by Rachel Caine
Claire stepped out from behind Amelie at the vampire’s imperative gesture, and anxiously scanned the room. It was big, full of the weirdest mixture of equipment and junk she’d ever seen. A brand-new wide-screen laptop computer with a shimmying belly dancer as a screen saver. An abacus. A chemistry set that looked straight out of some old Sherlock Holmes movie. More books, carelessly piled around as trip hazards, leaning in columns on every table. Lamps— some electric, some oil. Candles. Bottles and jars and shadows and angles and . . .
And a man.
Claire blinked, because she was expecting an old, sick person; expecting it so much she looked around again, trying to find him. But the only man in the room sat in a chair, peacefully reading a book. He marked the spot with a finger, closed it, and looked up at Amelie.
He was young, or at least he looked it. Shoulder-length curly brown hair, big, dark puppy-dog eyes, flawless, faintly golden skin. Frozen at the age of maybe twenty-five, just enough for creases to be forming at the corners of his eyes. Also, he was really, really . . . pretty.
And he didn’t look sick. Not at all.
‘‘Ah, good, I’ve been waiting for you,’’ he said. He spoke English, but with some kind of accent, nothing that Claire could identify. It sounded a little bit like Irish, a little bit like Scottish, but more . . . liquid, somehow. Welsh? ‘‘Claire, is it? Well, come forward, girl, I won’t bite.’’ He smiled, and unlike Amelie’s cool attempt, it was a warm, genuine expression, full of merriment. Claire took a couple of steps toward him. She sensed Amelie tensing behind her, and wondered why. Myrnin seemed okay. Seemed more okay than any vampire she’d seen so far, except maybe Sam, Michael’s grandfather—and Michael, the youngest vampire in Morganville.
‘‘Hello,’’ she said, and got an even wider smile.
‘‘She speaks! Excellent. I have no use for someone without a backbone. Tell me, young Claire, do you like the sciences?’’
That was an antique way of saying it . . . the sciences. People usually said science or mentioned a specific thing, like biology or nuclear studies or chemistry. Still, she knew the right answer. ‘‘Yes, sir. I love the sciences.’’
His dark eyes glittered, full of slightly wicked humor. ‘‘So very polite, you are. And philosophy?’’
‘‘I—I don’t know. We didn’t study it in high school. I just got to college.’’
‘‘Science without philosophy is nonsense,’’ he said, very seriously. ‘‘And alchemy? Do you know anything of it?’’
She just shook her head to that one. She knew what it meant, but wasn’t it all about turning lead into gold or something like that? Sort of con-man science?
Myrnin looked tragically disappointed. She almost wanted to lie to him and tell him that she’d gotten an A in Alchemy 101.
‘‘Don’t be difficult, Myrnin,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘I told you, this age doesn’t regard the subject with much respect. You won’t find anyone with a working knowledge of the Hermetic arts, so you’ll have to use what’s available. From all accounts, this girl is quite gifted. She should be able to understand what you have to teach, if you are patient.’’
Myrnin nodded soberly and put the book aside. He stood up—and up—and up. He was tall, gawky, with long legs and arms—like a human stick bug. He was wearing a weird mixture of clothes, too—not homeless-guy weird, but definitely funky. A vertically striped knit shirt under what looked like some kind of frock coat, and blue jeans, old ones, with holes in the knees. And flip-flops. Claire stared at his exposed toes. Somehow, with that outfit, flip-flops looked almost indecent.
But he had pretty feet.
He extended his hand to Claire, bending over to do it. She carefully took it and shook. Myrnin looked surprised, then delighted. He pumped the handshake enthusiastically enough to make her shoulder ache. ‘‘A handshake, is that the correct way to greet these days?’’ he asked. ‘‘Even for such a lovely young woman? I know it’s common among men, but among women it seems quite a violent gesture—’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Claire said quickly. ‘‘It’s fine. Everybody does it.’’ God, he wasn’t going to try to kiss her hand or anything, was he? No, he was letting go and crossing his arms. Studying her.
‘‘Quickly,’’ he said. ‘‘What’s the elemental designation for rubidium?’’
‘‘Um . . . Rb.’’
‘‘Atomic number?’’
Claire frantically called to mind the periodic table. She’d played with it the same way other kids played with puzzles, back when she was young; she’d known every detail. ‘‘Thirty-seven.’’
‘‘Group number?’’
She could see the square on the table now, as real as if it were a card in her hand. ‘‘Group one,’’ she said confidently. ‘‘Alkali metal. The period number is five.’’
‘‘And what are the dangers of working with rubidium, young Claire?’’
‘‘It spontaneously burns when exposed to air. It also reacts violently to water.’’
‘‘Solid, liquid, gas, plasma?’’
‘‘Solid to forty degrees centigrade. That’s the melting point.’’ She waited for the next question, but Myrnin only cocked his head and watched her. ‘‘How did I do?’’
‘‘Adequately,’’ he said. ‘‘You’ve memorized well.
But memorization is not science, and science is not knowledge.’’ Myrnin stalked over to a leaning stack of books, tossed some carelessly to the floor, and found a threadbare volume that he flipped open without much regard for the fragile pages. ‘‘Ah! Here. What is this, then?’’
He held the book out to her. Claire squinted at the dim illustration. It looked a little like a small square sail, full of wind. She frowned and shook her head. Myrnin snapped the book closed with a sharp clap, making her jump.
‘‘Too much to teach her,’’ he said to Amelie. He began to pace, then got distracted and fiddled with a glass retort full of some noxious green liquid. ‘‘I don’t have time to coddle infants, Amelie. Bring me someone who at least understands the basics of what I am trying to—’’
‘‘I’ve told you before, there is no one available who would recognize that symbol, and in any case, the field has never attracted the most trustworthy of characters. Give Claire a chance. She’s a quick study.’’ Her voice cooled to a measured, icy tone. ‘‘Do not force me to make it an order, Myrnin.’’
He stopped moving, but he didn’t raise his head. ‘‘I don’t want another student.’’ He sounded resentful.
‘‘Nevertheless, you must have one.’’
‘‘Have you explained the risks?’’
‘‘I leave that to you. She is yours, Myrnin. But make no mistake, I will hold you responsible for her performance, and for her safety.’’
Claire heard the click of metal, and when she looked behind her, Amelie was . . . gone.
She’d left her alone. With him.
When Claire turned back to him, Myrnin had raised his head and was staring straight at her. Warm, brown eyes no longer amused. Very serious.
‘‘It seems neither of us has much choice,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll just have to make the best of it, then.’’ He fumbled through the stacks of books and came up with one that looked just as threadbare and fragile as the first one he’d mishandled, but this one was much thinner. He thrust it toward her, and Claire took it. The inscription on the cover was in English. Metals in Egyptian Inscriptions.
‘‘The symbol I showed you is for copper,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘Know the rest when you come back tomorrow. I will also expect you to read Basil Valentine’s Last Will and Testament. I have a copy here . . . .’’ He shoved books around, almost frantic, and located something with a cry of satisfaction. He held that out to her as well. ‘‘Pay special attention to the alchemical symbols. You’ll be expected to copy them out until you know them by heart.’’
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Take them! Take them and get out! Out! I’m busy!’’
Myrnin rushed
past her, bowling over stacks of books in his haste, to fling open the door through which Amelie had disappeared. He was at least a foot taller than the door itself, like a human in a hobbit house. He stood there, jittering his foot in impatience, the flip-flop making plastic slaps between flesh and floor.
‘‘Did you hear me?’’ he snapped. ‘‘Go. No time now. Get out. Come tomorrow.’’
‘‘But—I don’t know how to get home. Or back here.’’
He stared for a second, and then he laughed. ‘‘Someone will have to bring you. I can’t configure the system just for you!’’
Configure the system? Claire stopped, staring back. ‘‘What system? These—doorways?’’ The implications were dizzying. If Myrnin understood the doorways, controlled the doorways, the ones that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere in Morganville . . . I need to know. I need to know how that works.
‘‘Yes, I am responsible for that, among many other things, though it’s hardly the most important thing right now,’’ he said. ‘‘Later, Claire. Go now. Talk tomorrow.’’
He took hold of her, bodily shoved her through the doorway, and slammed it behind her. She heard his hand hit the wood with stunning force.
‘‘Lock it!’’ he shouted. Claire dug the key out of her pocket. She could barely get it in the lock; the light was bad here, and her hands were shaking. But she managed, and heard the solid click as the tumblers fell. ‘‘Take the key!’’ Myrnin yelled.
‘‘But—’’
‘‘You’re responsible for me now, Claire. You must keep me safe.’’ Myrnin’s voice had fallen lower now, as if he’d gotten tired. ‘‘Keep me safe from everyone.’’
And then he started . . . crying.
‘‘Myrnin?’’ Claire said, bending closer to the door. ‘‘Are you okay? Should I come in and—’’
The whole door vibrated with the force of his blow. Claire scrambled backward, shocked.
And the crying continued. Lost, little-boy crying.
Claire hesitated for a few seconds, then turned to see that Amelie hadn’t left after all. She was standing quietly by the desk, in the glow of the single candle, and her expression was composed, but sad.
‘‘Myrnin’s mind is not what it once was. He has periods of lucidity, however. And at all costs, you must take full advantage of these to learn what he has to teach. It can’t be lost, Claire. It must not be lost. There are things he does that—’’ Amelie shook her head. ‘‘There are projects in motion that must continue.’’
Claire’s heart was racing, her whole body shaking. ‘‘He’s crazy, he’s a vampire, and you want me to be his student.’’
‘‘No,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘I require you to be his student. You will comply, Claire, by the rules of the contract you signed of your own free will. This is valuable work. I would not risk you unnecessarily.’’
Have you explained to her the risks? Myrnin had asked that. ‘‘What are the risks?’’ Claire demanded.
Amelie merely pointed to the bookcase, where her backpack still leaned. Claire grabbed it and hauled it to her shoulder—and paused, because a doorway had formed in the blank area of the wall. A solid wooden door, with a plain knob. Identical to those at the university. ‘‘Open it,’’ Amelie said.
‘‘But—’’
‘‘Open the door, Claire.’’
Claire did, and the glare of fluorescent lights and the dead, air-conditioned smell of the Administration Building swept over her in a rush.
Amelie blew out the light. In the darkness, Claire couldn’t see her anymore.
‘‘Be ready at four o’clock tomorrow in the University Center,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Sam will fetch you. I suggest you do the reading Myrnin requires of you. And Claire—tell no one what you’re doing here. Absolutely no one.’’
It wasn’t until Claire was in the hall, with the door shut, that she realized Amelie hadn’t answered her question. She opened the door again, but—there was just a room piled with discarded, broken furniture. Something moved furtively in the corner. There was a window with crooked blinds, but no Amelie. No cave of books. No Myrnin.
‘‘He’s sick,’’ Claire said aloud, to whatever was rustling in the corner behind a three-legged desk. ‘‘That’s why she talked to him like that. He’s old, and he’s sick. Maybe even dying.’’ Vampires could get sick. Vampires could die? Somehow she’d never even considered that.
She shut the door gently, adjusted the weight of her backpack, and looked down at the two ancient books in her hand.
Last Will and Testament.
She hoped that wasn’t a sign of her future.
Eve chattered on about her day on the drive back, talking about some boy who had totally tried to ask her out, and Amy’s boyfriend, Chad, who’d come by to help clean up and was a total sweetheart, and how her boss was a toerag, but at least he’d given her a twenty-cent-an-hour raise. ‘‘I think that’s just for not quitting in the first couple of weeks,’’ Eve said, but she sounded pretty jacked about it, and Claire was pleased for her. ‘‘Yeah, it’s only a couple more dollars a week, but—’’
‘‘But it’s something.’’ Claire nodded. ‘‘Congratulations, Eve. You deserve it. You’re really good at this. I’ll bet you could run the whole thing if you wanted.’’
‘‘Me? Manager?’’ Eve laughed so hard she snorted. ‘‘Yeah, like I want to become Tinpot Dictator of the coffee bar. Get serious.’’
‘‘No, I mean it. You’re nice, people like you; you know what you’re doing. You could. You’d be good at it.’’
Eve shot her a sideways look that was almost a frown. ‘‘You’re serious.’’
‘‘Yep.’’
‘‘I don’t know if I’m ready for management. Don’t you have to wear a tie for that?’’
‘‘You’ve got one,’’ Claire said solemnly.
‘‘Only one with the Grim Reaper on it. Hey, wait. That could be my management style! Screw up and I’ll kill you, maggot.’’ Eve grinned. ‘‘They ought to teach that in business school.’’
‘‘They probably do here,’’ Claire sighed.
‘‘What’s up with you, CB?’’ CB stood for Claire Bear, which was Eve’s funny nickname for her. Claire didn’t think she much resembled a bear, not even the stuffed Gund variety. ‘‘You seem really, I don’t know, thoughtful.’’
‘‘Yeah, well—’’ She couldn’t talk to Eve about Myrnin. ‘‘Homework and stuff.’’ Yeah, it was just that she’d never had quite this kind of pass/fail pressure before. She’d flipped through the book on Egyptian inscriptions. That was pretty straightforward, though she wasn’t sure how actually Egyptian it all was. Interesting, though. The other one, Last Will and Testament, was lots tougher. Tons of symbols in some weird notation she didn’t understand. She’d be up all night trying to make sure she remembered even the basics. ‘‘Eve . . . has anybody ever broken their contract in Morganville? I mean, and lived?’’
‘‘Contract?’’ Eve shot her yet another look, this one definitely coming with a side order of frowning. ‘‘You’re talking about a vamp contract? Sure. People have tried everything, at one time or another. But not very successfully.’’
‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Back in the old days, they got hanged. These days, I think they just throw ’em in jail until they rot, if the vampires don’t eat ’em. But hey, not like you and me have to worry about it, right? Live free or die!’’ Eve held up her hand. ‘‘High five!’’
Claire slapped it, without much enthusiasm. She was thinking about the way the pen had felt in her hand, moving across that stiff paper. Signing her life away. And she felt ashamed.
‘‘Why?’’ Eve asked.
‘‘Huh?’’
‘‘Why are you asking?’’ Eve made the turn onto Lot Street, and the glow of the windows of the Glass House—home—spilled out into the street. ‘‘C’mon, Claire. Someone you know thinking about it?’’
‘‘Um . . . there’s this guy at school. I
just heard him say—I wondered, that’s all.’’
‘‘Well, quit wondering. His problem, not yours. Ready for the fire drill? Quick like a bunny. Go!’’ Eve braked the black Caddy hard, Claire threw open her passenger-side door and jogged around the back of the car, banged open the white picket gate, and raced up the walk to the steps with her house keys in her hand. She heard the engine die, and the noisy clatter of Eve’s shoes behind her.
Eve’s steps stopped. Stopped dead. Claire whirled, scared and expecting to see a vampire on the prowl, but Eve was just checking the mailbox, grabbing a small handful of stuff, and then hurrying up the steps as she sorted through it. Claire stepped over the threshold, and Eve followed, hip-bumping the door shut behind them and shooting the bolt with her elbow, a feat Claire would never have tried—or been able to accomplish with half that grace.
‘‘Electric bill, water bill—Internet bill. Oh, and something for you.’’ Eve pulled out a small bubble-padded mailer from the pile and handed it over. ‘‘No return address.’’
Who’d send her anything? Well, Mom and Dad, sure, and the occasional card from another relative. Her former BFF Elizabeth had sent a postcard from Texas A&M, but only the one. Claire didn’t recognize the neat handwriting on the outside of the envelope. Eve left her to it and walked down the hallway, yelling to let Shane and Michael know they were back, to which Michael yelled back, ‘‘Get in here and make me some dinner—now, woman.’’
‘‘News flash, Michael, you’re supposed to have turned evil, not redneck!’’
Claire ripped open the package and upended it, and a small jewelry box slid into her hand. A nice one— red velvet, with some kind of gold crest embossed into it. She felt the skin tighten up on the back of her neck. Oh no.
Her suspicions were confirmed as she flipped up the lid and saw the gold bracelet nestled on bloodred velvet. It was pretty, and it wasn’t too big; delicate enough to circle one of her small wrists.
The Founder’s Symbol was embossed discreetly in a small gold cartouche.
