by Rachel Caine
Last Breath
( The Morganville Vampires - 11 )
Rachel Caine
With her boss preoccupied researching the Founder Houses in Morganville, student Claire Danvers is left to her own devices when she learns that three vampires have vanished without a trace. She soon discovers that the last person seen with one of the missing vampires is someone new to town—a mysterious individual named Magnus. After an uneasy encounter with Morganville's latest resident, Claire is certain Magnus isn't merely human. But is he a vampire—or something else entirely?
Last Breath
(Book 11 in the Morganville Vampires series)
A novel by Rachel Caine
To Claire Wilkins, Griffin, and Gareth.
I know Big G will always be with you.
Love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For all their amazing encouragement:
Cat
The Pats (all three of them!)
M
Jim
ORAC
The Time Turners, collectively and separately
The lovely people at Goodreads
Joe Bonamassa
The Smart Chicks
Charlaine Harris
The Incredibly Awesome team of A.J., Wendy, & Molly
My above & beyond travel agent, Susan Godwin
Rosanne Romanello (Go Ro!)
Susie Dunlop and the A&B team
Anne Sowards, for being awesome
Lucienne Diver, for so, so much
Charles, David, & Tommy—thanks for the faith and...
Breana Blan from El Paso!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If you’re new to the Morganville Vampires series, welcome!
And sorry, because it’s Book 11, and you may be kicking yourself right about now, but don’t worry. I’ll catch you up quickly once you start to read.
For those faithful Morganville Residents who’ve been with me the whole way, I’m trying something new this time—an extension of what I started in Book 10, Bite Club. So in the pages of Last Breath, you’ll venture out of Claire’s point of view (the typical way the other Morganville novels have been told), although you’ll stay with her for the majority of this book as well. But you’ll get to view the story from a few other important perspectives: those of Amelie, Shane, Michael, and Eve.
So just make sure to look at the header at the top of each chapter to know from whose perspective you’re about to read. Each point of view comes with its own chapter.
Thank you for coming along on the ride, and I hope you enjoy Last Breath!
And yes . . . there is a Book 12.
And no, I won’t tell you what happens. Yet.
INTRODUCTION
WELCOME TO MORGANVILLE. You must be new here. That’s fine; we welcome new blood to our town . . . but you need to know the rules. Don’t stay out after dark. Don’t break our laws. And, whatever you do, don’t get on the bad side of the vampires.
Yes, vampires—we said it and we meant it. They’re everywhere in this town . . . and they’re the people you’d least suspect. But most of them just want to live their lives in peace. Oh, there are a few troublemakers—aren’t there always?—but Morganville is all about harmony and cooperation. Theoretically.
You’ll probably need to find yourself a vampire Protector. That means one who’ll ensure the safety of you and your family, for the low, low price of a percentage of your income and regular donations at the blood bank in his or her name.
If you don’t want to go with a Protector, well, it’s your funeral. Some have done it, sure. But most aren’t around to endorse the practice, if you get my drift. Talk to the residents of the Glass House: Claire, Shane, Michael, and Eve. They’ll tell you all about your chances of survival.
And remember: welcome to Morganville! You’ll never want to leave.
And even if you want to . . . well, you can’t. Sorry about that.
ONE
CLAIRE
Shane’s lips felt like velvet against the nape of her neck, and Claire shivered in delight as his breath warmed the skin there. She leaned back against him with a sigh. Her boyfriend’s body felt solid and safe, and his arms went around her, wrapping her in comfort. He was taller than she was, so he had to bend to rest his chin on her shoulder and whisper, “You sure about this?”
Claire nodded. “You got the overdue notice, didn’t you? It’s this or they come to collect. You don’t want that.”
“Well, you don’t have to be here,” he pointed out—not for the first time today. “Don’t you have classes?”
“Not today,” she said. “I had an oh-my-God a.m. lab, but now I’m all done.”
“Okay, then, you don’t have to do this because you’re tax-exempt.”
By tax-exempt, he meant that she didn’t have to pay . . . in blood. Taxes in Morganville were collected three ways: the polite way, via the collection center downtown, or the not-so-polite way, when the Bloodmobile showed up like a sleek black shark at your front door, with Men in Black—style “technicians” to ensure you did your civic duty.
The third way was by force, in the dark, when you ventured out un-Protected and got bitten.
Vampires. A total pain in the neck—literally.
Shane was entirely right: Claire had a legal document that said she was free from the responsibility of donations. The popular wisdom—and it wasn’t wrong—was that she’d already given enough blood to Morganville.
Of course, so had Shane . . . but he hadn’t always been on the vampires’ side, at the time.
“I know I don’t have to do it,” she said. “I want to. I’ll go with.”
“In case you’re worried, I’m not girly-scared or anything.”
“Hey!” She smacked his arm. “I’m a girl. What exactly are you saying? That I’m not brave or something?”
“Eeek,” Shane said. “Nothing. Right, Amazon princess. I get the point.”
Claire turned in his arms and kissed him, a sweet burst of heat as their lips met. The lovely joy of that released a burst of bubbles inside her, bubbles full of happiness. God, she loved this. Loved him. It had been a rough year, and he’d . . . stumbled, was the best way she could think of it. Shane had dark streaks, and he’d struggled with them. Was still struggling.
But he’d worked so hard to make it up—not just to her, but to everyone he felt he’d let down. Michael, his best (vampire) friend. Eve, his other (nonvampire) best friend (and Claire’s best friend, too). Even Claire’s parents had gotten genuine attention: he’d gone with her to see them twice, with exit permission from the vampires, and he’d been earnest and steady even under her father’s stern cross-examination.
He wanted to be different. She knew that.
When the kiss finally ended, Shane had a drugged, vague look in his eyes, and he seemed to have trouble letting go of her. “You know,” he said, moving her hair back from her cheek with a big, warm hand, “we could just blow this off and go home instead of letting them suck our blood. Try it tomorrow.”
“Bloodmobile,” she reminded him. “People holding you down. You really want that?”
He shuddered. “Hell, no. Okay, right, after you.” They were standing on the sidewalk of Morganville’s blood bank, with its big cheerful blood-drop character sign and scrupulously clean public entrance. Claire pecked him lightly on the cheek, escaped before he could pull her close again, and pushed the door open.
Inside, the place looked like they’d given it a makeover—more brightly, warmly lit than the last time she’d been in, and the new furniture looked comfortable and homey. They’d even installed a tank full of colorful tropical fish flitting around living coral. Nice. Clearly, the vampires were trying to put forth their best efforts to reassure the huma
n community, for a change.
The lady sitting behind the counter looked up and smiled. She was human, and sort of motherly, and she pulled Claire’s records and raised her thin, graying eyebrows. “Oh,” she said. “You know, you’re entirely paid up for the year. There’s no need—”
“It’s voluntary,” Claire said. “Is that okay?”
“Voluntary?” The woman repeated the word as if it were something from a foreign language. “Well, I suppose . . .” She shook her head, clearly thinking Claire was mental, and turned her smile on Shane. “And you, honey?”
“Collins,” he said. “Shane Collins.”
She pulled out his card, and up went the eyebrows again. “You are definitely not paid up, Mr. Collins. In fact, you’re sixty days behind. Again.”
“I’ve been busy.” He didn’t crack a smile. Neither did she.
She stamped his card, wrote something on it, and returned it to the file, then handed them both slips of paper. “Through the door,” she said. “Do you want to be in the room together or separately?”
“Together,” they chorused, and looked at each other. Claire couldn’t help a bit of a smirk, and Shane rolled his eyes. “She’s kind of a coward,” he said. “Faints at the sight of blood.”
“Oh, please,” Claire said with a sigh. “That does describe one of us, though.”
The receptionist, for all her motherly looks, clearly wasn’t sympathetic. “Fine,” she said briskly. “Second door on the right. There are two chairs in there. I’ll get an attendant for you.”
“Yeah, about that . . . Could you get us a human?” Shane asked. “It creeps me out when a guy’s draining my blood and I hear his stomach rumble.”
Claire punched him in the arm this time, an unmistakable shut up, and gave the receptionist a sunny smile as she dragged him toward the door that had been indicated. “Really,” she said to him, “would it be that hard just to not say anything?”
“Kinda.” He shrugged, then opened the door and held it for her. “Ladies first.”
“I’m really starting to think you are a scaredy-cat.”
“No, I’m just flawlessly polite.” He gave her a sideways glance, and with a curious seriousness said, “I’d go first in any fight, for you.”
Shane had always been someone who best expressed love by being protective, but now it was deliberate, a way for him to make up for how he’d let his anger and aggression get the best of him. Even at his worst he hadn’t hurt her, but he’d come close—frighteningly close—and that lingered between them like a shadow.
“Shane,” she said, and paused to look him full in the face. “If it comes to that, I’d fight beside you. Not behind you.”
He smiled a little, and nodded as they started moving again. “I’d still jump in front of the first bullet. Hope you’re okay with that.”
She shouldn’t have been, really, but the thought, and the emotion behind it, gave her another little flush of warmth as she walked into the room. Like the rest of the human side of the collection center, the space felt warm and comfortable. The reclining chairs were leather, or some vinyl approximation. The speakers overhead were playing something acoustic and soft, and Claire relaxed in the chair as Shane wriggled around in his.
He went very still as the door opened and their attendant stepped inside.
“No way,” Claire said. First, their attendant was a vampire. Second, it was Oliver. Oh, he was wearing a white lab coat and carrying a clipboard and looked vaguely official, but it was Oliver. “What exactly is the second in command of vampire affairs doing drawing blood?”
“Yeah, and aren’t you needed pulling espresso at the coffee shop?” Shane added with a totally unnecessary edge of snark. Oliver was often found behind the counter at the coffee shop, but he wasn’t needed there. He just liked doing it, and Shane knew that. When you were as (presumably) rich and (absolutely) powerful a vampire as Oliver, you could do whatever you damn well wanted.
“There’s been flu going around,” Oliver said, ignoring Shane’s tone as he took out his supplies and laid them out on trays. “I understand they’re short staffed today. Occasionally, I do pitch in.”
Somehow that didn’t quite feel like the whole story, even if it was true. Claire eyed him mistrustfully as he scooted a rolling stool up beside her and tied the tourniquet in place on her upper arm, then handed her a red rubber ball to squeeze as he prepared the needle. “I assume you’re going first,” he said, “given Shane’s usual attitude.” That was delivered with every bit as dry an edge as Shane’s sarcasm, and Shane opened his mouth, then stopped himself, his lips thinning into a stubborn line. Good, she thought. He was trying, at least.
“Sure,” she said. She managed not to wince as his cold fingers palpated her arm to feel for veins, and she focused on his face. Oliver always seemed to be older than many of the other vamps, though she couldn’t quite pin down why: his hair, maybe, which was threaded with gray streaks and tied back in a hippie-style ponytail just now. There weren’t many lines on his face, really, but she always just pegged him as middle-aged, and when she really stared, she couldn’t say why he gave her that impression.
Mostly he just seemed more cynical than the others.
He was wearing a black tee under a gray sweater today, and blue jeans, very relaxed; it wasn’t too different from what Shane was wearing, actually, except Shane managed to make his look edgy and fashionable.
The needle slid in with a short, hot burst, and then the pain subsided to a thin ache as Oliver taped it down and attached the tubing. He released the tourniquet and clamps, and Claire watched the dark red line of blood race down the plastic and out of sight, into a collection bag below. “Good,” he said. “You have excellent flow.”
“I’m . . . not sure how I feel about that, actually.”
He shrugged. “It’s got fine color and pressure, and the scent is quite crisp. Very nice.”
Claire felt even less good once he’d said that; he described it like a wine enthusiast talking about his favorite vintage. In fact, she felt just faintly sick, and rested her head against the soft cushions while she stared at a cheerful poster tacked up on the back of the door.
Oliver moved on from her to Shane, and once she’d taken a couple of deep, calming breaths, she stopped studying the kitten picture and looked over at her boyfriend. He was tense, but trying not to seem it; she could read that in the slightly pale, set face and the way his shoulders had tightened, emphasizing the muscles under his sweater. He rolled up his sleeve without a word, and Oliver—likewise silent—put the tourniquet in place and handed him another ball to squeeze. Unlike Claire, who was barely able to dent the thing, Shane almost flattened it when he pressed. His veins were visible to her even across the room, and Oliver barely skimmed fingertips over them, not meeting Shane’s eyes at all, then slipped the needle in so quickly and smoothly that Claire almost missed it. “Two pints,” he told Shane. “You’ll still be behind on your schedule, but I suppose we shouldn’t drain you much more at once.”
“You sound disappointed.” Shane’s voice came out faint and thready, and he put his head back against the cushions as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn, I hate this. I really do.”
“I know,” Oliver said. “Your blood reeks of it.”
“If you keep that up, I’m going to punch you.” Shane said it softly, but he meant it. There was a muscle as tight as a steel cable in his jaw, and his hand pumped the rubber ball in convulsive squeezes. Oliver released the tourniquet and clamps, and Shane’s blood moved down the tube.
“Can I specify a user for my donation?” Claire asked. That drew Oliver’s attention, and even Shane cracked an eyelid to glance at her. “Since mine’s voluntary anyway.”
“Yes, I suppose,” Oliver said, and took out a black marker. “Name?”
“The hospital,” she said. “For emergencies.”
He gave her a long, measured stare, and then shrugged and put a simple cross symbol on the bag—already a quarter full�
��before returning it to the holder beside her chair.
Shane opened his mouth, but Oliver said, “Don’t even consider saying it. Yours is already spoken for.”
Shane responded to that with a gagging sound.
“Precisely why it’s not earmarked for my account,” Oliver said. “I do have standards. Now, if either of you feel any nausea or weakness, press the button. Otherwise, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He rose and walked toward the door, but hesitated with his hand on the knob. He turned back to them and said, “I received the invitation.”
For a moment, Claire didn’t know what he was talking about, but then she said, “Oh. The party.”
“The engagement party,” he said. “You should speak with your friends about the . . . political situation.”
“I—What? What are you talking about?”
Oliver’s eyes held hers, and she was wary of some kind of vamp compulsion, but he didn’t seem to be trying at all. “I’ve already tried to warn Michael,” he said. “This is unwise. Very unwise. The vampire community in Morganville is already . . . restless; they feel humans have been given too much freedom, too much license, in their activities of late. There was always a clearly drawn relationship of—”
“Serial killers and victims,” Shane put in.
“Protector and those Protected,” Oliver said, flashing a scowl at her boyfriend. “One that is of necessity free of too much emotional complication. It’s an obligation that vampires can understand. This—connection between Michael and your human friend Eve is . . . raw and messy. Now that they threaten to sanction it with legal status . . . there is resistance. On both sides, from vampires and humans alike.”
“Wait,” Shane said. “Are you seriously telling us that people don’t want them to get married?”
“There is a certain sense that it is not appropriate, or wise, to allow vampire-human intermarriage.”
