The Morganville Vampires (Books 1-8)

by Rachel Caine

  ‘‘Shane! Dammit, Shane, calm the hell down. This is a crime scene; I can’t let you run out there, do you understand? Calm down!’’

  Richard was occupied with keeping Shane under control, so the other policeman went to crouch next to the body on the street. The body. Claire took a step closer, and the policeman produced a flashlight and focused it on the face of the man lying in the street. Red hair flared in the light.

  Not Michael.

  Sam.

  There was a stake in his chest, and he was still and white and not moving.

  ‘‘Richard!’’ the cop yelled. ‘‘It’s Sam Glass! Looks dead to me!’’

  ‘‘Sam,’’ Claire whispered. ‘‘No.’’

  Sam had been kind to her, and somebody had dragged him out of his car and put a stake through his chest.

  ‘‘Shit!’’ Richard spat. ‘‘Shane, sit your ass down. Down, right now. Don’t make me handcuff you.’’ He yanked Shane by the collar of his T-shirt and sat him down on the curb, glared at him for a second, then came over to look at the body. ‘‘Holy Mother of— grab his feet.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ The other cop—his name tag said FENTON—looked at him with a frown. ‘‘It’s a crime scene; we can’t—’’

  ‘‘He’s still alive, you idiot. Grab his damn feet, Fenton! If he burns, he’s dead.’’

  The first rays of sun crept over the horizon and fell on Sam’s still form.

  And Claire saw him start to smoke.

  ‘‘What are you waiting for?’’ Richard shouted. ‘‘Pick him up!’’ The other cop, after a blank hesitation, grabbed Sam by the feet. Richard took him under the arms, and together they bodily threw him into the maroon sedan, the one with tinted windows, and slammed the door shut. Fenton started for the driver’s side, but Richard got there first. ‘‘I’ll drive,’’ Richard said. ‘‘The wound’s still fresh. He’s got a chance if I can get him to Amelie.’’

  Fenton backed off. Richard gunned the engine and slammed the door even as he was peeling rubber toward the end of the street.

  Officer Fenton glared at Shane. ‘‘You going to give me trouble, boy?’’ he demanded. Claire sure hoped not. This man was twice the size of Richard Morrell, twice as old, and he looked like a human pit bull.

  Shane held up his hands. ‘‘No trouble from me, Officer. Sir.’’

  ‘‘You two see what happened here?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I was asleep. We all were.’’

  ‘‘All in the same room?’’ the cop grunted, and looked her over, from her bed-head to the wrinkled clothes. ‘‘Didn’t take you for the type.’’

  She couldn’t figure out what he meant for a few seconds, and then felt a wave of hot embarrassment sweep over her. ‘‘No, I mean—Eve was in her own room. We were asleep on the couch.’’

  Shane said, ‘‘Yeah, we were all asleep. Woke up when we heard the siren.’’ Which wasn’t quite true, was it? They’d woken up, and then heard the siren. But Claire wasn’t sure why that would be important.

  The cop tapped on a handheld device, still frowning. ‘‘Ought to be four of you in the house. Where’re the other two?’’

  ‘‘Eve’s still inside. And Michael—’’ Where the hell was Michael? ‘‘I don’t know where he is.’’

  ‘‘I’ll go see if he’s in his room,’’ Shane volunteered, but the cop froze him in place with another thunderous scowl.

  ‘‘You’ll sit your ass down on that curb and be quiet. You, what’s your name?’’

  ‘‘Claire Danvers.’’

  ‘‘Claire, get in there, find out if Michael Glass is inside. If he’s not, find out if his car is missing.’’

  Claire stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘‘You don’t think . . . ?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think anything until I have facts. I need to know who’s here, who isn’t, and work from there.’’ The cop transferred his dark stare to Shane, who was starting to get up. ‘‘I already told you, sit your ass down, Collins.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t have anything to do with this!’’

  ‘‘If I had to put together a list of prime suspects out to stake some vampires, you’d be right at the top, so yeah, you do. Sit down.’’

  Shane sat, looking furious. Claire silently begged him not to do anything stupid, and hurried back into the house. Eve was upstairs dressing—black baby-doll T with a bling-enhanced cartoon Elmer Fudd on the front, and black jeans with clunky Doc Martens.

  ‘‘It wasn’t—’’

  ‘‘I know. I saw,’’ Eve said. Her voice sounded stuffy, as though she’d been crying, or was about to. ‘‘It was Sam, right? Is he alive? Or—whatever?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. Richard said something like he could still be okay.’’ Claire gripped the doorknob tightly, and glanced down the hall. Michael’s door was closed. It was always closed. ‘‘Did you look—?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Eve took a deep breath and stood up. ‘‘I’ll go with you.’’

  Michael’s door was unlocked, and it was completely dark inside. Claire flipped on the lights. Michael’s bed was empty, neatly made, and the room looked absolutely normal. Eve checked the closets, under the bed, even the master bathroom.

  ‘‘No sign of him,’’ she said breathlessly. ‘‘Let’s check the garage.’’

  The garage was a shed in the back, not attached to the house; the two of them went out the back kitchen door and crossed the rutted driveway. The shed’s doors were closed.

  Eve opened one side, Claire the other.

  Michael’s car was gone.

  ‘‘What about work? Could he be at work?’’

  ‘‘TJ’s doesn’t open until ten,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Why would he be in there at six?’’

  ‘‘Inventory?’’

  ‘‘You think they’re going to call a vampire in at six a.m. to do inventory?’’ Eve slammed the shed door and kicked it for good measure. ‘‘Where the hell is he? And why the hell don’t I have a working cell phone? Why don’t you?’’

  Hers had been lost, Eve’s had been smashed; both of them miserably looked at each other for a few seconds, then, without a word, walked to the front yard where Shane was still sitting on the curb. If anybody could sit rebelliously, he was doing it.

  ‘‘Give me your phone,’’ Eve demanded and held out her hand. Shane looked at her with a frown. ‘‘Now, dumbass. Michael’s not inside, and his car’s gone.’’

  ‘‘Michael’s got a car? Since when?’’

  ‘‘Since the vampires issued him one. He didn’t tell you?’’

  Shane just shook his head. A muscle jumped in his jaw. ‘‘He doesn’t tell me shit, Eve. Not since—’’

  ‘‘Not since you started treating him like the Evil Dead? Yeah. Imagine that.’’

  He silently handed over his cell phone and looked away, staring at the street where Sam’s body had been tossed. Claire wondered if he was thinking about his dad’s crusade, about how the only good vampire is a dead vampire.

  Claire wondered if he really, deep down, still agreed.

  Eve dialed and put the phone to her ear. For a tense few seconds nothing happened, and then Claire saw relief melt the tension out of Eve’s face and body. ‘‘Michael! Where the hell are you?’’ Pause. ‘‘Where?’’ Pause. ‘‘Oh. Okay. I need to tell you—’’ Pause. ‘‘You know.’’ Pause. ‘‘Yeah, we’ll . . . talk later.’’

  Eve closed the phone and handed it back. Shane slipped it in his pocket again, eyebrows up and signaling questions.

  ‘‘He’s okay,’’ she said. Her eyes had gone dark and narrow.

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘And nothing. He’s fine. End of story.’’

  ‘‘Bullshit,’’ Shane said, and tugged her down to sit next to him on the curb. ‘‘Spill it, Eve. Now.’’

  Claire sat, too, on Eve’s other side. The curb felt cold and hard, but the good thing was that the patrol car blocked Fenton’s view of them. He was talking to the occupants of another car, vamp
ire-tinted, who had pulled up behind the cruiser.

  ‘‘He was downtown,’’ Eve said. ‘‘At the Elders’ Council. They pulled him in there early this morning.’’

  ‘‘Who did?’’

  ‘‘The Big Three.’’ Oliver, Amelie and the mayor, Richard and Monica’s dad. ‘‘Amelie just got word about Sam. But Michael’s not hurt or anything.’’ An unspoken for now was at the end of that. Eve was worried. She bent her head closer to Shane’s, lowered her voice even further, and said, ‘‘You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Sam, right?’’

  ‘‘Jesus, Eve!’’

  ‘‘I’m only asking because—’’

  ‘‘I know why you’re asking,’’ he whispered back fiercely. ‘‘Hell no. If I were going to go after some vampire, it wouldn’t have been Sam. I’d be staking somebody like Oliver, make it worth my time. Speaking of Oliver, he’d be my number one suspect.’’

  ‘‘Vampires don’t kill their own.’’

  ‘‘He arranged for Brandon to die,’’ Claire offered. ‘‘I think Oliver’s capable of anything. And he’d love to see Amelie even more isolated.’’ She swallowed hard. ‘‘She told me once that Sam was safer if she didn’t keep him close. I guess she was right.’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t matter. Oliver keeps his hands clean, no matter what. Some broke-ass human is going to burn for this, and you know it,’’ Shane said. ‘‘And it happened in front of our house, and nobody’s forgotten what happened with my dad. You don’t think we’re being set up?’’

  Crap. Shane was right. The fact that Michael was safe was good, but it was also a double-edged sword; it meant that Michael had been gone when Sam had been attacked.

  And Michael was the only one of them whose word might be worth anything to the vampires.

  Sure enough, Fenton came back around the cruiser and stared at the three of them for a few seconds, then said, ‘‘You’re being taken in for questioning. All three of you. Get in the backseat.’’

  Shane didn’t move. ‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’

  The policeman sighed and leaned against the quarter panel. ‘‘Son, you’ve got a lot of attitude, and I respect that. But get it straight: either you get in my car, or you get in their car.’’ He pointed toward the silent dark sedan, the one with vampires inside. ‘‘And I promise you, that won’t end so well. You get me?’’

  Shane nodded, stood, and gave Eve a hand up. Claire stayed seated. She pulled up the sleeve on her left arm. The bracelet glittered and glimmered in the morning light, and she held it up for Fenton’s clear view.

  His eyes widened. ‘‘Is that . . . ?’’

  ‘‘I want to see my Patron,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Please.’’ He went off to talk on his radio, then came back and jerked his head at Shane and Eve. ‘‘In the backseat,’’ he said. ‘‘You’re going to the station. You, kid . . .’’ He nodded toward the other sedan. ‘‘They’ll take you to Amelie.’’

  Claire swallowed hard and exchanged a look with Shane, then Eve. That hadn’t been her plan. She wanted them all to stay together. How could she keep them safe if they got separated?

  ‘‘Don’t,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Come with us.’’

  Truthfully, that was starting to sound like a better idea. The vampires weren’t going to be happy, and her shiny gold bracelet didn’t exempt her from suspicion. Amelie could still order her hurt, or killed.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Claire said. Shane looked massively relieved as he ducked his head and entered the backseat of the cruiser. Eve followed him in.

  The cop slammed the door after Eve, before Claire could get in the patrol car.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Shane yelled, and hit the car window. He and Eve were both trying to get out, but the doors weren’t opening.

  Fenton grabbed her by the arm and hustled her over to the other sedan, opened the door, and put her in the backseat before she could protest. Claire heard the faint click of locks engaging, and sat very still, trying to see through the gloom.

  One of the vampires flicked on the overhead light. Oh crap. It was two of her not-favorite people. The woman was pale as snow, with white-blond hair and eyes of palest silver. Gretchen. Her partner, Hans, was a hard man made of angles, with graying short hair, and a stony expression.

  ‘‘I wish we’d gotten the boy instead,’’ Gretchen said, clearly disappointed. Her voice was low-pitched, throaty, with a heavy foreign accent. Not quite German, but not quite anything else, either. An old accent, Claire thought. ‘‘He was so rude to us when last we spoke. And surely his father deserves a lesson, even if the boy does not.’’

  ‘‘Amelie says just bring this one,’’ Hans said, and put the car in gear. He looked at Claire in the rear-view mirror. ‘‘Seat belt, please.’’

  She had trouble wrapping her head around that— why did he care?—but she clicked the safety restraint shut and sat back. Like the ride in Sam’s car the day before, she couldn’t see a thing outside the windows except a faint gray dot where the sun was rising.

  ‘‘Where are you taking me?’’ she asked. Gretchen laughed. Claire caught the flash of fangs, but Gretchen didn’t really need them to be scary. Not at all.

  ‘‘To the Elders’ Council,’’ she said. ‘‘You remember it, Claire. You had such a good time there when last we visited.’’

  7

  There was Morganville—the dry, dusty, run-down town that was all most people ever saw—and then there was Founder’s Square, a lush little piece of Europe where people with a pulse weren’t welcome. Claire had been inside once, and it wasn’t a fond memory; no matter how cute the little cafés were, or how nice the shops, she could see only the center of the square in the park, with the cage where they’d locked up Shane.

  Where they’d been meaning to burn him alive as punishment for something he hadn’t even done.

  For some reason, Claire had expected to be parked in the same place as last time—outside of the square, at the police checkpoint—but of course that wasn’t possible, was it? A few of the older vampires might be able to stand the sun, but they wouldn’t willingly stroll around in it. Morganville was built for the convenience of vampires, not humans, and when Claire’s door opened, and Gretchen impatiently gestured for her to get out, they were in an underground parking garage. It was full of cars, all nice ones, with darkened windows. Like a Beverly Hills mall or something.

  There were armed guards. One of them started toward them as Gretchen pulled Claire out of the car, but Hans flashed him a badge, and the other guy— vampire, presumably—backed off.

  ‘‘Let’s go,’’ Hans said. ‘‘Your Patron is waiting.’’

  Gretchen chuckled. Not a happy sound. Claire stumbled over her own feet trying to keep up as the two vampires set off at a brisk walk, Gretchen’s iron-hard grip on her upper arm setting in with bruising force. Claire was short of breath by the time they got to a long double flight of stairs, which the vampires took at a jog. At the top of the stairs was some kind of fire door, with a code panel. Claire didn’t dare try to sneak a look at what Hans entered; knowing the vampires’ paranoia, it wouldn’t do her any good. The machines were probably calibrated to exclude anybody with a heartbeat.

  Which made her wonder: was Myrnin behind the town’s security, too? Was that something else she was supposed to learn? It could really come in handy if she could persuade him to show her. . . .

  She was obsessing on technicalities to avoid feeling the terror, but as soon as the door lock released, she had nothing else to focus on except fear, and it washed over her in a sticky, cold wave. Gretchen seemed to sense it. She looked down at Claire with those cool, mirror gray eyes, and smiled. ‘‘Worried, little one?’’ she asked sweetly. ‘‘Worried for yourself, or for your friends?’’

  ‘‘Worried for Sam,’’ Claire said. Gretchen lost her smile, and for just an instant, she seemed honestly off balance and surprised. ‘‘Is he alive?’’

  ‘‘Alive?’’ Gretchen’s armor slid firmly back in place, a
nd she raised a slender arched eyebrow. ‘‘He may yet be saved, if that is what you mean. I suppose your friend Shane will have to try again.’’

  ‘‘Shane didn’t do anything!’’

  This time, Gretchen’s smile got positively cruel. ‘‘Perhaps not,’’ she said. ‘‘Perhaps not yet. But be patient. He will. It’s in his nature, as much as killing is in ours.’’

  Claire had to save her breath, because they were walking again, big strides across thick maroon carpet. Claire’s first impression of the Elders’ Council building had been that it was a funeral home; it still felt like that to her, all hushed and quiet and elegant. They’d had roses in the last time, when the vampire they’d thought Shane killed had been lying in state. She didn’t see any flowers this time.

  Gretchen led her down a hallway and through thick double doors, into the round entry hall. There were four armed vampire guards in the room, and Gretchen and Hans had to stop and show ID, and surrender their weapons. Claire got searched—quick, competent pats from cold hands that made her shiver.

  And then the doors opened, and she was pulled into a big round room with a high ceiling, chandeliers like falls of ice, and dim, expensive paintings on the walls. She hadn’t imagined the smell of roses. In the center of the room stood a massive round conference table, surrounded by chairs, and in the center was a vase filled with red, red blooms.

  Nobody was at the table. Instead, a group of at least ten was standing at the other side of the room, looking down.

  Some of them turned, and Claire’s gaze fixed irresistibly on Oliver. She hadn’t seen him since he’d threatened her life, trying to lure Shane out of hiding, and as he stood up, now she had a flash of that again, how icy and hard his hands had been around her throat. How scared she’d been.

  Oliver snarled, low in his throat but loud enough to be heard, and his eyes were like a wolf’s. Not human at all.

  ‘‘I see you brought us a criminal for punishment,’’ he said, and moved toward them.