by Rachel Caine
“No,” the master draug that had been Amelie said, in a voice like rotten silk. “No more plans. No more scheming. Now you are mine.”
And I realized that the draug was in control. And this draug had Amelie’s power—the power to compel. The power to force a vampire to her will.
And I sank slowly to my knees under that cold silver stare, screaming inside, as the draug’s slime crept up my hand and under the leathers, and began to feed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CLAIRE
The only place she knew to run, the place she’d be safest, was Amelie’s hidden room upstairs. Claire didn’t hesitate. She knew the darkened house by memory, and dodged around chairs and tables on her way to the stairs. She didn’t dare look back. She could hear furniture crashing, the shotgun going off.
It was so unreal, suddenly. On the sofa Shane’s game controllers would be right where they’d dropped them, and the blanket crooked on the back of the cushions; she couldn’t remember if they’d washed the dishes or not, or just dumped the last things they’d used in the sink.
This was their home. She ought to be safe here.
She was used to the Glass House feeling alive, and she still felt it, a little—a pulse, beating slowly beneath her awareness like a big, sleeping beast. There had been a spirit trapped here of the original owner, but he hadn’t been the part that had really bonded with her, Eve, Shane, and Michael. That had been the house itself, alive on some level she didn’t truly understand.
It couldn’t help her now, even if it wanted to. It didn’t have the strength, or the will.
She reached the steps, slipped, and almost fell. As she grabbed the banister for balance, she heard the front door smash open, and heard a wild war-cry yell.
She knew that voice. Shane! She reversed course and ran for the hallway, then skidded to an off-balance halt. Shane had just come in, holding a shotgun. “Claire!” He locked eyes with her, just for a moment, then started forward …
Only to stop as Myrnin backed out of the parlor room firing his shotgun. Shane spun that way, too, aimed, and fired. Claire heard a high-pitched, angry screech. They’d hit Magnus again. Shane muttered a curse and fired twice in rapid succession, then shoved Myrnin up the hallway toward the living room. Toward her.
“Okay?” he shouted at her.
She managed a shaky smile and made an OK symbol with her thumb and forefinger.
Magnus slid/slithered/lurched into the hallway behind him.
Claire gasped and screamed, “Behind you!” Shane lunged forward, landed on his stomach, rolled, and fired upward at Magnus as he came toward him. From the doorway Claire saw more people entering the hall—Michael, Eve, Jason? And even, improbably, Miranda.
They all had shotguns. Even the kid.
Michael’s shot hit Magnus dead-on from behind as Myrnin and Shane rolled out of the line of fire, and Claire ducked behind the wall. Eve’s shot came a second later.
Magnus pitched forward to the wood floor, oozing blackened fluids.
He didn’t move.
“We got him,” Michael said. “Claire? Shane? You okay? We got him!”
“No,” Myrnin called, and kept crawling, well away from Magnus’s body. “Not so easily. Careful!”
It was good he said it, because it forced Michael to slow down—and when Magnus reared up, reaching for him with pale, strong hands, he had time to skip backward and fire again, point-blank.
Magnus made a horribly liquid gurgling sound, but it wasn’t pain; it was amusement.
Michael backed up fast, pulling Eve with him. They ran into Jason, who was staring at the whole thing as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “What the hell is it?” he asked. “That’s not a vamp. That’s—”
“Watch out!” Claire cried, and so did Miranda, almost in chorus, as Magnus’s vaguely man-shaped form rippled, changed, and rolled forward. Michael, vamp-fast, pulled Eve out of the way.
But Jason just … stood there.
Out of nowhere, Miranda stepped ahead of him and pushed him aside, looked straight at Claire, and said, “It has to be like this. It’s okay.”
And Magnus then rolled over her.
Miranda disappeared into him, absorbed the way Shane had been at the water treatment plant—trapped inside the bubble of draug fluid. But unlike that time, where they’d been trying to keep Shane alive, Magnus had no interest in Miranda at all.
Claire saw her … dissolve. Like flesh dropped in acid. Miranda disappeared in a cloudy mist of red, and in a matter of seconds, what was left of her oozed out to clatter on the floor.
Bones.
Eve screamed, and Michael grabbed her and held her close. Jason had gone milky pale, but he raised his shotgun and fired, three times, straight into Magnus’s body.
Magnus ignored it.
Myrnin scrambled up and jammed more shotgun shells into the weapon, then racked it. “None of this will work,” he said. “There’s only one thing that can kill him.”
Shane was up, too, and he was breathing hard, fighting, Claire thought, not to be sick after what they’d just seen happen. “What?” he demanded. “Because this son of a bitch has to die.”
“Upstairs,” Myrnin said. “Lead him upstairs. Claire, go. He needs to destroy you, not us. Go now.”
After a breathless look at Shane, Claire turned and ran. She scrambled up the steps, only half balanced now, and made it to the top with a surge of relief. The hallway was so familiar, this was home, she loved it here, and there was Eve’s room with the door open on its crazy, dark chaos; Shane’s door was closed. Her own was open, her bed unmade. It hadn’t been long; the place still smelled of cinnamon and Eve’s perfumes, of chili, of the normal life that had been taken away from them.
We’ll get it back. We have to get it back.
Shane and Michael and Eve were down there, fighting for their lives. For their home. Please, God, please let them be okay. She could hear the sound of the shotguns going off, but then … then suddenly they went silent.
She felt for the hidden controls in the paneling. For a heart-stopping moment she couldn’t find them, and then it seemed that they wouldn’t work; she glanced back down the hall and there he was, Magnus, standing motionless next to Michael’s closed door.
Watching with those terrible, monstrous eyes.
“What did you do?” she asked, and panic smothered her—not for herself but for them. For Shane. For her friends.
“They’re unimportant,” he said. “You have a power the others do not. You must not survive to lead them to me again.”
His whole body rippled in a sickening, wrong way, and she knew that she had seconds to live. No. Not again.
She slapped frantically at the controls to the hidden door, and it popped open in the paneling. She charged in and slammed it shut. It was inky in the shadows down here, but at the top of the steps she saw the warm, colorful glow of the Tiffany lamps. Safe up there. It had always felt like another world. If there was anyplace Magnus couldn’t reach her, it would be here.
Deep down, Claire knew it wouldn’t be enough. But there was a portal up here, and maybe, just maybe, she could get through, get out that way …
She reached the top of the stairs and saw … Amelie. But not the Amelie she knew. This was only the shell of her, glossy and hard, and underneath was the same rot and writhing awful foulness that was inside Magnus.
Amelie was a draug, a master draug.
The creature—like Amelie, but not her—was holding Oliver by both wrists. He was on his knees in front of her, face upturned and marble white, and Claire could see the horror in his eyes.
The loss.
There was a silver knife on the carpet next to Amelie, and Claire, not even thinking now, threw herself at it, grabbed it, and plunged it to the hilt into Amelie’s back.
The shrieking knocked her backward into the wall, then into a shuddering, fetal ball with her hands over her ears.
Amelie let go of Oliver and turned toward
Claire, just as the wooden panel opened below with a sudden cold rush of damp air.
The smell of dead things doubled.
Oliver toppled over heavily to the floor, facing away from Claire. She tried to get up, tried hard, but nothing was working in her body. It was like receiving a violent electrical shock. She couldn’t stop shaking.
Something wet slithered over her outstretched foot, and she pulled it in closer, whimpering. That touch felt like worms and mold, filthy water, dead flesh. She was grateful it lasted for only a second, and then was past her as Magnus flowed up into his human form, facing Amelie—or at least the draug that had once been Amelie.
She pulled the silver knife out of her back and stopped screaming, and for a second neither of them moved.
Magnus said, “Your transformation is almost complete. You will be a beautiful and terrifying thing, my queen.”
She said nothing. Her silvery, shimmering eyes looked empty as a moonlit lake.
Oliver made a raw sound, and it took Claire a moment to realize that he was laughing. “You’ve lost, Magnus,” he said. “Your thralls are dead.”
“You were passing clever in using human science. I will have to find a new defense to counter it.” Magnus didn’t seem overly concerned about it. “No matter. I will create a new generation. They will have resistance to your poisons. And after all of you are dead, they will learn to feed on lesser fare. I have heard there are seven billion humans on the earth now. Enough for us to feed for thousands of years.”
Oliver pushed himself up to a sitting position. He looked awful, but there was fire in his eyes, bright and furious. “No,” he said. “You won’t. Because you’re not leaving this place alive.”
“I am a master draug. You, fool, can’t kill me. But you’ll make a fine addition to my blood gardens.” The draug reached down for him, and Oliver batted the hand—the misshapen thing that passed for one—away.
“You’re not the only master draug here,” he said.
“You mean my lovely creation?” Magnus laughed, a sound like saws rubbing together, and Claire flinched and fought the urge to cover her ears. “Your former queen? She has no thralls. No hive. She is no master draug yet. She will make her own kingdom, yes, but not here. This town is mine. You and the last of the vampires are my meat. She can feed her spawn on the thin blood of humans, far from here, when I allow her to go.”
The draug that had once been Amelie was watching him with blank concentration, and something eerily like hunger. She took a step toward him, and Magnus watched her without any sign of alarm.
“You forget something,” Oliver said. “Legend says a master draug cannot die by the hands of vampires. But it says nothing about dying at the hands of another draug.”
Amelie continued to advance with steady, relentless steps. And this time Magnus backed up. Just a little. “I am her maker,” he said. “And she must obey my commands.”
“Think you so?” Oliver sounded viciously amused. “Try.”
Claire pulled herself into a tighter ball. This is bad, she thought. Really bad. I need to get out of here. Being in the middle of this was like being caught in a swarm of hornets, but despite the panic tearing at her, she knew that if she tried to get up, tried to run, Magnus would kill her instantly.
Or Amelie would.
Magnus had forgotten all about her, his focus now on the new master draug before him. “Stop,” he said. “I am your maker. I command you to stop.”
Something happened, deep inside that thing … the inner dark shadow seemed to thrash, come into focus, and then that was Amelie, looking out of the draug. The real Amelie. Her eyes. Her anger. She wasn’t gone after all. Not completely.
She said, “I am a queen. I take no orders.” She plunged the silver knife deep into Magnus, punching through the slimy shell. He gave a horrible metallic screech as Amelie dropped the knife and reached into his broken shell with her bare, pale hands.
“No one,” she said, almost in a whisper, “commands me in Morganville. I command you. I command you to be still.”
His mouth stayed open, but the sound just … stopped. He wasn’t fighting her. It was as if he couldn’t. This, Claire remembered, was Amelie’s terrifying gift. She could compel vampires.
And now she could compel draug.
In that awful ringing silence, Claire heard the queasy squishing sound of Amelie’s hands pulling out of Magnus’s body. Something thrashed in her hands, alive and covered in suckers, mouths, teeth, something horrible dragged up out of the depths of the ocean where monsters lived.
The real form of a master draug, stripped of all its defenses.
Amelie crushed it. It made a wet sound, like a sponge being wrung out, and then there was a sudden, glassy snap.
Magnus’s shell collapsed, and the thick, murky fluid that inhabited it flooded out in a sticky, stinking rush to the thick old carpets. Claire scrambled up to a sitting position and crawled away from the mess, retching.
Amelie turned to Oliver and gave him that awful draug smile, full of death. “Now,” she said, “now it is mine. All of Morganville. All of you.”
“Not quite,” he said. He sounded far too calm, Claire thought, for someone who was about to be horribly killed by something as beautiful and terrible as Amelie was now. “Your transformation isn’t complete. You never made a thrall. Never made a hive. And now your maker is dead.” He smiled as she reached down for him. “And you will never be a master draug.”
She paused, and just for a flicker of a second Claire saw terror in her face. “I rule here.”
“You are wrong,” he said. “The woman inside you has never surrendered to you, never fully allowed the draug control.” He held out his hand, and in it was the leather-wrapped handle of a silver knife. “And never will. Remember who you are, Amelie. Reject this. You have the power to kill her. Do it now.”
She took the knife. And then she plunged it into her own body, and with her own hands tore out a small, weaker version of the creature that had existed within Magnus’s shell. It shrieked in high, thin tones that made Claire’s ears ring, and then Amelie’s cold white fingers closed around it and squeezed with remorseless strength.
It died.
Silence.
Amelie’s shell cracked like glass, and the liquid flooded out of her, too, in a black gush … and underneath lay her vampire body. Horribly shrunken, covered in black spots like mold, but still there. Unconsumed.
The real Amelie, the Founder of Morganville, looked a thousand years old, and she collapsed in a heap like a skeleton held together by nothing but string.
Oliver grabbed her, pulled her away from the blackening spot of the decaying draug, and held her in his arms as he sank down in the far corner of the room. Her eyes were open, but filmed and blind. He fumbled for the sleeve of his leather jacket and yanked it apart with one sharp move, baring a pale, muscular forearm covered with red marks that Claire recognized. Draug stings, in the shape of hands. Amelie had been feeding on him.
And now he was ripping open his wrist with his teeth and forcing her lips apart, giving it to her freely.
It seemed to take ages for her to move, but she finally did, raising her gray hands and taking hold of his arm. Claire had seen vampires feed when they were starving; they wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t.
But it wasn’t like that. Amelie’s touch stayed light on his arm, and after a moment she pushed his wrist away. She still looked awful, but the film was off her eyes, and there was a little more of her, as if the blood had inflated her dehydrated tissues. Still a mummy, but able to blink, move, and speak.
She said, “Let me die, Oliver.”
“No,” he said. There was no real emotion behind it, just a straightforward denial, as if she had asked to borrow a dollar. “You’ve won. You killed him before your transition was complete. You’ll heal.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I can’t. There is part of me—”
“You’ll heal,” he repeated. “I’ll hear no more o
f this. You are the Founder, you will heal, and everything else can be dealt with. Your subjects need you, my queen.”
“I have no subjects. I am no queen.”
Oliver smiled. It wasn’t a good thing. “You have been, and will be again. There’s nothing to fear. You’ve won, Amelie. Your enemies, at your feet.”
She smiled back a little. “You were my enemy once. I never laid you at my feet.”
“Not yet,” he agreed. “But for just now, there will be a truce. It’s a new age. A bright new age for vampires.”
Claire moved, and both of them immediately focused on her, and she wished she hadn’t. There was something shining and predatory about their eyes.
“Claire,” Amelie whispered, “come here.”
She backed away slowly. There wasn’t any real chance of her escaping, not from the two of them. She’d seen too much; she knew that. Heard too much they wanted to conceal.
And she’d served her purpose in luring Magnus there. They didn’t need her anymore.
“No way in hell,” she said, and broke for the stairs.
She didn’t quite make it there before Amelie had her in those ice-cold wrinkled hands. She bent Claire’s head to one side, brushed her hair aside with a calm, gentle gesture, and said, “You’ll have a rare honor, Claire. You will become one of us. Few deserve it more. It is the highest compliment I can give. And it will please Myrnin, as well.”
“No,” Claire whispered. “No, don’t—”
“No,” echoed another voice, and it was punctuated by the thick metallic sound of a shotgun being pumped for the next round. “Not her. No way in hell.”
She somehow thought she’d see Shane there, Shane defending her, but it wasn’t him at all.
Eve’s brother Jason was standing at the top of the stairs, a shotgun in his hands. He still looked pale and shaky, but determined. “No way in hell do you take her instead of me,” he said. “Naomi promised. She promised I’d be turned. You’re going to do it or I’ll kill you all.”
