Ghost Town mv-9

by Rachel Caine

  “I must think,” Amelie said, and sat down as if she’d lost all strength. “Leave me.” She didn’t seem to care about them anymore, any of them. There was a deep, miserable confusion in her eyes, and Claire remembered how the vampire in the diner had snapped. Surely that wouldn’t happen to Amelie.

  Not to Amelie.

  Claire turned to Oliver. “Help us,” she pleaded. “We need your help. You still remember.”

  “For how long?” Oliver asked. He, too, sounded weak and odd. “I saw it overtake her. It will do the same to me, and I’ll be of no use to you then.”

  “Convince her to come to Myrnin’s lab,” Michael said. “That’s how you can be of use to us. We need you there. Both of you.”

  Amelie looked up sharply. “No one convinces me. Leave now, or I’ll destroy both of you. If there’s action to be taken, I will take it, but you will not stay here and insult my authority by appealing to him.” She pressed a button on her desk, and an alarm began to sound out in the hall. “I must have time to decide what to do.”

  Michael pulled Claire out of the chair, grabbed her backpack, and said, “We’re going.”

  “Then run,” Amelie said. “Because if my men catch you, I will have them kill you.”

  Michael nodded, and practically dragged Claire at a run out of the office.

  “I can’t!” Claire panted. Her head was pounding, and she couldn’t keep her balance. Michael didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, and kept running. She could see behind him.

  Vampires were coming out of the doors and running after them. Jumping after them, eating up the corridor in big bursts of movement. “Faster!” she screamed. He got to the intersection of hallways and raced so fast that she felt even dizzier from the rush of wind and blurring paneling. Okay, she was not going to throw up on Michael’s shoulder. She just couldn’t.

  Michael banged through a door, and suddenly she was airborne. That didn’t help the disorientation at all, but at least it was fast, and she felt the impact when he landed—where?

  Oh, at the bottom of the stairwell. She craned her neck and looked up three stories, where the vampire pursuers were jumping after them, and one of them was on the railing, readying to leap right on top of them.

  Michael didn’t wait. He threw open the door to the parking garage and the next thing she knew, she was being tossed into the back of the Death Limo and Eve was peeling out of the garage like her tailpipe had caught fire.

  Claire breathed as deeply as she could, and in a few seconds, the world stopped twisting around quite so badly. She opened her eyes and looked up at Shane, who was holding her in his lap.

  “You were supposed to call,” he said. He sounded angry.

  “Sorry,” she said. “We were busy being almost killed.”

  Eve screamed through the window at the front, “Michael? Michael, what happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay,” he said. He must have been, because Claire couldn’t imagine how he’d outrun all those vamps if he hadn’t been. He was lying down, though, on the other bench seat in the back. “They won’t chase us outside of the square.”

  “I’m not taking any chances! We are going straight home!”

  Nobody had any argument for that. Claire was thinking, But we have to do something. Anything.

  The problem was, everything she could think of ended with them getting killed.

  She had to think of something.

  Only she didn’t. It was late, and they were all tired, and her head hurt. She fell asleep on the couch, and Shane finally woke her and told her to go to bed. She wanted to stay with him, but she knew she shouldn’t, not when she was trying to think, and her head hurt so badly.

  She didn’t remember getting upstairs to her room, but she must have, because when she woke up, sunlight was streaming through the curtains and laying a warm blanket across her bed. She felt better, until she poked at the bump on her head; that still hurt. But it was healing, she could tell.

  She still hadn’t thought of what she was going to do, except that she needed to get to Myrnin, convince him to help, or else she needed to take down the computer’s power. Maybe the power station, she thought, but she’d been there once, and unless she was planning to get a full Navy SEAL team and maybe Hannah’s old marine buddies, there was no way she could take out the power there.

  It had to be done in the lab. Which left the problem of the crazy vampire who didn’t remember her and wanted to have her for lunch.

  There was nothing coming to her, nothing at all. Amelie might help, or she might not. There was no telling what she, or Oliver, would do.

  It was still early enough that Michael was probably home, but Claire thought today was Eve’s early day at Common Grounds; she put in only about sixteen hours a week there, but she tried to do it early mornings, because she really didn’t like spending evenings there anymore. So she’d probably already been up and gone, if she was intending to work at all. Shane would be in bed. He never got up before ten unless he had to.

  Sure enough, when Claire went into the bathroom, there was fog on the mirror, and still-warm drops in the shower, and Eve had left her makeup scattered all over the counter. Claire put it back in the bag and got out her own, which wasn’t much beyond an eye pencil and some mascara. She showered and dressed fast, and had her mind on what she was going to say to Oliver when she opened the bathroom door, and ran straight into Michael.

  He looked at her in shock—so much shock, in fact, that she checked to make sure she’d remembered to put her pants on. She had. “What?” she demanded. “Do I have something on my face?”

  “What are you doing in my bathroom?” Michael asked, and took a giant step back. “How did you get here?”

  Oh, crap. She’d been afraid Michael was susceptible to whatever was going on, and now here it was again. Just like Amelie. Just like Myrnin. Just like Monica, for that matter.

  He didn’t wait for her answer. He ran to the end of the hall, to her room, and threw open the door. “Dad . . .” He fell silent, staring at the room. “Dad?” He backed up slowly. “What the hell is going on?”

  Claire sighed. It seemed like her whole life was being spent telling people the bad news. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but I live here, Michael. I’ve been here for a while now.”

  He turned back on her, fists clenched. She’d never seen that look on his face—scared and desperately angry. “What did you do with my parents?”

  “I promise, I didn’t do anything! Look, you can ask Eve if you don’t believe me, or Shane—”

  “Did Monica put you up to this?” Michael asked, and pushed her. That was a shock, and the grim, furious expression he had made her feel cold inside. “Just get out. Get out of our house!”

  “Wait!” It was no use; he wasn’t going to believe her any more than Hannah had, or Amelie, or Myrnin. “Wait, don’t—”

  Michael pushed her again. With vampire strength.

  Claire flew backward, fell, rolled, and almost slid down the stairs before she grabbed hold of a banister railing to pull herself to a stop. Michael stood there, looking utterly astonished; he stared at her, down at his hands, and back again.

  “You’re a vampire, Michael,” Claire said, and scrambled up. Her head was hurting again. No surprise there. “If you don’t remember anything else, remember that. You can hurt people, even if you don’t mean to do it.”

  “Get out!” he yelled. He looked really upset, and very, very angry. Bad combo for a vampire. His eyes had taken on a wicked crimson shimmer.

  Claire went down the steps, grabbed her backpack from where it was leaning against the wall, and dashed out the door. Once she was outside in the sun, she stopped and pulled out her cell phone, and dialed Shane’s number. It rang and rang and rang, and finally he picked up and mumbled something that didn’t really sound like a word.

  “Wake up! Watch your back,” she said. “Michael doesn’t remember who I—”

 
She didn’t have any time to say more, because Michael had followed her out onto the porch, and as she started to turn, she saw that he was coming after her.

  In the sunlight.

  “No!” Claire yelled, and dropped her phone and the backpack to the ground. Michael’s skin started to sizzle and smoke instantly on contact with the sun, and he just stood there, staring down at himself, as if this was some horrible dream, and he was waiting to wake up. “Michael, get back! Get in the shade!”

  “I’m not . . . I’m not a . . .” He staggered and fell to his knees. “I’m not a vampire.”

  “Michael! ”

  She didn’t have a choice. She’d have to risk him turning on her, like Myrnin; she couldn’t leave him out here to fry. He didn’t seem to understand that he had to move—or maybe he wasn’t able to. She couldn’t tell.

  “Shane! Shane, get your ass down here!” she screamed, loud enough that she hoped he could hear it over the still-on cell and through the windows. She couldn’t wait for him, though.

  She dumped her backpack and raced back to grab Michael under the arms. His shirt was on fire, and she batted it out before trying to drag him, but as soon as she did, the shirt burst into flames again, singeing her own clothes. The shadows were still three feet away. If she got him there, he’d be all right; she knew he’d be all right . . . but he was struggling now, and she kept losing her grip.

  Do it, just do it! Claire took a better hold and gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might. He was heavy, really heavy, and it hurt trying to hold on while he thrashed. She moved him another foot. It seemed to take forever.

  “Move!” Shane yelled from behind her, and jumped down the steps with a heavy quilt in his hands. He threw it over Michael and started slapping out the flames. “What the hell happened?”

  “He . . . he forgot he . . .” Claire couldn’t get her breath. “I couldn’t get him to go inside.”

  “Jesus, Michael . . . Claire, go call an ambulance. Hurry.”

  She stumbled up into the house and made the call as Shane dragged their friend back up the steps and onto the porch. She hoped she made sense to the emergency services person on the other end. She honestly didn’t know. All she could think about was getting back out there and helping Shane.

  It was only as she hung up the phone that she realized her own hands were burned, too. She tried not to look too closely. They didn’t hurt yet, exactly. That was probably shock. She went back out to the porch, and saw that Shane had peeled away the quilt.

  Michael was alive, but he didn’t look good. His shirt was covered with burned holes, and the skin underneath looked horrible. So did his face, his hands, his arms—every part of him that hadn’t been fully protected. He was still awake, and his eyes had turned a brilliant ruby red. “I’m not,” he was saying. “I’m not one of them. Shane, tell me I’m not!” He sounded so afraid. His voice was shaking.

  Shane’s expression made Claire’s heart ache, and his voice came out rough, but oddly gentle. “You’re not one of them, bro,” he said. “You’re one of us. You’ll always be one of us.”

  Michael was crying now. “Get my dad. I need my dad.”

  Shane pushed his hair back with one hand, clearly not sure what to say, and then shook his head. “I can’t. He’s not here, Mike. Just stay still, okay? You’re going to be okay. They’ll fix you up.”

  “Get Sam,” Michael pleaded. “He’ll tell you I’m not . . . I’m not . . .”

  It was awful. Claire wanted to cry, too, but she knew if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Why Michael? God, it was her fault. Hers and Myrnin’s. This was happening to so many people, and she couldn’t take it; she really couldn’t. Michael didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

  “Claire, your hands . . .” Shane was looking at her now, and he seemed pale. “You burned your hands.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. It seemed the thing to say. It didn’t look so bad now, in the sun. Mostly they were red and angry-looking, like a terrible sunburn. Well, she’d had those before. “Is he in pain?”

  “I’m right here,” Michael said. He was getting hold of himself a little. “It hurts. Not so much now, though.”

  “He’s healing,” Shane said quietly. “He’ll be all right.”

  But Michael was staring at Claire now, and suddenly he said, “You . . . you did something to me. Poured gas on me. Something. I’m not a vampire. I didn’t just catch fire.”

  “No!” Claire was appalled he even thought it. “No, Michael, I didn’t—”

  “Get her away from me,” Michael said to Shane. “She’s crazy. She was in the house. She’s one of Monica’s friends. You know how they are with fire.”

  “Mike . . .” Shane hesitated, then plunged on. “She lives here, man. She’s got the room at the end. Your parents’ room. She’s okay. Really.”

  Michael didn’t say anything to that, just shook his head and closed his eyes. Shane looked at Claire, and lifted his hands in a silent apology. She nodded.

  It was a relief hearing the ambulance come screaming toward them.

  Shane went with Michael to the hospital, and the paramedics looked Claire’s hands over, gave her some kind of cream, and told her she’d be fine. She didn’t feel fine, but she ignored it. Somebody had to tell Eve, and she didn’t want to do it over the phone. There were some things that just didn’t sound right, and this was a big one.

  Backpack and phone back in place, Claire ran the blocks to Common Grounds. Along the way she saw plenty of evidence that things were going even farther off the tracks—lots of police out, people wandering the streets looking lost and upset, people fighting. One woman kept trying to get into a house, and she was scaring the people inside.

  Claire didn’t stop for anything.

  Common Grounds, on the other hand, was weirdly normal. The overwhelming aroma of coffee hit her like a wake-up call as she came in the front door, and there were plenty of people here, huddled over their mochas and frapps and lattes as they studied or chatted or phoned.

  Everybody seemed to be from TPU today. She couldn’t spot a single Morganville resident—but then, it was the middle of the morning, and most people had already left for work, unless they were out wandering the streets, confused.

  There was no sign of Oliver in the place, and no sign of Eve, either. There was some other girl working the register. Claire hurried up, breathless, and said, “Where’s Eve?”

  “Who?” the girl asked. She looked new. And clueless.

  “Eve,” she said. “Tall girl, real Goth? She works mornings. I need her.”

  The girl gave her a harassed look as she added milk and stirred, added whipped cream, and handed a cup over to one of the two boys Claire had displaced. “Are you deaf? She’s not here. I don’t know any Goths around here.”

  “She works here!” That got nothing but a shrug. Not a very interested one. “What about Oliver?”

  “You mean George?”

  “George?” Claire stared at her, a sick feeling growing in her guts.

  “Yeah, George, the owner. Not sure where he’s gotten off to today.” The girl went to ring up someone else. Claire hissed in frustration and tried to think what to do next; it was clear that whatever memory reset the counter queen had undergone had erased Oliver, too.

  Claire headed for the door. She was surprised to hear the girl call after her. “Hey!” she said. Claire looked back. “Some girl came in today and tried to put on an apron. I guess she was kind of Goth; she had black hair, anyway. I told her to go home.”

  Claire caught her breath. “Home,” she said. But if Eve had it, too, she might not remember the Glass House as home. Like the woman she’d seen down the street, trying to unlock a door that wasn’t any longer her own.

  She’d have gone home home. To her parents’ house. That could be . . . well, either good or bad, depending. Claire wasn’t really sure. She’d been under the impression that Eve’s dad, who’d passed away last year, had been the real tr
ouble in Eve’s home life, but what about Jason, Eve’s brother? Three years ago, he’d probably been a dangerous little creep. It might not be safe for Eve at all.

  “The Rossers,” she said. “Where do they live?”

  “No freaking idea,” the counter girl said, and turned to the next customer. “Yeah, what do you want?”

  Claire was ready to interrogate everyone in the shop for answers, but she didn’t have to after all, because a door opened at the back of the shop, and she saw Oliver in the shadows. He looked odd—tired, wary, and very paranoid. He looked around the coffee shop, frowning, and his eyes fixed on her.

  He nodded very slightly.

  He knew who she was. That sent a wave of relief flooding through her, all out of proportion to things. She wanted to lunge over and kiss him. Well, ew, not really, but maybe a hug. Or a handshake.

  What she did do was walk slowly and calmly over to him. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, because the last time I saw you, you had bite marks in your throat?”

  He grabbed her wrist and held it very, very tightly. “You’d do well to forget you ever saw any of that.”

  “There’s too much forgetting going on already.”

  “Certainly true,” he said, and let go. “Were you concerned for me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Wise answer.”

  “Michael has it. The memory thing. He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t remember who I am.”

  Now she had Oliver’s full attention. He looked at her for a moment, then turned and walked away. She hurried after him to his office. Oliver closed the door behind her, leaned against it with his arms folded, and said, “I thought you and Michael were going to shut down that cursed machine. Haven’t you done so?”

  “No, we—I—” She had no excuses, really. “Not yet. I was going to try this morning, but I really need help. Michael’s . . . Michael’s not it. What about Amelie?”