by Rachel Caine
‘‘Oh,’’ Claire whispered, and leaned across the table to take Eve’s right hand. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
Eve’s fingers were cool and limp. ‘‘Yeah, well—he asked for it, you know? My dad was an ugly drunk, and he—me and Jason didn’t exactly have the greatest childhood.’’ She locked gazes with Shane. ‘‘You know.’’
He nodded. He took her left hand and stared at the table. ‘‘Our dads were drinking buddies sometimes,’’ he said. ‘‘But Eve’s was worse. Lots worse.’’
Claire, having met Shane’s dad, couldn’t really imagine that. ‘‘How long—?’’
‘‘Jason said a couple of days, maybe. Not long.’’ Eve’s eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. ‘‘Son of a bitch. What does he expect from me, anyway? To come running and sit there and watch him die?’’
Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t lift his head. He just . . . sat. Claire had no idea what to do, how to act, so she followed his example. Eve’s hands suddenly closed on theirs, hard.
‘‘He threw me out,’’ she said. ‘‘He told me that if I didn’t let Brandon fang me, I couldn’t be his daughter. Well, so he’s dying, boohoo. I don’t care.’’
Yes, you do, Claire wanted to say, but she couldn’t. Eve was trying to convince herself, that was all, and in about thirty seconds she shook her head, and the tears broke free to run in dirty streaks down her pale face.
‘‘I’ll take you,’’ Shane said quietly. ‘‘That way, you don’t have to stay unless you want to.’’
Eve nodded. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. ‘‘I wish—Michael—’’
Claire remembered, with a shock, that they were still waiting for Sam’s call. ‘‘I’ll stay,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll call you when I hear from Sam. I’ll get Michael to come there, okay?’’
‘‘Okay,’’ Eve said weakly. ‘‘I—need my purse, I guess.’’
She swiped at her eyes and walked into the other room. Shane looked at Claire, and she wondered what all this was bringing up for him—memories of his father, of his dead mother and sister, of a family he didn’t really even have anymore.
You’re a deep, dark mystery, she’d said to him, and now, more than ever, that was true.
‘‘Take care of her,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Call me if you need anything.’’
He kissed her on the lips, and in a few minutes she heard the front door bang shut. Locks clicked. Claire sat by the phone and waited.
She’d rarely felt so alone.
The phone rang after ten minutes. ‘‘He’s coming home,’’ Sam said, and hung up. No explanation.
Claire gritted her teeth and settled in to wait.
It took another twenty minutes for Michael’s car to pull into the driveway. He crossed the short distance from garage to back door in a few fast strides, covering his head with a black umbrella he left by the steps. Even then, when he entered the kitchen, Claire smelled a faint burned reek coming from him, and he was shivering.
His eyes looked hollow and exhausted.
‘‘Michael? You okay?’’
‘‘Fine,’’ he said. ‘‘I need to rest, that’s all.’’
‘‘I—where were you? What happened?’’
‘‘I was with Amelie.’’ He scrubbed his hands over his face. ‘‘Look, there’s a lot going on. I should have left a note for you guys. I’m sorry. I’ll try to keep you in the loop next time—’’
‘‘Eve’s at the hospital,’’ Claire blurted. ‘‘Her dad’s dying.’’
Michael slowly straightened. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Something about his liver, I guess because of his drinking. Anyway, they say he’s dying. She and Shane went to see him.’’ Claire studied him for a few seconds. ‘‘I told her I’d call when you got home. If you don’t want to go—’’
‘‘No. No, I’ll go. She needs—’’ He shrugged. ‘‘She needs people who love her. It’s going to be hard, facing her parents.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Claire agreed. ‘‘She seemed upset.’’ Of course she was upset. What a stupid thing to say. ‘‘I think she’d like it if you were there for her.’’
‘‘I will be.’’ Michael raised his eyebrows. ‘‘What about you? You okay to stay here?’’
Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘‘Could you drop me off somewhere?’’
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘I need to see Myrnin. Sorry, but I promised.’’
Not that visiting her crazy vampire mentor was going to be any more pleasant than going to the hospital.
5
Someone had done a makeover on Myrnin’s cell, and it wasn’t Claire; she’d thought about it, but she hadn’t been sure about what Amelie would allow him to have.
So when she stepped through the doorway from the laboratory to the cells, where the sickest and most disturbed vampires of Morganville were warehoused, she was surprised to see the glow of electric light coming from the end . . . from Myrnin’s cell. As she got closer, she noted other things. Music. Something classical was playing softly, from a stereo set up outside the bars. There was a television, as well, currently turned off.
Myrnin’s cell, which had been as bare as a monk’s in the beginning, was floored with a plush, expensive-looking Turkish rug. His narrow cot had been replaced with a much more comfortable bed. There were books stacked waist-high in the corners of the cell.
Myrnin was lying on the bed, hands folded across his stomach. He looked young—as young as Michael, really—but there was something indefinably old about him, too. Long, curling black hair, a sense of style far out-of-date. He was dressed in a blue silk dressing gown with dragons on it—neat and clean.
Someone had been here before her to take care of him. She felt guilty.
His eyes didn’t open, but he said, ‘‘Hello, Claire.’’
‘‘Hi.’’ She hung back, watching him. He seemed calm enough, but Myrnin wasn’t all that predictable. ‘‘How are you?’’
‘‘Bored,’’ he said, and laughed. ‘‘Bored, bored, bored. I had no idea a cell could be such a prison.’’
His eyes opened, and his pupils were huge. There was a fey look in his eyes that made the skin along her backbone shiver and tighten.
‘‘Did you bring me anything to eat?’’ he asked. ‘‘Someone juicy?’’
He was definitely not right. She hated it when he got this way—cruel and lazy, willing to say or do anything. It was as if the Myrnin she liked had just . . . disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the dark shell.
Myrnin slithered off his bed, boneless and silent as a reptile. He took hold of the bars in his white, strong fingers and fixed his black-hole eyes on her face.
‘‘Sweet, sweet Claire,’’ he murmured. ‘‘So brave, to come here. Come on, Claire. Come closer. You’ll have to if you want to help.’’
He smiled, and even though he wasn’t showing vampire teeth, she felt the predator’s breath on the back of her neck.
‘‘I have some new medicine,’’ she said, and set her backpack down. She unzipped it and took out the bottle with the crystals—a plastic bottle, thankfully, so she could throw it without fear of breakage. She tossed it underhand through the bars of the cage. It skidded to a stop against Myrnin’s pale feet. ‘‘I need you to take it, Myrnin.’’
He didn’t even bend down for it. ‘‘I don’t think I like your tone,’’ he said. ‘‘You don’t order me, slave. I order you.’’
‘‘I’m not your slave.’’
‘‘You’re property.’’
Claire opened up her backpack, took out the dart gun that Dr. Mills had given her, and shot him.
Myrnin staggered back, staring down at his stomach, and brushed his fingers over the yellow bristle of a hypodermic dart. ‘‘You little bitch,’’ he said, and sat down heavily on the bed.
His eyes rolled back as the drug delivered itself into his bloodstream, and he slumped back flat on the mattress.
‘‘I may be a bitch, but I’m not your property
,’’ Claire said. She didn’t move from where she stood as she loaded a second dart, just in case. She watched his body as his muscles twitched and contracted, then relaxed. ‘‘Myrnin?’’
His eyes blinked, and she saw the pupils begin to shrink down to normal-sized black dots. ‘‘Claire?’’ He reached down and pulled the dart from his stomach. ‘‘Ouch.’’ He examined the dart curiously, then laid it carefully aside. ‘‘That was interesting.’’
Well, he sounded saner, anyway. ‘‘How are you feeling?’’
‘‘Sore?’’ He brushed his fingers over the healing puncture wound. ‘‘Ashamed?’’ His dark gaze lifted to brush across hers. ‘‘I have the feeling I’ve been—unpleasant.’’
‘‘I wouldn’t know,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I just got here. Hey, who brought you all the stuff?’’
Myrnin glanced around, frowning. ‘‘I—to be honest, I’m not really certain. I think it might have been one of Amelie’s creatures.’’ He didn’t sound at all sure. ‘‘I was cruel to you just now, wasn’t I?’’
‘‘A little,’’ she agreed. ‘‘But then again, I did shoot you.’’
‘‘Ah, yes. By the way, is there any particular reason you shot me in the stomach rather than the chest?’’
‘‘Less bone,’’ she said. ‘‘And my hands were shaking. How are you now?’’
He sighed and sat up. ‘‘Better,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t trust me, though. We don’t know how long this will last, do we?’’
‘‘No.’’ Claire put the gun away, and came closer to the bars. Not close enough to grab, though.
‘‘That’s a new formulation? In liquid?’’
She nodded. ‘‘It’s stronger, but I’m not sure it will last as long. Your body may break it down faster, so we have to be careful.’’
‘‘Start the clock,’’ he said. He looked down at himself and laughed softly. ‘‘My dark side dresses better than I do.’’ He stood up and reached for clothes folded neatly on a table to the side as he loosened the tie on his robe. He hesitated, smiled, and raised his eyebrows. ‘‘If you don’t mind, Claire . . . ?’’
‘‘Oh. Sorry.’’ Claire turned her back. She didn’t like turning her back on him, even with the cell door locked. He was better behaved when he knew she was watching. She focused on the faint, distorted image of his reflection on the TV screen as he shed the dressing gown and began to pull on his clothing. She couldn’t see much, except that he was very pale all over. Once she was sure his pants were up, she glanced behind her. He had his back to her, and she couldn’t help but compare him with the only other man she’d really studied half-naked. Shane was broad, strong, solid. Myrnin looked fragile, but his muscles moved like cables under that pale skin—far stronger than Shane’s, she knew.
Myrnin turned as he buttoned his shirt. ‘‘It’s been a while since a pretty girl looked at me with such interest,’’ he said. She looked away, feeling the blush work its heat up through her neck and onto her cheeks. ‘‘It’s all right, Claire. I’m not offended.’’
She cleared her throat. ‘‘Any side effects from the new mixture?’’
‘‘I feel warm,’’ he said, and smiled. ‘‘How pleasant.’’
‘‘Too warm?’’
‘‘I have no idea. It’s been so long since I felt anything like it, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference. ’’ He looped his hands loosely around the bars. ‘‘How long are you going to wait?’’
‘‘The first time, we wait until the effects start to fade, so we can have a good baseline and we’ll know how long it’ll allow you to be out. Safely.’’
‘‘And you’ll keep your dart pistol ready at all times, yes?’’ He leaned casually against the bars, elegant and relaxed. There was still a faint glow in his eyes, just a little unsettling. ‘‘What shall we talk about, then? How are your studies, Claire?’’
She shrugged. ‘‘You know.’’
‘‘They’re still too simple, I would expect.’’
‘‘See? You do know.’’ Claire hesitated. ‘‘We have visitors in town.’’
‘‘Visitors?’’ Myrnin didn’t seem overly interested. ‘‘Is it homecoming already? Why on earth Amelie tolerates these human traditions, I’ll simply never understand—’’
‘‘Vampire visitors,’’ she said. That got his full attention.
For a frozen second, he didn’t speak, only stared, and then he said, low in his throat, ‘‘In the name of God, who?’’ His fingers tightened on the bars, squeezing so tightly she was afraid his bones might snap. Or the steel. ‘‘Who?’’
She hadn’t expected that reaction. ‘‘His name is Bishop,’’ she said. ‘‘He says he’s Amelie’s father—’’
Myrnin’s face went as still and pale as a plaster mask. ‘‘Bishop,’’ he repeated. ‘‘Bishop’s—here. No. It can’t be.’’ He took in a deliberate breath—one he didn’t need—and let it slowly out. His hands relaxed on the bars. ‘‘You said visitors. Plural.’’
‘‘He brought two people with him. Ysandre and François.’’
Myrnin said something soft and vicious under his breath. ‘‘I know them both. What’s happened since his arrival? What does Amelie say?’’
‘‘She said we should stay out of it. So do Sam and Oliver, for that matter.’’
‘‘Has she made any public announcements? Is she planning any public events?’’
‘‘Shane got an invitation,’’ she said. ‘‘To some kind of ball. He—it says he has to go as Ysandre’s escort.’’
‘‘Jesu,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘She’s doing it. She’s acknowledging his status with a welcome feast.’’
‘‘What does that mean?’’
Myrnin suddenly rattled the bars. ‘‘Let me out. Now.’’
Claire swallowed. ‘‘I—can’t, I’m sorry. You know how this works. The first time we test a new formulation you have to stay—’’
‘‘Now,’’ he snarled, and his eyes took on that terrifying vampire sheen. ‘‘You have no idea what’s happening out there, Claire! We can’t afford to be cautious.’’
‘‘Then tell me what’s going on! Please! I want to help!’’
Myrnin visibly controlled himself, let go of the bars, and sat down on the bed. ‘‘All right. Sit down. I’ll try to explain.’’
Claire nodded. She pulled over a steel industrial chair—left over from this facility’s use as a prison, she thought—and took a seat herself. ‘‘Tell me about Bishop.’’
‘‘You’ve met him?’’ Claire nodded. ‘‘Then you already know all you need to know. He’s not like the vampires you’ve met here, Claire, not even the worst of us. Amelie and I are modern predators, tigers in the jungle. Bishop is from a far colder, harder time. A Tyrannosaurus rex, if you will.’’
‘‘But he really is Amelie’s father?’’
Myrnin’s turn to nod. ‘‘He was a warlord. A murderer on a scale that you would find it difficult to fathom. I—thought he was dead, many years ago. The fact that he’s come here, now—it’s very bad, Claire. Very bad indeed.’’
‘‘Why? I mean, if he’s Amelie’s father, maybe he just wants to see her—’’
‘‘He’s not here for happy memories,’’ Myrnin said. ‘‘In all likelihood, he’s here to have his revenge.’’
‘‘On you?’’
Myrnin slowly shook his head. ‘‘I’m not the one who tried to kill him,’’ he said.
Claire’s breath caught. ‘‘Amelie? Not—she couldn’t. Not her own father.’’
‘‘It’s best you don’t ask any more questions, little one. All you need to know is that he has reason to hate Amelie—reason enough to bring him here and for him to try to destroy everything she has worked for and accomplished.’’
‘‘But—she’s trying to save vampires. To stop the sickness. He has to understand that. He wouldn’t—’’
‘‘You have no idea what he wants, or what he would do.’’ He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the picture of ear
nestness. ‘‘Bishop comes from a time before there were concepts among vampires of cooperation and self-sacrifice, and he’ll have nothing but contempt for them. As you would say, he’s old-school evil, and all that matters to him is his own power. He won’t tolerate Amelie having her own.’’
‘‘Then what do we do?’’
‘‘First, you let me out of here,’’ he said. ‘‘Amelie is going to need her friends around her.’’
Claire slowly shook her head. The minutes were ticking by, and Myrnin seemed stable, but she had to abide by the rules.
‘‘Claire.’’
She looked up. Myrnin’s face was still and sober, and he seemed utterly in control of himself. This was a Myrnin she rarely saw—not as charming as the manic version, not as terrifying as the angry one. A real, balanced person.
‘‘Don’t let yourself be drawn into this,’’ he said. ‘‘Humans don’t exist for Bishop except as pawns, or food.’’
‘‘I didn’t think we did for too many of you,’’ she said. Myrnin’s eyes widened, and he smiled.
‘‘You do have a point. As a species, we do have an—empathy gap,’’ he replied. ‘‘But at least we’re trying. Bishop and his friends won’t bother.’’
The formula was much, much better than the last one—Myrnin’s stability lasted for nearly four long hours, a score that delighted him almost as much as it did her. But once he’d tired, and begun sliding back into confusion and anger, Claire stopped the clock, made her notes, and checked the massive refrigerator in the center of the prison. She thought it had probably been built as central storage for the kitchens— kitchens that had gotten ripped out long ago—but it had the feeling of a giant, stainless-steel morgue.
Someone had forgotten to restock the supplies of blood inside. Claire made a note as she retrieved supplies for Myrnin, and tossed the blood packs into his cell. She didn’t wait to watch him rip into them.
That always made her sick.
The other vampires were mostly beyond conversation— silent, reduced to basic survival instincts. She loaded up a cart and made the rounds delivering the last of the blood. Some of them had enough control left to nod a silent thanks to her; some only stared with mad, empty eyes, seeing her as just a giant, walking version of the blood bag.
