by Rachel Caine
EVE
I stood on the sidelines, with Michael, and watched the vampires go to war.
It wasn’t much of a seeing-off parade, really … just the two of us, standing together, holding hands. But I’d always thought of myself as the cocky sidekick type, and cocky sidekicks don’t have to go to war, right? They get to cheer from the sidelines and … be cocky.
I didn’t feel particularly cocky anymore. I felt terrified, and even with Michael holding my hand, I’d never been more aware of how much was at stake, how much was bound to go wrong. “What if it doesn’t work?” I asked him. “What if—what if none of them come back?” I could just see the nightmare of being trapped in Zombieland Morganville, the draug haunting every source of water we had.
“Then we grab everybody who’s left, steal a school bus, and head out,” Michael said. “I don’t like running, but sometimes it’s about all you can do.”
School buses. The last time I’d sat on these cold green fake-leather seats, I’d been the outcast praying for graduation and Michael had been in the back with the cool kids. He’d always been able to move between cliques—hottie, music nerd, closet Star Trek enthusiast. Fitting in was his superpower, and my deadly weakness. “Speaking of school buses, remember when Jamie Montgomery punched out what’s-her-name, the redhead …?”
“Carly,” I said. “Carly Fox.”
“Carly the Fox, right. I think she broke her nose.”
“Good times.” I remembered it vividly; it was one of the highlights of senior year, a hair-pulling, full-on hot girl catfight. Carly’s nose had never been the same. Neither had Jamie Montgomery, because she’d disappeared without a trace about two weeks later—escaped from town, rumor said, but I knew most of those rumors were bull. She’d probably gotten drained by Carly’s vamp Protector out of sheer annoyance that he had to mediate high school girls. These things happened. “Hey, whatever happened to Jamie, anyway?” Because Michael was on the other side now. He’d know.
“She left town,” Michael said.
“Is that code for …” I mimed fangs in the neck. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing. So that was a yes, then. “Damn.”
“You already knew.”
I had, kinda. But still. Thinking back on our class, I wondered how many of them had survived; most, sure, but a few would have fallen off the radar, gotten bitten, tried to run, or just had the proverbial fatal accident. Morganville’s rate of missing was pretty high, and most of them weren’t missing at all.
“So,” I said, and turned to Michael. “Enough reminiscing. I guess it’s just us around here.”
“Private,” he replied.
“As much as we ever get. And … there’s not a lot to do right now.”
“No.” He was playing along with me, waiting for me to get to the point.
So I did. “We need to talk about things.”
That was not where he had expected the next turn to go. I knew that, but it was his fault for letting me drive the metaphorical conversation bus. But to his credit, I caught only a small flash of impatience and disappointment, quickly submerged. “Okay,” he said. Not as if he really wanted to have the heart-to-not-beating-heart, but as if he knew there was no getting around it. “You want to do it here?”
I shrugged. “Shane’s in our room with Claire, I think. They’ve been tense since he got back. Better let them have some time.” I led Michael over to a set of chairs and pulled two of them together.
And then I felt oddly weird about starting the conversation. There had been a moment, when I’d run away from Naomi and into his arms, when all that had happened between us had vanished, but now … now here it was again, big and bad and getting bigger with every moment we didn’t deal with it. Or rather, I didn’t. He was trying.
So I looked up and said what was in my heart. “I love you.”
He met my eyes squarely, and my God, he was beautiful. It always surprised me, a bit, how everything just worked with him—his eyes, and his hair, and his cheekbones, and his mouth, and … everything. Living art, so gorgeous that sometimes, like now, it hurt. But if his looks burned a little, the expression on his face soothed it; he was intent on me, as if I was the only thing in the world. Nothing in his eyes but open, honest feeling.
“I love you, too,” he said. “What are we going to do about this?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I thought I did, but … it’s a little like being in a relationship with Superman. You sometimes don’t know your own strength.”
He smiled, and it made his dimples come out. “I think I’m more Batman,” he said. “You know, what with all the bats and nighttime activities. And Batman is much cooler.”
“Geek.”
His smile widened. “You say the nicest things. Haven’t you heard? Geeks run the world now.”
“Yeah, what Goths allow them to run.” This felt so good … so much like the old days, when we were friends, and before everything got so complicated. So dangerous. “You’re avoiding the conversation.”
He looked down at his hands, then back up as if willing himself to do it. “Yeah, I guess I am. I hurt you. I could do it again, if the conditions were right; I don’t really know what could trigger me to do it, Eve. Wish to hell I did. I just … lost myself. And I can’t promise you it won’t happen again.” There was something tentative about the way he was watching me now. Afraid, I realized. Afraid I was going to reject him, and knowing it would hurt, but just … holding still for it all the same.
“That makes jumping into getting married sound a little crazy,” I said. “Doesn’t it?”
He nodded. This time, when he looked down, he didn’t try to meet my eyes again.
“Michael.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. It came out half a whisper, and a little unsteady. “It’s not your fault, it’s mine …”
“Michael. Look at me.” He did, finally, bracing himself for impact. “I said getting married sounds crazy. I do crazy for a living.”
For a blank few seconds, he didn’t seem to understand me; I think he must have run that through his head at high speed a dozen times before he finally got the translation. “You mean you’re okay. We’re okay.”
“Yes, Michael, you fool, we’re very okay. But what I said before still stands. You’d better not think of me as a victim, even if something does happen. I’m no weak little flower, and if I need to defend myself, I will. Just—try not to make that happen. I really don’t want to have to hurt you. Okay?”
His smile was bright and sweet and hot enough to melt solid steel. “Is this the part where I kiss you?”
“If you like.”
“Oh,” he said, “I like.” And he leaned forward, gripping the arms of my chair, and slowly, slowly, sweetly brought that mouth to me. It was a long, lovely kiss, the kind that melts your spine and fills you with sunlight and steals your breath away. The kind that, as far as I knew, only Michael Glass could give me, because he knew, he just knew that kissing me with those gentle little butterfly-soft presses would make my toes curl, and the way that the teasing sank into something deeper, darker, more intensely needy. His tongue stroked my lips, and I let them part, hungry for him, for the taste of him.
I had missed him so, so, so much. Missed this.
Missed us.
“Eve?” He kept his lips close, punctuating his words with small little electric brushes of our skin. My own mouth felt swollen, tingling, intensely and darkly aware. “I think … we should … find some … privacy. Right now.”
I was one hundred and ten percent in favor of this idea. In fact, parts of me were redlining at one-twenty. “Yes, please,” I said. I kept my mouth just as close, teasing him right back. “Does this mean we actually have to stop kissing?”
“I’m afraid it might.”
“Wait … not sure about that, then …”
He pulled me up to my feet and put his arms around me, pressed his lips to mine and began guiding me around the chairs. I giggled into his mouth as we bumped awkwardly i
nto walls, tables, a large vase … and then suddenly he let go of me and turned away, just as I heard Shane say, “Where’s Claire?”
“What?” Michael sounded blank, and just a little bit frustrated. I could understand that, because I was struggling to tamp down the furnace he’d ignited inside me and reconnect with the rest of the world. “What are you talking about? I thought she was with you.”
“Was,” Shane said. He was pulling a shirt over his head, and looked better and more focused than he had before. I was glad to see that. I’d have just been happier to see it in say, an hour. Or two. “She got a call from Myrnin.”
Of course. Nothing strange about that, although I was a little surprised she’d gone. He must have made it seem important. Well, with all that was going on, it probably was important. I made sure my clothes were on relatively straight, and stepped out from behind Michael. “I didn’t see Myrnin earlier,” I said. “Did you?”
Michael shook his head. “He wasn’t with Naomi’s crew.”
“Maybe he’s with Oliver, then.”
“Oliver wasn’t letting anyone near Amelie. No reason to take Claire in there, even if Myrnin got pulled in.” Michael bumped fists with Shane. “You look better, man.”
“I feel better,” Shane said. “Or I would if I could figure out where Batty McCrackula took my girlfriend.”
“Oooh, good one. I’m writing that down. Lab?” I suggested. “I mean, the one he set up here?”
The boys thought it was a good idea, too, so we tried it. There was trial and error involved, what with all the hallways and doors; the more rooms we opened, the more it seemed obvious that this place was deserted. We found Theo in the infirmary; he had a couple of human patients in the beds, and his hulking friend Harold as his nurse.
“Myrnin?” Theo repeated when we asked, and straightened up from where he sat staring into a microscope. “I’m afraid he’s not been here. I haven’t seen him for some time. Have you tried the lab?”
“Can’t find it,” Shane said. He sounded like he was ready to break something, and I couldn’t really blame him.
“Ah. Second hall, turn left, then three doors down on the right. Tell the madman I said hello.” Theo went back to his microscope as if it was vitally important, which maybe it was, and Harold waved to Shane. Shane waved back, looking a little confused about it, and we backed out of the mini-hospital and into the hall.
Theo’s directions took us straight to Myrnin’s makeshift lab, but although it was full of glass and books and tables, there was absolutely no one there.
“Hang on,” Michael said, and took out his phone. He dialed, and listened. I watched his expression grow set and a little worried. “She’s not answering.”
“Try Myrnin,” Shane said. He was as tense as a guitar string, and about as likely to break at the wrong pressure. Michael dialed, listened, and shook his head. “I can’t help it, I have a bad feeling about this …”
“You should.”
We all turned, in varying degrees of fast, and I don’t know about the guys, but I was really surprised to see my uncomfortable little friend Miranda standing in the lab doorway. She looked as mismatched and odd as ever, and her eyes had that looking-through-us focus that made me shudder.
“What are you talking about?” Shane asked, and walked toward her. He probably didn’t mean it to be threatening, but he was agitated, and an agitated Shane was an intimidating thing. Miranda backed up. He stopped and held up both hands in frustrated surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, kid. Just tell me. Where is Claire?”
“Home,” she said. “I told her not to go. I told her.” She looked … distressed, which was weird to me. I’d seen Miranda go through a car wreck and the loss of a sister without that much of a reaction. “It’s all going wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“Mir.” I pushed past Shane and took the girl’s hand. She was all soft skin over thin bird bones, and I made a mental note to make the poor kid a sandwich sometime; she desperately needed it. “Miranda, you know me, right?”
That knocked her out of the psychic trance state, and she gave me a wary, annoyed look. “Of course,” she said. “You’re Eve. Why wouldn’t I?”
Excellent question, but I let it go. “Take a deep breath and explain what’s going on. You’re not making any sense.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Miranda shot back, and sighed. “Claire’s at the Glass House. And she shouldn’t be there. I told her that before she went to see Myrnin.”
I looked over at Shane. “Did she say anything about—”
“The last thing I knew, she was going to meet Myrnin, but I don’t know where.” He was staring at Miranda with a fiercely still expression, as if he was throttling the impulse to shake something out of her. “He must have taken her home is all I can figure. But why would he do that?”
“Murky,” Miranda said. “I can’t see what’s going on. It’s scary, Eve. I don’t like it. But I know we have to help her. We have to.” Her hand was shaking, and her small fingers wrapped tight around mine. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Except if we do, we won’t all make it.”
I swallowed hard and suppressed the Shane-like impulse to shake her. She was making as much sense as she could, I knew that. The kid was half-autistic, half-psychic; it was a miracle she got out as much as she did. And it always made sense, later. “Who won’t make it?”
“Unclear,” she said, as if she was one of those Magic 8 Balls I liked so much.
“Screw this,” Shane said. “I’m going to get Claire.”
“We,” Michael said. “We’re going to get her.”
Miranda nodded. “But there’s someone else we need.” She pulled free of my grip and darted away, running surprisingly fast; I ran after her, and heard the boys pounding in my wake. The girl ran like she had an absolutely accurate map of where she wanted to go, and I quickly lost count of the turns and blurred doorways until she skidded to a stop in front of one that looked identical to all the others. “It’s locked,” she said, and looked at Michael. “Break it.”
He shrugged and took hold of the knob. It was vampire-reinforced, but he was determined, and a few sharp sideways tugs snapped it off in his hand. He reached into the hole and pulled the metal tongue back, then swung the door open.
Inside, my brother, Jason, was sitting cross-legged on a rumpled bunk in a bright orange prison-style jumpsuit with numbers over where a breast pocket would have been. He looked up, tossed lank hair back from his face, and stared at Michael, then past him at me. “Family reunion,” he said. “Cool.” He raised one hand, and I saw he was handcuffed to a length of chain that was fastened to the wall—enough slack for him to get to the bathroom, but not much more. “No need to be afraid. I’m safe.”
Shane cast a sidelong look at Miranda, and said, “Seriously?”
She nodded. “We need him.”
“Okay, then,” Michael said. “Just so we’re clear, Jason: I love your sister, but that doesn’t extend to you. You step out of line, you do anything that isn’t in your sister’s best interests, and I’ll carry out your sentence. We clear?”
“Michael!” I blurted. I wasn’t sure what appalled me more—that he was thinking about letting Jason go, or that he was thinking of killing him. Maybe both.
“Clear,” Jason said. “Look, man, you let me go and I promise you, I’ll do whatever you want. Once that’s done, I’m out of Morganville and out of your lives. All right?”
“Deal,” Michael said. “I’ll be watching you.”
For an answer, Jason held up his pinned wrist. Michael took hold of the chain and bent one of the links, and just like that, my brother was … free.
“Are you totally sure about this?” I asked Miranda under my breath. She nodded placidly. “Because I know him. And he’s not—”
“I know,” she said. “He’s not trustworthy. But that’s okay. This time he’s what we need.”
Jason stood up,
moved his arm as if reveling in the freedom, and said, “So, what are we doing?”
“Getting guns,” Miranda said. “Lots of guns.”
That drew a scary smile from my brother. “I like this plan,” he said, and followed Miranda out. Michael went after, dogging him with a worried frown.
I exchanged a look with Shane.
“I know,” he said. “We are into the This Is a Bad Idea neighborhood, and heading down I Have a Bad Feeling Street. But either we believe her or we don’t. Maybe she’s gone completely over the edge. You considered that?”
“I consider it every time I talk to her,” I said, “but do you want to risk it? With Claire’s life on the line?”
He shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said. “But keep an eye on your brother.”
Both eyes. Absolutely.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CLAIRE
She had never seen it coming.
The first moments of waking up were spent wondering what the hell had happened. She remembered getting the call. Dressing. Going down in the elevator. Meeting Myrnin and Hannah in the garage.
And then … and then he’d turned on her. Grabbed her. Abducted her. She’d fought, too. Fought until he’d put her out.
And now she was here, and her head ached miserably. But where was here? And what the hell had happened? Why?
The next thing that came to her, after the panic, was the realization that she wasn’t submerged in water. It wasn’t the draug, at least. The relief of that was intense, until she tried to move, and discovered that she was tied to a chair. A heavy one, thick wood, plush fabric. A smell of old dust.
The room was dim, but after a few blinking seconds of confusion she realized that she knew it.
She was home. In the Glass House.
Don’t go home, Miranda had said. Oh God.
This was the parlor room, the one they rarely used; it was mostly a place to dump backpacks, coats, purses, stuff on the way into the living room, where they actually gathered. She tried to remember when she’d been home last. Days blurred together—God, had it only been yesterday? No, that had to be wrong. It felt like at least a week. Maybe it was somewhere in the middle.
