by Rachel Caine
“But—”
“Go!” He’d learned how to yell orders from Michael, and it seemed to work, because Claire was moving for the stairs without any conscious decision to do it. The cold chill stayed around her, and she saw Eve shivering, too.
The upstairs was quiet, as well, except for the distant knocking sound of Miranda hammering on her door. “I don’t like this,” Claire said. “Oliver knows Michael can’t do anything after dawn, right?”
“I don’t know,” Eve said, and chewed at her bottom lip. Most of her makeup had sweated off or gotten wiped away; even her lips were normal lip color now, for nearly the first time Claire could remember. “You’re right. It’s weird. Why would they just give up now?”
“They haven’t,” said a voice that Claire’s tingling spine recognized before her brain. Michael’s bedroom door opened, and standing there, smiling, was Monica Morrell. Gina and Jennifer were behind her.
They were all holding knives, and that was a hell of a lot scarier than Miranda, no matter how crazy she might be.
Eve got in between Claire and Monica and began backing her away, down the hallway. “Get in your room,” Eve said. “Lock the door.”
“Won’t do you any good,” Monica said, leaning around Eve. “Ask me why. Go on, ask me.”
She didn’t have to. She heard the door open behind her, and whipped around to see a man in a police uniform stepping out into the hallway with his gun drawn.
“Meet my brother, Richard,” she giggled. “Isn’t he cute?” He might have been, but Claire couldn’t look anywhere but at the gun, which was big and shiny and black. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before, and it scared her in ways that even knives didn’t.
“Shut up, Monica,” he said, and nodded toward the far end of the hall. “Ladies. Downstairs, please. We don’t have to make this bloody.” He sounded harassed more than anything else, like mass home invasion was just something standing between him and morning coffee.
Claire backed up, touched Eve, and whispered, “What do we do?” She was asking Michael, too, for all the good it would do.
“I guess we go downstairs,” Eve said. She sounded defeated.
The chill swept across them stronger than ever. “Um, I think that’s a no?” Warm air flooded in. “That’s a yes?” More warm air. “You’re kidding me, Michael. Stay here?” Fine, if you were already a ghost, but how the hell were the two of them supposed to fight off three girls with knives and a cop with a gun?
Eve fainted. She did it convincingly, too, so well that Claire wasn’t totally for sure that she wasn’t really out. Monica, Gina, and Jennifer looked down at her, frowning, and Claire bent over her, fanning at her face. “She got cut,” she said. “She’s lost a lot of blood.” She hoped that was an exaggeration, but she wasn’t too sure, because the black towel had fallen away from Eve’s arm and it looked soaked.
“Leave her,” said Monica’s brother. “We only need you, anyway.”
“But—she’s bleeding! She needs—”
“Move.” He shoved her, and she nearly ran into the knife Gina was holding out. “Monica, for God’s sake, back the hell off, will you? I think I can handle some little girl!”
Monica frowned at him. “Oliver said we could have her when it’s over.”
“Yeah, when it’s over. Which isn’t now, so back the hell off!”
She shot him the finger, then stepped back to let Claire move past her. Claire did it as slowly as she could, manufacturing a crying jag and some shaking that, once started, felt too real to stop.
“See?” Monica said over her shoulder to Jennifer. “Told you she was a punk.”
Claire doubled over, moaning, and very deliberately puked all over Monica’s shoes. That was all it took. Monica screamed in horror and slapped her, Gina grabbed her, Jennifer stepped away, and Richard, confused by all the sudden girl fighting, took a couple of steps back so he wouldn’t put a bullet in the wrong one.
“Hey!” Shane’s voice, loud and angry. He was on the stairs, looking through the railing at them. “Enough already. I’ll give you the damn book. Just leave them alone.”
“Not fair,” Monica muttered, glaring at him. He glared right back, looking like he’d take back that hitting-a-girl rule, just once. Gladly. “Richard, shoot him.”
“No,” Richard said wearily. “I’m a cop. I only shoot who I’m told to shoot, and you aren’t the chief.”
“Well, I will be. One day.”
“Then I’ll shoot him when you are,” he said. “Shane, right? Get up here.”
“Let them walk out of here first.”
“Not going to happen, so just get your ass up here before I decide I don’t need either one of them.” Richard cocked the gun for emphasis. Shane slowly came up to the top of the steps and stopped. “Where is it?”
“The book? It’s safe. And it’s someplace you’ll never get it if you piss me off, Dick.”
Richard fired the gun. Everybody—even Monica—screamed, and Claire looked down at herself in shock.
He’d missed. There was a smoking round hole in Michael’s door.
Oh. He hadn’t missed.
“Kid,” Richard said wearily, “I am not in the mood. I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, my sister’s crazy—”
“Hey!” Monica protested.
“—and you’re not my high school crush—”
“He is not my high school crush, Richard!”
“The point is, I couldn’t give a crap about you, your friends, or your problems, because for me this isn’t personal. Monica will kill you because she’s nuts. I’ll kill you because you make me kill you. Are we straight?”
“Well,” Shane said, “that’s kind of a personal question.”
Richard aimed directly at Claire. It wasn’t much of a change, but she definitely felt it, like being in the center of the spotlight instead of just on the edges, and she heard Shane say, “Dude, I’m kidding, all right? Kidding!”
She didn’t dare blink, or move her eyes away from the gun. If she could just keep staring at it, somehow, that would keep him from shooting her. She knew that didn’t make sense, but…
In her side vision she saw Shane reach behind his back and pull out a book. Black leather cover. Oh no. He’s really going to…he can’t. Not after all this. Although she didn’t have any answers for how he was supposed to avoid it, either.
Shane held up his left hand, showing it empty, and held out the black Bible with his right.
“That’s it?” Richard asked.
“Swear to God.”
“Monica. Take it.”
She did, scowling at Shane. “You are not my high school crush, idiot.”
“Great. I can die happy, then.”
“I’m shooting the next person who talks who isn’t my sister,” Richard said. “Monica?”
She opened the Bible. “There’s a hole in it. And another book.” She stopped, staring at the inside. “Oh my God. It really is. I thought for sure she was bullshitting us.”
“She knows better. Let me see.”
Monica tilted the open Bible toward him, and Claire’s last faint hope went away, because yes, that was the cover, with its scratchy home-engraved symbol.
Shane had done it. He’d given it up.
Somehow she’d expected better.
“So. We’re square, right?” Shane asked tensely. “No shooting or anything.”
Richard reached out, took the Bible from Monica, and flipped it close to tuck it under one arm. “No shooting,” he agreed. “I meant what I said. I’ll only kill you if you make me. So thanks, I really didn’t need the paperwork.”
He walked past Shane to the stairs, and started down.
“Hey, wait!” Shane said. “Want to take your psycho sister with you?”
Richard stopped and sighed. “Right. Monica? Let’s go.”
“I don’t want to,” she said. “Oliver told me I could have them.”
“Oliver’s not here, and I am, and I’m telling
you that we have to go. Right now.” When she didn’t move, he looked back. “Now. Move, unless you want to fry.”
She blew Claire and Shane a mocking kiss. “Yeah. Enjoy the barbecue!”
She followed her brother down. Gina went after, and that just left Jennifer standing there, looking oddly helpless even with a knife in her hands.
She bent over and put it on the floor, held up her hands, and said, “Monica set a fire. You should get out while you can, and run like hell. It probably won’t help, but—I’m sorry.”
And then she was gone. Shane stared after them for a frozen second, then moved over to kneel next to Eve. “Hey. You okay?”
“Taking a nap,” Eve said. “I thought maybe if I stayed down, you’d have it easier.” She sounded shaky, though. “Help me up.”
Shane and Claire each took a hand and pulled her up; she swayed woozily. “Did I get that right? You actually handed it over?”
“You know what? I did. And it kept you guys alive, so there you go. Hate me.” He was going to say something else, but then stopped and frowned and nodded down the hallway.
There was a thin thread of smoke curling out from underneath the door of Claire’s bedroom.
“Oh my God!” she gasped, and ran for it; the knob was hot. She instantly let go and backed away. “We have to get out of here!”
“Like they’re going to let us go?” Shane asked. “And no way am I letting this house burn. What about Michael? He can’t leave!”
She hadn’t even thought of that, and it hit her hard. Michael was trapped. Would he die if the house burned? Could he? “Fire trucks!” she yelled. “There are fire trucks outside—”
“Yeah, to keep everything else from going up,” Eve said. “Trust me. This is their easy answer. The Glass House goes up in flames, along with all their problem kids. Nobody’s going to help us!”
“Then we have to do it,” Shane said. “Yo, Michael! You there?”
“Here’s there,” Eve said. “I’m cold.”
“Anything you can do?”
Eve looked puzzled. “Yes? No? Oh. Maybe. He says maybe.”
“Maybe’s not good enough.” Shane opened the door to Eve’s room and grabbed the black comforter off the bed. “Blankets, towels, whatever, get it in the bathroom and soak it down. Oh, and let Miranda out, will you? We can hate her later.”
Claire kicked the chair out of the way from under the doorknob. The closet door flew open, and Miranda spilled out, coughing. She took one look at them and ran for the stairs.
“My clothes!” Eve yelped, and grabbed a double armful of hangers, then ran to Michael’s room to dump them in a pile.
“Yeah, way to stay focused, Eve!” Shane yelled. He had the tap going in the bath, and seconds later he was back, dragging the soaking wet bundle. “Stay back.”
He kicked open the door, and behind it Claire saw fire licking from the curtains up toward the ceiling. Her bed was on fire, too. It looked like that was where Monica had started it, since it was mostly in flames.
“Be careful!” she yelled, and hesitated to watch as Shane yanked the curtains down, threw the wet comforter over the bed, and began stomping down flames.
“Don’t just stand there!” he said. “Blankets! Towels! Water! Move!”
She dashed off.
16
The whole house smelled like smoke and burned mattress, but on the whole, it could have been a lot worse. Claire’s room was a mess, and her bed and curtains were a dead loss. Scorches on the floor and smoke damage on the ceiling.
Still.
Shane dumped more water on the mattress, which was already a sodden mess, and collapsed against the wall next to Claire and Eve.
“They’ve got to be wondering why we’re not all screaming and burning by now,” Eve said. “I mean, logically.”
“Go look.”
“You go look. I’ve had a tough night.”
Claire sighed, got up, and went to the unbroken window at the far end of the room. She couldn’t see anything. No vampires, obviously, since the sun was blazing in the sky by now, but no human flunkies, either. “Maybe they’re all out front,” she said.
In the silence, she distinctly heard…the doorbell.
“You’re kidding me,” Shane said. “Hey, did you order pizza? Good thinking. I’m starved.”
“I think you have brain damage,” Eve shot back.
“Yeah, because I’m starved.”
There was a crash from downstairs, and Shane stopped smiling. His eyes went dark and focused. “I guess this is it,” he said. “Sorry. Last stand at the Alamo.”
Eve hugged him and didn’t say a word. Claire walked over and hugged each of them in turn, Shane last so she could spend more time doing it. There really wasn’t enough time, though, because she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and she felt a strong chill sweep over her. Michael was with them. Maybe that was his version of a hug.
“Stay strong,” she heard Eve whisper in her ear. She nodded and took Eve’s hand. Shane stepped out in front, which was—she knew by now—just what Shane did. He picked up the baseball bat he’d retrieved from down the hall and got ready.
“There’s no need for that,” said a light, cool voice from the hallway. “You must be Shane. Hello. My name is Amelie.”
Claire gasped and peeked around his broad back. It was the blond vampire from the church, looking perfectly cool and at ease as she stood there, hands folded.
“You can put that away,” Amelie said. “You won’t need it, I assure you.”
She turned and left the doorway. The three of them looked at one another.
Is she gone? Eve mouthed. Shane edged up to the doorway and looked out, then shook his head. What’s she doing?
That was obvious one second later, as there was a faint click and the paneling on the other side popped free.
Amelie opened the hidden door and went up the steps.
“I think you have some questions,” she called down. “I have some, as well, as it happens, and it would be prudent if we indulged each other. If not, then of course you are free to go—but I must warn you that Oliver is not happy. And when Oliver is unhappy, he tends to be rather childish about lashing out. You are not, as they say, out of the woods quite yet, mes petits.”
“Vote,” Shane said. “I’m for leaving.”
“Stay,” Eve said. “Running won’t do us any good, and you know it. We need to at least hear what she has to say.”
They both looked at Claire. “I get a vote?” she asked, surprised.
“Why wouldn’t you? You pay rent.”
“Oh.” She didn’t even have to think about it. “She saved my life today. I don’t think she’s—well, maybe she’s bad, but she’s not, you know, bad. I say we listen.”
Shane shrugged. “Whatever. You go first.”
Amelie had settled herself on the antique Victorian settee. There were two other vampires in the room, standing very quietly in the corner, both wearing dark suits. Claire swallowed hard and fought an urge to back up and change her vote. Amelie smiled at her, lips closed, and gestured elegantly at the chair next to the sofa. “Claire. Ah, and Eve, how lovely.”
“You know me?” Eve asked, surprised. She took a look around at the other two vampires.
“Of course. I always pay attention to the dispossessed. And your parents are particular favorites of mine.”
“Yeah, great. So who the hell are you?” Shane asked, blunt as ever. Amelie regarded him for an instant in surprise.
“Amelie,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I thought you knew whose symbol you wore from birth, my dear.”
Shane looked pissed off. Of course. “I don’t wear any symbols.”
“That’s true. You don’t now.” She shrugged. “But everyone in this town did once, including those from whom you sprang. One way or another, you are owned, body and soul.”
Shane, for once, didn’t try a comeback. He just stared at her with dark, angry eyes. She didn’t
seem bothered.
“You have a question,” Amelie stated. Shane blinked.
“Yeah. How did you get in here? Oliver couldn’t.”
“An excellent question, well phrased. And were I any other vampire, I would not be able to do so. However, this house is my house, first and foremost. I built it, as I built several such in Morganville. I live in each of them in turn, and while I am in residence the Protections will defend me from any enemy, either human or vampire. While I am absent, they will exclude vampires, if the residents are human, and of course humans if the residents are vampires. Unless the proper permissions are given.” She inclined her head. “Does that answer your question?”
“Maybe.” Shane chewed on it a little, then said, “Why didn’t it protect Michael?”
“He gave Oliver permission to enter, and, in doing so, forfeited the house’s Protection. However, the house did what it could to preserve him.” Amelie spread her hands. “Perhaps it helped that Oliver was, in fact, not trying to destroy him but to change him.”
“Into a vampire,” Eve said.
“Yes.”
“Yes! I always wanted to ask why that doesn’t work. I mean, the vampires keep on biting, but…?”
Amelie said nothing. She seemed to be thinking, or remembering; either way, it was a long and uncomfortable silence before she said, “Have you children any concept of geometric progression?”
Claire raised her hand.
“And how many vampires would it take to turn the entire world into vampires, if it was so simple as that?” Amelie smiled as Claire opened her mouth. “My dear, I do not expect you to answer, though if you would like to work out the math of it and tell me someday, I should be most interested to see it. The truth is that we came very near to it, in my younger years, when humans were much fewer. And it was agreed—as it has lately been agreed among you humans—that perhaps conservation of game is a wise idea. So we—removed the knowledge of how to create more vampires, simply by refusing to teach it. Over time, the knowledge was lost except to the Elders, and now it is lost altogether, except in two places.”
“Here?” Claire asked.
