by Rachel Caine
“Excuse me?” Claire kept moving. Eve barely glanced up from the article.
“Don’t even try,” she said. “I know that look.”
“What look?” Claire shoved open the kitchen door.
“The now-I-am-a-woman look. Oh God, don’t tell me, please, because then I have to feel guilty that you’re seventeen and I should have been more of a den mom, right?” Claire couldn’t think of anything to say. Eve sighed. “He’d better have been a good, sweet boy to you, or I swear, I’ll kick his ass from here to—Hey, is that Shane’s shirt?”
It was. “No.” Claire hurried into the kitchen.
Michael was standing at the coffeepot, pushing buttons. He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything.
“What?” she demanded, and dumped her book bag on the table as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. “Do I owe back rent?”
“We’ve got some things to talk about other than the rent.”
“Like what?” She kept her stare focused on her OJ.“Like how far you’re going to take this whole undercover-cop thing with Bishop, and whether or not you’re going to get yourself killed? Because I’m wondering, Michael.”
He took in a deep breath and ran his hands through his curly golden hair as if he wanted to rip a handful out in frustration. The cut on his hand, Claire noticed, was neatly healed without any trace of a scar. “I can’t tell you anything else. I already took a huge risk telling you what I did, understand?”
“And did I rat you out? No. Because according to Patience Goldman, this”—she yanked back her sleeve and showed him the tattoo, which was barely a shadow now under her skin, and hardly moving at all—“this thing is running out of juice. I don’t think he’s noticed yet, but he probably will soon.”
“That’s why I told you to stay away from him.”
“Not like I came on my own! Theo . . . ” It struck her hard that she hadn’t even asked, and she felt all of her good vibes of the morning flee in horror. “Oh God. Theo and his family—”
“They’re okay,” Michael said. “They were taken to a holding cell. I checked on them, and I told Sam. He’ll get word to Amelie.”
“That’ll do a lot of good.”
Michael glanced up at her as he poured his coffee. “You seem different today.”
She was struck speechless, and she felt a blush burn its crimson onto her face. Michael’s eyebrows rose, slowly, but he didn’t say anything.
“Okay, that’s . . . not what I meant. And don’t ever play poker.” He gave her a half smile to show her he wasn’t going to harass her about it. Yet. “You moving back in?”
“I don’t know.” She swallowed and tried to get her racing heartbeat under control. “I need to talk to my parents. They’re really . . . I’m just scared for them, that’s all. I thought that maybe if I stayed with them, it would make things better, but I think it’s made it worse. I wish I could just get them out of Morganville. Somehow.”
“You can,” said a voice from the kitchen doorway. It was—of all people!—Hannah Moses, looking tall, lean, and extremely dangerous in her Morganville police uniform, loaded down with a gun, riot baton, pepper spray, handcuffs, and who knew what else. Hannah was one of those women who would command attention no matter what she was wearing, but when she put on the full display, it was no contest at all. “Mind if I come in?”
“I think you’re already in,” Michael said, and gestured to the kitchen table. “Want some coffee to go with that breaking and entering?”
“It’s not breaking and entering with a badge, especially if someone lets you in.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“Eve. Actually, I’ll have some orange juice, if you’ve got more,” Hannah said. “All coffeed out. I’ve been patrolling all night.” She did look tired, as she settled in a chair and stretched her legs out, although tired for Hannah just looked slightly less focused. She was wearing her cornrowed hair back in a complicated knot at the nape of her neck; having it away from her face emphasized the scar she’d gotten in Afghanistan, a seam that ran from her left temple over to her nose. On some women it might have been disfiguring. On Hannah, it was kind of a terrifying beauty mark. “It’s getting nasty out there.”
For Hannah to say that, it had to be worse than nasty. Claire poured some orange juice into a Scooby-Doo cup and handed it over before sitting down herself.
Michael said, “You’re talking about getting Claire’s parents out of town? How is that possible, without tipping off Bishop?”
“Oh, there’s no doubt he’ll know,” Myrnin said, from right behind Claire—close enough that his cool breath touched the back of her neck, and she squealed and spilled her drink all over the table. “What he knows no longer matters. We want him to know.”
“How did you get in here?” Michael asked, and from the shock on his face, he clearly hadn’t seen Myrnin make his appearance, either. Myrnin, when Claire turned to look at him, was smirking. He’d had a bath; his hair, face, and hands were clean, although his clothes still held on to their well-lived-in filth.
“You’d hardly understand it if I told you. But to answer your question, Chief Moses has complete cooperation from me in bypassing the safeguards around the town. We need to get specific groups of people out of Morganville, and among those people are your parents, Claire.”
She wet her lips. “Any special reason we’re moving so fast now?”
“Yes,” he said, and Hannah sent him a sharp look that would have stopped anybody sane. Didn’t work on him, of course. “We are ready. Once Bishop starts killing, he will start with the ones we love first. That includes your parents, Claire, who will have no way to defend themselves.”
He knew something. She could see it, and it scared her to death. “When?”
He spread his hands. “Unknown. But I can tell you that it’s coming. Michael knows this as well.”
Michael didn’t say anything, but he studied the table very hard. Claire resisted an urge to fling some orange juice his way. “When can we get them out of town?”
“I’ll handle getting them packed and ready to go,” Hannah said. “I’m filling two buses with the most likely targets, and those are getting a mandatory evac out of Morganville in the next two hours.” Claire saw a movement at the door, and noticed that Eve had slipped inside the kitchen, but was standing silently against the wall. As she watched, Shane came in, too, fresh from a shower, hair sparkling with drops. His gaze locked with hers, but he didn’t come to her; he took up wall space next to Eve.
Hannah noticed them, too. “You two,” she said. “You’re on the bus today. Grab a bag. Pack for a couple of days. If you need more, we’ll get it for you.”
Eve and Shane both talked at once, an out-of-tune duet of angry denials. Eve slapped Shane on the shoulder and shut him up so she could go first. “No way. I’m not going anywhere, Hannah. End of story.”
Shane added, “I’m not going anywhere if Claire stays here.”
“Then she goes, too,” Hannah said. “I was going to do that anyway.”
But both Michael and Myrnin were shaking their heads. “She can’t,” Michael said. “Faded or not, that tattoo links her directly to Bishop. He’d still be able to track her down—and all the others who went with her.”
“Not necessarily,” Myrnin said. “There are vampires who could block his perception of her, if they traveled with her. But they are not available at present.”
“Patience Goldman,” Claire said. “Right?”
“If Theo had only waited one more day, this could have been avoided. I had planned to use her for that very purpose. But I suppose the fault is ours; if we’d kept him closer in our plans, he would not have acted so stupidly.” Myrnin shrugged.
“I still wouldn’t have gone,” Claire said. “I’m not leaving Michael all by himself, pretending to be Bishop’s best friend.”
“Oh, thanks for that. Glad I inspire such confidence.”
“Well, you
don’t. You’re not a spy, Michael. You’re a musician.”
“The two,” Myrnin said dryly, “are not mutually exclusive. But Michael is right. Our little Claire cannot leave the boundaries of Morganville, as matters stand just now. Besides, I need her at my side.”
“Well, if she’s not going,” Shane said, “count me out of the running away party.”
“Ditto,” from Eve.
Hannah gave them both looks that should have made suitcases magically appear in their hands, but then she gave up and shook her head. “I can’t promise you I’ll be able to keep you safe. Understand?”
Eve rolled her eyes. “Have we ever asked for that? Like, ever? You know us, Hannah. We all went to the same high school—well, except for Claire. We Morganville kids have dodged vamps our whole lives. Not like it’s new territory.”
“Not true,” Myrnin said, very soberly. “You might have played games with Morganville’s tamed vampires, restrained by rules and laws. You’ve never really faced someone like Bishop, who has no conscience and no restraint.”
“Don’t care,” Eve shot back. “That just means it’s more important that we all stick together.”
“Always some crazy fool who stays with a hurricane coming. Can’t save everybody.” Hannah drained her orange juice down to a pale froth on the bottom of the glass. “All right. I’m moving on. We’re pulling people from the Founder Houses first, then anybody who has ties to Amelie, then people who were in the old Morrell administration. And yeah, the Morrells, too.”
“Isn’t Richard missing?”
“No,” Hannah said. “Richard’s just been working with us to get people lined up for evacuation. I told his damn sister to cool it, but she’s still ringing every alarm bell she can find. Wish I could find a special bus just for her. A stinky, slow one. Preferably with a backed-up toilet.”
Claire smiled at that, then remembered someone else. “The Goldmans,” she said. “They need help, too. Can you get them?”
“No idea where they are,” Hannah said.
“I know.” Myrnin looked thoughtful.“I’m not sure, but I can try,” he said. “They have no blood ties to Amelie or to Bishop, so they would be safe enough if we could get them on their way. But it’s a risk including vampires in your evacuation.”
“Then again, it means that we have some vampires fighting on our side if things go wrong outside of town,” Hannah pointed out. “Not a bad thing.”
“Provided the Goldmans will alight.” He seemed about to say something else, but then he shook his head and made his hands into fists. “No, that isn’t what I meant. Will fight. No. Provided that . . . provided . . . ”
He was losing it. Claire got up and opened her backpack. She took out a small box of red crystals and handed it over; for most vampires, it would have been a massive dose. For a human, it was certain, gruesome death.
For Myrnin, it was like taking a handful of candy. He choked, swallowed, and nodded as he tossed the empty box back to her. Then he turned away, face to the corner, and braced himself with outspread arms, head down. His whole body shook.
That’s not supposed to happen.
Then he spasmed so badly she thought he was going to fall. “Myrnin!” Claire touched his shoulder; she’d never seen this happen before—not this bad, anyway. “What’s wrong?”
He whispered, “Get away. Get them all away from me, now.”
“But—”
“Everything smells like blood. Get them away.”
Claire let go and backed up, gesturing for Hannah and even Michael to follow. Nobody said a word. Shane held open the kitchen door, and they all left.
All except Claire, who stayed at the exit, watching Myrnin fight for his life and sanity, one slow second at a time.
She saw his shoulders relax, and felt her tide of worry begin to recede—until he turned toward her.
His eyes weren’t red. They were white. Just . . . white, with the faint shadow of an iris and pupil showing through. The eyes of a corpse.
“Claire,” he said, and took a step toward her.
Then he fell, hit the ground, and went completely limp.
“We could take him to the hospital,” Hannah said, but not as if she thought it was a good idea. Claire was kneeling next to Myrnin, with Michael hovering near her, ready to yank her out of the way if Myrnin should suddenly surge back to bloodsucking life.
He was quiet. He looked dead.
“I think this is a little beyond the hospital,” Claire said. “It’s part of the disease. It’s in his notes—he charted the progress; sometimes this happens. They just . . . collapse. They revive, but usually when they do, they’re not—” Her voice failed her, and she had to clear her throat. “Not the same.” Myrnin’s notes, what she could remember of them, seemed to indicate that when—or if—the vampire recovered from the coma, he didn’t have much left of his original personality.
Myrnin had been sick a long time. He’d lost the ability to create other vampires more than a hundred years ago; he’d begun behaving weirdly about another fifty years after, and from there it had progressed rapidly. Amelie, by contrast, was just now getting to the early physical symptoms—the occasional loss of emotional control, and the shakes. Oliver . . . well. Who knew if Oliver’s problem was the disease or just a bad attitude?
The fact that Myrnin had held out longer than at least thirty other vampires confined underground in cells was either proof that the disease didn’t work the same way in everyone, or that Myrnin was incredibly determined. He hadn’t wanted to take the cure . . . but there wasn’t a choice now. He had to take it.
And she had to get him to Dr. Mills.
* * *
They carried him through the portal—well, Michael and Hannah carried him; Claire concentrated on getting them to their target location, the basement of Morganville High. “Stay here,” Claire said. “I’m going to get the doctor.”
“We can carry him up,” Michael said. He was being charitable; he could have done it on his own, no problem, but he was letting Hannah take half the weight.
“I know,” Claire said. “I just don’t want to lead a really obvious parade to a secret hideout.”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just dashed up the steps, through the broken-locked door, and out into the hallways, dodging around oblivious teens her own age who were hustling to and from class. It was early morning, but Morganville High was in full session, and Claire had to shove her way through the crowd with a little more force than usual.
Somebody grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled her to a sudden stop. She flailed for escape, but it was just like always—she was too small, and he was way too big.
Her captor was wearing a shirt and tie, and had the drill sergeant hairstyle of school officials everywhere. He glared at her as if she was some bug he’d caught scurrying across his dinner table. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. “No shoving in the halls!”
“I’m not a student!” she yelled. “Let go of me!”
He got a glance at the gold bracelet on her wrist, and his eyes went wide; he quickly focused back on her face. “You’re that girl—Claire. Claire Danvers.The Founder’s—Sorry.” He let her go so suddenly she almost toppled over. “My apologies, miss. I thought you were just another of these rude punk kids.”
There were a few moments in her new, weird life when it was all worth it—worth being the freak of nature with all the baggage that had been loaded on her in Morganville.
This was one of them. She braced herself, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him with the kind of icy calm that she imagined Amelie would have brought down like a guillotine blade. “I am a rude punk kid,” she said. “But I’m a rude punk kid you don’t get to order around. Now, I’d like you to leave me alone and go to your office. And shut the door. Now.”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I don’t need you out here causing trouble right now. Go
!”
He looked confused, but he nodded reluctantly and headed for a door marked ADMINISTRATION farther down the hall.
“Eat your heart out, Monica,” Claire murmured. “Thanks for the bitch lessons.” She broke into a full run, leaving him and his petty kingdom behind.
Myrnin had taken her through darkened corridors, but she remembered the turns; she also remembered a little too late that the way was dark, and wished she’d thought to grab a flashlight somewhere along the way. There was little light coming into the hall during the last leg, and desks and chairs stacked randomly in her path; she had to slow down or end up taking an epic spill.
Finally, she saw the locked doors at the end of the hallway, and lunged around a dusty teacher’s desk to batter at the heavy wood panel.
“Hey!” No answer. She knocked again. “Dr. Mills! Dr. Mills, open up; it’s Claire! I need your help!”
There was no answer. She tried the door handle.
“Dr. Mills?”
The door opened without the slightest resistance.
The room was empty. No sign of a struggle—no sign of anything, actually. It looked like nobody had ever been here. All of the equipment was back on the shelves, sparkling and clean; there was no sign of the production of serum and crystals that had been going on here. The only thing that gave it away was the lack of a coating of dust.
Claire dashed for the room behind—the teacher’s office and locked storage, where the Mills family had been living.
Same story. Nothing there to show they’d ever been here, not so much as a scrap of paper or a lost toy. “Oh God, they were moved,” Claire whispered, and turned to run back to where she’d left her friends. She hoped the Mills family had been moved, at least. The alternative was much, much worse, but she couldn’t see Bishop—or his henchmen—taking the time and energy to clean up after themselves. They certainly hadn’t in Myrnin’s lab.
Claire let out an involuntary yell because a ghostly woman—black and white, shades of gray, no color to her at all—blocked the way out.
