by Rachel Caine
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Good.’’ Like there’d been some signal between them, Hess and Lowe got up from their chairs. ‘‘We’d better go tell Eve. Look, you think of anything, you call, all right? And don’t go out alone. Protection doesn’t cover this.’’ Lowe cast a significant look at her wrist, and she felt herself blush, as though he’d guessed what color panties she had on. ‘‘You need to go out, you go with one of your friends, all right? Same goes for Eve. We’ll try to keep an eye on you, but caution is your best defense.’’
Claire watched as the cops walked away. They exchanged nods with a tallish young man who was coming in her direction. For a second she thought it was Michael—he had the same walk, the same basic shape—but then his hair caught the light. Red hair, not blond like Michael’s.
Sam. Sam Glass, Michael’s grandfather. Amelie had told her that Sam would escort her to see Myrnin; she’d just forgotten about it. Well, that was okay. Claire liked Sam. He was quiet and kind and didn’t seem much like a vampire at all, except for the pale skin and the slight weird shine to his eyes. Exactly like Michael, now that she thought of it. But then, they were the two youngest, and—weirdly—related. Maybe the older the vampires got, the farther they moved from normal.
‘‘Hey, Claire,’’ Sam said, as if they’d just talked five minutes before, although she hadn’t seen him for nearly a week, at least. She supposed that time was different for vampires. ‘‘What’d they want?’’ He was wearing a TPU T-shirt and jeans, and it made him look kind of hot. Hot for a redheaded vampire, anyway. And he had a nice, if absent, smile. She wasn’t his type. As far as Claire knew, Sam was still totally in love with Amelie, a concept she found harder to wrap her brain around than curved-surface string theory.
He was still waiting for an answer. She scrambled to put one together. ‘‘There’s a dead girl. She was found in our garbage cans. Amy. Amy Callum?’’
Sam’s mobile, earnest face took on a grim look. ‘‘Dammit. I know the family, they’re good folks. I’ll stop by and see them.’’ He sat down and leaned closer, dropping his volume. ‘‘She wasn’t a vampire kill, I know that much. I’d have heard by now if someone had stepped out of line.’’
‘‘No,’’ Claire agreed. ‘‘It sounded as though she was killed by one of us.’’ She realized, with a rush of horror, that he wasn’t us, exactly, and blushed. ‘‘I mean— one of the—humans.’’
Sam smiled at her, but his eyes were a little sad. ‘‘That’s all right, Claire; I’m used to it by now. It’s an us-and-them town.’’ He looked down at his hands, loose and relaxed on the tabletop. ‘‘I’m supposed to take you to your appointment.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ She hastily closed up her books and began loading her backpack. ‘‘Sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was.’’
‘‘No rush,’’ he said. Still not looking at her. Very softly, he continued, ‘‘Claire. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’’
‘‘What?’’
His hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist—the one with the bracelet hidden under the long sleeve. It dug painfully into her skin. ‘‘You know what.’’
‘‘Ow,’’ she whispered, and he let go. ‘‘I had to. I didn’t have a choice. I had to sign if I wanted to keep my friends safe.’’
Sam didn’t say anything to that; he was looking at her now, but she didn’t dare meet his eyes. She didn’t like him knowing about her agreement with Amelie. What if he told Michael? What if Michael told Shane? He’s going to find out, sooner or later. Well, she’d much rather it be later.
Sam said, ‘‘I know that. I wish you wouldn’t do this other thing. With Myrnin. It’s—not safe.’’
‘‘I know. He’s sick or something. But he won’t hurt me. Amelie—’’
‘‘Amelie isn’t in the business of worrying about individuals.’’ That, for Sam, was surprisingly bitter, especially when it came to Amelie. ‘‘She’s using you the way she uses all humans. It’s not personal, but it’s not in your best interest, either.’’
‘‘Why? What is it you’re not telling me?’’
Sam looked at her for a long time, clearly trying to decide, and finally said, ‘‘Myrnin’s had five apprentices in the past few years. Two of them were vampires.’’
Claire blinked, surprised, as Sam got to his feet. ‘‘Five? What happened to them?’’
‘‘You’re asking the right questions. Now ask the right people.’’
He walked away. Claire gasped, grabbed her bag, and followed.
Over at the coffee bar, the two detectives were breaking the news to Eve. As Claire looked back, she saw the precise second that Eve realized her friend was dead. Even from across the room, it hurt to see the pain in her face, quickly masked and locked away. In Morganville, losing someone was something you got used to, Claire supposed.
God, this town sucked sometimes.
Sam had a car, a sleek, dark red sedan with dark-tinted windows. It was parked in the underground garage beneath the UC, in a reserved spot marked SPONSORS ONLY, with a graphic of a sticker that had to appear in the corner of the windshield for the parking to be legal.
A sticker that Sam, of course, had. ‘‘So that means what, you donate money or something?’’
Sam opened the passenger door for her, a bit of chivalry she wasn’t really used to, and Claire climbed inside. ‘‘Not exactly,’’ he said. ‘‘Amelie gives them to vampires who have campus business.’’
Once he was in the car, turning the key, Claire said, ‘‘You have campus business?’’
‘‘I teach night classes,’’ Sam said, and grinned. He looked about twelve, when he did that. She had the feeling it wasn’t something vampires were into, looking that endearingly goofy. Maybe if they were, they’d be more popular with the local breathing population. ‘‘Sort of an outreach program.’’
‘‘Cool.’’ The tinting was so dark it was like midnight outside. ‘‘You can see through this?’’
‘‘Like daylight,’’ Sam said, and she gave up, buckled her seat belt, and let him drive. It wasn’t a long trip— nothing in Morganville was—but she had time to notice some things about Sam’s car. It was clean. Really clean. No trash at all. (Well, he wouldn’t be chowing down on burgers in the car, now, would he? Wait. He could . . . ) It also didn’t smell like most cars. It smelled new and kind of sterile. ‘‘How are classes going?’’
Oh, Sam was going to do the interested-adult thing now. ‘‘Fine,’’ Claire said. Nobody ever wanted to really hear the truth, to a question like that, but fine wasn’t a lie, either. ‘‘They’re not very hard.’’ Also not a lie.
Sam shot her a glance, or so she thought, in the dim lights from the dashboard. ‘‘Maybe you’re not getting all you can out of them,’’ he said. ‘‘Ever thought of that?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘I’ve always been ahead. It’s better than high school, but I was hoping for something harder.’’
‘‘Like working for Myrnin?’’ Sam’s voice had gone dry. ‘‘That’s a challenge, all right. Claire—’’
‘‘Amelie didn’t exactly give me a choice.’’
‘‘But you still want to do it, don’t you?’’
She did. She had to admit that. Myrnin had been scary, but there had been something so bright in him, too. She knew that spark. She felt it herself, and she was always looking for someone, something to feed it. ‘‘Maybe he just needs someone to talk to,’’ she said.
Sam made a noncommittal noise that somehow sounded amused, too, and pulled the car to a stop. ‘‘I have to move fast,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s the door at the end of the alley; I’ll meet you there in the shade.’’
He opened his door and just . . . vanished. The door slammed shut, but it did it on its own. Claire gaped, unbuckled her seat belt, and got out, but there was no sign of Sam at all on the street, in the brilliant sunlight. The car was parked at the curb of a cul-de-sac, and it took her a second, but then she recognized the house in front of her. A
big Gothic ramble of a house, nearly a mirror image of the Glass House where she lived, but this one belonged to a lady named Katherine Day and her granddaughter.
Gramma Day was on her porch, rocking peacefully and stirring the warm air with a paper fan. Claire raised her hand and waved, and Gramma waved back. ‘‘You come to see me, girl?’’ Gramma called. ‘‘Come on up; I’ll get some lemonade!’’
‘‘Maybe later!’’ Claire called back. ‘‘I have to go—’’
She realized, with a jolt of horror, where Sam had told her to go.
Into the alley. The alley where everybody, Gramma Day included, had told her not to go. The alley with the trap-door spider vampire who’d tried before to lure her inside.
Gramma pulled herself to her feet. She was a tiny, wrinkled woman who looked as dry and tough as old leather. Had to be tough, to be old in Morganville, Claire thought. ‘‘You all right, girl?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yeah,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Thanks. I’ll—I’ll be back.’’
She headed off down the alley. Behind her, Gramma Day called out, ‘‘Girl, what you playin’ at? Ain’t you got good sense?’’
Probably not.
The alley was narrow, with fences on both sides, and it seemed to get even more narrow the farther she went, like a funnel. She didn’t feel any strange attraction, though, or hear voices.
She also didn’t see Sam.
‘‘Here,’’ a voice said, as she turned a slight corner. And there he was, leaning back in a patch of black shade next to an overhanging doorway, which was attached to what looked like a shack. Not a really well-made shack, either. Claire wondered if it was supposed to lean like that.
‘‘It’s Myrnin,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s the trap-door spider.’’
Sam looked thoughtful at that, and then nodded. ‘‘Most people know not to come down this way,’’ he said. ‘‘He only takes Unprotecteds. He can tell the difference, so he wouldn’t try it with you. Not now.’’
Cheery. Sam opened the door, which didn’t look sturdy enough to keep out a cool breeze, and stepped inside. A smell washed out into the still air, something old and bitter. Chemicals. Ancient paper. Unwashed clothes.
Well?
Claire sucked in a breath that tasted of all those things, and stepped into Myrnin’s lair.
5
Myrnin was in a mood. A good mood.
‘‘Claire!’’ As she came down the steps—the only thing in the shack itself were the steps leading down— into his main chamber, he flashed across the room in a blur and stopped just an inch away from her, close enough that she flinched back into Sam’s broad chest and he steadied her. Myrnin’s eyes were wide, blazing with enthusiasm. ‘‘I’ve been waiting! Late, late, late, you’re very late, you know. Come on, come on, we haven’t got time for nonsense. Did you bring the books? Good. What about Last Will and Testament? Are you familiar with the symbols? Here, take this.’’ Chalk, pressed into her hand. Myrnin moved again, fast as a grasshopper, and rolled an ancient stained chalkboard closer. He had to shove over some stacks of books to do it, which he did with cheerful disregard for how much of a mess he was making.
Sam, almost inaudibly, whispered, ‘‘Be careful. He’s dangerous when he’s like this.’’
Yeah, no kidding. Claire nodded, swallowed, and smiled as Myrnin turned toward her with those crazy, delighted eyes. She wanted to ask what came after the manic phase, but she didn’t dare.
‘‘I’ll be in the other room,’’ Sam said. Myrnin waved him off impatiently, barely sparing him a glance.
‘‘Yes, yes, fine, go. Here. First let’s start with the Egyptian inscription for asem. Asem. You know what element that represents?’’
‘‘Electrum,’’ Claire said, and carefully chalked the symbol. Sort of a bowl, with a big staff through the middle. ‘‘How’s that?’’
‘‘Excellent! Yes, that’s it. Now, something difficult. Chesbet.’’
Sapphire. That was a hard one. Claire bit her lip for a second, getting the order in her mind, and then drew it out. Circle above a double-slashed line, next to a leg, next to a thing that looked kind of like a car with no wheels over two separated circles.
‘‘No, no, no,’’ Myrnin said, grabbed an eraser, and rubbed out the car. ‘‘Too modern. Look.’’
He drew it again, this time more roughly, and it still looked like a car to her. She copied it, twice, until he was satisfied.
There were a lot of symbols, and he quizzed her on just about all of them, growing more and more excited. Her arm ached from holding up the chalk to the board, especially when, after she screwed up the symbol for lead, he made her repeat it a hundred times.
‘‘We should do this on computer,’’ she said, chalking it carefully for the eighty-ninth time. ‘‘With a drawing pad.’’
‘‘Nonsense. You’re lucky I don’t make you inscribe it with a stylus on a wax tablet, like the old days,’’ Myrnin snorted. ‘‘Children. Spoiled children, always playing with the shiniest toy.’’
‘‘Computers are more efficient!’’
‘‘I can perform calculations on that abacus faster than you can solve them on your computer,’’ Myrnin sneered.
Okay, now he was pissing her off. ‘‘Prove it!’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Prove it.’’ She backed off on her tone, but Myrnin wasn’t looking angry; he was looking strangely interested. He stared at her for a second in silence, and then he broke into the biggest, oddest smile she’d ever seen on the face of a vampire.
‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘A contest. Computer versus abacus.’’
She wasn’t at all sure now that was a good idea, even if it had been her idea, essentially. ‘‘Um—what do I win?’’ More importantly, what do I lose? Making bargains was a way of life in Morganville, and it was a lot like making deals with man-eating fairies. Better be careful what you ask for.
‘‘Your freedom,’’ he said solemnly. His eyes were wide and guileless, his too-young face shining with honesty. ‘‘I will tell Amelie you were not suited to the work. She’ll let you go about your life, such as it is.’’
Good prize. Too good. Claire swallowed hard. ‘‘And if I lose?’’
‘‘Then I eat you,’’ Myrnin said.
With absolutely no change in expression.
‘‘You—you can’t do that.’’ She pulled up the sleeve on her shirt and held up her wrist so the gold bracelet caught the light.
‘‘Don’t be ridiculous,’’ he said. ‘‘Of course I can do it. I can do anything I want, child. Without me, there is no future. No one, especially Amelie, begrudges me the occasional tidbit. You’re hardly large enough to qualify as a meal in any case, and besides, I’m making it well worth your while.’’
She took a step back from him. A big one. That crazy smile . . . She glanced toward the door of the other room, where Sam was waiting for her. No wonder Amelie had told him to stay.
Myrnin gave a sad, theatrical sigh. ‘‘Mortals simply aren’t what they used to be,’’ he said. ‘‘A thousand years ago, you would have bartered your immortal soul for a crust of stale bread. Now I can’t even get you to gamble at all, even for your freedom. Really, people have become so . . . boring. So, no bet? Really?’’
She shook her head. His expression fell into utter disappointment. ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘Then you will write me an essay for tomorrow on the history of alchemy. I can’t expect it to be scholarly, but I do expect you to understand the basis of what it is that I am trying to teach you.’’
‘‘You’re teaching me alchemy?’’
He seemed surprised, and looked around his laboratory. ‘‘Can you not see what I’m doing here?’’
‘‘But alchemy—it’s crap. I mean, it’s like magic, not science.’’
‘‘Alchemy’s accomplishments are sadly forgotten, and yes, magic is an excellent description for things for which you have no basis to understand. As for science . . .’’ Myrnin made a
rude noise. His eyes had taken on that hectic shine again. ‘‘Science is a method, not a religion, yet it can be just as close-minded. Open minds here, Claire. Always open minds. Question everything; accept nothing as fact until you prove it for yourself. Yes?’’
She nodded hesitantly, more afraid to disagree with him than convinced. Myrnin grinned at her and slapped her back with stinging force.
‘‘That’s my girl,’’ he said. ‘‘Now. What do you know of this theory of Schrödinger’s? The one about the cat?’’
Myrnin didn’t go weird until the very end of Claire’s time with him, when he was—she thought—getting tired. She had to admit, there was something fun about working in his lab; he had so much passion, so much enthusiasm for everything. Even for scaring her silly. He was like a little kid, all nervous energy and fiddling hands, quick to laugh, quick to cut her down if she made a mistake. He liked to mock, not correct. He thought if she had to figure it out for herself, she’d learn it properly.
She checked her watch and found it was almost eight o’clock—late. She was supposed to be home by now. Myrnin was ignoring her, temporarily, as she copied out tables of incomprehensible symbols from a book he said was so rare his was the only copy left. She yawned, stretched, and said, ‘‘I need to be going.’’
He had his eye fixed to what looked like a clunky, ancient microscope. ‘‘Already?’’
‘‘It’s late. I should go home.’’
Myrnin straightened, stared at her, and she saw the storm forming in his expression. ‘‘You are dictating to me now?’’ he snapped. ‘‘Who is the master? Who is the student?’’
‘‘I—sorry, but I can’t stay here all night!’’
Myrnin walked toward her, and she couldn’t even recognize him. No more manic energy, no more humor, no more sharp, brilliant anger. He looked troubled and clouded.
‘‘Home,’’ he repeated. ‘‘Home is where the heart is. Why don’t you leave yours here? I’ll take very good care of it.’’
‘‘M-my—heart?’’ She dropped the pen and backed up, putting a big lab table full of chemical equipment between them. Myrnin bared his teeth and put down his fangs. Discovery Channel. King cobra. Oh God, can he spit venom or something? His eyes flared bright, fueled with something that looked to her like . . . fear.
