by Rachel Caine
Shane waved to a big guy in black leather as they passed, and the three of them ran down the second-floor hallway. It was dark, filthy, and scary, but not as scary as the sounds coming from the lobby behind them. Shane had a flashlight, and he switched it on to pick out obstacles in the way—fallen IV stands, an abandoned, dust-covered wheelchair, a gurney tipped over on its side. “Faster,’” she gasped, because she heard a final crash from the lobby.
They were inside.
Claire didn’t think more than half the vampires had made it successfully across the sun-drenched parking lot, but those who’d been strong enough were inside now, and it was nice and dark for them. No contest.
Shane knew where he was going. He turned right at a corner, then left, yanked up a fire exit door, and pushed Claire inside. “Up!’” he said. “Two flights, then go left!’”
There were things on the stairs; Claire couldn’t see them very well, even in the glow of Shane’s flashlight, but they smelled dead, sickly rotten. She tried not to breathe, avoided the sticky puddles of dried—whatever that was, she couldn’t think of it as blood—and kept running up the steps. First landing, then another set of stairs, these clear except for some broken bottles she vaulted over.
She yanked the fire door two flights up, and nearly dislocated her shoulder.
It was blocked.
“Shane!’”
He pushed her out of the way, grabbed the handle, and pulled. “Shit!’” He kicked it furiously, looked blank for a second, then turned to the next flight of stairs. “One more! Go!’”
The fifth-floor door was open, and Claire darted through it into the dark.
Her foot caught on something, and she toppled forward, hit the floor, and rolled. Shane’s flashlight bounced a ball of light toward her, lighting up scarred linoleum tile, stacks of leaning boxes…
…and a skeleton. Claire yelped and scrambled back from it, then realized that it was one of those medical teaching skeletons, scattered out on the floor from where she’d tripped over it.
Shane grabbed her by the arm, hauled her up, and pulled her along. Claire looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the biker guy, the one who’d been following them. Where had he—
She heard a scream.
Oh.
Shane hurried her down the long hall, then turned left and pulled Claire after him. There was another set of fire stairs. He opened the door, and they raced down one flight.
This exit was open. Shane pulled her out into another long, dark hallway and moved fast, counting doorways under his breath.
He stopped in front of number thirteen.
“Inside,’” he said, and kicked it open. Metal gave with a shriek, and the door flew back to slam against tile. Something broke with a clatter like dropped plates.
Claire felt a chill take hold, because she had walked into what looked like a morgue. Stainless steel trays, stainless steel lockers on the wall, some gaping open to reveal sliding trays.
Yes, she was pretty sure it was the morgue. And pretty sure it was going to feature prominently in her nightmares from now on, provided she ever got to sleep again.
“This way,’” Shane said, and pulled open what looked like a laundry chute. “Claire.’”
“Oh, hell, no!’” Because if she hated tight spaces, there couldn’t be anything much worse than this. She had no idea how long it was, but it was small, it was dark, and had he said something about morgue tunnels? Was this a body chute? Maybe there was a corpse still stuck in it! Oh God…
There were noises coming from outside—the mob, coming fast.
“Sorry, no time,’” Shane said, and picked her up and dumped her into the chute feetfirst.
She tried not to scream. She thought she might have actually succeeded as she slid helplessly through the dark down a cold, metal tunnel meant only for the dead.
13
She landed hard, on stone, in the dark, and suppressed a burning need to whimper. A hand closed on her arm and helped her up. She heard a thumping clatter behind her, and got out of the way just in time as Shane—she thought it was Shane, anyway—tumbled out of the chute after her.
And the lights came on.
Well, not lights exactly…one light, and it was a flashlight.
And Shane’s dad was holding it.
He took one fast, cold look at his son, then one at Claire, and said, “Where’s Des?’”
Shane looked shocked. “Dad—you were supposed to go! That was the whole point!’”
“Where the hell is Des?’”
“He’s gone!’” Shane shouted. “Dammit, Dad—’”
Frank Collins looked blackly furious, face twisting, and he swung the flashlight away from them. Claire blinked spots away, and saw that he was aiming it at two of his guys standing in the dark. “Right,’” he said. “Let’s do this.’”
“Do what?’” Shane demanded, getting to his feet. He winced as he put his weight on his wounded ankle. “Dad, what the hell is going on? You said you were leaving!’”
“Didn’t kill enough vampires to leave,’” Frank Collins said. “But I’m about to even the score.’”
The two guys he had trained his light on were crouched next to a makeshift circuit board built out of what looked like old computer parts. It was hooked up to a car battery. One of the two guys held two wires by the insulated parts, but the tips were bare copper, freshly stripped.
Things fell together.
Shane’s dad had used him, again. Used him as bait, letting him think he was being the hero, distracting the vampires to give his dad time to escape.
Used him to get a large number of vampires in one place. But they weren’t just vampires; there were people there, too. Cops, and wannabe vampires. And people who were just there because they owed Oliver.
It was cold-blooded murder.
Richard had said it. Demolition this week. The explosives were already in place.
“They’re going to blow the building!’” Claire screamed, and lunged. She couldn’t fight the bikers, but she didn’t need to.
All she had to do was yank at the wires under the circuit board.
They gave with a blue white pop, and she was lucky not to be fried. One of the bikers reached her then, grabbed her, and threw her back, looking at the mess and shaking his head. “Got a problem!’” he yelled. “She trashed the board! Gonna take time to rewire!’”
Frank’s face went scarlet with fury, and he ran toward her, fist in the air. “You stupid little—’”
Shane caught his fist in an open palm and held it there. “Don’t,’” he said. “Enough, Dad. No more.’”
Frank tried to hit him. Shane ducked. He caught the second blow in an open palm again.
The third one, he blocked, and punched back. Just once.
Frank went down, flat on his ass, something like fear in his face.
“Enough,’” Shane said. Claire had never seen him look taller, or more frightening. “You’ve still got time to run, Dad. You’d better do it while you can. They’ll figure out where we are soon, and you know what? I’m not dying for you. Not anymore.’”
Frank’s mouth opened, then closed. He wiped blood from his mouth, staring at Shane, as he got to his feet.
“I thought you understood,’” he said. “I thought you wanted—’”
“You know what I want, Dad?’” Shane asked. “I want my life back. I want my girlfriend. And I want you to leave and never come back.’”
Frank’s eyes went flat, like a shark’s. “Your mother’s turning over in her grave, watching you betray your own kind. Your own father. Siding with the parasites that infest this sick town.’”
Shane didn’t answer him. The two of them stared at each other in tense, angry silence for a few seconds, and then Claire heard metal clattering from up above. She tugged on Shane’s arm urgently. “I think they found the chute,’” she said. “Shane—’”
Shane’s dad said, “I should have left you in the damn cage to fry, you
ungrateful little bastard. You’re no son of mine.’”
“Hallelujah,’” Shane said softly. “Free at last.’”
His dad turned off the flashlight, and Claire heard running footsteps in the dark.
Shane grabbed Claire’s sweating hand, and they ran the opposite direction, with Shane breathlessly counting steps, until there was a golden glow of light at the end of the tunnel.
Shane wanted to run, but escape was impossible. Unless they made it out of Morganville, and even then, Claire understood—finally—that the vampires wouldn’t let them leave. Not with what they’d done, or nearly done.
She needed to make it right.
Claire worked it out in her head before she said anything to him; Shane was talking in a breathless monologue, spinning a plan to steal a car, head out of town, maybe out of state.
Claire kept quiet until she saw the cherry red and blue flashers of a Morganville police cruiser coming down the darkened street, and then she let go of Shane’s hand and said, “Trust me.’”
“What?’”
“Just trust me.’”
She stepped out in front of the police car, which came to a fast, controlled stop. A floodlight blinded her, and she stood still for it. She sensed Shane retreating, and said, sharply, “Shane, no! Stay where you are!’”
“What the hell are you doing?’”
“Surrendering,’” she said, and put her hands in the air. “Come on. You, too.’”
She didn’t think he would, for a long terrifying second, and then he stepped out into the street with her, put his hands up, and laced his fingers behind his head. The police cruiser’s doors popped open, and Shane dropped to his knees. Claire blinked at him, then followed suit.
She was on the ground in seconds, pinned by someone’s hot, hard hand, and she heard a male voice say, “Heller here. We’ve got Danvers and the Collins kid. They’re alive.’”
She didn’t hear the reply, but she was too busy wondering if she’d made an awful mistake as cold steel handcuffs clicked shut around her wrists. The policeman hauled her upright by her elbow, and she winced at the pull on her sore muscles. Next to her, Shane was getting the same treatment. He wasn’t resisting. He looked…tense.
“It’s okay,’” she told him. “Trust me.’”
His eyes were wild, but he nodded.
Better be right, she thought, and swallowed hard as they were shoved inside the back of the police car.
The police didn’t talk to her or Shane at all. The ride was short, and silent, and when the cruiser pulled into the parking garage at City Hall, there was a welcoming committee standing there waiting. Claire almost cried at the sight of Michael and Eve—smoke-stained but standing side by side, holding hands. They looked worried. Next to them was Richard Morrell, with a bandage on his head.
And Mayor Morrell. She couldn’t read his expression at all—annoyed, but she thought that was usual for him. Claire caught a glimpse of red hair, and saw Sam leaning against a pillar up on the dock. Apart from Michael, he was the only vampire present. At least, the only one she could see.
The cruiser’s doors were opened, and Claire slid out. The mayor looked her over, then Shane. His eyes narrowed.
“My sources say somebody set up a spark board down under the hospital,’” he said. “Connected up the wires and got ready to blow the building. Looks like somebody trashed it before anything happened.’”
Shane said, “Claire pulled the wires. My dad was going to blow it and kill everybody inside.’”
The Morrells, father and son, exchanged a look. Even Sam raised his head, though he stayed where he was, arms folded, looking relaxed and neutral. “And where’s your dad?’” Richard asked. “Shane, you don’t owe him. You know that.’”
“Yeah,’” Shane said. “I know. He’s gone. I wish I could tell you he wouldn’t be back, but—’” He shrugged. “Let Claire go, man. She saved people. She didn’t hurt anybody.’”
Mayor Morrell nodded at the cop standing behind Claire. She felt her handcuffs jiggle, then loosen, and gratefully folded her arms across her chest.
“What about Shane?’” she asked.
“The vampires caught two of Frank’s men. They admitted that Frank murdered Brandon. Shane’s in the clear,’” Richard said.
Shane blinked at him. “What?’”
“Go home,’” Richard said, and the cop unlocked Shane’s handcuffs, as well. “Sam’s taken care of getting word out to the vampires. They don’t like you much, so watch your step, but you’re not guilty of any crimes. Not major ones.’”
“Great!’” Eve said, and grabbed Claire’s hand, then Shane’s. “We’re outta here.’”
Eve’s Cadillac was parked a few spaces away. The back and side windows had been blacked out, Claire realized, and there was a fresh smell of paint in the air, and two cans of spray enamel lying on the ground. She got in the front seat, and Michael slid into the backseat. Shane hesitated, looking in at him, then climbed in and slammed the door.
Eve started the car. “Shane?’”
“Yeah?’”
“I’m freaking killing you when we get home.’”
“Good,’” Shane said. “Because right now, death seems like a better idea than talking about any of this.’”
The town was strangely quiet—fires out, mobs dispersed, nothing to see here, move along. But Claire didn’t really think it was over. Not at all.
She leaned against the window on the ride home, exhausted and unhappy. There was an ominous silence coming from the backseat, a feeling like thunderclouds rolling in and ready to break. Eve rambled on nervously about Shane’s dad, and where he might have gone; nobody responded. I hope he leaves, Claire thought. I hope he gets away. Not because he shouldn’t pay—he should—but because if he did, all it meant for Shane was more grief. Losing the last member of his already destroyed family. Better if his dad just…disappeared.
“Have you told Shane?’” Eve asked. Claire sat up, blinking and yawning, as Eve pulled the Caddy to a halt in front of their house.
“About what?’”
Eve pointed at Michael. “You know.’”
Claire turned to look at him. Shane was staring straight ahead, his face like stone. “Let me guess,’” he said. “You came up with some magical fairy who granted you your freedom, and now you can come and go whenever you want,’” he said. “Tell me that’s it, Michael. Because I’ve been thinking about why you’re sitting in this car the whole way, and I can’t really come up with any other answer that won’t make me vomit.’”
“Shane—,’” Michael said, and then shook his head. “Yeah. My fairy godmother came and granted me a wish. Let’s just get past this.’”
“Get past it?’” Shane said. “How exactly do I do that? Fuck off.’”
He got out of the car and stalked up the walkway. Eve grabbed a huge black umbrella and hurried around to Michael’s side of the car; she opened it like a valet, and he stepped out, grabbed the umbrella, and ran after Shane. Even with the thin shade, his skin began to smoke lightly as it cooked.
Michael made it to the shade of the porch, he dropped the umbrella, and Shane turned and punched him.
Hard.
Michael rode the punch, caught the second one in his open palm, stepped in, and hugged him.
“Get off me!’” Shane yelled, and shoved him back. “Damn! Get off!’”
“I wasn’t going to bite you, idiot,’” Michael said wearily. “Jesus. I’m just glad you’re alive.’”
“Wish I could say the same, but since you’re not—’” Shane slammed open the door and vanished inside, leaving Michael leaning against the wall.
Claire and Eve came slowly up the walk.
“I’ll—’” Claire swallowed hard. “I’ll talk to him. I’m sorry. He’s just a little—it’s been a long day, you know? He’ll be okay.’”
Michael nodded. Eve put an arm around him and helped him into the house.
Shane was nowhere to be se
en when Claire entered the living room, but she heard his door slam upstairs. Damn, he was fast when he wanted to be. And bitter. Who said girls were moody? She eyed the couch—it was the first comfortable spot to lie down—with weary longing. Maybe she should just let Shane get through it alone. Not like he wasn’t used to dealing with trauma.
Then again…just because he could do it alone didn’t mean he ought to have to.
There was something odd about the room, and for a long second, Claire couldn’t put her finger on it. Then it dawned on her.
The room smelled like flowers. Roses, to be exact.
Claire frowned, turned, and saw a huge bunch of red roses lying on the side table. There was an envelope next to it with her name on it in old-fashioned copper-plate handwriting.
She tore it open and unfolded the papers inside.
Dear Claire,
My informal Protection is no longer sufficient for you and your friends, and I think you know that now. More drastic steps must be taken, and soon, or your friends will pay the price. Oliver will not allow today’s events to go unanswered. You have been brave, but extremely foolish in your enemies.
Consider my proposal carefully.
I shall not offer it again.
There wasn’t a signature, but Claire didn’t have any doubt who had written it. Amelie. The letter was water-marked with her seal.
The other papers in the stack looked legal. She read them, frowning, trying to understand what they meant, and some of the language leaped out at her.
I, Claire Elizabeth Danvers, swear my life, my blood, and my service to the Founder, now and for my lifetime, that the Founder may command me in all things.
It was the same thing Oliver had said, back at the hospital, when he’d been trying to make her…
…make her his slave.
Claire dropped the paper like it had caught on fire. No, she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t.
Or your friends will pay the price.
Claire swallowed, stuffed the contract back into the envelope, and shoved it in her pocket just as Eve came around the corner and said, “Roses! Jeez, who died?’”