The Dead Girls' Dance (12 page)

Hans opened the big polished door, and they went inside.

Of all the things Claire expected to see, she somehow hadn't expected a television set, but there one was, tuned to a twenty-four-hour news channel showing flickering pictures of a war—bombs exploding, soldiers shooting. And standing in front of it, arms folded, was Oliver. He wasn't wearing his hippie-dippie Coffee Shop Guy clothes; he was wearing a suit, black, tailored, and sharp as a knife. His graying hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, and he was wearing a tie. No, not a tie, exactly. Kind of like a scarf, with a diamond pin through it to hold it in place. Maybe it had been fashionable when Oliver was younger.

“Some things never change,'” he said, staring at the television. “People continue to kill over the stupidest possible excuses. And they call
us
monsters.'”

On the last word, his gaze snapped to Claire, and she shivered. Oliver had nice eyes, but somehow, they scared her even more than Gretchen's ice-cold ones. Maybe it was because she still wanted to like him, no matter what he'd done.
He killed Michael!
she reminded herself. Well, he'd mostly killed him, anyway.

“Hello,'” Oliver said to her, and nodded. He moved his stare to Eve. “Eve. We've missed you at the shop.'”

“B—'” Eve swallowed what she'd been about to say, which Claire was ninety-nine percent sure was
Bite me
. “Thanks.'” Which for Eve was amazingly cautious. If anybody had been shocked and angry about Oliver turning out vampire, it had been Eve.

Oliver nodded and walked across the large, empty room—empty except for the silently playing television and thick plush maroon carpet—and opened a set of double doors. He wasn't the doorman; he walked on through and into the next room. Gretchen pushed Claire and Eve forward. The carpet was squishy soft under Claire's feet, and she caught the scent of fading flowers. Roses. Lots of roses.

It hit her full force when they entered the next room, which was a big circular place with burgundy velvet curtains all around, with pillars in between. A low-key chandelier cast a medium-bright glow. Same carpet, but this room had furniture—chairs laid out in neat rows, in three sections with aisles between.

It took Claire a second to realize that she was walking into a
funeral parlor
. When she did, she stopped, and stumbled as Gretchen continued to drag her relentlessly onward, past the rows of empty folding chairs, all the way to the front, where Oliver was standing near another velvet curtain.

“Sir,'” Joe Hess said, coming out from behind Claire and Eve. “I'm Detective Hess.'”

Oliver nodded. “I know you.'”

“Shouldn't there be others present here for this?'” The tension in Hess's voice, and his body, warned Claire that Oliver's interrogating them on his own was a very bad thing.

“There are others present, Detective Hess,'” said a light, cool voice from the far corner of the room, which Claire could have
sworn
was empty one second before. She gasped and looked, and there was Amelie, standing there as if she'd been carved in stone before the building came up around her. And her bodyguards—or servants—were standing in a group near her. She'd brought four of them. Claire wondered if that was a signal of how much trouble she and Eve were in.

“There is a third coming,'” Amelie said, and settled herself in a chair as if it were a golden throne. She was wearing black, like Oliver, but her attire was a long elegant suede skirt suit, with a severe white shirt under the tailored jacket. She crossed her legs, which were pale and perfect, and folded her hands in her lap.

Oliver wasn't looking happy. “Who are we waiting for?'” he asked.

“You know the laws, Oliver, even if you choose to find ways to cheat them,'” Amelie said. “We are waiting for Mr. Morrell.'”

They didn't have to wait long; in a matter of less than a minute, Claire heard voices coming from the anteroom outside, and a jingle of keys. She'd never seen the man who walked in, flanked by two uniformed cops, but she knew one of the cops: Richard Morrell, Monica's brother. So the portly, balding man with the smug expression was probably her dad.

The mayor of Morganville.

He was dressed in a suit, too—blue, pin-striped, with wide lapels. Kind of pimpish, really, and the pants were a little too long. He had too many rings on his fingers, all in gold, and he was smiling.

“Oliver,'” he said cheerfully. The smile vanished fast when he spotted Amelie sitting so quietly off to the side, with her entourage. His face composed itself into something a whole lot more…respectful. “Founder.'”

“Mayor.'” She nodded to him. “Good. We can begin.'”

Gretchen let go of Claire's arm. She winced at the returning flow of blood to her tingling hand, and rubbed at the place where Gretchen had been gripping her. Yeah, that was going to be a bruise. Definitely. She risked a look at Eve, who was doing the same thing. Eve looked dead scared.

Oliver reached over and pulled a hidden cord, and the burgundy velvet curtain behind him opened.

There was a body lying on the marble slab, surrounded by rich red roses, bunches of them in floor vases. The corpse looked blue white, rubbery, and utterly, horribly
dead
. Claire felt a cloud creep over her, heard a buzzing in her ears, and nearly collapsed, but somehow she managed not to faint.

“Oh my God,'” Eve whispered, and brought both hands to her mouth.

“It's Brandon,'” Claire said, and looked at Oliver. “It's Brandon, right?'” Because that cold, white face didn't look human anymore, and she couldn't match it up to the living person—vampire—she'd feared. The one who'd threatened her, chased her home, nearly killed her and Eve…

Oliver nodded. He pulled back the velvet covering Brandon from the neck down, revealing black open wounds. Some of them still smoked. Claire caught the smell of cooking meat, and this time, her knees buckled. Detective Hess caught her arm and steadied her.

“He was tortured,'” Oliver said. He sounded neutral—disinterested, even. “It took a long time. Someone very much enjoyed this. Almost as if there was a…personal agenda at work.'”

Mayor Morrell motioned his son forward. Richard wasn't nearly the psycho his sister was. In fact, Claire kind of liked him, as much as she could like anybody from his family who worked for vampires. He seemed almost fair.

Richard examined the wounds in Brandon's body. He actually
touched
them, which made Claire throw up in her head, if not actually through her mouth. “Looks like some kind of weapon straight to the heart. Probably a stake,'” Richard said, and looked up at his father. “Whoever did this was serious. This wasn't just random; this was done slowly. I don't know what they wanted out of him, but whatever it was, they probably got it. I can see shadows of wounds that closed over before he died. That's hours, at least.'”

Silence. Deep, dark silence. Richard straightened up and glanced at Claire and Eve. If he recognized them, he gave no sign. “These two girls have something to do with it?'”

“Perhaps,'” Oliver said. Claire didn't see him move, but all of a sudden he was right in front of her, looking down. “Perhaps they know something. You didn't like Brandon very much, did you, Claire?'”

“I—'” She didn't know what to say.
Don't lie,
Hess had said. Did the vamps have some kind of lie detector power? Maybe even mind-reading? “No, I didn't like him. But I wouldn't want to see this happen to anybody.'”
Not even you.
She said that to herself, though.

He had such kind eyes. That was the horrible thing about him, this warm feeling that she could trust him,
should
trust him, that somehow she was letting him down by not…

“Don't,'” Eve said sharply, and pinched her arm. Claire yelped and looked at her. “Don't look him in the eye.'”

“Eve,'” Oliver sighed. “I'm very disappointed in you. Don't you understand that it's my responsibility, as Brandon's Patron, to get to the bottom of this? To find the ones responsible? You're not the innocent Claire may be; you know the penalties for killing one of us. And you know the lengths to which we'll go to find out the truth. If I can get it from her without pain, don't you want me to do that?'”

Eve didn't answer. She kept her eyes focused somewhere around the middle of his chest. “I think you'll do whatever you want,'” she said grimly. “Just like vamps always do. You didn't ask me, but I'm glad Brandon's dead. And I'm glad he suffered, too. However much it was, it wasn't enough.'”

That was when Nice Oliver vanished. Just…gone. Claire saw a flicker of movement, nothing more, and then he had hold of Eve's black-dyed hair and he was yanking her head back at a painful angle.

And there was nothing human in his eyes. Unless pure, flaming rage was human.

“Oh,'” he breathed into Eve's ear. “Thank you for saying that. Now I don't have to be so careful anymore.'”

Detective Hess stepped forward, fists clenched; Richard Morrell got in his way. “Easy, Joe,'” he said. “It's under control.'”

Didn't look that way to Claire. She was breathing too fast, feeling faint again, and she could see Eve's knees buckling. The menace in the room—the body on the table—it was all just…terrifying.

Shane's dad did that.
Claire felt sick and even more terrified once she had the thought, because now somehow she had to keep it to herself.

And she knew they were going to ask.

Oliver sniffed at Eve's exposed neck. “You've been working at a coffee shop,'” he said. “On campus, I suppose. Funny. I wasn't asked for any references.'”

“Let go,'” Eve said faintly.

“Oh, I can't do that. It makes it harder to hurt you.'” Oliver smiled, then opened his mouth, and his fangs—snake fangs, deadly sharp—snapped down into place. They weren't like teeth, really; they were more like polished bone, and they looked
strong
.

He licked Eve's neck, right over the pulse.

“Oh God,'” she whispered. “Please don't do that. Please don't let him do that.'”

“Ask the girl a question, Oliver. We don't have time for your hobbies.'” Mayor Morrell said it in a bored tone, like all of this was keeping him from something more important. He inspected his manicure and buffed his fingernails against his suit jacket. “Let's move this train down the track.'”

Amelie wasn't saying or doing
anything
.

“I'm Protected,'” Eve said. “You can't hurt me.'” She didn't sound very confident, though, and Claire looked at Amelie, sitting in the front row of chairs, studying the scene closely, as if it was all some show put on for her benefit. Her expression was polite, but cool.

Please help,
Claire thought. Amelie's pale gold eyebrow raised just slightly.
Can you hear me?

If she could, Amelie gave no other sign. She simply sat, calm as Buddha.

“Let's just say that Amelie and I have an understanding in matters such as this,'” Oliver said. “And Eve, love, that understanding is that I can use any methods to pursue humans who break the peace. Regardless of Protection. Regardless of
who
that Protection is from. Now, I think we should have a little talk about your home invaders.'”

“Our…what?'” Eve was struggling not to meet his eyes, but he was so close, it was almost impossible to avoid him. “I don't know who they were.'”

“You don't. You've very sure about that,'” he said. His voice had dropped to a low, lethal whisper, and Claire tried to think of something to say, something to do, that would help Eve. Because clearly, Eve wasn't going to help herself, and she couldn't just stand by and see her—hurt. She
couldn't
.

“I know,'” she said, and she felt everyone shift their collective attention onto her. Scary. Claire cleared her throat. “They were bikers.'”

“Bikers.'” Oliver let go of Eve's hair and turned toward Claire. “I see. You're attempting to distract me with the obvious, and, Claire, that is not a good idea. Not a good idea at all. We know all that, you see. We know when they came to town. We even know who called them.'”

Claire felt all the blood drain from her head. Her stomach flipped over, and kept flipping, and Oliver walked away from Eve and yanked another cord.

Another curtain slid aside, next to Brandon's body.

Two men, on their knees, bound and gagged and held in place by really scary-looking vampires. One of the prisoners was a biker.

Shane was the other.

Claire screamed.

I
n the end, they sat her down in a chair and had Gretchen hold her down with those strong, iron-hard hands pressing on her shoulders. Claire continued to struggle, but fear and shock were winning out over anger. And Shane wasn't moving. He was watching her, but he couldn't say anything around the gag, and if Shane wasn't struggling, maybe there wasn't anything to be gained from it.

Eve spun around and slapped Oliver. An open-hand, hard smack that echoed like a gunshot off of all the marble in the room. There was a collective intake of breath. “You son of a bitch!'” she spit. “Let Shane go! He has nothing to do with this!'”

“Really.'” A flat word, not even really a question. Unlike a human's, Oliver's face didn't show any sign of a handprint from the slap, and it had definitely been hard enough. He barely looked as if he'd felt it at all. “Sit down, Eve, while I tell you the facts of your rather pathetic life.'”

She didn't. Oliver put his hand flat on her chest, right at the notch of her collarbone, and shoved. Eve sprawled in a chair, glaring at him.

“Detective Hess,'” Oliver said. “I suggest you explain to my dear ex-employee exactly what she risks the next time she touches me in anger. Or, come to think of it, touches me at all.'”

Hess was already moving, sitting in the chair beside Eve and leaning toward her. He whispered to her, urgent words that Claire couldn't catch. Eve shook her head violently. A trickle of sweat ran from her messy hair down the side of her face, making a flesh-colored track through the white makeup.

“Now,'” Oliver continued once Hess stopped, and Eve was sitting still. “We're not technological idiots, Eve. And we do own the telephone providers in this area, particularly the cell phone providers. Shane placed a call from your home to a number that, much to our surprise, we found to be assigned to a device we located on his friend Mr. Wallace.'” Oliver pointed to the biker. “GPS is a marvelous invention, by the way. We're quite grateful for all the hard work humanity has put into keeping track of itself. It makes finding people so much easier than it used to be in the old days.'”

“Shane didn't do anything,'” Claire said. “Please. You have to let him go.'”

“Shane was found at the crime scene,'” Oliver said. “With Brandon's body. And I hardly think we can say he wasn't involved, if he was friendly enough with Mr. Wallace to be exchanging telephone calls.'”

“No, he didn't—!'”

Oliver slapped her. She never saw it coming, just felt the impact and saw red for a second. Her whole body shook with the force of how much she wanted to hit him back, and she felt the stinging imprint of his hand on her cheek like a brand.

“You see, Eve?'” Oliver asked. “An eye for an eye. Of course, my interpretation is a bit free of the Scriptures.'”

Shane was screaming around his gag, and now he was fighting, but the vampires were holding him down on his knees without breaking a sweat. Eve's eyes were huge and dark, and Hess was holding her down in the chair as she struggled to come after Oliver.

Don't,
Claire thought wildly. Because her friends had just told Oliver exactly what he wanted to know: that hurting her would get something out of them.

“Oliver,'” Amelie said. Her voice was soft and very gentle. “Is there a question you are posing to the children? Or are you merely indulging yourself? You say you already know the boy called this man. What more information do you need?'”

“I want to know where his father has gone,'” Oliver said. “One of them knows.'”

“The girls?'” Amelie shook her head. “It seems unlikely that someone like Mr. Collins would trust in either of them.'”

“The boy knows, then.'”

“Possibly.'” She tapped her lips with one pale finger. “Yet somehow, I doubt he will tell you. And there is no need for any cruelty to discover the truth, I believe.'”

“Meaning?'” Oliver turned fully toward her, crossing his arms.

“Meaning that he will come to us, Oliver, as you very well know. In order to save the boy from the consequences of his actions.'”

“So you withdraw your Protection from the boy?'”

Amelie looked at the body lying on the slab. After a moment of silence, she rose gracefully and walked to what was left of Brandon, trailed ghost white fingers over his distorted face, and said, “He was born before King John, did you know that? Born a prince. All those years, ending. I grieve for the loss of all that he saw that we will never know. All the memories that can never enrich us.'”

“Amelie.'” Oliver sounded impatient. “We can't allow his killers to run free. You know that.'”

“He was yours, Oliver. You might spare a moment for his loss before you run baying after blood.'”

Amelie's back was to him, so she couldn't have seen it, but Claire did: there was hate in Oliver's eyes, hate twisting his face. He got it under control before Amelie turned toward him.

“Brandon had his flaws,'” Oliver said. “Of all of us, he was the one who enjoyed the hunt the most. I don't think he ever came to terms with the rules of Morganville. But it's those rules we have to observe now. By sentencing these criminals.'”

Sentencing?
What about a trial? Claire started to ask, but a cold hand clapped over her mouth from behind, and she looked up to see Gretchen bending over her, fangs out, holding a hushing finger to her own mouth. Eve was likewise gagged by Hans. Next to them, Detective Hess folded his arms and looked deeply troubled, but he didn't speak.

Amelie looked at Oliver, then past him, at Shane.

“I warned you,'” she said quietly. “My Protection can only extend to you so far. You betrayed my trust, Shane. For the sake of kindness, I will not break faith with your friends; they remain under my Protection.'” She shifted her pale gaze to Oliver, and gave him a slow, regal incline of her head. “He is yours. I withdraw Protection.'”

Claire screamed out a protest, but it was lost against the gag of Gretchen's hand. Amelie bent over and placed a kiss on Brandon's waxy forehead.

“Good-bye, child,'” she said. “Flawed as you were, you were still one of the eternal. We won't forget.'”

Claire heard someone yell outside the room, and Amelie whipped around so quickly that she was a blur, then
moved
…and something hit the marble pillar next to where she'd been and exploded with a sharp popping sound.

A bottle. Claire smelled gas, and then heard a thick, whooshing sound.

And then the curtains exploded into flame.

Amelie snarled, bone white and utterly not
people,
all of a sudden, and then she was dragged out of the way and down, with a moving bunker of bodyguards crowding around her. Gunfire exploded in the room, and somebody—Detective Hess?—shoved Claire forward to the carpet and covered her, too. Eve was down, too, curled into a protective ball, her black-fingernailed hands covering her head.

And then, there was fighting—grunts and smacks and wood being thrown against walls and smashed during struggles. Claire couldn't get any sense of what was going on, except that it was brutal and it was over fast, and when the choking fog of smoke began to clear, Hess finally backed off and let her sit up.

There were two men dead in the entrance of the room. Big guys, in leather. There was one still moving.

Amelie pushed aside her bodyguards and stalked past Claire as if she didn't exist. She glided down the aisle and to the one biker still feebly trying to crawl away. He was trailing a dark streak on the maroon carpet. Claire got slowly to her feet, grateful for Detective Hess's arm around her, and exchanged a look of sheer horror with Eve, on his other side.

Amelie never got to the biker. Oliver was there ahead of her, dragging the wounded man up and, before Claire could blink, snapping his neck with a dry sound.

The body dropped to the carpet with a limp thump. Claire turned and hid her face against Hess's jacket, trying to control a surge of nausea.

When she looked back, Amelie was staring at Oliver. He was staring right back. “No point in taking chances,'” he said, and gave her a slow, full smile. “He might have killed you, Amelie.'”

“Yes,'” she said softly. “And that wouldn't have been in anyone's best interests, would it, Oliver? How fortunate I am that you were here to…save me.'”

She didn't move or gesture, but her bodyguards swarmed and surrounded her, and the whole mass of them moved out, walking around (or over) the dead men.

Oliver watched her go, then turned back to sweep a glare around the entire room, stopping on Shane.

“Your father thinks he can act without consequences, I see,'” he said. “How sad for you. Put these two where they belong. In cages.'”

The biker and Shane were pulled to their knees and dragged off, behind the curtains. Claire lunged forward, but Gretchen grabbed her and put her hand over Claire's mouth. Claire winced as her arm was twisted up behind her back, and she realized she was crying, unable to breathe for the pressure of the hand on her mouth and the stuffiness building up in her nose.

Eve wasn't crying. Eve was staring at Oliver, and even when Detective Hess let go of her, she didn't move.

“What are you going to do to them?'” she asked. She sounded unnaturally calm.

“You know the laws,'” Oliver said. “Don't you, Eve?'”

“You can't. Shane had nothing to do with this.'”

Oliver shook his head. “I won't debate my judgment with you. Mayor? You'll sign the papers? If you're done cowering, that is.'”

The mayor had been down in a defensive crouch behind an urn; he got up now, looking flushed and angry. “Of course I'll sign,'” he said. “The nerve of these bastards! Striking
here
? Threatening—'”

“Yes, very traumatic,'” Oliver said. “The papers.'”

“I brought a notary. It'll be all nice and legal.'”

Gretchen let go of Claire, sensing her will to fight was trickling away. “Legal?'” Claire gasped. “But—there hasn't even been a
trial
! What about a jury?'”

“He had a jury,'” Detective Hess told her. His tone was gentle, but what he was saying was harsh. “A jury of the victim's peers. That's the way the law works here. Same for humans. If a vampire ever got brought up on murder charges, it would be humans deciding whether he lived or died.'”

“Except no vampire has ever been brought up on charges,'” Eve said. She looked nearly cold and pale enough to be a vampire herself. “Or ever will. Don't kid yourself, Joe. It's only the humans who get the sharp end of justice around here.'” She looked at the dead guys lying on the carpet at the entrance to the room. “Scared the shit out of you, though, didn't they?'”

“Don't flatter them. They had no hope of succeeding,'” Oliver said. He looked at Hans. “I have no further use for these two.'”

“Wait! I want to talk to Shane!'” Claire yelled. Gretchen propelled her toward the exit with a shove. It was move, or fall over the dead, bloody bodies.

Claire moved. Behind her, she heard Eve doing the same.

She blinked away tears, wiped angrily at her face and nose, and tried to think what to do next.
Shane's dad,
she thought.
Shane's dad will save him.
Although, of course, the dead guys she was stepping over indicated that rescue had already been attempted, and that hadn't gone so well. Besides, Shane's dad wasn't here. He hadn't stuck around when Shane got caught. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe nobody cared but her.

“Easy,'” Detective Hess said, and stepped in beside her to take her by the elbow. He managed to make it feel like escorting, instead of arresting. “There's still time. The law says that the convicts have to be displayed on the square for two nights so that everyone can see them. They'll be in cages, so they'll be safe enough. It's not the Ritz, but it keeps Brandon's friends from ripping them apart without due process.'”

“How—'” Claire's throat closed up on her. She cleared it and tried again. “How are they going to—?'”

Hess patted her hand. He looked tired and worried and grim. “You won't be here when it happens,'” he said. “So don't think about it. If you want to talk to him, you can. They're putting them in cages now, at the center of the park.'”

“Oliver said take them back,'” Gretchen said from behind them. Hess shrugged.

“Well, he didn't say when, did he?'”

 

The Founder's Park was a large circle, with walkways like spokes in a wheel, all leading to the center.

And at the center were two cages. Cells just big enough for a man to stand up, not wide enough to stretch out. Shane would have to sleep sitting up, if he slept, or curled in a fetal position.

He was sitting, knees up, head resting on his arms, when Eve and Claire arrived. The biker was yelling and rattling his bars. Not Shane. He was…quiet.

“Shane!'” Claire almost flew across the open space, grabbed the cold iron bars in both hands, and pressed her face between them. “Shane!'”

He looked up. His eyes were red, but he wasn't crying. At least, not now. He managed to move around in the small, cramped cage until he was sitting closer to her, and reached through the bars to lay his hand against her cheek, stroking it with his thumb. It was the cheek that Oliver had slapped, she realized. She wondered if it was still red.

“I'm sorry,'” Shane said. “My dad—I had to go. I couldn't let him do this. I had to try to stop it, Claire, I had to—'”

She was crying again, silently. With his thumb, he wiped away the tear that fell. She could feel his hand shaking. “You didn't do anything, did you? To Brandon?'”

“I didn't like the son of a bitch, but I didn't hurt him, and I didn't kill him. That was already done when I got there.'” Shane laughed, but it sounded forced. “Just my luck, huh? Charging off to be the hero, I get to be the villain instead.'”