The Morganville Vampires (Books 1-8)

by Rachel Caine

  “Cool. Let’s go shoot some undead things on the TV, then.”

  “Loser.”

  “Not if I win.”

  “Like that ever happens.”

  2

  The next day, Claire had classes at Texas Prairie University, which was always a mixture of fascinating and annoying; fascinating, because she’d managed to finagle her way into a lot of advanced classes she really didn’t have the prerequisites for, and annoying because those not in the know about Morganville in general—which was most of the students at the school—treated her like a kid. Those who didn’t, and knew the score about the vampires and the town of Morganville itself, mostly avoided her. It occurred to her, the second time somebody tried to buy coffee for her but not make eye contact, that some people in town still looked at her as important—as in Monica Morrell-level important.

  This seriously pissed off Monica, Queen Bee of the Morganville Under-Thirty set. Still, Claire had come a long way from the clueless early-admission freshman she’d been last year. When Monica tried to bully her—which was virtually certain to happen at least a couple of times every week—the outcome wasn’t usually in Monica’s favor, or always in Claire’s, either. But still, a draw was better than a beat-down, in Claire’s view. Everybody was left standing.

  Claire’s first stop was at the campus student store, where she bought a new backpack—sturdy, not too flashy, with lots of pockets inside and out. She ducked into the next bathroom she found to transfer the contents of her taped-together book bag to the new one, and almost threw the old one away ... but it had a lot of sentimental value, somehow. Ripped, scuffed, stained with all kinds of things she didn’t want to remember, but it had come with her to Morganville, and somehow she felt that throwing it away would be throwing away her chance of ever getting out of here.

  Crazy, but she couldn’t help it.

  In the end, she stuffed the rolled-up old backpack into a pocket of the new one, hefted the weight, and jogged across campus to make her first class of the day.

  Three uneventful (and mostly boring) hours later, she ran into Monica Morrell, who was sitting on the steps of the Language Arts building, sunglasses on, leaning back on her elbows and watching people go by. One of her lipstick mafia girls was with her—Jennifer—but there was no sign of the other one, Gina. As always, Monica looked expensive and perfect—Daddy’s estate must be holding up well no matter what the economy dudes were saying on TV—and Jennifer looked as though she shopped the cheap knockoffs of what Monica bought for full price. But they both looked good, and about every thirty seconds some college boy stopped to talk to them, and almost always got shot down in flames. Some of them took it okay. Some of them looked as if they were one more rejection from ending up on a twenty-four-hour channel as breaking news.

  Claire was heading up the steps, ignoring them, when Jennifer called out brightly, “Hey, Claire! Good morning! ”

  That was creepy enough to stop Claire right in her tracks. She looked over, and Jennifer was waving.

  So was Monica.

  This, from the two girls who’d punched and kicked her, thrown her down a flight of stairs, abducted her at least twice, threatened her with knives, tried to set her house on fire ... yeah. Claire didn’t really feel like redefining the relationship on their new buddy-buddy terms.

  She just gave the two of them a long look, and kept on up the stairs, trying to focus on what it was she was supposed to remember today about early American literature. Nathaniel Hawthorne? So last week ...

  “Hey!” Monica grabbed her two steps from the top, yanking on the strap of her new book bag to drag her to a halt. “Talking to you, bitch!”

  That was more like it. Claire glanced down at Monica’s hand and raised her eyebrows. Monica let go.

  “I figured it couldn’t be me,” she said. “Since you were acting so nice and all. Had to be some other Claire.”

  “I just thought since the two of us are more or less stuck with each other, we might as well try to be friendly, that’s all. You didn’t have to act as if I stole your boyfriend or something.” Monica smiled slowly and pulled her sunglasses down to stare over the top. Her big, lovely blue eyes were full of shallow glee. “Speaking of that, how is Shane? Getting bored with the after-school special yet?”

  “Wow, that’s one of your better insults. You’re almost up to junior high level. Keep working on it,” Claire said. “Ask Shane yourself if you want to know how he’s doing. I’m sure he’d be glad to tell you.” Colorfully. “What do you want?”

  “Who says I want something?”

  “Because you’re like a lion. You don’t bother to get up unless you’re getting something out of it.”

  Monica smiled even wider. “Hmmm, harsh, but accurate. Why work harder than you have to? Anyway, I hear you and your friends made a deal that’s getting you into trouble. Something with that skanky homeless Brit vamp—what’s his name? Mordred?”

  “Mordred is from the King Arthur stories. It’s Morley.”

  “Whatever. I just wanted to tell you that I can take care of it for you.” Her smile revealed teeth, even and white. “For a price.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see that coming,” Claire said with a sigh. “How are you going to take care of it, exactly?”

  “I can get him the passes out of town he wants. From my brother.”

  Claire rolled her eyes and adjusted her book bag a little more comfortably on her shoulder. “Meaning what? You’re going to forge his signature on a bunch of photocopies that will get everybody thrown in jail except you? No thanks. Not interested.” Claire had no doubt that whatever Monica was offering, it wasn’t real; she’d already talked to Monica’s brother, Mayor Richard Morrell, several times about this and gotten nowhere. But Monica liked to pretend she had “access”—with full air quotes. “If that’s all, I’ve got class.”

  “Not quite,” Monica said, and the smile vanished. “I want the answers to the final exam in Lit 220. Get them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Get them, or—well, you know what kind of or there is, right?” Monica pushed the sunglasses back up. “Get them to me by Friday or you’re fried, special needs.”

  Claire shook her head and took the last two steps, walked to her class, dumped her bag at her lecture hall seat, and sat down to think things over.

  By the time class began, she had a plan—a warm, fuzzy plan.

  Some days, it was absolutely worth getting out of bed.

  When Claire got home, the sun was slipping fast toward the horizon. It was too early for most vampires to be out—not that they burst into flames that easily; most of the older ones were sort of flame-retardant-but she kept a sharp lookout, anyway. Instead of going straight to the Glass House, she turned at the cross street and went a few more blocks. It was like déjà vu because her parents’ house looked almost exactly like the Glass House; a little less faded, maybe. The trim had been painted a nice dark green, and there were fewer bushes around the windows, different porch furniture, and a couple of wind chimes; Claire’s mom loved wind chimes, especially the big, long ones that rang those deep bell sounds.

  As Claire climbed the steps to the porch, a gust blew by her, sounding the bells in a chorus. She glanced up at the sky and saw clouds scudding by fast. The weather was changing. Rain, maybe. It already felt cooler.

  She didn’t knock, just used her key and went right in, dumping her backpack in the entry hall. “Hey, I’m home!” she yelled, and locked the door behind her. “Mom?”

  “Kitchen,” came the faint yell back. Claire went down the hall—same as in the Glass House, but Mom had covered this version with photos, framed ones of their family. Claire winced at her junior high and high school photos; they were unspeakably geeky, but she couldn’t convince Mom to take them down. Someday, you’ll be glad I have them, Mom always said. Claire couldn’t imagine that would ever be true.

  The living room was, again, disorientingly familiar; instea
d of the mismatched, comfortable furniture of the Glass House, the stuff from Claire’s childhood occupied the same space, from the old sofa to her dad’s favorite leather chair. The smells coming from the kitchen were familiar, too: Mom was making stuffed bell peppers. Claire fortified herself, because she couldn’t stand stuffed bell peppers, but she almost always ate the filling out of them, just to be nice.

  “Why couldn’t it be tacos?” She sighed, just to herself, and then pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Hi, Mom, I’m—”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, because Myrnin was sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. Myrnin the vampire. Myrnin her boss. Crazy mad scientist Myrnin. He had a mug of something that had better not be blood in front of him, and he was almost dressed like a sane person—he had on frayed blue jeans, a blue silk shirt, and some kind of elaborate tapestry vest over it. He wore flip-flops for shoes, of course, because he seemed to really love those. His hair was long around his shoulders, black and glossy and full of waves, and his big, dark eyes followed Claire’s mother as she busied herself at the stove.

  Mom was dressed the way Mom usually dressed, which was way more formal than people Claire’s era would ever think was appropriate for lounging around the house. A nice pair of dress pants, a boring shirt, mid-heeled shoes. She was even wearing jewelry—bracelet and earrings, at least.

  “Good evening, Claire,” Myrnin said, and transferred his attention over to her. “Your mother’s been very kind to me while I waited for you to get home.”

  Mom turned, and there was a false brightness to her smile. Myrnin made her nervous, although Myrnin was obviously making a real effort to be normal. “Honey, how was school?” She kissed Claire on the cheek, and Claire tried not to squirm as her mom rubbed at the lipstick mark left on her skin. At least she didn’t use spit.

  “School was great,” Claire said, which completed the obligatory school conversation. She got a Coke from the fridge, popped the top, and settled in across the table from Myrnin, who calmly sipped from his coffee cup. “What are you doing here?”

  “Claire!” her mother said, sounding a little scandalized. “He’s a guest!”

  “No, he’s my boss, and bosses don’t drop in on my parents without an invitation. What are you doing here?”

  “Dropping in on your parents without an invitation,” Myrnin said. “I thought it would be good to get to know them better. I’ve been telling them how satisfied I am with the work you’ve been doing. Your research is some of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  He really was on his best behavior. That didn’t even sound a little crazy; overdone, maybe, but not crazy.

  “I’m off today,” Claire pointed out. Myrnin nodded and rested his chin on his hand. He had a nice smile, when he chose to use it, as he did now, mostly directed at Claire’s mother, who brought over a coffeepot and refilled his cup.

  Oh, good. Not anything red being served, then.

  “Absolutely. I know you had a full class schedule today,” he said. “This is a purely social call. I wanted to reassure your parents that all was going well for you.” He looked down into his coffee. “And that what happened before would never happen again.”

  What happened before was code for the bite marks on her neck. The wounds were healed, but there was a scar, and as she thought about it, her hand went up and covered the scar, on its own. She forced it back down. Her parents didn’t have any idea that Myrnin was responsible for that; they’d been told that it had been some other random vamp, and that Myrnin had helped save her. It was partly true, anyway. Myrnin had helped save her. He’d just also been the one to bite her.

  Not that it had really been his fault. He’d been hurt, and desperate, and she’d just been there. At least he’d stopped himself in time.

  She certainly hadn’t been able to stop him.

  “Thanks,” she said. She couldn’t really be mad at him, not for any of it. It would have been easier if she could have. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Me? Delicious as it smells, I fear I’m not one for bell peppers,” he said, and stood up with one of those graceful moves vampires seemed so good at pulling off. They moved like humans, but better. “I’d better take my leave, Mrs. Danvers. Thank you so much for your hospitality, and the delicious coffee. Please tell your husband I thank him as well.”

  “That’s it?” Claire asked, mystified. “You came to talk to my parents, and now you’re leaving?”

  “Yes,” he said, perfectly at ease, and perfectly weird. “And to drop this off for you, from Amelie.” He patted his vest pockets, and came up with a cream-colored envelope, which he handed over to her. It was heavy, expensive paper, and it was stamped on the back with the Founder’s Seal. It was unopened. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Claire. Don’t forget the donuts.”

  “I won’t,” she said, all her attention on the envelope in her hands. Myrnin said something else to her mother, and then the kitchen door opened and closed, and he was gone.

  “He has such beautiful manners,” her mother said, locking the back door. “I’m glad you work for someone so—civilized.”

  The scar on Claire’s neck throbbed a little. She thought of all the times she’d seen Myrnin go off the rails—the times he’d curled up weeping in a corner; the times he’d threatened her; the times he’d raved like a lunatic for hours on end; the times he’d begged her to put him out of his misery.

  The time he’d actually given her samples of his own brain—in a Tupperware container.

  “Civilized,” she repeated softly. “Yeah. He’s great.” He was; that was the awful thing. He was great until he was horrible.

  Kind of like the world in general.

  Claire slit open the envelope with a kitchen knife, slipped out the heavy folded paper inside, and read the beautiful, looped handwriting—Amelie’s, without a doubt.

  In accordance with recent requests, I hereby am providing you with passes to exit and return to Morganville. You must present these to the checkpoints at the edge of town. Please provide them to your party and give them the same instructions. There are no exceptions to this rule.

  Coordinate with Oliver to arrange your exit time.

  Claire’s breath left her in a rush. Morley’s passes! Perfect timing, too; she didn’t know how much longer any of them could keep Morley and his people from losing patience, and coming to take it out in blood. They wanted out of Morganville.

  She could give it to them.

  She realized immediately, however, as she took the passes out of the envelope, that there weren’t nearly enough. Morley’s people would need about thirty passes in total. Instead, there were only four in the envelope.

  The names read Michael Glass, Eve Rosser, Shane Collins, and Claire Danvers.

  What the hell was going on?

  Claire pulled out her cell phone and hit SPEED DIAL. It rang, and rang, but there was no answer. She hung up and tried another number.

  “Oliver,” said the voice on the other end.

  “Um, hi, it’s Claire? Is—is Amelie there with you?”

  “No.”

  “Wait, wait, don’t hang up! You’re on the town council—I just got a letter that has some passes in it, but it’s not enough for—”

  “We turned down Morley’s request for emigration out of Morganville,” Oliver said. He had a low, even tone to his voice, but Claire felt herself go cold anyway. “He has a philosophy that is too dangerous to those of us who wish to remain ... What’s the phrase? Under the radar.”

  “But—we made a deal. Me, Shane, Eve, and Michael. We said we’d get them passes.”

  “I’m aware of your deal. What is your question?”

  “It’s just—Morley said he’d kill us. If we didn’t get the passes for him. We told you that.”

  Oliver was silent for a long second, then said, “What part of I’m aware did you not comprehend, Claire? You and your friends have passes out of Morganville. As it happens, Michael requested leave to travel to Dallas for his recor
ding and concert session. We’ve decided to allow that, under the condition that all of you travel together. With escort.”

  “Escort?” Claire asked. “You mean, like police?” She was thinking of Sheriff Hannah Moses, who would be good company in addition to a bad-ass bodyguard; she’d liked Hannah from the moment she’d met her, and she thought Hannah liked her, too, as much as a tough ex-soldier could like a skinny, geeky girl half her age.

  “No,” Oliver said, “I don’t mean police.” And he hung up. Claire stared at the screen for a moment, then folded the phone closed and slipped it back in her pocket. She looked down at the passes, the envelope, the letter.

  Amelie had decided to really piss off Morley, but at least she’d also decided to get Claire and her friends out of town.

  With an escort.

  Somehow, Claire knew it wouldn’t be as simple as just picking a responsible adult to go with them.

  “Go get your father,” her mom said, and began setting dishes on the table. “He’s upstairs on the computer. Tell him dinner’s ready.”

  Claire gathered up everything and put it in her backpack before heading upstairs. Another wave of same-but-not-quite washed over her; her mother and father had reserved the same room for her here that she had over in the Glass House, though the two were nothing alike. Home—in name, anyway—had her frilly white bed and furniture, stuff she’d gotten when she was ten. Pink curtains. Her room at the Glass House was completely different—dark woods, dark fabrics. Adult.

  Dad’s computer room would have been Shane’s bedroom in the other house, which woke all kinds of thoughts and memories that really weren’t appropriate right now and caused her face to heat up as she poked her head in the room and quickly said, “Dad, dinner’s ready! Help me eat the stuffed bell peppers before I gag and die?”

  Her father looked up from the computer screen with a surprised, guilty jerk, and quickly shut down what he was doing. Claire blinked. Dad? Her dad was ... normal. Boringly normal. Not an activist, not a freak, not somebody who had to hide what he was doing on the computer from his own daughter. “Tell me you weren’t looking at porn,” she said.