by Rachel Caine
“Almost seventeen.” Claire thought she needed a T-shirt that said it for her; it would be a great time-saver—that, or some kind of button.
“Huh. So you’re about my kid brother’s age. His name’s Leo. I’ll have to introduce you sometime.”
Hannah, Claire realized, was talking without really thinking about what she was saying; her eyes were focused on Amelie, who had made her way around piles of books to the doorway on the far wall.
Hannah didn’t seem to miss anything.
“Claire,” Amelie said. Claire dodged piles of books and came to her side. “Did you lock this door when you left before?”
“No. I thought I’d be coming back this way.”
“Interesting. Because someone has locked it.”
“Myrnin?”
Amelie shook her head. “Bishop has him. He has not returned this way.”
Claire decided not to ask how she knew that. “Who else—” And then she knew. “Jason.” Eve’s brother had known about the doorways that led to different destinations in town—maybe not about how they worked (and Claire wasn’t sure she did, either), but he definitely had figured out how to use them. Apart from Claire, Myrnin, and Amelie, only Oliver had the knowledge, and she knew where he’d been since her encounter with Mr. Bishop.
“Yes,” Amelie agreed. “The boy is becoming a problem.”
“Kind of an understatement, considering he, you know . . .” Claire mimed stabbing with the stake, but not in Amelie’s direction—that would be like pointing a loaded gun at Superman. Somebody would get hurt, and it wouldn’t be Superman. “Um—I meant to ask, are you—?”
Amelie looked away from her, toward the door. “Am I what?”
“Okay?” Because she’d had a stake in her chest not all that long ago, and besides that, all the vampires in Morganville had a disadvantage, whether they knew it or not: they were sick—really sick—with something Claire could only think of as vampire Alzheimer’s.
And it was ultimately fatal.
Most of the town didn’t have a clue about that, because Amelie was rightly afraid of what might happen if they did—vampires and humans alike. Amelie had symptoms, but so far they were mild. It took years to progress, so they were safe for a while.
At least, Claire hoped it took years.
“No, I doubt I am all right. Still, this is hardly the time to be coddling myself.” Amelie focused on the door. “We will need the key to open it.”
That was a problem, because the key wasn’t where it was supposed to be. The key ring was gone from where Claire kept it, in a battered, sagging drawer, and the more Claire pawed through debris looking for it, the more alarmed she became. Myrnin kept the weirdest stuff. . . . Books, sure, she loved books; small, deformed dead things in alcohol, not so much. He also kept jars of dirt—at least, she hoped it was dirt. Some of it looked red and flaky, and she was really afraid it might be blood.
The keys were missing. So were a few other things—significant things.
With a sinking feeling, Claire pulled open the half-broken drawer where she’d kept the bag with all the tranquilizer stuff, and Myrnin’s drug supplies.
Gone. Only a scrape in the dust to indicate where it had been.
That meant that if—when—Myrnin turned violent, she wouldn’t have her trusty dart gun to help her. Nor would she have even her trusty injectable pen, so cool, that she’d loaded up for emergencies, because it had been in the bag with the drugs. She’d lost the other supplies she’d had with her.
But even worse, she didn’t have any medicine for him, other than the couple of small vials she had with her in her pockets.
In summary: so very screwed.
“Enough,” Amelie said, and turned to her bodyguard. “I know this isn’t easy, but if you would?”
He gave her a polite sort of nod, stepped forward, and took the lock in his hand.
His hand burst into flame.
“Oh my God!” Claire blurted, and clapped her hands over her mouth, because the vampire guy wasn’t letting go. His face was contorted with pain, but he held on, somehow, and jerked and twisted the silver-plated lock until, with a scream of metal, it ripped loose. The hasp came with it, right off the door.
He dropped it to the floor. His hand kept burning. Claire grabbed the first thing that came to hand—some kind of ratty old shirt Myrnin had left thrown on the floor—and patted out the fire. The smell of burned flesh made her dry heave, and so did the sight of what was left of his hand. He didn’t scream. She almost did it for him.
“A trap,” Amelie said. “From my father. Gérard, are you able to continue?”
He nodded as he wrapped the shirt around the ruin of his hand. He was sweating fine pink beads—blood, Claire realized, as a trickle of it ran down his pale face. She realized that as she was standing there right in front of him, frozen in place, and his eyes flashed red.
“Move,” he growled at her. “Stay behind us.” And then, after a brief pause, he said, “Thank you.”
Hannah took her by the arm and pulled her to the spot in the back, out of vampire-grabbing range. “He needs feeding,” she said in an undertone. “Gérard’s not a bad guy, but you don’t want to make yourself too available for snack attacks. Remember, we’re vending machines with legs.”
Claire nodded. Amelie put her fingers in the hole left by the broken lock and pulled the door open . . . on darkness.
Hannah said nothing. She didn’t let go of Claire’s arm.
For a long moment, nothing happened, and then the darkness flickered. Shifted. Things came and went in the shadows, and Claire knew that Amelie was shuffling destinations, trying to find the one she wanted. It seemed to take a very long time, and then Amelie took a sudden step back. “Now,” she said, and her two bodyguards charged forward into what looked like complete darkness and were gone. Amelie glanced back at Hannah and Claire, and her black pupils were expanding fast, covering all the gray iris of her eyes, preparing for the dark.
“Don’t leave my side,” she said. “This will be dangerous.”
3
Amelie grabbed Claire’s other arm, and before Claire could so much as grab a breath, she was being pulled through the portal. There was a brief wave of chill, and a feeling that was a little like being pushed from all sides, and then she was stumbling into utter, complete blackness. Her other senses went into overdrive. The air smelled stale and heavy, and felt cold and damp, like a cave. Amelie’s icy grip on one arm was going to leave bruises, and Hannah Moses’s warmer touch on the other seemed light by contrast, although Claire knew it wasn’t.
Claire could hear herself and Hannah breathing, but there was no sound at all from the vampires. When Claire tried to speak, Amelie’s ice-cold hand covered her mouth. She nodded convulsively, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as Amelie—she hoped it was still Amelie, anyway—pulled her forward into the dark.
The smells changed from time to time—a whiff of nasty, rotten something, then something else that smelled weirdly like grapes? Her imagination conjured up a dead man surrounded by broken bottles of wine, and Claire couldn’t stop it there; the dead man was moving, squirming toward her, and any second now he’d touch her and she’d scream. . . .
It’s just your imagination; stop it.
She swallowed and tried to tamp down the panic. It wasn’t helping. Shane wouldn’t panic. Shane would— whatever, Shane wouldn’t be caught dead roaming around in the dark with a bunch of vampires like this, and Claire knew it.
It seemed like they went on forever, and then Amelie pulled her to a stop and let go. Losing that support felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, and Claire was really, really grateful for Hannah’s grip to tell her there was something else real in the world. Don’t let me fall.
And then Hannah’s hand went away. A fast tightening of her fingers, and she was gone.
Claire was floating in total darkness, disconnected, alone. Her breath sounded loud as a train in her ea
rs, but it was buried under the thunder of her fast heartbeats. Move, she told herself. Do something!
She whispered, “Hannah?”
Cold hands slapped around her from behind, one pinning her arms to her sides, the other covering her mouth. She was lifted off the ground, and she screamed, a faint buzzing sound like a storm of bees that didn’t make it through the muffling gag.
And then she went flying through the air into the darkness . . . and rolled to a stop facedown, on a cold stone floor. There was light here. Faint, but definite, painting the edges of things a pale gray, including the arched mouth of the tunnel at the end of the hall.
She had no idea where she was.
Claire got quickly to her feet and turned to look behind her. Amelie, pale as a pearl, stepped through the portal, and with her came the other two vampires. Gérard had Hannah Moses’s arm gripped in his good hand.
Hannah had a bloody gash on her head, and when Gérard let go, she dropped to her knees, breathing hard. Her eyes looked blank and unfocused.
Amelie whirled, something silver in one hand, and stabbed as something came at her from the dark. It screamed, a thin sound that echoed through the tunnel, and a white hand reached out to grab Amelie’s shirt.
The invisible portal slammed shut like an iris, and severed the arm just above the elbow.
Amelie plucked the still-grabbing hand from her shirt, dropped the hand to the ground, and kicked it to the side. When she turned back to the others, there was no expression on her face.
Claire felt like throwing up. She couldn’t take her eyes away from that wiggling, fish-pale hand.
“It was necessary to come this way,” Amelie said. “Dangerous, but necessary.”
“Where are we?” Claire asked. Amelie gave her a look and ignored her as she took the lead, heading down the hall. Going through this didn’t give her any right to ask questions. Of course. “Hannah? Are you okay?”
Hannah waved her hand vaguely, which really wasn’t all that confidence-building. The vampire Gérard answered for her. “She’s fine.” Sure, he could talk, having one hand burned to the bone. He’d probably classify himself as fine, too. “Take her,” Gérard ordered, and pushed Hannah toward Claire as he moved to follow Amelie. The other bodyguard—what was his name?—moved with him, as if they were an old, practiced team.
Hannah was heavy, but she pulled herself back on her own center of gravity after a breath or two. “I’m fine,” she said, and gave Claire a reassuring grin. “Damn. That was not a walk in the park.”
“You should meet my boyfriend,” Claire said. “You two are both masters of understatement.”
She thought Hannah wanted to laugh, but instead, she just nodded and patted Claire on the shoulder. “Watch the sides,” she said. “We’re just starting on this thing.”
That was an easy job, because there was nothing to watch on the sides. They were, after all, in a tunnel. Hannah, it appeared, was the rear guard, and she seemed to take it very seriously, although it looked like Amelie had slammed the doorway behind them pretty hard, with prejudice. I hope we don’t have to go back that way, Claire thought, and shivered at the sight of that pale severed hand behind them. It had finally stopped moving. I really, really hope we don’t have to go back there.
At the mouth of the tunnel, Amelie seemed to pause for a moment, and then disappeared to the right, around the corner, with her two vampire bodyguards in flying formation behind her. Hannah and Claire hurried to keep up, and emerged into another hallway, this one square instead of arched, and paneled in rich, dark wood. There were paintings on the walls—old ones, Claire thought—of pale people lit by candlelight, dressed in about a thousand pounds of costume and rice white makeup and wigs.
She stopped and backed up, staring at one.
“What?” Hannah growled.
“That’s her. Amelie.” It definitely was, only instead of the Princess Grace-style clothes she wore now, in the picture she was wearing an elaborate sky blue satin dress, cut way low over her breasts. She was wearing a big white wig, and staring out of the canvas in an eerily familiar way.
“Art appreciation later, Claire. We need to go.”
That was true, beyond any argument, but Claire kept throwing glances at the paintings as they passed. One looked like it could have been Oliver, from about four hundred years ago. One more modern one looked almost like Myrnin. It’s the vampire museum, she realized. It’s their history. There were glass cases lining the hall ahead, filled with books and papers and jewelry, clothing, and musical instruments. All the fine and fabulous things gathered through their long, long lives.
Ahead, the three vampires came to a sudden, motionless halt, and Hannah grabbed Claire by the arm to pull her out of the way, against the wall. “What’s happening?” Claire whispered.
“Sorting credentials.”
Claire didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but when she risked moving out just a bit to see what was happening, she saw that there were lots of other vampires in here—about a hundred of them, some sitting down and obviously hurt. There were humans, too, mostly standing together and looking nervous, which seemed reasonable.
If these were Bishop’s people, their little rescue party was in serious trouble.
Amelie exchanged some quiet words with the vampire who seemed to be in charge, and Gérard and his partner visibly relaxed. That settled the friend-or-foe question, apparently; Amelie turned and nodded to Claire, and she and Hannah edged out from behind the glass cases to join them.
Amelie made a gesture, and immediately several vampires peeled off from the group and joined her in a distant corner.
“What’s going on?” Claire asked, and stared around her. Most of the vampires were still dressed in the costumes they’d worn to Bishop’s welcome feast, but a few were in more military dress—black, mostly, but some in camouflage.
“It’s a rally point,” Hannah said. “She’s talking strategy, probably. Those would be her captains. Notice there aren’t any humans with her?”
Claire did. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation, the doubt that boiled up inside.
Whatever orders Amelie delivered, it didn’t take long. One by one, the vampires nodded and peeled off from the meeting, gathered up followers—including humans this time—and departed. By the time Amelie had dispatched the last group, there were only about ten people left Claire didn’t know, and they were all standing together.
Amelie came back to them, saw the group of humans and vamps, and nodded toward them.
“Claire, this is Theodosius Goldman,” Amelie said. “Theo, he prefers to be called. These are his family.”
Family? That was a shock, because there were so many of them. Theo seemed to be kind of middle-aged, with graying, curly hair and a face that, except for its vampiric pallor, seemed kind of . . . nice.
“May I present my wife, Patience?” he said with the kind of old manners Claire had only seen on Masterpiece Theater. “Our sons, Virgil and Clarence. Their wives, Ida and Minnie.” There were more vampires bowing, or in the case of the one guy down on the floor, with his head held in the lap of a female vamp, waving. “And their children.”
Evidently the grandkids didn’t merit individual introductions. There were four of them, two boys and two girls, all pale like their relatives. They seemed younger than Claire, at least physically; she guessed the littler girl was probably about twelve, the older boy around fifteen.
The older boy and girl glared at her, as if she were personally responsible for the mess they were in, but Claire was too busy imagining how a whole family—down to grandkids—could all be made vampires like this.
Theo, evidently, could see all that in her expression, because he said, “We were made eternal a long time ago, my girl, by”—he cast a quick look at Amelie, who nodded—“by her father, Bishop. It was a joke of his, you see, that we should all be together for all time.” He really did have a kind face, Claire thought, and his smile was kind of tragic. “The joke turned on
him, though. We refused to let it destroy us. Amelie showed us we did not have to kill to survive, and so we were able to keep our faith as well as our lives.”
“Your faith?”
“It’s a very old faith,” Theo said. “And today is our Sabbath.”
Claire blinked. “Oh. You’re Jewish?”
He nodded, eyes fixed on her. “We found a refuge here, in Morganville. A place where we could live in peace, both with our nature and our God.”
Amelie said, softly, “But will you fight for it now, Theo? This place that gave you refuge?”
He held out his hand. His wife’s cool white fingers closed around it. She was a delicate china doll of a woman, with masses of sleek black hair piled on top of her head. “Not today.”
“I’m sure God would understand if you broke the Sabbath under these circumstances.”
“I’m sure he would. God is forgiving, or we would not still be walking this world. But to be moral is not to need his divine forgiveness, I think.” He shook his head again, very regretfully. “We cannot fight, Amelie. Not today. And I would prefer not to fight at all.”
“If you think you can stay neutral in this, you’re wrong. I will respect your wishes. My father will not.”
Theo’s face hardened. “If your father threatens my family again, then we will fight. But until he comes for us, until he shows us the sword, we will not take up arms against him.”
Gérard snorted, which proved what he thought about it; Claire wasn’t much surprised. He seemed like a practical sort of guy. Amelie simply nodded. “I can’t force you, and I wouldn’t. But be careful. I cannot spare anyone to help you. You should be safe enough here, for a time. If any others come through, send them out to guard the power station and the campus.” She allowed her gaze to move beyond Theo, to touch the three humans huddled in the far corner of the room, under another painting, a big one. “Are these under your Protection?”
Theo shrugged. “They asked to join us.”
“Theo.”
“I will defend them if someone tries to harm them.” Theo pitched his voice lower. “Also, we may need them, if we can’t get supplies.”
