by Rachel Caine
Angry as hell, though.
Pennywell crawled out of the limo. His expression was no longer empty; it was full of hate. “Heretic,” he hissed. “Witch. I’ll see you burn, you and your familiar.” He cast a venomous look at Claire, too, and she swallowed hard.
“What’s a familiar?” she asked Myrnin.
“A demonic spirit who aids a witch,” he said. “Usually in the form of a black cat, but I suppose you’d do. Although in my experience you are not nearly demonic enough.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Myrnin raised his eyebrows and thrust his chin at Pennywell. “Well? Are you waiting for your lynch mob to bring your spine?”
Claire had a very nasty flash of intuition. “Where’s Oliver?”
And then a cold hand closed around her neck, choking off her breath and igniting blind panic inside. She was pulled away, completely off balance and out of control, and saw Myrnin spinning toward her but not quickly enough; she was moving away from him, off into the dark. . . .
It all freeze-framed for her: Myrnin, bloody and wide-eyed, reaching out for her. Pennywell smirking from where he stood near the wreckage of the limo. The smoking sedan that had sent the limo rolling—hood crumpled like used tinfoil.
That was a vampire car.
And the driver’s side door was open.
Claire choked, gasped for breath, and tore at the hand holding her throat closed. No good. Her fingernails didn’t concern him any more than her heels when she kicked backward.
“Hush,” Oliver chided her, and squeezed harder. “I’d like to say this will hurt me more than you, but that wouldn’t be strictly true—”
He broke off with a stunned gasp, and his hand slid away from Claire’s throat. She stumbled forward two steps, both hands holding her aching neck, and then looked back.
Oliver was staring down at his chest, where the point of a stake had emerged from his rib cage.
“Damn,” he said, and pitched down to his knees, fighting it all the way.
Michael was behind him.
Michael had just staked Oliver.
He dashed around the older vampire and grabbed Claire. “You okay?”
She couldn’t get words out through her bruised throat, but she nodded, eyes wide. In seconds Myrnin was there, too, picking her up and dumping her unceremoniously into Michael’s arms. “Take her,” he said. “Oliver is not going to be pleased, boy. Better go.”
“I had to,” Michael said. “I had to stake him. He was going to kill her.”
“In point of fact, he wasn’t; he was going to hurt her so badly that Amelie would feel it, that’s all. But that’s not what I meant. You crashed a car into the limousine. Oliver loves his limousine.”
Michael opened his mouth, then closed it without thinking of anything to say to that.
Myrnin, watching Pennywell, said, “Michael, take the girl and go. I have things to do here. Do leave the stake where it is—I can’t have Oliver interfering just yet. The witchfinder and I have old debts to settle.” When Michael hesitated, Myrnin’s dark eyes flashed toward him in command. “Take her.”
Michael nodded, and Claire lost all sense of where she was, except that she was held firmly in his arms, and moving fast. Lights flashed by, moving too quickly for her to focus on. The burning in her throat died down from a bonfire to a slow broil, and she tried clearing it. It felt like gargling with glass, but she got a weak sound out.
Michael slowed to a normal human-speed run, then a walk, and Claire saw that they were back at the TPU theater. Eve, Shane, and Kim were standing in front of Eve’s car. Two of them looked shocked; Kim just looked like none of it was much concern of hers.
“Claire!” Shane got there first, taking her out of Michael’s arms and easing her to her feet. When she faltered, he held on to her, anxiously looking her over. “What the hell happened, Michael?”
“Crash,” Claire whispered. “Car crash. Hi.”
“Hi,” Shane said. “What do you mean, car crash? Jesus, Michael, you crashed your car?”
“Into the limo,” Claire said. It seemed important to get it right, for some reason. “Saved me.”
Sort of, anyway. She really wasn’t sure what would have happened to her if Oliver had managed to take Myrnin out and had time to do whatever unpleasant thing he’d had planned, or if Pennywell had gotten hold of her. There were so many nasty possibilities.
“We need to get out of here,” Michael said. “Right now. Eve?”
She pulled her car keys out of her tiny black purse, hiked up her velvet skirt, and climbed behind the wheel of her big boxy sedan. Kim smoothly claimed the front passenger seat, leaving Claire in the back, sandwiched between Shane and Michael—which was not at all a bad place to be. She was shaking, she realized. She supposed that was shock or something. Shane held her left hand, and Michael her right, and she closed her eyes as Eve peeled rubber out of the parking lot, heading home.
6
“Mom?” Claire looked at the clock, bit her lip, and prepared for the worst. “Hey. Sorry to be calling so late. We just got out of the concert—you know Michael was playing tonight, right? So I’m at the Glass House. I’m going to stay over tonight; I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Bye. Love you.”
She hung up and gave a long sigh, leaning back against Shane’s chest. “Thank God for voice mail,” she said. “I don’t think I could have done that if she’d picked up.”
He kissed her neck gently. “I don’t care what your parents say; I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not tonight.”
They were home, safe in the warmth of the Glass House. Michael had gone upstairs to change, but Eve was still there, slinking around in her glam-rags. Also, ugh, Kim was still with them.
But somehow it felt like the two of them were all alone.
Shane wrapped his arms around her, and she relaxed, all her fear bleeding away. Her small hand wrapped around his forearm, she felt so safe as she sensed his muscles moving underneath his velvety skin.
Even if she wasn’t really safe, ever.
“I need to thank Michael,” she said, and stopped to clear her throat. It didn’t make it feel much better. “He didn’t have to come after me.”
“I’d have killed his ass if he didn’t,” Shane said, and there was a grimness behind it that made her wince. “He wouldn’t let me come with him.”
“You could have gotten hurt in the crash.”
“He wasn’t worried about you.”
“He was. I was about to be dinner.”
Shane sighed and dropped his forehead onto her shoulder. “And he’d have a point.”
“He saved my life.”
“I get that. Could we stop talking about Michael for a second?” He sounded actually pained.
“You are not jealous.”
Shane held up two fingers pinched almost together. “That much, maybe. And only because he’s got that rock-star thing going on. You girls get into that.”
“Shut up!”
“Seriously, you throw panties and stuff. I’ve heard.”
She turned in the circle of his arms to face him, staring up into his face. No words. He was drawn down to her like gravity, lips warm against hers, lazy at first, then getting hotter, breath coming faster. Her brain exploded in a thousand thoughts and memories . . . the soft skin at the back of his neck, the way he said her name in that sweet, hushed whisper, the sheer heat of him against her.
“Hey.” Eve’s voice, mostly amused, made Claire jump. “I know, mad love, et cetera, but could you please not make out in the living room? I really want to be able to tell your parents I’ve never seen anything going on when they bring the Inquisition over for lunch.”
Shane kissed her one more time, lightly and softly, and fluffed her hair back from her face. “To be continued,” he said.
“I hate cliff-hangers.”
“Blame Eve.”
Claire stepped back from him, and the world came back to life around her—funny how it a
ll seemed to disappear when she was with him. Eve was sitting on the couch, flipping channels on the TV. Kim was cross-legged on the floor reading the backs of game cases. “Hey,” Kim said. “Who plays the zombie game?”
“Ugh,” Eve said. “No.”
“I have, a little,” Claire admitted.
“So that’s a no, a maybe—come on, somebody must be game master around here?”
Shane finally held up his hand. Kim smiled.
“Rock on, Collins,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Claire’s lips still tingled from the kisses, and her whole body from anticipation, but the gleam in Kim’s eyes made her tense up. She could tell Shane was reluctant, but also, Shane wasn’t really in the habit of passing up a challenge, either.
Except that this time, he did. “Can’t,” he said. “Got to check on Michael.”
“I already did,” Eve said, “which you’d have known if you weren’t on Planet Wonderful, the two of you. And he’s fine. He’s on the phone with Amelie. I wouldn’t go there.”
“Oh.” Shane’s excuse had just vanished, and Claire could tell he wasn’t quite up to outright telling Kim no. He went to the couch; Eve scooted over and handed him a game controller. Kim snagged the other one from the side table. “Lock and load, I guess.”
Claire left him to go upstairs. The bathroom was free, and she used the facilities, cleaned up, mourned the state of her face and the fast-emerging bruises around her neck, then went to her bedroom and found a pair of comfortable jeans and a top. A cute top. And she made sure it showcased the cross Shane had bought her. She also put on a little lip gloss. Just a little.
She could hear the shouts and smack talk from downstairs when she opened her bedroom door; Kim and Shane were all about the competition, which did not make her feel less left out. “Come on, suck it up,” she told herself in a harsh, hoarse whisper, plastered a smile on, and started down the hall.
The hidden door opposite Eve’s bedroom opened with a soft click, and in the dim reflected light, Claire saw the flicker of a black-and-white image of a woman in full Victorian-style skirts. It looked like a spec ter, which anywhere but in Morganville would have made Claire scream and make a run for the local ghostbusters.
But this was Morganville, and Claire knew Ada all too well. “What?” she demanded. Ada—or Ada’s image projection, anyway—made a hushing motion of a finger to her lips. She turned, the way a two-dimensional cardboard cutout turns, disappearing in the middle and then expanding again to a back view, and glided up the stairs beyond the hidden door without touching the wood.
“Seriously?” Claire sighed. “Wonderful. Just great.” She followed Ada up. Behind her, the door shut with the same hushed click. Upstairs the lights blazed on, a kaleidoscope of color through Tiffany glass lamps, and Claire saw Ada’s image—face forward again—standing against the wall near the old red velvet sofa. “Okay, I’m here,” she said. “What do you want?”
Ada made the shushing motion again, which was deeply annoying. Ada was a computer—a smart one, and arguably kind of human, but still . . . She was acting all secretive and clever, and Claire really didn’t like the rather cruel smile on those smooth dark gray lips.
Ada touched the wall, and it shimmered, taking on the darkness of one of the portals that Ada controlled through town . . . a kind of magic tunnel, although Claire hated to call it magic. It was physics, that was all. Scary advanced physics. That meant it was the ultimate fast lane, but dangerous. . . . Claire frowned at the opening, trying to feel where the destination might be on the other end. Nothing. And it looked way too dark to be safe.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so. Sorry.”
Why she was apologizing to a crazy computer lady, she didn’t know. Ada wasn’t her friend. Ada didn’t even like her very much, although—by Myrnin’s orders—Ada kind of had to obey her.
Ada lost her smile. She shrugged, turned, and glided through the portal.
She vanished into the dark. After a few seconds, a slender gray hand came out of the shadows and made a Come on impatient gesture.
“No,” Claire said again, and this time, sat down on the couch. “No way. I’ve had way too much today. You have your little weird crisis on your own, Ada.”
Her cell phone rang, and the sound of the song echoing through the hidden room made Claire jump and dig the phone out of her pocket. The screen read Shane Calling. She flipped it open.
“Shane?”
Static, and then came Ada’s weird machine-flat voice. “Myrnin needs you. Now. Come!” She sounded angry, and cold, but she usually did unless she was simpering at Myrnin. Claire slapped the phone shut, blew hair off her forehead, and stared at the darkness. It could be Myrnin’s lab. She just couldn’t tell. Myrnin had a vampire’s habit of forgetting to turn on lights, which sucked.
“I really need to start carrying flashlights,” she muttered, and then had an inspiration. There was a Tiffany-style pole lamp in the corner by the sofa; Claire lifted off the heavy glass shade, set it aside, and rolled the base to the limit of its electrical cord, then lowered it across the threshold of the portal, into the darkness on the other side.
She saw Ada standing there, hands clasped in front of her, cold and expressionless, surrounded by at least ten albino-pale vampires, who cried out and flinched back at the touch of the light. They had oversized fangs and sharp talons, and they weren’t like the regular vamps. . . . These were tunnel rats, the ones who stalked the dark places, keeping out of the light and existing just to kill. Failures, Myrnin had called them.
Ada had meant for her to walk right into the middle of them.
Claire yelled in shock, and slammed the portal closed in her mind, then put her hand on the blank wall of the room as it took on weight and reality again. There was a way to lock it—maybe—and she searched for the right frequency to trigger the security. It was like a deadbolt, and it would hold against Ada or anyone else who wanted to come through.
She hoped.
Closing the portal had chopped the pole lamp in half, and she dropped the base part as it sputtered and sparked, then kicked the plug out of the wall. Claire stood there staring at the wall, and the mutilated lamp, for a long moment with her hands curled into fists, then took out her phone and dialed Myrnin’s lab.
“How kind of you to check up on me,” he said. “I’m fine, as it happens.”
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Really? The stake in my chest didn’t indicate that at all. I must send Oliver a bill for a new shirt.”
“Ada just tried to kill me.”
Myrnin was silent for a moment. Claire could almost see him, hunched over the old-fashioned wired phone that looked like it had come from a Victorian junk shop. “I see,” he said, in an entirely different tone. “Are you certain?”
“She told me you needed to see me, and opened a portal into a nest of hungry vamps. So, yes. I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh my. I will have a talk with her. I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”
“Myrnin—” Claire squeezed her eyes closed, counted to five, and started over. “She’s not listening to you anymore. Don’t you get that? She’s doing her own thing, and her own thing means getting rid of the competition.”
“Competition for what?”
“For you,” Claire said. “Not that I am. But she thinks I am. Because you haven’t killed me.”
She was babbling, because saying this was making her feel a little sick and giddy. She wasn’t in love with Myrnin, but she did love him, a little. He was crazy; he was dangerous ; he was a vampire—and yet, he was somehow not any of those things, in his better moments.
“Claire.” He sounded wounded. “I do not find you attractive, except for your mind. I hope you know that. I would never take such advantage of you.” He paused, and thought about it for a second. “Except if I was hungry, of course. But probably not. Most likely.”
“Yeah, that’s comforting. The point is, Ada thinks you car
e for me, and she wants me out of the way so you’ll care more for her. Right?”
“Right. I’ll go have a talk with her.”
“You need to pull her plug, Myrnin.”
“Over that? Pshaw. It’s merely a flaw in her programming. I’ll take good care of it.” He paused, then said, “Of course, in the meantime, I wouldn’t follow her anywhere if I were you.”
“No kidding. Thanks.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, my dear. Enjoy your evening. Oh, and tell Michael that I enjoyed his concert.”
“You were there?”
She heard the smile in Myrnin’s voice. “We were all there, Claire. All the vampires. We do so enjoy our entertainments.”
That was ever so slightly creepy, and Claire hung up without saying good-bye.
Downstairs, the video game raged on; Kim was as good a player as Shane, apparently, which didn’t surprise Claire but depressed her kind of a lot. Shane didn’t even notice her reappearance; he was wiggling around on the couch, putting body language into his shooting as his game character ducked zombie attacks and kicked, punched, and shot his way out of trouble.
Kim’s character was a slinky-looking girl with black hair in a ponytail, and half a costume. She fought in high heels.
Great.
Claire sat down on the stairs, watching through the railing, and hugged her knees to her chest. Eve was gone, probably to change clothes, so it was just Shane and Kim.
They looked oblivious to everything but the drama on the screen.
She was developing some kind of sixth sense where Michael was concerned; he didn’t make any noise coming down the steps, but she knew he was coming, and turned her head to see that he’d switched out his rock-star gear for a faded, old gray T-shirt and, like her, jeans. He took a look at what was happening in the living room, then crouched down next to her. “Hey,” he said. “You all right?”
“I wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t crashed into us,” Claire said. “Thank you.”
He looked ashamed. “Yeah, well, that wasn’t quite the plan. I was just trying to make him stop. I didn’t think he’d actually hit me.”
