by Rachel Caine
And then at Shane, who stepped out of it about half a minute later. “Video’s on their server, Mike. What do you want me to do?”
This time, when Michael focused on Tyler, he wasn’t playing around. Red swirled in his irises, and Claire felt a force coming out of him—what it was, she couldn’t say, but it was powerful. “Is that the only copy left?” he asked Tyler. Even his voice sounded different, somehow. Less human.
“Yes,” Tyler said, and blinked. “I mean, no! It streamed to the Internet already….”
“Yeah, that’s a lie.” Michael glanced back at Shane and nodded. “It’s the only copy. Wipe it.”
“No!” Tyler’s cry was furious and agonized, but he didn’t try to go up against Michael, either. He must have sensed how dangerous it was to try.
Jenna didn’t even protest. She slumped down on the ground, sitting cross-legged, and put her head in her hands. “He didn’t believe,” she said. “Angel never really believed. God. I shouldn’t have gotten him into this. I should have made him go home….” She sounded tired, and Claire remembered with a chill what Miranda had said. All around her, invisible here in the real world beyond the Glass House, ghosts were crowded around Jenna, breaking off pieces of her in some strange psychic way and consuming the tasty strength she’d brought to town.
Making themselves stronger.
Silence. Profound silence, broken by the distant, frantic barking of a dog.
“Come on,” Michael said, and took Tyler by the arm. “Let’s get inside.”
Claire went to Jenna and offered her a hand. She looked at it, then her, and finally nodded and rose. “This is crazy,” Jenna told her.
“I know,” she said. “Come inside.”
She paused on the doorstep to watch as Shane jogged back to join them. Nothing loomed out of the darkness to menace him…this time. Once he was in, she closed and locked the door, and took a moment to lean her head against the wood.
I’m sorry, she told the vanished Angel. In his way, he’d been charming. I wish…
But she didn’t even know how to finish the thought.
FOURTEEN
MYRNIN
The trick to doing the impossible, I’ve found, is to simply never think past what is at your fingertips. Do the thing in front of you. Then the next. Then the next. In such ways have men built the pyramids, or climbed mountains, or raced to the moon on rockets.
And that is how I had carved, inch by painful inch, the niches for my hands and feet in the stone wall of the oubliette. I did not look up; I did not look down. I looked only at the task before me, and ignored the pain as a side effect. I’d had enough practice at that, certainly.
With enough concentration, the panic attacks faded into a running babble at the back of my mind, like a fast-rushing river that became background noise I didn’t feel the need to heed. In a way, it was a comforting sort of distraction. It was a bit like not being alone, even if my only real company was my own horribly distorted, screaming mind.
I found out just how far I’d ascended the hard way, when I lost my concentration, and losing my concentration was not my fault. I was remarkably centered, but when suddenly there was a sensation inside my mind that felt like cold, icy fingers shuffling through my thoughts, and…well. One does tend to get distracted when something like that happens.
My fingers slipped, then my bare toes, and as I fell—counting the feet on the way down, my goodness, nearly ten steps completed—I saw Claire’s face. Just a flash of it, pale and worried. And another face, a woman’s, with pale gold hair and light-colored eyes. It was not Amelie, though in some ways the resemblance was there…. It was someone I didn’t know.
Someone human. More remarkably, a human whose mental fingerprints were clear on my mind. A seer, a true one, like the girl Miranda—someone who could see the future, but not only that; one who could reach and touch the minds of others. I doubted she had enjoyed the experience any more than I had, but I had the conviction that through her, Claire had been told something of me.
Come for me, I begged her again, just as my fall abruptly ended in ice-cold water, and the even-colder stone beneath. Bones broke, of course. I stayed there, jammed in awkward discomfort at the bottom of hell, until I had enough focus and strength to heal, and then to start considering the climb again.
Claire, I thought. Come for me. Please.
Because the doubt had begun to creep in to inform me that ten feet was barely a beginning, and I had a very, very, very long way to go…and hunger was already nipping my heels. Soon, the clarity and focus I had managed to achieve thus far would be difficult.
And then impossible.
You won’t make it, some coldly logical part of me declared, which was just not at all helpful. I wanted to cut that part of my brain out and leave it floating in the water, but perhaps that might not have been a very sane response.
So I locked the logical part of me up in a prison made of mental bars, focused on the next thing in front of my nose, and began to climb.
FIFTEEN
CLAIRE
The police took notes, sounding professionally skeptical of the idea that a strong young man might have vanished in full view of his friends. Because that never happens here, Claire thought cynically, but she knew that in a way they were right to be doubtful…. The vampires picked off strays; they didn’t run at the herd. It wasn’t smart, and they’d always been very careful not to involve strangers who might have been easily missed.
Angel was as high-profile a visitor as Morganville ever got, if you didn’t count a drive-through by the shiny-haired governor two years before. That guy hadn’t even stopped for gas, just whipped through town in a whirlwind of blown sand and shiny cars, though he’d reportedly rolled down the window at a stoplight and waved to people who hadn’t really cared.
Carrying off Angel was almost as likely as vampires stopping the governor’s caravan, ripping off his sedan door, and dragging him off in the middle of the afternoon.
They’d all provided statements—Eve, Michael, Shane, Claire, Jenna, and Tyler. Miranda had sensibly stayed inside. Tyler’s story had morphed itself into an attack by a gang of teens bent on robbing the van—armed teens—and Jenna had just said she hadn’t seen much except for one of them grabbing Angel and taking him off.
Shane had straight-out asked Eve before the first sirens and lights pulled to a stop, “Do you want us to snitch on your brother, or not? Your call, Eve. Personally, I don’t think the little monster needs any more breaks, but—”
“Yes,” she’d interrupted him. “Do it. I’m going to tell them everything.”
So the four of the Glass House residents had all identified Jason by name and provided the names of the other two vampires as well; Claire certainly felt a bitter sort of validation in doing that. She’d trusted Jason, for a while, but he’d spun wildly out of control, and he had to be stopped. Even Eve acknowledged that now.
The cops had called it in, and gone on their way; no one seemed to have much of a sense of urgency about the whole thing. Tyler and Jenna sat together on the front steps, clearly numb and unsure what to do next, so Claire asked them inside, organized coffee, and—after consultation with the others—bedded Jenna down on the sofa in the living room, and Tyler in the parlor. Nobody slept very well, and when Claire came downstairs before dawn to make coffee, she found that the two visitors were up and sitting together at the dinner table, holding hands.
Claire paused on the stairs, watching. It was an odd kind of scene, and there was something definitely weird about it. For a moment, Claire didn’t catch what Jenna was saying…and then, with a chill, she did.
“…Close,” Jenna said in a distant, drugged voice. “I can sense him out there; he’s coming…. Just a moment…It’s hard for him to get through the barriers around this place….”
Claire cautiously descended a step, then another. The room was dark, except for flickering candles on the dining table to add sinister mood lighting. What are you doing?
<
br /> It became very clear in the next second, as Angel’s pale, insubstantial ghost drifted through the walls.
Tyler stiffened in his chair, but Jenna held on to his hand and made him sit down again. Angel hovered there, glowing with the eerie dim light of phosphorescence. He looked lost and distressed.
Claire’s legs felt numb. She sat down fast on the stairs, watching with her lips parted on a fast-drawn breath. What the hell is going on? Angel was clearly, well, dead—no doubt of that; you don’t get to be that kind of ghost without going all the way over the line. There was a dark smudge around his throat, and Claire winced seeing it. No doubt it evidenced what Jason had done to him. Or his friends. Whether Angel’s body had been recovered or not, he was a victim of Morganville’s growing vampire problem.
And Jenna—Jenna had been able to summon him up, and even get him past the house’s defenses to appear.
Jenna let go of Tyler’s hands, and Claire expected the ghost-Angel to vanish, but he stayed, drifting closer and closer to Jenna as if some kind of gravity were pulling him toward her. “Angel,” she said, “I am so sorry. So sorry.”
Claire realized that she was reaching out toward the ghost, and she remembered Miranda’s stark fear. “Wait!” she blurted, and came down the stairs at a run. “Wait, don’t. Don’t touch him.”
But it was too late. Jenna had already done it, and when their hands connected, Angel took on form, weight, even a little color—almost a kind of reality.
And Jenna sagged back in her chair, clearly exhausted.
“It’s true,” Angel said. His voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a deep well. “It’s all true what you said. So many spirits here, Jenna. So lost. So angry.”
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t help you,” Jenna whispered.
“I know.” He included Tyler in that, with a sideways glance, and the younger man flinched. He’d probably hoped to be ignored completely. As Ghost-Angel’s gaze moved past him to brush across Claire, she knew how Tyler felt. There was something really, truly terrifying in that empty gaze. “And you,” Angel said to Claire. “Not your fault. I know you blame yourself.”
Claire shivered. The air in the room was feeling icy cold, as Angel’s spirit drew in energy from the world around him. “I’m sorry we lost you.”
“Angel’s not lost,” Jenna said. “I’ve got him. He can help us.”
“I don’t—” Claire took in a deep breath, and it felt like breathing in winter. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Jenna. You know what Miranda said….”
“Miranda’s not here, and I’m certainly not abandoning our friend.”
“You should,” said a soft voice from the kitchen door, and Claire turned to see Miranda standing there with a mug in her hand that steamed fiercely in the chill. “You need to let him go. The longer he stays here, the hungrier he will be. And after a while he won’t be your friend anymore, Jenna. Just like your sister.”
“Don’t talk about her!”
“You have to let him go,” Miranda said. She walked to the table and set down her mug—the contents smelled like hot chocolate—and took a deep breath. “I can show you how to make him go on to where he needs to be.”
Jenna’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “How do I know you can do that?”
“Because I was there, and I came back. He’s confused and scared. I can take him there if you’ll let me. But I can only do it in the morning.” Miranda looked out the window. It was still dark, but there was a strong glow to the east. “And I can only do it if he wants to go with me. The more you make him want to be here, with you, the harder that is. You have to let go of his hand, right now.”
Jenna frowned, but she pulled her hand away from Angel’s, and he immediately began to lose color and substance, taking on the wispy, foggy character of a ghost just barely together. The change, along with the obvious pain and horror on Angel’s face, was so alarming that Jenna immediately tried to reach out again for him.
Miranda pulled her hand away. “No,” she said. “You can’t. Understand? You just can’t. He’s okay. What he feels…It isn’t pain like you know it. It’s confusion. I’ll take him once the sun comes up. It’ll be okay.”
“Mir?” Claire asked softly. “Is this—is this okay for you to do? Is it dangerous?”
The girl sighed and shrugged, just a little. “It’s hard,” she said. “But I’m not ready to go, so I can come back. Not everybody can. And not every time. You remember, don’t you? That feeling?”
Claire did remember, though she earnestly tried not to…. She’d died here, briefly, in the Glass House, and there had been this sensation, when the house’s protections had collapsed, that had given her the feeling of being sucked up somewhere, thrown into chaos. And maybe that would have turned out all right, but it was genuinely terrifying.
She nodded.
“I can do it,” Miranda said quietly. “I just don’t like it. That’s why they were all following me, before. Because they know I can help. I just…I just don’t want to.”
“Can you talk to them?” Claire asked.
“I can,” Jenna said, and Miranda nodded as well. “I guess we both can.”
“I was thinking…” She really hesitated on this, because it seemed like such a selfish use of what she’d just learned. “I was thinking maybe, if it was possible, you could ask them to find out something for me.”
“What?”
“About Myrnin,” she said. “Jenna, you had a vision of him, before. I think he’s being held somewhere against his will. I need to help him, but I need some idea where to look. Can you help me? Can they help me figure out where it is?” She was trying not to make the desperation in her voice sound obvious, but she probably failed hard in that. “Please?”
“It’s too dangerous for her,” Miranda said, and nodded toward Jenna. “She shouldn’t be trying to talk to any more of them. I will, though. As long as she stops making them excited, I should be able to get out and see them….” She looked toward the window suddenly. “The sun’s coming up. Angel and I have to go now. Sorry.”
Miranda walked to Angel and took his hand, and he seemed to give a sigh of deep relief that he wasn’t alone anymore. They were both fading. Tyler, who had been sitting in silent, dumb amazement the whole time, jumped back from the table, sending his chair flying; Jenna scrambled away, too, as Miranda threw her head back, closed her eyes, and her very real body seemed to just…dissolve, along with Angel’s.
Then they were both gone.
Claire gulped back the instinctive fear, and said, “Mir? You still around?” She got a cold pulse that moved through her, and she understood that to mean yes. “It’s okay. She’s still here; we just can’t see her right now. She’ll get Angel where he needs to go, I guess.”
Tyler looked about to cry. “Who are you people?”
But Jenna wasn’t looking like that at all. She seemed…focused. There was a light dawning in her eyes, and her shoulders went back and squared up. “This is why I was led here,” she said. “This is what I was meant to do. Meet this girl. And help her.”
“Yeah?” Tyler shot back. “What about me, Jenna? What am I supposed to do, exactly? How am I supposed to go back to having a normal life now? Jesus, this was just a job, a stupid job. I never was some true believer, not like you….”
But now he was, clearly. And he didn’t like it. He tugged at his messy hair as if he wanted to pull it all out, then flopped facedown on the table, utterly spent.
“I can never leave here, can I?” His muffled voice floated up, almost as ghostly as Angel’s had been. “Dammit. I had season tickets to the Red Sox. Good seats.”
Claire heard footsteps behind her, and Eve appeared, Doc Martens clunking heavily on the stairs. She paused, yawning. There was something weird about her hair—it was sticking up like a cockatoo’s crest. Probably not on purpose. She still had on an adorable pair of pajama pants, a giant White Stripes concert T-shirt, and she hadn’t put on her makeup yet. “What’
d I miss?” she asked.
“You’d better sit down,” Claire said, “and I’d better make coffee.”
* * *
The police finally called after breakfast—breakfast meaning Pop-Tarts and arguments over whether it would be a good idea to knock Jenna and Tyler over the head and lock them in a room until they could decide what to do with them, which was Shane’s idea. Claire half expected the cops to want the two surviving After Death crew members, but no, they wanted Eve down at the station. Just Eve, which was good, because Claire had to head off to class; she was aching to talk to Miranda again, and see if her ghostly connections might be able to find Myrnin, but hanging around the house demanding answers wasn’t going to get her anywhere. And neither would blowing off classes.
“I have a jam session in five minutes at Common Grounds,” Michael said, shifting as he checked his watch. Eve was sitting at her dressing table, applying eyeliner.
“And?” she asked. Claire was fascinated, watching her; she had so much concentration and precision, it was eerie. Claire wasn’t good with eyeliner. It took skill.
“And I need to get moving,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“Sweetie, true beauty can’t be rushed.” Eve switched to mascara. “You go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
“Not on your own,” Michael said. “New rules. None of you walks alone. Not even Shane.”
“Gee, Overprotective Dad, you probably should have told him that before he left this morning.”
“Where was he going?”
“Job interview—he didn’t tell me what it was for, so maybe it was something embarrassing, like flower arranging or male stripping,” Eve said. “Relax; he’s fine. And anyway, I can drive. The Car of the Dead is finally ready to go again.” She meant her custom hearse, which had seen so many repairs and replacements, it was almost a brand-new vehicle again. “Besides, I’m seeing the cops, not hunting for vamps in dark alleys. I’ve got all the vampire I need.” She blew him a kiss.