped her backpack, which she figured she’d take anyway, and jogged upstairs. Eve was standing in a pile of clothes, an open suitcase on the bed, holding two identical-looking shirts and frowning at them. Terminal fashion indecision. Claire dashed in, tapped her right hand, and Eve gave her a grateful grin and tossed the shirt into the suitcase. The music was so loud, conversation was impossible.
As she passed Shane’s door, she saw him sprawled on his bed. He had a duffel bag, like Michael’s but brown instead of blue. He looked bored, but he brightened up when he saw her.
“Seriously?” she yelled. “‘The Macarena’?”
“It’s war,” he yelled back. “I had to bring out the heavy artillery. Next up, Barry Manilow!”
Claire hit the POWER button on the stereo, leaving Korn thundering victoriously through the house. After a second or two, Eve turned it down. “See how easy that was?” Claire said.
“What, giving up? Giving up is always easy. It’s the peace that follows that sucks.” Shane slithered off the bed and followed her as she headed for her room. “How was it?”
“What?”
“Everything.”
“You know.” She shrugged. “Normal.” Yeah. She’d manipulated the second most powerful vampire in town into taking her side against a psycho bitch-queen sorority girl. She’d talked rationally about putting people’s brains into computers. This was a normal day. No wonder she was screwed up. “How was yours?”
“Brisket. Chopping block. Cleaver. It’s all good. You packed yet?”
“Did you just see me walk in?”
“Oh. Yeah. Guess not, then.”
He parked himself on her bed, flopped out again as she opened up her one battered suitcase and began filling it. That wasn’t tough; unlike Eve, she wasn’t a clothes fanatic. She had a couple of decent shirts, a bunch of not-so-great ones, and some jeans. She put in her one skirt, along with the shoes that matched it, and the fishnet tights. Shane watched, hands laced behind his head.
“You’re not going to try to tell me what to take?” she asked. “Because I figured that was why you followed me.”
“Do I look crazy? I followed you because your bed is more comfortable.” His smile widened. “Wanna see?”
“Not right now.”
“Last chance before we hit the road.”
“Stop it!”
“Stop what?”
“Looking so ...” She couldn’t think of a word. He looked just as ridiculously hot to her now as he had this morning, when it had been so tough to leave. And that was a good thing. “I’ve got to get stuff out of the bathroom.”
“Good luck. I think Eve took everything already except the aftershave.”
Actually, Eve hadn’t; it was just that Claire didn’t have a whole lot. Shampoo and conditioner, all in one bottle. A little makeup bag. A razor. She didn’t really need a blow-dryer, but if she did, Eve would have packed one—or two. From the size of the suitcase, Eve was planning to take everything she’d ever owned.
Back in the bedroom, Claire almost shut her suitcase, then stopped and frowned. “What did you take?” she asked. “For, you know, protection?”
Shane lifted himself up on his elbows. “What, like, uh, protection?”
“No!” She felt her face flush, which was pretty ridiculous, considering what they’d done this morning. “I mean, against any vampire things that might happen. You know.”
“Stakes in the bottom of the duffel bag,” he said.
“Brought some extra silver nitrate in bottles, too. We should be okay. It’s not as if there’s a big vampire problem where we’re going.”
Maybe not, but living in Morganville had made it a reflex
. Claire couldn’t honestly imagine not planning for it, and she hadn’t been raised here, in the hothouse. She was surprised Shane seemed so ... calm.
But then, Shane had been outside of Morganville, for two years. And they hadn’t been a good two years, either, but at least he knew something about what it was going to be like; more than Michael and Eve, anyway.
Claire dug in her underwear drawer, came up with four silver-coated stakes, and dumped them in on top of her clothes. Just in case. Shane gave her a thumbs-up in approval. She slammed the bag shut and locked it, then wrestled it off the bed. It was heavier than she’d expected, and it wasn’t one with wheels and a handle. Shane, unasked, slid off the bed and took it from her. He lifted it as if it were the weight of a bag of feathers, went into his room, grabbed his duffel, and headed toward the stairs. As he passed Eve’s room he looked in, shook his head, and yelled, “You are totally on your own for that one!”
Claire saw why, as she looked in. Eve had closed the suitcase and somehow gotten it to the floor, but it was the size of a trunk.
At least it had wheels.
Michael was downstairs when Shane and Claire came down; Shane thumped their bags down and said, “You’d better wrangle your girlfriend’s bag, man. I would, but I don’t want to spend the entire trip in traction.”
Michael grinned and zoomed upstairs. He came down carrying the suitcase as if it were nothing. Claire noticed it was new and shiny, and had hand-applied death’s-head stickers and biohazard marks. Yeah, that was definitely Eve’s. Oh, and it was black. Of course.
“Snacks!” Eve yelped, and dashed into the kitchen. She came back with a bag full of things. “Road food. Trust me. Totally necessary. Oh, and drinks—we need drinks.” She caught sight of the cooler. “Okay, not you, Michael. The rest of us.”
They were loading the second cooler with non-blood-related drink items when the doorbell rang. Claire opened it to find Oliver standing on the doorstep. The sun was still up, but he was wearing a hat and a long black coat, which didn’t in any way make him less sinister. His hair was tied back and must have been tucked up under his hat. She wondered if it was flammable, like the rest of him. Age had made him flame-retardant, but he’d still suffer out in the sun, and eventually burst into flames, if he couldn’t get out of it.
