by Rachel Caine
Oliver ignored them and walked toward the Fentons, who tried to get to the door. He flashed ahead of them with that easy snakelike speed vampires could display when they wanted, and Claire shuddered at the looks on their faces.
They knew what was going to happen to them.
‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘There’ll be a fair trial. Since Samuel didn’t die, and you didn’t succeed today, you won’t burn for what you’ve done.’’ He reached for Christine Fenton’s wrist, ripped her sleeve, and exposed her silver bracelet. It fit tightly around her wrist, but he slid a finger underneath the metal and it split along an invisible seam. He dropped the bracelet in his pocket, then did the same to Officer Fenton.
The places where their bracelets had been were sickly pale, and Christine kept rubbing hers, as if the shock of open air on the skin was painful.
‘‘Congratulations,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I release you from your contracts.’’
And then he grabbed Christine. Claire had a glimpse of his fangs flashing down, silvery and sharp, and then he slammed the woman against the wall of the shed and bit.
Claire hid her face against Michael’s chest. He put his hand on her hair and held her there, turned away from the sight of Christine Fenton dying.
She heard the woman’s body hit the floor and then Oliver, his voice thick and dark, say, ‘‘Your turn now.’’
A sharp, snapping sound, and another body hit the floor.
When Michael let her go, Claire didn’t look at the bodies. She couldn’t.
She looked at Oliver, who was staring down at Travis Lowe. The detective was just starting to stir. ‘‘What about this one?’’ he asked. ‘‘Friend or foe?’’
He wasn’t waiting for an answer. He grabbed Lowe by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
‘‘Friend! Friend!’’ Claire blurted frantically, and saw Lowe’s eyes close in relief. ‘‘His partner’s missing. I think they were holding him somewhere.’’
Oliver shrugged, clearly not interested. He dropped Lowe back to the ground and turned a slow circle. ‘‘There was another one,’’ he said. ‘‘Where is he?’’ He pulled in a deep breath, then let it out with a disgusted cough. ‘‘Jason. Well, well.’’
Sometime while Oliver had been busy killing the Fentons, Jason had escaped out the door, and Michael hadn’t stopped him. Maybe too weak, maybe just worried for Claire. But anyway, Jason was long gone.
‘‘I’ll find him,’’ Oliver said. ‘‘I’ve been tolerant, so long as he didn’t threaten our interests, but enough.’’ He glanced down at Michael and Claire. ‘‘Go home.’’ He stalked away, out into the sun, without a backward glance. Three dead bodies, and he didn’t even pause.
Travis Lowe managed to pull himself to a sitting position, groaning, and rested his head in his hands. ‘‘I hate Tasers.’’ He looked up and fixed his bloodshot gaze on Claire. ‘‘You’re okay? Let me see your throat.’’
She moved the handkerchief. There was just a thin smear on the cloth. Her wrist was worse; she tied the cloth around it as a makeshift bandage and thought, I’m going to have to buy Michael some new ones.
Though why she thought of that now, she had no idea. Maybe she just wanted to imagine normal life.
Because this definitely wasn’t normal.
Michael stood up and helped Claire to her feet, then Lowe. He pulled keys from his pocket and tossed them to Lowe. ‘‘Pull the car in with the trunk facing the door,’’ he said. ‘‘Open it and honk when you’re ready.’’
Lowe nodded and went outside, into the blinding sun. Michael put both hands on Claire’s shoulders and looked down at her, then cupped her cheeks in his palms.
‘‘Don’t do that again,’’ he said.
‘‘I didn’t do anything. I got a ride from a cop, that was all—’’
‘‘Not that,’’ he said. ‘‘Myrnin. Don’t do it again. You can’t go back. He’ll kill you next time.’’
He knew where she’d been. Well, she supposed it hadn’t been hard to figure out.
‘‘You shouldn’t have come,’’ she said. ‘‘You knew it was a trap; what are you, crazy?’’
‘‘I called Oliver,’’ Michael said.
‘‘You didn’t!’’
‘‘It worked, didn’t it?’’
She looked around at the dead people in the shed. ‘‘Yeah.’’
He looked ill for a second and started to say something, but then the horn honked outside, and he changed it to, ‘‘Ride’s here.’’
She nodded, and walked out into the dazzling glare. Something brushed by her, moving fast, and then the trunk of the sedan slammed closed before she’d taken more than two steps.
Claire trudged to the passenger side of the car. Exhausted and aching, and feeling a stupid need to cry, she said nothing at all on the ride home.
13
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, b
ecause 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!’’