The Morganville Vampires Collection (The Morganville Vampires #1-4) (87 page)

There was a short silence on the other end, and then her mother said, very softly, ‘I’m so proud of you.’

She hung up with a soft
click
. Claire stood for a moment, tears prickling in her eyes, and then said to the silent line, ‘I love you.’

And then she picked up her stuff and went to class.

Days passed, and for a change, there were no further emergencies. Normal life – or what passed for it, anyway – set in. Claire went to class, Eve went to work, Michael taught guitar lessons – he was a lot more in demand since the concert at Common Grounds – and Shane…Shane slacked, although Claire thought he seemed preoccupied.

It finally dawned on her that he was thinking about Saturday, and the invitation. And that he didn’t want to talk to her about it at all.

‘So what should I do?’ she asked Eve. ‘I mean, can’t he just call in sick for the party or something?’

‘You’re kidding,’ Eve said. ‘You think they’d buy an excuse? If you get an invitation to something like this, you go. End of story.’

‘But—’ Claire, who was getting glasses out of
the cabinet while Eve put out plates, nearly dropped everything. ‘But that means that creepy little bi—’

‘Language, missy.’

‘– witch is going to make him go with her!’ That made her blindly furious, and not entirely because of how upset Shane had been before. It was the whole idea of Shane going along with it. Of Ysandre putting those pale, thin fingers on his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Shane hadn’t said a word to her about it. Not a single word. And she didn’t know how to help.

Eve stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds before she said, ‘Well, she’s not the only one who’s going, of course. Shane won’t be all by himself.’

‘What?’

‘Michael’s going, too. I recognised the invitation when it came in. Didn’t open it, though.’

Still, Eve had every reason to expect that Michael would at least ask her to go with him. Claire, on the other hand, was completely shut out.

Which made her irrationally angry again, and this time for herself.
You’re jealous
, she realised.
Because
you don’t want him going anywhere without you
.

She so did not want to be that person, but there it was. And she had no idea what to do about it.

When she set Shane’s glass of Coke down in front
of him, she did it with probably a little too much emphasis; he glanced up at her with a question-mark expression. Eve had already settled into her chair across the table. Michael wasn’t home, but Eve didn’t seem bothered about it this time. Maybe he’d talked to her about where he was going.

Nice to know somebody’s talking
, Claire thought.

‘What?’ Shane asked her, and took a drink. ‘Did I forget to say thanks? Because, thanks. Best Coke ever. Did you make it yourself? Special recipe?’

‘Got any plans for Saturday night?’ she asked. ‘I was thinking maybe we could go to the movies, or—’

Too transparent. Shane knew instantly, and Eve choked on her forkful of microwave lasagne. The silence stretched. Claire poked at her own meal, just for something to do.

‘I can’t,’ Shane finally said. ‘I guess you know why.’

‘You’re going to that ball thing,’ Claire said. ‘With Bishop’s – friend.’

‘I don’t exactly have a choice.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Of course I’m sure – why are we talking about this exactly?’

‘Because—’ She stuck the fork into her lasagne so
deep it scraped the plate. ‘Because Michael’s going. I guess Eve is, too. And what am I supposed to do, exactly?’

‘You’re kidding. Are you on crack? Because I thought you just implied that you wanted to go to the scary vampire thing. Which, by the way, I don’t.’

Claire tried not to glare. ‘I thought you hated her. Ysandre. But you’re going with her.’

‘I do. And I am.’ Shane shovelled food into his mouth, a blatant excuse to end the conversation, or at least avoid it.

Eve cleared her throat. ‘Maybe I should, I don’t know, leave? Because this is starting to sound like one of those reality shows I don’t want to be in. Maybe you guys want to take turns in the confessional booth.’

Shane and Claire ignored her. ‘I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing you can do,’ Shane said. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do.’

‘Stop talking with your mouth full.’

‘Dude, you asked!’

‘I—’ Claire felt a sudden burn of tears in her eyes. ‘I just wanted you to talk to me, that’s all. But I guess you can’t even do that.’

She picked up her uneaten lasagne and drink and took it upstairs to her room. It was her turn to
throw a fit, slam a door, and sulk, and dammit, she was going to do it well.

She burst into tears the second the door was closed, put everything down on the dresser, and collapsed into a soggy heap in the corner. She hadn’t cried like this in a long time, not over something so
stupid
, but she just couldn’t – didn’t –

There was a knock at the door. ‘Claire?’

‘Go away, Shane.’ Her heart wasn’t in it, though, and he must have heard that. He opened the door. She kind of expected him to rush to her and sweep her up in a hug, but instead Shane just…stood there. Looking like some mixture of annoyed and confused.

‘Why is this about you?’ he asked her. It was a perfectly reasonable question, so absolutely logical it made her gasp and cry harder. ‘I have to get dressed up in a stupid outfit. I have to pretend I don’t want to shove a stake in this bitch’s heart. You don’t.’

‘But you’re going! Why are you going? You – I thought you hated her—’

‘Because she said she’d kill you if I didn’t show up. And because I know it’s not a threat. She’d do it. Happy now?’

He closed the door quietly. Claire couldn’t get her breath. The hurt in her chest seemed to be smothering
her, as if every heartbeat might be her last. She heard herself make a sound, but she couldn’t tell if it was tears or anger or anguish.

Eventually, the tears stopped, and Claire wiped the wet streaks from her cheeks. She felt sore, alone, and utterly to blame for everything. Her dinner held no appeal, and all she wanted to do was curl up under the blankets with the biggest, fluffiest stuffed animal she could find.

But she couldn’t do that.

When she opened her door, she found Shane sitting outside, back against the wall. He looked up at her.

‘You done?’ he asked. His eyes were red, too. Not exactly tearful, but – something. ‘Because it’s not like this floor’s real comfortable.’

She sank down next to him. He put his arm around her, and her head fell against his chest. There was something so soothing about the stroke of his fingers through her hair, the soft rhythm of his breathing. The reassurance of his solid warmth next to her.

‘Don’t let her hurt you,’ she whispered. ‘God, Shane—’

‘No worries. Michael will be there, and I’m pretty sure he’d get into it if she tried. But I want you safe.
Promise me that while we’re gone, you’ll go stay with your parents or something. No—’ Because she was already trying to protest. ‘No, promise me. I need to know you’ll be OK.’

She nodded, still miserable. ‘I promise,’ she said, and took a deep breath to push all that away. ‘So what dumbass costume are you wearing?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Does it involve leather?’

‘Yeah, actually, I think it might.’ He sounded like he dreaded the prospect. She managed a smile, despite everything.

‘I can’t wait.’

Shane banged his head back against the wall. ‘Chicks.’

Her next visit to Myrnin’s lab brought a surprise. When she descended the steps, she saw the glow of lamps, and her first thought was,
Oh God, he’s out
of his cell
. Her second was that she’d better get the dart gun ready, and she was unzipping the backpack to reach for it when she saw that it wasn’t Myrnin at all.

The overcrowded, dimly lit lab – which was more like a storeroom of outdated equipment, really – held a chair and reading lamp. Seated in the chair,
turning pages in one of the fragile, ancient journals, was none other than Oliver.

Claire put her hand on the butt of the dart gun, just in case, although she wasn’t really sure what good a dose of antidote would do in this situation.

‘Oh, relax, I’m not going to attack you, Claire,’ Oliver said in a bored voice. He didn’t even look up. ‘Besides, we’re on the same side these days. Or haven’t you heard?’

She came down the remaining steps slowly. ‘I guess I haven’t. Was there a memo?’ Granted, he’d come running when Eve had called about Bishop, but that didn’t necessarily put him in the category of ally in Claire’s books.

‘When outsiders threaten the community, the community pulls together against the outsiders. It’s a rule as old as the tribal system. You and I are in the same community, and we have a common enemy.’

‘Mr Bishop.’

Oliver looked up, marking the place in the journal with one finger. ‘You have questions, I’d assume. I would, in your place.’

‘All right. How long have you known him?’

‘I don’t know him. I doubt anyone does who’s still alive today.’

Claire slipped into a rickety chair across from him.
‘But you’ve met him.’

‘Yes.’

‘When did you meet him, then?’

Oliver tilted his head, eyes narrowed, and she remembered how she’d once thought he was nice, just a normal kind of person. Not so much now.

Not so much a person, either.

‘I met him in Greece,’ he said. ‘Some time ago. I don’t think the circumstances would be particularly enlightening to you. Or comforting, come to think of it.’

‘Did you try to kill him?’

‘Me?’ Oliver smiled slowly. ‘No.’

‘Did Amelie?’

He didn’t answer, but he continued to smile. The silence stretched until she wanted to scream, but she knew he wanted her to babble.

She didn’t.

‘Amelie’s affairs are none of yours,’ Oliver said. ‘I assume you’ve been listening to Myrnin’s chatter. I confess, I find it fascinating he’s still with us. I thought him dead and gone, long ago.’

‘Like Bishop?’

‘He’s quite mad, you know. Myrnin. And he has been for as long as I can recall, though it certainly got worse in more recent times.’ Oliver’s eyes took on
a faraway look. ‘He did so love the hunt, but he was always such a pathetic weeping idiot after. It doesn’t surprise me he wants to blame his own weakness on some – mythical disease. Some people simply aren’t cut out for this life.’

Of all the things Claire had expected, that one caught her off guard. ‘You don’t believe there’s a disease?’

‘I don’t believe that because Myrnin and a few others are – defective – that it means we’re all declining, no.’

‘But – you can’t, um—’

‘Reproduce?’ Oliver said it without any emotion at all. ‘Perhaps we don’t wish to.’

‘You tried to turn Michael.’

Oh, she shouldn’t have said that, she really shouldn’t have; Oliver’s face tensed, and she saw the skull underneath that smooth, pale skin. A flicker of red went through his eyes. ‘So Michael says.’

‘So Amelie says. You wanted – you wanted your own power base here. Your own converts. But you couldn’t do it. That surprised you, didn’t it? Because all of a sudden you’re – not able to.’

‘Child,’ Oliver said, ‘you should think carefully about the next thing you say to me. Very, very carefully.’

He followed up with another stretch of silent staring, and this time Claire did look away. She picked at invisible lint on her backpack. ‘I should get to work,’ she said. ‘And you aren’t supposed to be in here without Amelie knowing about it.’

‘How do you know she doesn’t?’

‘There’d be somebody else here watching you if she did,’ Claire pointed out, and got a small, cold smile in response.

‘Clever girl. Yes, very well. Are you going to tell me to leave?’

‘I don’t think I can tell you to do anything, Oliver, but if you want me to call Amelie—’ She took her cell phone out, opened it, and scrolled through the address book.

Oliver thought about killing her. She saw it flash across his face, plain as sunrise, and she almost dialled the phone in sheer reflex.

Then it was gone, and he was smiling, and he stood up and gave her a nod. ‘No need to bother the Founder with such nonsense,’ he said. ‘I’ll be leaving. There’s only so many ridiculous mad ravings one can read at a sitting, in any case.’

He dropped the journal onto a pile scattered near the chair and walked away, moving with effortless grace around the piles of books and barriers of mismatched
furniture. He didn’t seem to move quickly, but before she could blink, he was gone, a shadow on the steps.

Claire let out a shaky breath, got the dart gun from her backpack, and went to see Myrnin.

‘Magnificent,’ Myrnin said, staring down at his hands. He flexed them into fists, turned them over, extended his fingers. ‘I haven’t felt this good in – well, years. I had numbness in my hands – did you know?’

It was a symptom Myrnin had forgotten to mention, and Claire wrote it down in her notebook. She had the countdown clock – a new addition to the lab, one she’d ordered from the Internet – up on the wall, and the red flickering numbers reminded both of them that Myrnin had a maximum of five hours of sanity from the current formulation of the treatment.

Myrnin followed her glance at the clock, and the giddy excitement in his expression faded. He still looked like a young man, except for his eyes; it was creepy to think he’d looked exactly that way for generations before she was born, and would long after she was dead and gone.
He did so love the hunt
, Oliver had said. There was really only one kind of hunt for vampires. Hunting people.

He smiled at her, and it was the smile that had
won her over in the first place – sweet, gentle, inviting her to share in some delightful secret. ‘Thank you for the clock, Claire. That’s a great help. There’s an alarm feature?’

‘It starts sounding a tone fifteen minutes before the clock runs out,’ she said. ‘And it has tones striking every hour, too.’

‘Very helpful. Well, then. Now that I have use of my fingers – what shall we do?’ Myrnin wiggled his thick black eyebrows suggestively, which was actually funny, coming from him. Not that he wasn’t cute – he was – but Claire couldn’t really imagine finding him sexy.

She wondered if that would hurt his feelings.

‘How about if we start shelving some of these books?’ she said. It really was getting to be a hazard; she’d tripped over stacks more than once even when it wasn’t an emergency. Myrnin, however, made a face.