Morganville Vampires #03 - Midnight Alley Rachel Caine

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Joe Hess was in the run-down house on Spring Street, locked in a closet, filthy, with a broken arm and two broken ribs—Lowe had called with the news of his rescue two hours later. Claire tried to be happy, but the crash that had started for her before she left Myrnin’s just kept driving her down. She felt sick and weak and hollow, and she couldn’t even summon the energy to go to the hospital to see Shane. Michael told Eve that she was sick, which wasn’t much of a lie; Claire stayed in bed, shivering, wrapped in layers of blankets even though the room was warm. Everything kept shifting in her head, from dull gray fog to glittering icy clarity, and she didn’t know how long it was going to last. She developed a knife-sharp headache sometime during the night, and by the time she finally slept, it was nearly morning.

Her cell phone rang at two p.m. on Sunday. She’d gotten up to visit the bathroom and grab a bottle of water, but no food, and her whole body felt weak and abused. ‘‘Where are you?’’ the voice on the other end demanded. Claire squinted at the clock and scrubbed a hand through her matted, oily hair.

‘‘Who is it?’’

A sigh rattled the speaker. ‘‘It’s Jennifer, idiot. I’m waiting at Common Grounds. Are you going to show or what?’’

‘‘No,’’ she said, and then tried again. ‘‘I’m sick.’’

‘‘Look, I don’t care if you’re dying; I’ve got a midterm tomorrow for half my grade! Get your ass down here now!’’

Jennifer hung up. Claire threw the phone down on the nightstand with a clatter and sat—or fell—onto the bed. I can’t. I just want to sleep, that’s all.

Someone rapped gently on the door, and then it creaked open. Eve was standing there, with a cracked, much-abused plastic tray in her hands. On it was a frosty glass of Coke, still fizzing, a sandwich, and a cookie.

And a red rose.

‘‘Eat,’’ she said, and slid the trap onto Claire’s lap. ‘‘Man, that’s one hell of a hangover.’’

‘‘Hangover?’’ Claire looked at her oddly, and sipped the Coke. It went down sweet and cool, and that helped. ‘‘I’m not hungover.’’

Eve just shook her head. ‘‘Been there, CB. Trust me on this. Eat, shower, you’ll feel better.’’

Claire nodded. She did feel a spark of hunger, distant as it was, and managed to take two bites of the sandwich before weariness overtook her again. She tried the cookie in between.

The shower felt like heaven, and Eve was right about that, too; when she finally got dressed and finished half the sandwich she felt almost alive.

Her cell phone rang again. Jennifer. Claire didn’t even let her get started yelling and threatening. ‘‘Ten minutes,’’ she said, and hung up. She didn’t want to go, but staying in bed didn’t seem to be doing much for her. She took the tray downstairs, washed up, and grabbed her backpack on the way out.

‘‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’’

Michael. He was standing in the hallway, blocking the door, looking like he was guarding the gates of heaven itself. His hands looked raw and pink—still healing from the burns. She thought about that, about how important his hands were to him, because of the music, and felt a sharp stab of guilt.

‘‘I’m meeting Jennifer at Common Grounds,’’ she said. ‘‘Tutoring. For money.’’

‘‘Well, you’re not walking, and I can’t take you until dark.’’

‘‘I can,’’ Eve offered. She joined Claire in the hall. ‘‘I need to go into work, anyway. Kim didn’t show again; they called a little while ago. Hey, overtime pay. Gotta love it. Maybe we can afford tacos.’’

Michael looked exasperated, but it wasn’t as though there were a lot of choices. He nodded and stepped out of the way. Eve stretched up on her toes to kiss him, and that went on for a while before Claire cleared her throat, checked her watch, and got her moving to the car.

It was a short ride to Common Grounds, but not exactly a comfortable one, because the first thing Eve said was, ‘‘Is it true? Oliver killed the Fentons and Captain Obvious?’’

Claire didn’t want to talk about it, but she nodded.

‘‘And Michael? Michael was there?’’

Again, the nod. Claire looked out the window.

‘‘He got hurt. I saw the burns.’’ This time she didn’t even try to answer. Eve let the silence stretch for a few seconds, then said, ‘‘Don’t shut me out, Claire. The four of us, we’re all we’ve got.’’

Except that what Claire had couldn’t be shared. Not with Michael, not with Eve, and certainly not with Shane.

She was alone, carrying an ugly weight of knowledge she didn’t want and couldn’t use. And every time she thought about Oliver’s icy smile, about him ripping out Christine Fenton’s throat, she felt sick. I’m helping him, if I keep working for Myrnin and Amelie.

But she was also helping Michael. Sam. Myrnin.

Eve seemed to sense it wasn’t time to push; she pulled to a stop in front of the coffee shop and said, ‘‘Stay inside until dark; Michael will come get you.’’

‘‘I’m going to see Shane,’’ Claire said. ‘‘But I’ll get a ride home.’’

‘‘Claire, dammit—’’ Eve sighed. ‘‘I can’t stop you. But if you wait, you and Michael can go together. I’ll see you guys tonight. Tacos for dinner, right?’’

Nothing sounded very exciting to her right now, but Claire nodded. She got out and walked into Common Grounds, which was a sea of noise and conversation— packed, as always, with college students and a few locals. She was getting used to picking out the gleam of ID bracelets.

Jennifer was sitting at the same table Monica favored, sipping a drink that Claire bet was the same thing Monica always had, wearing an outfit that was probably Monica’s hand-me-downs, or at least copied from the same designers. She looked angry and scowled at Claire as Claire dropped her backpack on the floor and slid into her chair. ‘‘You look like crap,’’ Jennifer said. ‘‘Sick sick, or hungover?’’

‘‘Does it matter?’’

‘‘Hungover,’’ Jennifer said, and grinned. ‘‘And here I thought you were all underage Goody Two-shoes.’’

The smell of coffee was making her feel queasy, but Claire went to the counter and ordered a mocha anyway. Oliver wasn’t on duty, and she didn’t know the two working as baristas.

When she turned around, somebody else was sitting at Jennifer’s table in the previously empty third chair.

Monica.

Crap. I can’t deal with her. Not now. She felt horrible, and the last thing she wanted to do was match wits with the witch queen.

Monica gave her the X-ray scan, looked at Jennifer, and did an over-the-top hand to the forehead. ‘‘I thought the homeless look died in the nineties.’’

‘‘Shut up.’’ Claire slid into her chair, mocha in hand.

‘‘I’m tutoring Jennifer, not you.’’

‘‘Bitch, I wouldn’t let you tutor me. You’d probably give me all the wrong answers.’’

Which was a totally good idea, and Claire saw the fear flash into Jennifer’s expression. She sighed. ‘‘I wouldn’t,’’ she said.

‘‘Why not?’’

‘‘Because—because this matters. School.’’ They both looked at Claire as though she were a lunatic. ‘‘Never mind. I just wouldn’t. You want my help or not?’’

Jennifer nodded. Claire reached for her notebook and flipped to the notes she’d taken in Economics, and started explaining. Jennifer was trying, at least; Monica kept sighing and fidgeting, but Jennifer seemed to be kind of following along. She even got a couple of the formulas right, when Claire pop-quizzed her. It took about an hour to get her to the level of a solid B, but that was good enough. Jennifer wasn’t interested in As, and Monica couldn’t have cared less.

Claire’s mocha was making her nauseated. She tossed the half-full cup and went to the bathroom. She picked up her backpack and brought it along; half out of an entirely reasonable expectation that Monica and/ or Jennifer would do something mean if she left it at their mercy.

She was standing at the mirror staring at her sallow face with its raccoon-bruise eyes and pale lips when the second of clarity hit again, a flicker of unforgiving beauty in a world that seemed drowning in gray.

Maybe a little. Just to get through the day. There wasn’t that much left, anyway.

She didn’t let herself think. Her head was pounding, her mouth dry, her muscles aching, and she needed to feel better. Because right now, she didn’t know if she could make it through the day.

She shook about ten measly crystals out into her palm. The strawberry scent teased her, and she shifted them around, watching the light glint on the sharp edges. It looked like candy.

It’s a drug. She was finally admitting it to herself. It’s not even for you. It’s for Myrnin. What are you doing? It’s making you sick.

But it would also make her well.

She was in the process of dumping the crystals in her mouth when Monica shoved open the bathroom door.

Claire swallowed and choked and quickly wiped her hand on her pants. She knew she looked guilty. Monica, who’d been heading for the stall, stopped and looked at her.

‘‘What was that?’’ Monica asked.

‘‘What was what?’’ Wrong answer, Claire knew it as soon as she said it. Why not, aspirin for my hangover ? Or, breath mints? She was a terrible liar.

She couldn’t help but drag in a shocked breath as the crystals raced their chemical message through her nerve endings, ice in every vein, and the whole world turned sharp and bright and—for the moment— painless.

And Monica was way too savvy. She looked at the hand Claire was convulsively rubbing against her blue jeans, then gave her the X-ray stare again, and slowly smiled. ‘‘Man, that must be good stuff. Your pupils just dilated like crazy.’’ Monica edged up next to her and checked her makeup. ‘‘Where’d you get it?’’

Claire said nothing. She reached for the shaker, which was sitting on the edge of the sink, but Monica got there first. She looked it over and shook a crystal out in her hand. ‘‘Cool. What is it?’’

‘‘Nothing. It’s not for you.’’

Monica pulled the shaker back when she reached for it. ‘‘Oh, I think it is. Especially if you want it so bad.’’

Claire didn’t think; she just acted. Her brain worked so fast that she moved in a blur, slamming Monica back against the wall, then twisting the silver can out of her hand. Monica didn’t even have time to yell.

Monica straightened her clothes and tossed back her hair. There was a crazy light in her eyes, and a glow in her cheeks. She liked this.

‘‘Oh, you stupid bitch,’’ Monica breathed. ‘‘That was such a bad idea. So, it makes you faster. And I’m betting it’s something from the vamps. That makes it mine.’’

‘‘No,’’ Claire said. She’d screwed up, she knew that, but talking was only going to make it worse. She put the shaker in her backpack and zipped it up, shouldered the load, and turned to go.

Her hand was on the doorknob when Monica said, ‘‘Shane’s still in ICU.’’ There was something about the way she said it. . . . Claire turned slowly to face her. ‘‘That means he’s not out of the woods yet. Funny thing, people can have all kinds of setbacks. Maybe he gets the wrong meds or something. That can kill you. They did a story about it on the news.’’ Monica’s smile was vicious. ‘‘I’d hate to see that happen.’’

Claire felt the wildest, coldest impulse that had ever come over her—she wanted to lunge for Monica, knock her head into the wall, rip her apart. She could visualize it. That was terrifying, and she pulled herself back with a snap into sanity.

‘‘What do you want?’’ she said. Her voice wasn’t quite steady.

Monica just held out her finely manicured hand, raised an eyebrow, and waited.

Claire put down her backpack, pulled out the shaker, and handed it over. ‘‘When that’s gone, I don’t have any more,’’ she said. ‘‘I hope you choke on it.’’

Monica poured some of the red crystals into her palm. ‘‘How much? And don’t be stupid. You OD me, and it’s your neck, not mine.’’

‘‘Don’t do more than half of that,’’ Claire said. Monica scraped half of the crystals off her palm, back into the container. It looked about right. Claire nodded.

Monica dumped it into her mouth, licked the residue from her palm, and Claire could tell the exact second that the chemicals hit her—her eyes went wide, and her pupils began to grow. And grow. It was eerie, and Claire felt her skin crawl as Monica began to shake. This is what it looks like. It looked awful.

‘‘You’re pretty.’’ Monica sounded surprised. ‘‘It’s all so clear now—’’

And then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fell down and started to convulse.

Claire screamed for help, jammed her backpack under Monica’s head to keep her from knocking it against the tile floor, and tried to hold her down. Jennifer ran in and screamed, too, then came at Claire, swinging. Claire moved out of the way of the punch— it seemed slow to her—and shoved Jennifer out of the way. ‘‘I didn’t do it!’’ she yelled. ‘‘She took something!’’

Jennifer called 911.

This wasn’t how Claire had intended to end up at the hospital. Worse, by the time they’d gotten there, Monica had stopped breathing, and the paramedics had to put a tube down her throat. They were hooking her up to machines now, and the mayor was coming, and half the cops in town were converging on it.

‘‘I need to know what she took,’’ the doctor was saying. Claire tried to look over his shoulder; she saw Richard Morrell coming through the parking lot doors. The doctor snapped his fingers in front of her face to get her attention. ‘‘Your pupils are dilated. You took something, too. What is it?’’

Claire silently handed over the shaker. The doctor looked at the red crystals, frowned, and said, ‘‘Where did you get these?’’ He was wearing a bracelet, silver, with a symbol she didn’t recognize. ‘‘Look, I’m not kidding. That girl is dying, and I need to know—’’

‘‘I can’t tell you,’’ she said. ‘‘Ask Amelie.’’ She held up the bracelet. She felt numb. Even though she’d wanted to kill Monica, she hadn’t really meant to kill her. Why had this happened? It was the same dose Claire had taken, and she knew the crystals weren’t contaminated. . . .

The doctor gave her a look of cold contempt, and handed it to an orderly. ‘‘Lab,’’ he said. ‘‘I need to know what this stuff is, right now. Tell them it’s priority one.’’

The orderly left at a run.

‘‘I want you in the lab, too,’’ the doctor said, and grabbed a passing nurse. He rattled off tests, talking faster than even Claire’s heightened brain could process, though the nurse just nodded. Blood tests, she thought. Claire went without complaint. It was better than waiting for Richard Morrell to hear that she’d poisoned his sister.

As soon as the nurse was finished drawing her blood, Claire went to ICU. Shane was awake, reading a book. He looked better, and his smile was warm and relieved. ‘‘Eve said you were sick,’’ he said. ‘‘I figured maybe you were just sick of seeing me here.’’

Claire wanted to cry. She wanted to crawl into the bed with him and be wrapped in his arms and not have all this guilt and horror bearing down on her shoulders, just for a minute.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’ he asked. ‘‘Your eyes—’’

‘‘I made a mistake,’’ she blurted. ‘‘I made a terrible mistake, and I don’t know how to fix it. She’s dying and I don’t know how—’’

‘‘Dying?’’ Shane struggled to sit up. ‘‘Who? God, not Eve—’’

‘‘Monica. I gave her something, and she took it and she’s dying.’’ There were tears sliding cold down her cheeks, and she could feel every icy pinprick. ‘‘I have to do something. But I don’t know what I can do.’’

Shane’s eyes narrowed. ‘‘Claire, are you talking about drugs? You gave her drugs? Christ, what are you thinking?’’ He grabbed her hand. ‘‘Did you take something, too?’’

She nodded miserably. ‘‘It doesn’t hurt me, but it’s killing her.’’

‘‘You have to tell them. Tell them what you took. Do it now.’’

‘‘I can’t—it’s—’’ She knew what it would mean, saying this. She already knew how it would change things between them. ‘‘I can’t tell because it’s something to do with Amelie. I can’t, Shane.’’

His hand tightened, then released. He let go and looked away. ‘‘You’re going to let a human die because Amelie told you not to say anything. Not even Monica ranks that low. If you don’t do something—’’ He paused and took in a long, slow breath. His voice wasn’t quite steady when he went on. ‘‘If you don’t do something, that means that you put the vampires first, and I can’t deal with that, Claire. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’’

She knew that. Tears continued to burn in her eyes, but she didn’t try to talk him out of it. He was right, she was wrong, and she had to find a way out of this; she had to. Enough people were dying in Morganville, and some of them had died because of her.

The notes. The notes I left at Myrnin’s. Those could tell the doctor exactly what the crystals were, and how to counteract them. She could start reconstructing them now, since her brain was still working at high speed, but she could already feel things starting to fade at the edges.

‘‘Shane,’’ she said. He didn’t look at her. ‘‘I love you.’’ She wasn’t going to say it, but she knew that she might not come back. Ever. And as if he knew that, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. When he did finally look at her she said, ‘‘I can’t tell them anything, but I think I can help her. And I’m going to.’’

His brown eyes were tired and anxious and understood way too much. ‘‘You’re going to do something crazy.’’

Well,’’ she said, ‘‘not as crazy as what you’d do, but . . . yeah.’’ She kissed him, and it felt terrifyingly good, the perfect way his lips fit to hers, the way time seemed to stop when they touched. ‘‘I’ll see you,’’ she whispered, and stroked her fingers down his cheek.

And then she escaped before he could try to talk her out of it.

‘‘Wait!’’ he called after her. She didn’t.

Claire left the hospital at a run, moving faster than anyone could react to stop her, and headed for the last place on earth she wanted to go.

It was deathly silent inside Myrnin’s lab. Claire came down the steps very slowly, very carefully, listening for any hint of his presence. All the lights were burning, oil lamps flickering, and a couple of Bunsen burners hissed under bubbling flasks. The whole place smelled of strawberry and rot, and it felt strangely cold.

If I hurry . . . Myrnin had a bedroom somewhere down here, right? Maybe he was asleep. Or reading. Or doing something normal.

And maybe he’s not.

Claire picked her way across the room, moving very slowly and taking care not to tip over any of the leaning books, or crunch on any broken glass. At the back of the lab she saw that the tray where she’d put out the red crystals for drying was empty. There was no sign of the crystals themselves, but the notebooks were stacked neatly on one corner.

As she picked them up, Myrnin’s voice came from right behind her shoulder. She felt his breath cool on the back of her neck. ‘‘Those don’t belong to you.’’

She whirled, backed up, and overturned a stack of books that slithered into another, like stacks of dominos crashing.

‘‘Now look what you’ve done,’’ Myrnin said. He seemed very quiet, but there was something wrong in his eyes.

Badly wrong.

Claire backed up, glancing behind her to be sure the way was clear; in that instant, Myrnin was on her. She shoved the notebooks between them, and his claws tore into them, shredding them. ‘‘No! Myrnin, no!’’

She threw him off, mainly because his knees slipped on fallen books, and she scrambled away, panting. Somehow, she remembered to hold on to the damaged notebooks. Myrnin snarled and tried to follow, but the debris made for uncertain footing, and his jump went wrong. He crashed into a bookcase, and it toppled over on him, raining volumes.

Claire tried to get to the stairs, but there was no way she was going to make it. He was already flanking her, angling to cut her off from any hope of rescue or escape.

She was going to die, and Monica would die, too. And so would Myrnin, because he was too far gone now. She hadn’t seen any flicker of recognition left, not even for an instant.

She backed up, and her shoulders hit the hard stone wall. She slid, trying to put herself in a corner, but there was a leaning bookcase in the way. When she fell against it, it slid sideways, revealing the door that Myrnin had shown her before.

The heart-shaped lock was hanging open.

Unlocked.

Claire gasped and grabbed it, ripped it away, and swung open the door.

She felt Myrnin’s claws catch in her hair, but she pulled free and fell forward . . . into the dark.

No, no, this showed me my house; it led to the living room. . . .

It didn’t now. Myrnin had changed the destination, and this was no place she recognized at all. It was dark, damp, and it smelled like a combination of sewer and garbage dump. She blinked, and her eyes adjusted much more quickly to the darkness than they should have—the crystals, still doing their job. She was feeling an ache in her extremities now, working its way in. Once it reached her core, she’d be into withdrawal again.

She had no idea how bad it would be this time, but she couldn’t afford to wait.

Claire whirled, and the doorway was still there, right where it had been.

Myrnin was framed in it, staring at her.

She couldn’t go that way. She had to find another path.

Claire ran into the dark. There was just enough light filtering in from very narrow, very tall windows, that as her eyes adjusted, she realized she was inside a prison—a filthy, horrible prison, with very little light.

And some of the cells were full.

It took her a while to realize it, because they were all so quiet—pale, quiet things, one to a cell, that flashed to the bars like ghosts as she ran past. That changed, the farther she went. A sound went up—a whisper at first, rising to a howl. She heard metal rattling.

They were trying to get out.

Claire was gasping, and she was getting tired, and Myrnin was behind her.

This is where she keeps them. The ones who can’t be fixed.

It was where all the vampires would end up, one after another. Left to die in the dark, alone, trapped, and starving.

Amelie let that happen.

It got quiet suddenly, and that was worse than the howling and rattling. Claire glanced over her shoulder and saw that Myrnin was slowing down, then stopping. There was only the sound of her feet hitting the stone floor, until she skidded to a stop, too.

‘‘Claire,’’ Myrnin whispered. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ He sounded confused, but at least he knew her name. He fumbled at his pockets, found some kind of small silver box, and opened it. Red crystals spilled out into his palm, mounded up, and, choking and retching, he forced them into his mouth.

The effects sent him staggering. He braced himself with one shoulder against the wall of the hallway and moaned. It sounded like it hurt. A lot.

‘‘Not much time,’’ he said. His voice was barely there at all, but in the cold silence, she heard every word. ‘‘The notebooks. You need them?’’

‘‘I—I made a mistake. Somebody else took the crystals. I need to give them to the doctors.’’

‘‘Someone else took the crystals?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Most die,’’ he said, as if it didn’t matter. ‘‘Maybe you can find a way from what you wrote; I don’t know. I never tried.’’

That meant that when he’d given her the crystals that first time, he hadn’t even known if they would kill her.

God. And she’d thought he actually cared.

He sounded very tired. ‘‘You understand how to use the doors now?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘All you have to do is find a doorway, then concentrate on your destination. Mind you, it’s the rare human who has the mind to manage it even once, never mind on a regular basis—and the doors have a subtle go-away to anyone not invited to use them. You can go to any Founder House, or to seven other doorways in town, but you must have a mental picture of where you are going first. If you fail to do so, you end up’’—he raised a hand with effort, and gestured feebly—‘‘here. Where she keeps the monsters.’’ Myrnin smiled faintly, but his smile looked broken. ‘‘After all, I ended up here, didn’t I?’’

Claire fought to still her heartbeat. ‘‘How do I get back? Back to your lab?’’

‘‘That way.’’ Myrnin looked down at his hand, as if it seemed odd to him. He turned it this way and that, examining it, and then pointed. ‘‘Stay to the right; you’ll find it. Don’t go near the bars. If they grab you, you must not let them pull you close enough to bite. And Claire . . .’’

She clutched the notebooks tight to her chest as he met her eyes. He still seemed rational, but even that massive dose of crystals hadn’t driven the beast completely back.

‘‘I need you to do me two services,’’ he said. ‘‘First—promise me that you’ll continue to work to find the cure. I’m no longer able to carry it forward.’’

She swallowed hard, and nodded. She’d have tried, anyway. ‘‘I can’t do it alone,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll need help. Doctors. I’m going to give them the notes and see if we can find something.’’

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘Just don’t explain what it does.’’ He looked around. On the far side of the wall was an empty cell, with its door standing open. There was a decaying bunk, but nothing else.

He took a breath, let it out, and walked into the cell. Then he turned and firmly closed the door behind him. Claire heard the lock engage with a thick, metallic clank.

‘‘Second thing,’’ Myrnin said, ‘‘do bring me some books, when you visit. And perhaps more crystals, if you’re able to produce more. It’s so nice to think clearly again, even for a few moments.’’

She felt as though he’d punched into her chest and ripped out her heart. She felt hollow, light, and empty.

And very, very sad.

‘‘I will,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll be back.’’

When she looked back, Myrnin had settled himself on the edge of the bunk, staring at the floor.

He didn’t look up when she said, ‘‘I won’t just leave you here. I promise. I’ll come see you.’’

She hesitated, and thought she heard something whispering to her. A voice.

Her mother’s voice.

‘‘You should go,’’ Myrnin said tonelessly. ‘‘Before we both have cause to regret it.’’

She ran.

Nothing got her on the way back to the door, although a lot of the sick vampires reached out mutely to her, or screamed; she covered her ears and ran, heart pounding, feeling sicker and more terrified all the time. The relief of seeing the open door ahead was like a warm blanket after the cold. The doorway was black, just black; she couldn’t see Myrnin’s lab on the other side. Couldn’t see anything.

Think! Myrnin had said she had to focus, visualize where she wanted to go. Of course, he’d also said that she probably wouldn’t be able to do it. No, don’t think about that. If you want out of here, you have to focus. Hard!

Nothing. Nothing at all.

She closed her eyes, even though it was terrifying to do it here, in this place, and slowed her breathing. She thought about the lab, about the confusion of clutter, the books, the bottles, the new and the old. She smelled it, like a breath of home, and when she opened her eyes she could see it on the other side of the door.

Claire took a deep breath, stepped over the threshold through a slight tug of resistance, and turned to close the door as soon as she was through.

When she turned back, Amelie was waiting.

She stood in the center of the room, hands folded. Her ancient, smooth face was untroubled by any kind of expression, but there was something bitter in her eyes.

‘‘He’s gone,’’ Amelie said. ‘‘Where is he?’’

‘‘I—the prison.’’

‘‘You took him below.’’ Amelie frowned slightly. ‘‘You took him below.’’

‘‘I think he wanted to go there. He—put himself in a cage.’’ Claire struggled to keep her voice steady. ‘‘How—how can you leave them like that?’’

‘‘I have no choice.’’ It would never occur to Amelie to explain, of course, and it would probably get Claire nowhere to demand it. ‘‘If he is truly lost, then it’s over. The experiment is ended, and there is no cure. No way to save my people.’’ She sat down in one of the threadbare armchairs, shoving books out of the way as she did. It was the first ungraceful thing Claire had ever seen her do. ‘‘I thought—I never thought we would fail.’’

Claire came a step or two closer. ‘‘I have the notebooks,’’ she said. ‘‘And—Myrnin must have left more stuff here I can read. You haven’t failed yet.’’

Amelie shook her head, and a wisp of hair broke free from the coronet. It made her look young and very fragile. ‘‘I must have someone trusted to maintain the machines, or it will all fail, anyway. And only Myrnin could do that. I had hoped that you—but he told me only a vampire could. And there is no one else.’’

‘‘Sam?’’

‘‘Not old enough, and nowhere near powerful enough. It would have to be someone near my own age, and that would mean—’’ Amelie looked at her sharply. ‘‘I can’t give such power to my enemy.’’

Claire didn’t like the thought, either. ‘‘What else can you do?’’

‘‘End it.’’ Amelie’s voice was so soft Claire barely understood the words. ‘‘Let it all go. Destroy it.’’

‘‘You mean—let everybody go?’’

Amelie’s gaze locked with hers, and held. ‘‘No,’’ she said. ‘‘That is not what I mean at all.’’

Claire shuddered. ‘‘Then—why not let Oliver in? You’ve been fighting so hard to keep him out. Why not try this first? What do you really have to lose?’’

Amelie’s pale eyebrows slowly rose. ‘‘Nothing. And everything, of course. But you should fear that we would succeed, Claire. Because if we do, if the vampire race is not doomed to die, where does that leave you? An interesting question, for another day, perhaps.’’ She nodded at the notebooks in Claire’s hands. ‘‘If you intend to save the Morrell girl, you should hurry,’’ she said. ‘‘Use the portal. I will send you directly to the hospital.’’

There was a portal to the hospital? Claire blinked and looked back at the closed and locked door. ‘‘Um—are you sure it won’t open to—’’

‘‘To below?’’ Amelie shook her head. ‘‘I have no intention it should. If you do not, then it will do as we say. Myrnin could only make the doorway work to below, never back here. So only you and I have such abilities, for now.’’

Claire thought about something, with a sickening wrench. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’ Amelie looked up, slowly, her eyes fierce and bright.

A rush of images flitted through Claire’s mind: Oliver, grabbing her in her own house. The dead girl in the basement. Jason appearing and disappearing from Monica’s party, and reappearing near Common Grounds.

Oh no.

‘‘Can you tell?’’ Claire asked. ‘‘If somebody’s using the portal?’’

‘‘Myrnin could, I suspect, but I cannot. Why?’’ Amelie stood up, and this time the frown was definite. ‘‘What do you know?’’

‘‘I think you’ve got a traitor,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Somebody showed Oliver, and Oliver showed Jason. And Captain Obvious and his friends probably knew, too. Jason must have shown them—’’

‘‘Impossible,’’ Amelie interrupted with a flash of impatience. ‘‘My people are beyond suspicion.’’

‘‘Then how did Jason bring a dead girl into Michael’s house without permission? Because you said he’d have to be invited in. And he wasn’t.’’

Amelie froze, and her eyes went cold and flat. ‘‘I see,’’ she said, and then whirled toward the small door that led into the narrow, overstuffed library, and the door that Claire had once used to come in from the university. ‘‘You seem to be proven right. Someone’s coming in. Go, take the doorway. Hurry.’’

Claire opened the door. Beyond it, air rippled, and shifted . . . her living room. A stranger’s house. A quiet white room with a stained-glass window.

‘‘Now!’’ Amelie said sharply. ‘‘That’s the hospital.’’

Claire stepped through. As she looked back, she saw Oliver walk into Myrnin’s lab, look around, and focus on Amelie. Jason was right behind him, grinning, clearly Oliver’s new pet. Or maybe, Oliver’s pet all along.

‘‘Interesting,’’ Oliver said, and then turned his head to look at the open doorway, and Claire. ‘‘And unexpected.’’

She slammed the door between them, heart pounding, and it vanished on her side. That didn’t mean it couldn’t reappear, but at least she was safe for the moment. She didn’t think Amelie would let Oliver follow her.

She hoped.

She flipped pages in the notebooks. Myrnin had clawed them, but only the last one, and only at the back. The rest were intact.

She left the white room and found that she was standing in the hospital’s nondenominational chapel— more of a meditation room than anything else. It was empty, except for one person kneeling near the front.

Jennifer. She scrambled to her feet when she saw Claire, and blurted, ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Her eyes were red, and she sniffled and swiped angrily at her eyes, smearing mascara and ruining what was left of her makeup. She had freckles. Claire had never known that.

‘‘Saving your friend,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I hope.’’

It took three days for the lab to work out a counteragent, but once they did, Monica came off the ventilator within hours. Or so Claire heard from Richard Morrell, who dropped by on Wednesday night, as the four of them—Shane being finally released from the hospital—were sitting down to dinner.

‘‘I’m glad she’s going to be okay,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Richard—I’m sorry. If I’d known—’’

‘‘You’re lucky that stuff didn’t fry you, too,’’ he said, but without any real heat. ‘‘Look, my sister isn’t the best person I’ve ever met, but I love her. Thanks for helping.’’

Claire nodded. Michael was nearby, seeming to be just lounging but, she knew, ready to step in if Richard went postal. Not that Richard would. So far, he was the best-adjusted Morrell she’d met.

‘‘Don’t come by the hospital,’’ Richard continued. ‘‘I’m trying to convince her you weren’t out to kill her. If you show up, I may not be able to keep a lid on things. As it is—’’ He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. ‘‘Just watch your back, Claire.’’

‘‘She doesn’t need to,’’ Eve said, and put her arm around Claire’s shoulders. ‘‘Tell your sister, if she messes with Claire, she messes with all of us.’’

Richard’s expression went deliberately bland. ‘‘I’m sure that’ll terrify her,’’ he said. ‘‘Night, Claire. Eve.’’ He nodded to Michael. Shane hadn’t gotten up from the table, partly because hey, gut wound, but also he wasn’t about to put himself out for any Morrell, even Richard. Claire had the impression Richard was just as happy not to have to make nice.

Claire saw Richard out the door, locked it, and came back to fight over who would get the last taco. Which, of course, turned out to be Shane. ‘‘Wounded!’’ was his new comeback, and it was one they couldn’t really argue with, at least for a couple of weeks. He happily loaded up his plate, and Claire sat back and felt, for the first time in days, a little of the tension relax. Shane was even being civil to Michael again, especially after she’d explained to him how Michael had raced to her rescue. That mattered to Shane, in ways that other things didn’t.

When the knock came on the front door, the four of them froze, and Michael sighed. ‘‘Right. My turn to play doorman, I guess.’’

Claire nabbed some meat off Shane’s plate. He pretend-stabbed her hand, and ended up licking Claire’s fingers for her, one at a time.

‘‘Okay, that’s either gross or hot, but I’m thinking gross, so quit it,’’ Eve said. ‘‘If you’re going to be licking each other, get a room.’’

‘‘Good idea,’’ Shane whispered.

‘‘Wounded!’’ Claire shot back mockingly. ‘‘And anyway, I thought you wanted to play it safe.’’

‘‘Dude, I live in Morganville. How exactly is that playing it safe?’’

Michael came back down the hall with a very odd expression. ‘‘Claire,’’ he said. ‘‘I think you should come.’’

She pushed away from the table and went after him. He opened the door and stepped aside.

Her parents were standing on the step.

‘‘Mom! Dad!’’ Claire threw herself into their arms. It was stupid to be so cheered by the sight of them, but for a second she enjoyed being stupid, through and through.

And then the dread hit her, and she backed up and said, ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Please say you’re dropping something off. Please.

Her mother—dressed in pressed blue jeans and a starched blue work shirt and a Coldwater Creek jacket, even in the heat of summer—looked taken aback. ‘‘We wanted to surprise you,’’ she said. ‘‘Isn’t that all right? Claire, you are only sixteen—’’

‘‘Nearly seventeen,’’ Claire sighed, under her breath.

‘‘And really, we ought to be able to come see you when we want to, to be sure you’re safe and happy.’’ Claire’s mom gave Michael a distracted, nervous smile. ‘‘All right, then, I’ll tell you the truth. We’ve been very worried about you, honey. First you had that trouble in the dorm; then you were attacked and ended up in the hospital—and someone told us about that party.’’

‘‘What?’’ She sent Michael a look, but he looked just as surprised as she felt. ‘‘Who told you?’’

‘‘I don’t know. An e-mail. You know I can never figure those things out; anyway, it was some friend of yours.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ Claire breathed, ‘‘I really don’t think it was. Mom, look, it was—’’

‘‘Don’t tell us it was nothing, honey,’’ her dad cut in. ‘‘I read all about it. Drinking, drugs, fighting, destruction of property. Kids having sex. And you were at this party, weren’t you?’’

‘‘I—no, Dad, not like—’’ She couldn’t lie about it. ‘‘I was there. We were all there. But Shane wasn’t stabbed at the party; it was after, on the way home.’’ She realized as soon as she said it that neither one of them had mentioned anything about Shane. And it was too late to take it back.

‘‘Stabbed?’’ her mother echoed blankly, and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘‘Oh, that is just it. That’s the last straw!’’

‘‘Let’s talk about all this inside,’’ her father said. He looked so grim now. ‘‘We’ve decided we had to make a change.’’

‘‘A change?’’ Claire echoed.

‘‘We’re moving,’’ he said. ‘‘We bought a nice house on the other side of town. Looks kind of like this one, maybe a little smaller. Even has the same layout to the place, I think. Good thing we did. Clearly, things are much worse than we thought.’’

‘‘You’re—’’ She could not have heard that right. ‘‘Moving here? To this town? You can’t! You can’t move here!’’

‘‘Oh, Claire, I was so hoping you’d be happy,’’ her mom said, in that tone that Claire dreaded. The I’m-so-disappointed-in-you tone. ‘‘We’ve already sold our old house. The truck with the furniture should get here tomorrow. Oh’’—she turned to Claire’s father— ‘‘did we remember to—’’

‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—yes,’’ he rumbled. ‘‘What-ever it is, yes, we remembered.’’

‘‘Well, you don’t have to be—’’

‘‘Mom!’’ Claire interrupted desperately. ‘‘You can’t move here!’’

Michael put his hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Just a second,’’ he said to her parents, and pulled Claire a few feet back. ‘‘Claire, don’t. It’s already too late. If the Council hadn’t wanted them here, they wouldn’t be here, and they wouldn’t have a Founder House. If it looks like this house and has the same layout, that’s what it is, a Founder House. That means Amelie wants it to happen. She probably made it happen.’’

That didn’t exactly make her feel any better. She was shaking all over now. ‘‘But they’re my parents!’’ she whispered fiercely. ‘‘Can’t you do something?’’

He looked grim and shook his head. ‘‘I don’t know. I’ll try. But for now we’d better just make nice, okay?’’

She didn’t want to. She wanted to drag her parents out to their car and make them go.

How could Amelie do this to her? No, that was obvious: it was easy. Her parents were just another way to force Claire to do whatever the vampires needed. And now that she knew so much, now that she was their only hope of working with Myrnin on a cure, they’d never let her go.

‘‘Hello?’’ Claire’s mom called. ‘‘Can we come in?’’

Michael kept his expression blank and friendly. ‘‘Sure. Everybody inside.’’ Because it was getting dark.

Claire’s mom and dad stepped over the threshold. As Michael started to swing the door shut, a third person stopped the door from closing with an open hand and stepped through. Claire had no idea who he was. She’d never seen him before, and she was sure she’d have remembered. He had thick gray hair, a big gray mustache, and huge green eyes behind thick, fifties-style eyeglasses.

Michael froze, and Claire knew instantly that something was very, very wrong.

‘‘Oh,’’ Claire’s mother said, as if she’d forgotten all about him. ‘‘This is Mr. Bishop. We met him on our way into town; his car was broken down.’’

Mr. Bishop smiled and tipped an invisible hat. ‘‘Thank you for the kind invitation to enter your home,’’ he said. His voice was incredibly deep and smooth, with an inflection that sounded like Russian. ‘‘Although I really didn’t require one.’’

Because he was a vampire.

Claire backed slowly away. Michael looked like he couldn’t move at all as Bishop walked into the house.

‘‘I don’t want to upset your nice family,’’ Bishop said in a lower tone, focusing on Claire, ‘‘but if Amelie isn’t here to talk to me in half an hour, I’ll kill everyone breathing in this house.’’

Claire involuntarily looked after her parents, but they were already moving down the hall. They hadn’t heard.

‘‘No,’’ Michael said. ‘‘You won’t touch anyone. This is my house. Get out now, or I’ll have to hurt you.’’

Bishop looked him up and down. ‘‘Nice bark, puppy, but you don’t have the teeth. Get Amelie.’’

‘‘Who are you?’’ Claire whispered. There was menace boiling off this old man like fog. She could almost see it.

‘‘Tell her that her father’s come to visit,’’ he said, and smiled. ‘‘Aren’t family reunions nice?’’

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