Midnight Alley tmv-3

by Rachel Caine

  The sight of him short-circuited her thought processes and completely grounded her better judgment. He'd already hauled on his blue jeans, and his back was to her. No shirt yet. She was spellbound by the ripples of muscles on his back, the gorgeous smoothness of his skin, the way his shaggy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders and begged to be smoothed back ...

  The sound of his zipper being pulled up snapped her back to sanity. She stepped hastily back, out into the hall, and pulled the door almost shut, then knocked.

  "What?" It wasn't a friendly response.

  "It's me," she said. "Can I come in?"

  She heard something halfway between a grunt and a sigh, and opened the door to find him dragging a dark gray, form-fitting shirt over his head. It looked very good on him. Not as good as the no-shirt thing, but she was trying hard not to think about that. It had made her warm and fluttery inside.

  "Is that a new shirt?" she asked, desperate to get her mind off the vivid mental pictures that kept bubbling up. That got another indefinite grunt. "It looks nice."

  Shane gave her an ironic look. "We're talking clothes now? Wait, let me get my Fashion for Dummies book."

  "I — never mind. About Michael — "

  "Stop." Shane stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. "I know, you don't want me ripping him, but I can't help it. Give me some time, okay? I need to figure some things out."

  Claire tipped her head back, and this time he found her lips. It was, she thought, supposed to be a fast and sweet little kiss, but somehow it slowed down, got warmer and deeper. His lips were damp and soft as silk, and that was such a contrast to the hard lines of his body pressed against her. The strength of his hands sliding around her waist and pulling her even closer. She heard him growl low in his throat, a wild and hungry sound that made her go weak and faint.

  He broke the kiss and leaned against her, breathing hard. "Good morning to you too. Man, I just can't stay mad when you do that."

  "Do what?" she asked innocently. She didn't feel innocent. She also didn't feel sixteen-nearly-seventeen, not at all. Shane always made her feel older. Much older. Ready for anything. It was a good thing Shane wasn't as dumb as her hormones seemed to be.

  "Unless you want to stay home and cut class, we don't really have time to talk about it," he said, and waggled his eyebrows. "So. Wanna cut class and make out?"

  She socked him on the arm. "No."

  "You are such a strange girl. Ow," he said, in the way that meant he hadn't felt it at all. "You riding with Eve?"

  "When she passes the snarling cannibal phase, yeah. Another two cups of coffee, probably."

  "You sure you don't want a bodyguard?" He meant it. Shane didn't have a job — she wasn't really sure he could get one, after what his dad had been up to in Morganville recently. Probably better he kept it low-profile for a while. The fewer vampires — and vampire loyalists — he came in contact with right now, the better. He was still thought of as an unindicted co-conspirator to his dad's revenge rampage, and even though the Mayor had officially signed his pardon, nobody had much liked it.

  Accidents happened.

  "I don't need a bodyguard," Claire said. "Nobody's out to get me. Even Monica's gotten all friends-making with me."

  That earned her a too-sharp look, which didn't go well with his reddened, kissable lips. "Yeah. Why is that?"

  She shrugged and avoided his eyes. "I don't know."

  He tipped her chin up with one finger. "So, are we at the lying part of the relationship already? Usually that comes after the exciting hot sexy honeymoon period."

  She stuck out her tongue at him, and he leaned forward and — to her horror — licked it. "Ewwww!"

  "Then don't stick it out." Shane smiled. "If you're going to hang out in my room and tempt me, there's a penalty. One item of clothing per minute comes off."

  "Perv."

  He pointed to himself. "Male and eighteen. What's your point?"

  "You are so — "

  "Say, you got any pleated miniskirts and knee socks? I really get off on — "

  She squealed and dodged his grabby hands, then checked her watch. "Oh, crap — I really do have to go. I'm sorry. Look, you'll be —you're okay, right?"

  The smile disappeared, leaving only a trace in his dark, secretive eyes. "Yeah," Shane said. "I'll be okay. Watch your back, Claire."

  "You too." Claire started for the door, but she heard his footstep behind her and turned and he moved her back to the wall, tipped up her chin and kissed her so thoroughly that she felt her head fill with light and her knees turn to rubber.

  When she could breathe again, and he pulled back to give her just an inch or so of space between their lips, she gasped, "Was that a goodbye?"

  "That was a come-home-soon," he said, and pushed off from the wall. "Seriously, Claire. Watch yourself. I worry."

  "I know," she said, and smiled. Her knees were still weak, and the chorusing light in her head just didn't seem to be fading. "Best kiss so far, by the way."

  His eyebrows rose. "You're keeping score?"

  "Hey, you raised the bar. I don't grade on a curve."

  She left him, reluctantly, to grab her backpack and see if Eve was in the mood to eat brains, or give her a ride to school.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Morning classes went pretty well, and Claire spent her breaks hanging at the coffee bar at the UniversityCenter, where Eve barista'd her way through the day. Eve was good at it — calm, efficient, seemingly impervious to the pissy demands and bitchiness of a lot of the students. Claire had figured out that the rude ones were mostly Protected, so it was a class thing; Eve had elected not to sign up with a vampire for protection, and those who had, looked down on her.

  Or else they were just bitchy. Which was equally possible. People didn't have to have a vampire connection to be arrogant jerks.

  Eve was working today with another girl, somebody Claire didn't know; she had long straight brown hair that shimmered like a curtain when she moved. She wore it loose around her shoulders, which Claire guessed was okay because she wasn't working directly with the drinks or anything, just taking orders and cash. Her name tag said AMY, and she looked cheerful and sweet. She and Eve were talking like friends, which was good; Eve needed that. Claire killed time between classes by skimming through her English Lit — boring — and reading a book she'd checked out from the library on advanced string theory — not boring. She liked the whole idea of vibrating strings being the basis of everything, that there were all kinds of surfaces that vibrated. It made the world more ... exciting. Always in motion.

  Her watch beeped to let her know she was going to be late for class if she didn't hurry, so she packed it up, waved to Amy and Eve, and jogged out of the UC and into the warm afternoon sunshine.

  As she was blinking in the glare, she ran into Monicaliterally as Monica was coming up the steps while she was going down. Claire automatically reached out to steady the other girl when she wavered, and then thought, what am I doing? Because Monica had once laughed as Claire tumbled down a flight of stairs and cracked her head halfway open.

  "Hey, watch it, bitch!" Monica snapped, and then did a double-take. "Claire? Oh, hi. Cute shirt!"

  Claire looked down at herself, mystified. It wasn't. She didn't really own any clothes she'd classify as cute, and even the best of them would never match Monica's standards, which were much higher.

  "You on your way to class?" Monica continued brightly. "Too bad, I'd buy you a mocha or something."

  "I — uh — yeah, I've got class." Claire edged around and tried to descend the steps, but Monica got in her way. Monica's smile was friendly, but it didn't really warm up her big, pretty eyes. "I'll be late."

  "One thing," Monica said, and lowered her voice. It occurred to Claire that it was almost the first time she'd seen Monica alone, not flanked by Gina and Jennifer, not trailing an entourage of The Popular. "I'm having a party on Friday night. Can you come? It's at my parents' house. Here's the address." Before
Claire could react, Monica pressed a slip of paper into her hand. "Keep it quiet, all right? I'm only asking the best people. Oh, and wear something nice, it's formal."

  And then Monica was gone, breezing by her up the steps, where she fell in with a group of girls and went into the UC's glass atrium chatting and laughing.

  The best people? Claire eyed the slip of paper, thought about throwing it away, and then shoved it in her pocket.

  Maybe this was a golden opportunity to convince Monica that she wasn't ever going to be anything like a friend.

  She headed out for class, moving quickly, but keeping her eyes peeled. When she spotted the guys she was looking for, she veered off the sidewalk and onto the grass.

  Gamers. Nerds. They sat around outside most of the afternoon moving counters around on complicated-looking boards and rolling dice. She'd seen them every day for weeks, and in all that time she'd never seen any kind of girl with them, or even approach them. In fact, they stared at her when she cleared her throat like she was an alien from one of the planets on their game board.

  "Hi," she said, and thrust out the slip of paper. "My name's Monica. I'm having a party on Friday night. If you guys want to come. Tell your friends."

  One of them reached out and gingerly took the slip of paper. Another snatched it away from him, read it, and said, "Wow. Really?"

  "Really."

  "Mind if we hand it out to some people?"

  "Knock yourself out."

  Claire headed off to class.

  ###

  "Claire Danvers?"

  Last class of the day, and Claire looked up, startled, from writing the date in her notebook. The professor didn't usually take roll. In fact, he seemed pretty much indifferent to who showed up, which was sometimes next to nobody. Like today — she was one of about twelve people. Showing up was really kind of useless in this particular case, since Professor What's-His-Name lectured from PowerPoint slides, bullet by bullet, and then made them available on his website right after the lecture. No wonder most people skipped.

  She raised her hand, wondering what was going on. She had a guilty flash of handing over the party invitation to the Nerd Squad, but no, how could they find out so soon? And besides, who'd care, besides Monica?

  The professor — gray, wrinkled, tired and unenthusiastic — stared at her for a second without recognition, then said, "You're wanted in Administration. Next building over, third floor, room 317. Go now."

  "But — " Claire started to ask what was going on, but he'd already dismissed her and turned back to his PowerPoint, droning on in a monotone. She stuffed books into her bag, wondered again what was going on, and left without much regret.

  She'd been in the Administration building exactly three times — once to register, once to file the official paperwork to move off campus, once to do an add/drop. It looked just like any administration building at any school — grubby and utilitarian, with tired, crabby employees and desks piled high with file folders. She avoided the first-floor Registrar's office and went up the steps. The second floor was quieter, but still full of people talking, keys clicking on computers, printers running.

  The third floor was whisper-quiet. Claire started down the hallway, and the silence sank deeper. She couldn't even hear sounds from outside the windows, although she could clearly see people out there walking and talking, and cars tooling around the street below. Room 317 was at the end of the hall. All of the glossy wooden doors were firmly closed.

  She knocked on 317, and thought she heard someone say "Come in," so she turned the knob and stepped inside ...

  ... into darkness. Complete, velvety darkness that disoriented her immediately. The knob slipped out of her hand and the door clicked shut, and she couldn't find it again. Her hand moved over what felt like featureless, smooth wall.

  A light bloomed behind her, and she turned to see the flare of a match, and a candle wick catching fire. In the glow, Amelie's face shone like perfect ivory.

  The elder vampire looked exactly the same as before: cool, queenly, pale, with her white-blonde hair twisted back in an elegant updo that must have required servants to achieve. She was wearing a white silk suit, and her skin was flawless. If she wore makeup, Claire couldn't tell. Her eyes were eerie in the near-dark ... luminous and not quite human, and very beautiful.

  "My apologies for the dramatics," Amelie said, and smiled at her. It was a very nice smile, cool and polite. Claire's mother had always loved the Hitchcock movie Rear Window, and Claire was struck by the thought that if Grace Kelly had ended up a vampire, this was how she'd have looked. Icy and perfect. "Don't bother looking for the door. It's gone."

  Claire's heartbeat speeded up, and she knew Amelie could tell, though the vampire didn't comment on it; she just shook out the match and dropped it in a silver dish on the table next to the candle. Claire's eyes adjusted gradually to the dimness. She was standing in a fairly small room, some kind of library crammed with books. Crammed was a generous way to put it — they were double-stacked on the shelves, leaning in towers on the top of the bookcases, filling the corners in untidy ziggurats. So many books that the whole room smelled like ancient paper. There wasn't any wall space, except the way Claire had come in, that wasn't blocked up by packed, groaning shelves.

  "Hi," Claire said awkwardly. She hadn't seen Amelie since signing the Protection papers and putting them, as instructed, in the mailbox outside. She'd expected some kind of visit, but ... nothing. "Um — what should I call you?"

  Amelie's delicate brows rose, pale on pale. "I know that the concept of manners has declined, but I should think you would know at least some polite form of address that would be appropriate."

  "Ma'am," Claire stammered. Amelie nodded.

  "That will do." She lit another candle. The light strengthened, flickering but casting a warm and welcome glow. Claire spotted another door in the shadows, small and fitted with an antique-style doorknob. There was a big skeleton key in the massive lock.

  Nobody else in the room, just her and Amelie.

  "I have called you to discuss your studies," Amelie said, and sat down in a chair on the other side of the table. There wasn't any seat on Claire's side, so she stood there, awkwardly. She put her backpack down and folded her hands.

  "Yes ma'am," she said. "Aren't my grades okay?" Because usually a 4.0 GPA was okay by most standards.

  Amelie dismissed it with a wave. "I did not say classes, I said studies. No doubt you are finding the local college beneath your abilities. You are said to be quite exceptional."

  Claire didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She wished she had a chair. She wished she could say something nice and get back to class and never, ever see Amelie again, because as superficially polite and kind as the old vampire was, there was something ice-cold about her. Something unsettlingly not human.

  "I would like you to study privately with a friend of mine," Amelie said. "For credit, of course." She looked around, smiling very slightly. "This is his library. Mine is far more orderly."

  Claire's throat felt tight and uncomfortable. "A ... uh ... vampire friend?"

  "Is that an issue?" Amelie folded her white hands together on the table. The candlelight flickered in her eyes.

  "N-no ma'am." Yes. God, she couldn't imagine what Shane was going to say.

  "I believe you will find him most interesting, Claire. He is indeed one of the most brilliant minds I have ever encountered in my long life, and he has learned so much through his lifetime that he could never teach it all. Still, he has much to pass along. I have been seeking the right pupil, one who can quickly grasp the discoveries he has made."

  "Oh," Claire whispered faintly. So ... an old vampire. Her experience wasn't so good with the older ones. Like Amelie, they were cold and strange, and most of them were cruel, too. Like Oliver. Oh God, she wasn't talking about Oliver, was she ...? "Who — ?"

  Amelie looked down. Just for an instant, and then she met Claire's eyes and smiled. "You have not
met," she said. "Not formally, at any rate. His name is Myrnin. He is one of my oldest friends and allies. Understand, Claire, that your actions since you came to Morganville, including your agreement with me, has won my trust. I would not grant this honor to any but those I found worthy."

  Flattery. Claire recognized it, and knew the slight warmth in Amelie's voice was probably calculated, but it still worked. "Myrnin," she repeated.

  "It is an old name," Amelie agreed, in response to the question in Claire's tone. "Old and forgotten, now. But once he was a great scholar, known and revered. His works should not be forgotten as well."

  There was something strange in that, but Claire was too nervous to figure out what Amelie could be trying to say. Or not say. She was working hard to swallow a lump in her throat, but it was about the size of a poisoned apple and seemed to be growing larger. She could only nod.

  Amelie smiled. It looked kind of artificial, like an expression she'd practiced in a mirror rather than learned as a child. Smiling was something her face just didn't naturally do, Claire decided. And sure enough, the smile was gone in seconds, without a trace.

  "If you're ready ...?"

  Claire cast an involuntary, helpless look at the blank wall behind her. There wasn't a door, and that meant there was no way to retreat. So she didn't really have a choice.

  Amelie wasn't waiting for her answer, anyway. The ice queen stood up and walked — oh so very undead Grace Kelly — to another small, low doorway with the key in the lock. She turned the key, withdrew it, and looked down at it for a moment before holding it out to Claire. "Keep it," she said. "Leave your book bag here, please. I shouldn't want you to forget it. You will leave through the same door that brought you."

  Claire's fingers closed around the key, registering rough, cold, heavy metal. She shoved it in the pocket of her blue jeans as Amelie swung open the door, and leaned her backpack against a convenient bookcase.

  "Myrnin?" Amelie's voice was low and gentle. "Myrnin, I've brought the girl I told you about. Her name is Claire."