by Rachel Caine
Shane shot to his feet as if the chair had a catapult built in, and was halfway to Eve’s room before Claire managed to follow, feeling slow, clumsy, and achingly lost.
Eve looked terrible—no makeup, chalky skin, bruises discoloring her swollen face. She’d let her hair fall forward to hide the worst of it, but it also hid any trace of how she felt seeing Claire come around the corner.
That was probably a blessing, Claire thought, with a horrible surge of unearned guilt. I didn’t kiss him! He kissed me! But she couldn’t insist on that, not with Eve so torn up with grief, and so badly hurt.
And I left her lying there on the sidewalk, bleeding, she thought. I can’t forget that, either.
Shane held a wheelchair still as Eve practically fell into it; she kept her head bowed, and her hands over her stomach as if she were afraid it might break open. Claire hurried forward and took a plastic bag of clothes from the nurse, and some paperwork and pills. “Give her two of these twice a day,” the nurse said. “And let her sleep. She’s going to need it. No lifting anything heavier than a book for at least two weeks. She’s to see the doctor again on Thursday. Someone will have to bring her to and from the appointment. No driving at all until he lifts the restriction.”
Claire nodded mutely, barely able to clock in the instructions; her heart was a mess of hurt, from worry for Eve, grief over Shane, anger at Michael. Now we have to go home and pretend everything is okay, she thought, and the concept was pretty appalling. But what choice did she have? Leave? She couldn’t. Eve needed someone, and Shane had already made it clear he’d rather run away. Michael already had.
Shane pushed the wheelchair fast, not waiting for Claire; she hurried to catch up, but the elevator doors closed in her face. Neither of her housemates looked at her directly.
She took the stairs down a floor and met them as Shane put the brakes on the wheelchair and helped Eve move shakily into the front passenger seat of the hearse.
“I can drive,” Claire offered. Shane ignored her, and walked to that side of the car. He got in and started the engine, and she hardly had time to run to the back and climb into what Eve had cheerfully named Dead Man’s Corner before he hit the gas for home.
It was a terrible few minutes. Claire clutched the soft bag of clothing; it smelled of Eve’s latest BPAL perfume and a metallic tang she thought had to be blood. She’d wash them herself, make sure they were nice and clean before she returned them. Shane wouldn’t think of that. It was something she could do, a little act of love.
Shane was careful on the drive home, avoiding the bumpy spots, and pulling up to the front curb without any jerky sudden stops. He even picked Eve up and carried her inside, waiting impatiently as Claire opened the front door.
Once Eve was settled on the sofa, with the old afghan tucked around her and a pillow beneath her head, Shane said, “You can handle nurse duties, right?” He headed for the door, again.
“Where are you going?”
“None of your business,” Shane said. Claire heard the door slam behind him and felt tears clawing at her throat; honestly, it was so incredibly painful, she wanted to throw herself facedown on her bed and cry herself into oblivion. It was worse when she looked around and saw that Michael’s music things were missing. He’d even taken the leather armchair with him, the one he liked to sit in while he played.
The house felt cold, hard, and empty without Shane and Michael, and without the love among all of them that had made it home.
Claire sank down beside Eve, put her head on the sofa cushions, and tried not to think about it.
“It’s not your fault,” Eve said, very quietly. Claire jerked her head up, hope bolting through her, but Eve wasn’t smiling, and there was nothing in her swollen face that Claire could interpret as forgiveness. “He had doubts all along; I knew that. I was just—stupid enough to think he was worried about me. So maybe it’s better we get it over with. It just hurts so much.”
She wasn’t talking about the physical pain.
“I don’t know why he did…what he did, or why he said those things, but it isn’t true, Eve. Please believe me.”
Eve closed her eyes and sighed as if almost too depressed to listen. “All right,” she said in a very faint, flat voice. “Doesn’t matter.”
Claire held her friend’s loose, cool hand, and the two of them sat in silence for a long time before Claire’s cell rang.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded strangled and rough; she hardly recognized it herself.
“Honey?” It was her mother. “Oh, Claire, what’s wrong?”
That did it. Claire could handle the rest of it, but not that, not the compassionate warmth of her mother’s voice.
She cried, and it all came out, in hitching, halting bursts—Shane, Michael, Eve, her fear, all of it. But mostly Shane, and how she was afraid it was all ruined, forever, all that bright and beautiful future she’d thought was so perfectly laid out. Somehow, she even managed to blurt that she was worried about Myrnin, too, which led to a line of questions she’d rather not have answered, but the confessional dam had well and truly busted open, and there was no going back. The call lasted at least an hour, and at the end of it, Claire lay huddled on the parlor floor, wishing the world would just suck her down into its molten core and end her misery.
She finally got her mind back in place enough to say, “I’m sorry, Mom…Why did you call me?”
“I just felt you needed me,” her mother said. “It’s a mother’s instinct, sweetheart. Come home, Claire. Just come home and let us take care of you. You’ll get through this; I know you will. You’re a very strong girl. It’ll be okay.”
“I’ll come,” Claire whispered. “As soon as I can.” She didn’t have anything left to stay for, did she?
She hung up and went to give Eve her medication.
Eve was well enough by nightfall to take some food, though not a lot. Claire made her soup in a cup, and then put her back to bed with the TV softly playing a movie she knew Eve liked well enough to sleep through.
They didn’t talk much.
Miranda came back about the time that Claire was rinsing out the soup cups.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said, and hugged her. Claire threw her arms around the girl and squeezed tightly; for the first time, she felt like someone had truly forgiven her and understood how she felt. “I couldn’t do anything today. Michael left; he wouldn’t say anything to me, and then Shane—he drank too much, you know. It scared me. I thought he was going to do something—something bad. But he didn’t.”
It would have scared Claire, if she’d known it. “But Eve’s okay; that’s the important thing,” she said. “We’ll—we’ll fix this. Somehow.”
“Is it true?” Miranda pulled back to hold her at arm’s length. “Shane said—Shane said you were with Michael, behind his back. But you weren’t, were you?”
“No. No, never!”
“I believe you.” Miranda held her hands and sat her down at the kitchen table. “I did what you asked. I got out and tried to listen to what the other ghosts were saying. I didn’t talk to them, exactly, because it’s dangerous to get their attention; they were still following Jenna, trying to tell her things, so that’s why I was able to hear so much.”
For the first time, Claire felt a surge of something that might have been hope. “Did you hear anything about Myrnin?”
“No,” Miranda said. “I’m sorry. But I did hear something weird; maybe it could mean something.” The hope was just a pale flicker now, but Claire nodded anyway. “One of them said a spider was in a hole under the white tree. And another one said—Claire, I’m really not sure this is about him at all, you understand—that something was climbing up, but the sun would burn it away.”
That didn’t help at all. Claire felt a white-hot urge to break something in frustration, or punch a wall, Shane-style, but she knew it wouldn’t help. Nothing would help, except figuring something out for a change.
Think, she told herself. Breathe.
If she could find Myrnin, that would be something, at least. Something positive, in all this devastation. Something climbing. Hole by the white tree. Was he climbing up in a hole by a white tree? That didn’t make any sense. There weren’t any white trees in Morganville. Was he even here, in this town? If he wasn’t, she couldn’t help him at all.
No, he’s here. Think. Think!
White tree. That had to mean something. It must be a landmark, so it had to be something she could remember. But what…?
“The ghost who was talking about the white tree,” Claire said. “Do you know where he came from?”
“I think he died at the Sleep Inne over near the edge of town. You know that one?” Claire did. It was bland and forgettable, and there were no trees of any kind that way. “I guess his body is buried in the cemetery.”
The cemetery, Claire thought. They’d remarked on it from the first, how it all looked so photogenic. That big dead tree, Angel had said. Such a striking color.
Because it was dead, and it was…
Claire’s eyes opened wide. “The tree. The cemetery tree, it’s white, right?”
“I guess. It’s dead and the bark is all peeled off and it looks white.”
“So it’s at the cemetery,” Claire blurted, and opened her eyes. “It’s got to be there, whatever this—this hole is. That’s where Myrnin is. He’s in the hole, in water. And there’s some kind of a grate on top, with a cross; Jenna said she saw that in a vision. Mir, I have to go, right now. Can you stay with Eve?”
“I—well, yes, but you can’t go out there in the dark, all alone!”
“I have to. Myrnin may be the only one left who can help us get through this, and your other ghost said the sun will burn it away. If he’s in a hole in the ground, and the sun comes up, he could burn in there. I can’t let that happen.”
“I can’t go with you! If I did, the other ghosts—they’d be all over me. I have to stay in the house. And Eve’s too sick.”
“Then I’ll call Shane,” Claire shot back, and pulled out her phone. She paced as it rang, and rang, and rang, and went to voice mail. She hung up and texted him, with a 911. No details. And finally, after five long minutes, he called back.
“Don’t hang up,” she said. “I need your help.”
“Is it Eve?”
“No,” she said reluctantly.
“Then no.”
“Wait! Wait, listen to me. I have to go to the cemetery. There’s—someone’s in trouble, Shane. If you don’t go with me, I have to go alone. Please. I know you’re angry at me, but—but be angry tomorrow. Tonight, just please, do this for me.” He was silent on the other end, but she could hear the uneven hitch of his breathing. “Shane, please. One time.”
“Who’s in trouble?”
She’d been afraid he’d ask that. But she couldn’t lie. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and said, “Myrnin.”
Shane hung up. Claire screamed, a raw and wild sound, and threw the phone violently on the table. Miranda’s eyes were round as saucers.
“Wow,” she said. “So…you’re not going?”
“No,” Claire said grimly. “I am going. Alone.”
Eve’s hearse was still parked out on the curb. Miranda argued with Claire all the way out to the picket fence, but she wasn’t listening anymore. She’d put on Eve’s long leather coat over her jeans and plain black shirt, and brought along a heavy canvas bag full of weapons, plus her own backpack, which had all kinds of things she might need—even textbooks, if she got study time. At the very least, they were a kind of paper-based armor she could put between herself and something attacking her.
“But—what do I do if you don’t come back?” Miranda asked frantically as Claire settled in the driver’s seat. The Grim Reaper on the dash shivered and nodded its head, eye-lights flashing. “Claire! Who do I call?”
“Call Shane,” she said. “Maybe he’ll feel bad if I’m dead. But make sure Eve’s okay, and give her the medication she needs just before sunrise. Do not let her get up and do anything, and if she starts to run a fever, call the hospital and get them to send the ambulance. Promise me.”
“I will.” Miranda looked on the verge of tears. “This is bad. This is a really bad idea….”
“I’m open to suggestions.” When the other girl didn’t offer any, Claire shook her head. “Wish me luck.”
“I—” Miranda sighed. “Good luck. I’ll wait for you to come back, and if you’re not back before sunrise, I’ll call…somebody. Amelie. I’ll call Amelie.”
“Don’t do that,” Claire said. “Because it might be Amelie. Okay?”
“But—”
Claire didn’t give her time to argue.
The hearse drove differently from any other car she’d tried in her very limited driving experience…. It was heavy, hard to manage, and had terrible stopping distance, as she found when she rolled through a stop light while pumping the brakes. Luckily, no Morganville police cruisers caught sight of her. She passed some custom-tinted vampire cars. No one tried to stop her.
Claire drove the mile, give or take, out to the cemetery, which brushed the limits of the Morganville township. The place was surrounded by a thick stone wall and had heavy wrought-iron gates; the lightning-struck dead white tree loomed high, all spiky branches and intimidating angles. The gates were locked, of course. Claire considered ramming them, but she knew Eve would never forgive her for it, so she strapped the canvas bag over her shoulders, on top of her backpack, and climbed. The iron was cold and slick under her fingers, but there were plenty of crossbars, and she managed to make it to the top, then slipped down the other side.
Morganville Cemetery was an old one, back to pioneer days, full of time-sanded headstones that were hardly readable anymore, thanks to the constant wind. What grass there was grew fitfully. Nobody visited here with any reliability; the newer cemetery, Redeemer, was closer to the center of town, and that was where present-day burials were done. This was mostly just here for historical value.
It wasn’t a very likely spot for vampires to hang out, at least; there hadn’t been anyone with a pulse visiting the place in years. But it was still plenty creepy, all right—shadows like black knives across the ground, harsh and sharp in the moonlight. Tree branches rattled like dry bones.
Claire was headed for the tree when she saw the vampires appear on top of the wall and drop easily down, landing without breaking their stride. There were two of them, moving together. One had pale hair; the other had graying locks.
Amelie and Oliver?
She dropped to the ground behind a large carved angel and hoped that it would be enough to hide her. She also hoped she hadn’t landed on one of the huge fire ant mounds that dotted the grounds; if she had, this was going to be a very short and unpleasant adventure. If the fire ants didn’t bite her into a coma, the vampires would.
They passed fairly close to where she was hiding, and luck was with her; the wind had shifted, carrying her human scent away from them. And it was not Amelie with the pale hair shifting in the breeze, Claire realized, as she caught sight of the girl’s face, her smile, her dimples.
That was Naomi. Walking with Oliver. But Naomi was supposed to be dead. Of course, Claire thought in horror. Bishop’s other daughter. She might have the same powers, too. If Naomi and Oliver were in it together, Naomi could have turned Michael against them.
And Amelie didn’t know.
The two of them strolled through the weeds, through tombstones and tumbleweeds, and came to a halt under the white tree. Oliver dragged a fallen piece of marble away, and Claire heard it grate on metal.
She was also close enough to hear the voices, and she heard Oliver say, “No need to go down after him. Between this and the morning sun, he’s finished.” He reached into his pocket and came out with a bottle Claire recognized—one of the weapons that Shane had first developed. Then he shared it with Captain Obvious and his crew. And then with the vampires, to use against the draug…It was silver nitrate. Oliver had on g
loves, but he still handled the bottle carefully as he opened the top, then poured it into the ground—no, not into the ground.
Through the metal grate on the ground.
Claire heard Myrnin’s scream of raw pain and fury, and she had to press both hands to her mouth to keep quiet. There was a splashing sound, and scraping, as if he were clawing his way up from a great distance below.
“He won’t get far,” Naomi said. “No vampire’s strong enough to make it all that way to the top before sunrise, and the silver in the grate will keep him in. If he falls, the silver in the water will finish him. Well done, Oliver. Now go back to Amelie. Our little chess pawns are almost all in place. We’ll play our last moves soon.”
“Yes,” he said, “my queen.”
“Your white queen,” Naomi said, and laughed. “I like the sound of that. You’re a useful blunt instrument, Oliver. I shall keep you in my court when I take my rightful place.”
“Amelie,” he said, and it seemed it was hard for him to get the words out. “What of Amelie?”
“What about her?” Naomi asked. She was staring down through the grate, to where she’d just condemned Myrnin to death. “A wise ruler never leaves a rival at her back. Though I might consider a merciful exile, if you beg hard enough on her behalf. Would you, Oliver? Beg?”
He said nothing. He stood with his hands locked behind his back, and from what Claire could see of him, his face was hard as stone and his eyes flaring red.
“Obviously not,” Naomi said. “Your personal dignity was always more important to you than mere emotion, wasn’t it? Very well.” She leaned over the grate. “Myrnin? I leave you to your gods.” She put her fingers to her mouth and blew him a delicate little kiss, and then she and Oliver turned away, drifting soundlessly through the deserted graveyard, then up and onto the wall.
Then Naomi turned and looked right at Claire’s hiding place, and smiled. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see that ridiculous car, or sense your presence? Since your friend Eve is indisposed, I assumed it would be you rushing to the rescue,” she said. “I think our little friend has outlived her usefulness after all, though it would have been a nice finishing move to use her to plant a dagger in Amelie’s back. Michael. Take her off the board.”