by Rachel Caine
Jennifer didn’t look like she wanted to be sucking up, either. In fact, she looked as bitter and resentful as a glossy, entitled rich girl could look—which was a lot. ‘‘Dream on, loser. I don’t care who your Patron is; you’re never going to be anything more than jumped-up trailer trash with delusions. Friends? I wouldn’t be friends with you if you were the last person breathing in this town.’’
‘‘Unless Monica said so,’’ Claire said spitefully. ‘‘Fine, you don’t want to exchange friendship rings. So why are you bothering me?’’
Jennifer glared at her for a few seconds, stubborn and angry, and then looked away. ‘‘You’re smart, right? Like, freak smart?’’
‘‘What does that have to do with anything?’’
‘‘You placed out of the two classes we were in together. You must have aced the tests.’’
Claire nearly laughed out loud. ‘‘You want tutoring?’’
‘‘No, idiot. I want test answers. Look, I can’t bring home anything under a C; that’s the rule, or my Patron cuts off my college. And I want my full four years, even if I never do anything with it in this lame-ass town.’’ A muscle fluttered in Jennifer’s jawline. ‘‘I don’t get this economics crap. It’s all math, Adam Smith, blah blah blah. What am I ever going to use it for, anyway?’’
She was asking for help. Not in so many words, maybe, but that was what it was, and Claire was off balance for a few heartbeats. First Monica, now Jennifer? What next, a cookie bouquet from Oliver?
‘‘I can’t give you test answers,’’ she said. ‘‘I wouldn’t even if I could.’’ Claire took in a deep breath. ‘‘Look, I’m going to regret this, but if you really want help, I’ll go over the notes with you. Once. And you pay me, too. Fifty dollars.’’ Which was wildly out of line, but she didn’t really care if Jennifer said no.
Which Jennifer clearly thought about, hard, before giving her a single, abrupt nod.
‘‘Common Grounds,’’ she said. ‘‘Tomorrow, two o’clock.’’ Which was pretty much the safest time to be out and about, providing they didn’t stay too long. Claire wasn’t wild about visiting Oliver’s shop again, but she didn’t suppose there were too many places in town that Jennifer would agree to go. Besides, it wasn’t far from Claire’s house.
‘‘Two o’clock,’’ Claire echoed, and wondered if they were supposed to shake hands or something. Not, obviously, because Jennifer flipped her hair and walked away, clearly glad to have it over with. She jumped into a black convertible and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.
Leaving Claire to contemplate the afternoon sunlight and the odds of walking home through a Morganville where Jason was still on the loose.
She took out her cell phone and called the town’s lone taxi driver, who told her he was off duty, and hung up on her.
So she called Travis Lowe.
Detective Lowe wasn’t really happy to be the Claire Taxi Service. She could tell because he wasn’t his usual self, not at all—he’d always been kind to her, and a little bit funny, but there wasn’t any of that in the way he pulled his blue Ford to the curb and snapped, ‘‘Get in.’’ He was accelerating away even before she got strapped in. ‘‘You do know I’ve got a real job, right?’’
‘‘Sorry, sir,’’ she said. The sir was automatic, a habit she couldn’t seem to break no matter how hard she tried. ‘‘I just didn’t think I should be walking home, with Jason—’’
‘‘Right thought, just wrong timing,’’ he said, and his tone softened some. He looked tired and sallow, and there were dark bags under his eyes as though he hadn’t slept in days. He needed a shave and a shower. Probably the shower more than the shave. ‘‘How’s Shane?’’
‘‘Better,’’ she said. ‘‘The nurse told me he was going to be okay; it’s just going to take some time.’’
‘‘Good news. Could’ve gone the other way. Why’d you try to walk home like that?’’
She fidgeted a little in the seat. In contrast to the vampire cars, with their dark tinting, the glare inside Lowe’s car seemed way too bright. ‘‘Well, we tried getting a ride,’’ she said. In retrospect, none of the explanations seemed all that good, really. She didn’t mention that she’d tried both Lowe’s phone and Joe Hess’s. No point in making him feel guilty. Guiltier. ‘‘We thought with the three of us together . . .’’
‘‘Yeah, good plan, if it had been any other kids. You guys, you’re just trouble to the power of three. And I’m no math whiz, but I’m betting that’s a lot.’’ His eyes were cold and distant, and she had the distinct feeling he wasn’t really thinking about her at all. ‘‘Listen, I’ve got to make a stop. I’m running late as it is. You stay in the car, okay? Just stay in the car. Do not get out.’’
She nodded. He turned some corners, into a residential area of Morganville she didn’t recognize. It was run-down and faded, with leaning fences that were marked with sun-bleached gang signs. The houses weren’t much better. Most of them just had sheets tacked up in the windows instead of real curtains.
He parked in front of one, got out, and said, ‘‘Windows up. Lock the doors.’’
She followed his orders and watched him go up the narrow, cracked sidewalk to the front door. It opened on the second knock, but she couldn’t see who was inside, and Lowe closed the door behind him.
Claire frowned and waited, wondering what he was doing—cop stuff, she guessed, but in Morganville that could be anything, from running errands for vampires to dog-catching.
He didn’t come back. She checked her watch and found that more than ten minutes had passed. He’d ordered her to stay put, but for how long? She could have been home already if she’d been able to get the taxi, or even if she’d walked.
And it was getting hot in the car.
Ten more minutes, and she started to feel anxious. The neighborhood seemed deserted—no people on the street, even in the bright sunlight. Even for Morganville, that didn’t seem . . . normal. She didn’t know this area, hadn’t been through it before, and she wondered what went on around here.
Before Claire could decide to do something really stupid, like investigating on her own, Detective Lowe came out of the house and, after rapping on the window for her to unlock the door, got back in the car. He looked, if possible, even more tired. Depressed, almost.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ she asked. The sheets tacked up as curtains twitched in the window of the house, as if somebody was peering out at them. ‘‘Sir?’’
‘‘Quit calling me sir,’’ Lowe snapped, and put the car in gear. ‘‘And it’s none of your affair. Stay out of it.’’
There was blood on his hand. His knuckles were scraped. Claire pulled in a fast breath, her eyes widening as she noticed, and he sent her a narrow glance as the car accelerated away down the deserted street. ‘‘Were you in a fight?’’ she asked.
‘‘What did I just tell you?’’ Detective Lowe had never been angry before, not with her, but she could tell he was being pushed pretty far. She nodded and turned face forward, trying too keep herself still. It wasn’t easy. She wanted to ask questions, a dozen of them. She wanted to ask him where Detective Hess had gone. She wanted to find out who lived in that house, and why Lowe had gone there. And whom he’d hit, to scrape up his knuckles like that.
And why he was so desperately angry that he’d snap at her.
Lowe didn’t enlighten her about any of it. He pulled the car to a stop with an abrupt jerk of brakes, and Claire blinked and realized that she was home. ‘‘You need another ride, call a taxi,’’ Lowe said. ‘‘I’m on police business the rest of the day.’’
She climbed out and tried to thank him, but he wasn’t listening. He was already flipping open his cell phone and dialing one-handed as he put the car in gear with the other. She barely got the door shut before he pulled away from the curb.
‘‘Bye,’’ she said softly, to the empty air, and then shrugged and went inside.
Michael was sitting in the living room, pla
ying guitar. He looked up and nodded at her when she came in. ‘‘Eve went to the hospital,’’ he said. ‘‘She must have just missed you.’’
Claire sighed and slumped down on the couch. ‘‘They won’t let her in. Visiting hours are over.’’ She yawned and curled up, tucking her feet under her. She ached all over, and everything seemed too bright, and not quite right. ‘‘Michael?’’
‘‘Yeah?’’ He was working out a chord progression and was focused on the music; his response didn’t mean he was listening, really.
‘‘Shouldn’t you be asleep? I mean, don’t vampires—?’’
He was listening after all. ‘‘Sleep during the day? Yeah, mostly. But I—couldn’t. I keep thinking . . .’’ The chord progression turned minor, then wrong, and he grimaced. ‘‘I keep thinking that I should have fixed this crap with Shane by now. I don’t know if he’s going to get over it, not really. Not in the ways that count. And I hate it. I can’t stop thinking—I don’t want him doing this stuff. Not without me watching his back.’’
Claire leaned her head against the battered black pillow on the corner of the couch. It smelled like spilled Coke, a little, but mostly it smelled like Shane, and she gladly turned her face into it and took a deep breath. It made it seem like he was here, at least for a second.
‘‘He wouldn’t hate you so bad if he didn’t love you, at least a little bit,’’ she said. ‘‘We’ll be okay. We’re going to stay together, right? The four of us?’’
Michael looked up, and for a second she wasn’t sure what he was going to say; but then he said, ‘‘Yeah. We’ll stay together. No matter what.’’
It felt like a lie, and she wished he hadn’t said it.
She fell asleep, listening to him compose a new song, and dreamed about vibrating strings and doorways that led nowhere, and everywhere. Someone was watching her; she could feel it, and it wasn’t Michael. It wasn’t warm and kind; it wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe, and there was something wrong, wrong, wrong. . . .
She nearly fell off the couch, she jerked so hard. Michael wasn’t there, and his guitar was in the case on the table. Claire squinted at the clock. It was nearly two o’clock, and she’d slept through lunch, but it wasn’t hunger that had woken her up. She’d heard something.
It came again, a thumping knock on the front door. She yawned and pushed back the blanket that Michael had draped over her, and, still trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes, padded to the door.
She had to stand on tiptoes at the peephole to see out. Some guy, nobody that clicked any immediate recognition—not Jason, at least. That was good. Claire looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign Michael had heard. She had no idea where he’d gone.
She opened the door. The guy standing outside looked up and held out a padded mailer with stickers on it; she took it and read her own name on it. ‘‘Oh,’’ she said, preoccupied. ‘‘Thanks.’’
‘‘No problem, Claire,’’ he said. ‘‘Be seeing you.’’
There was something way too familiar about the way he said it. She jerked her head up, staring at him, but she still didn’t know him. He was just . . . normal. Average height, average weight, average everything. There was a silver bracelet on his wrist, so he was human, not vampire.
‘‘Do I know you?’’ she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. ‘‘Hey, wait! Who are you?’’
He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early-afternoon heat, frowning, but she’d left her shoes off, and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet; she’d fry like bacon.
She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn’t know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn’t answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.
She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately—heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.
It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who’d dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.
‘‘Everything okay?’’ Michael’s voice came from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.
‘‘Sure,’’ she said. ‘‘Just mail.’’
‘‘Good stuff?’’
‘‘Don’t know yet; I haven’t read it. Probably junk.’’
‘‘Enjoy the fact that you don’t have electricity, water, cable, Internet, and garbage to pay for,’’ he said. ‘‘Look, I’m going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There’s stuff in the fridge if you’re hungry.’’ A brief pause. ‘‘Don’t open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf.’’
‘‘Michael, tell me you’re not putting blood in our refrigerator.’’
‘‘I told you not to open it. So you’ll never know.’’
‘‘You suck!’’ Of course he did; he was a vampire. ‘‘I mean, not in a good way, either!’’
‘‘Eat something! I’m sleeping.’’ And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.
Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, as though it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.
It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.
It read:
I am displeased with your progress in your advanced studies. I suggest you spend additional time learning all you can. Time is growing short. I do not care how you arrange this, but you will be expected to demonstrate within the next two days at least a journeyman understanding of what you are being taught. You cannot involve Michael. He is not to be risked.
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.
Amelie wasn’t happy.
That wasn’t good.
Two days. And Michael could go with her only in the evenings. . . .
She couldn’t wait.
Claire checked in her backpack. The red crystal shaker was still inside, safely zipped into a pocket.
If she took Michael’s car—no, she couldn’t. She’d never be able to see through the tinting, even if she felt confident in her ability to drive it. And Detective Lowe wasn’t going to give her a ride. She could try Detective Hess, but Lowe’s attitude had made her gun-shy.
Still, she couldn’t just go out alone.
With a sigh, she called Eddie, the taxi driver.
‘‘What?’’ he snapped. ‘‘Don’t I get a day off? What is it with you?’’
‘‘Eddie, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I need a favor.’’ Claire hastily checked her wallet. ‘‘Um, it’s a short trip, I’ll pay you double, okay? Please?’’
‘‘Double? I don’t take checks.’’
‘‘I know that. Cash.’’
‘‘I don’t wait. I pick up, I drop off, I leave.’’
‘‘Eddie! Double! Do you want it or not?’’
‘‘Keep your panties on. What’s the address?’’
‘‘Michael Glass’s house.’’
Eddie heaved a sigh so heavy it sounded like a temporary hurricane. ‘‘You again. Okay, I come. But I swear, last time. No more Saturdays, yes?’’
‘‘Yes! Yes, okay. Just this time.’’
Eddie hung up on her. Claire bit her lip, slipped the note from Amelie into her bag, and hoped Michael had been serious about going to bed.
Because if he’d eavesdropped on her, even by accident, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
It took five minutes for Eddie to arrive. She waited on the sidewalk, and jumped in the back of the battered old cab—barely yellow, after so much sun exposure—and handed Eddie all the cash she had. He counted it. Twice.
Then he grunted and flipped the handle on the taxi meter. ‘‘Address?’’
‘‘Katherine Day’s house.’’ One thing Claire had learned about riding with Eddie—you didn’t need numbers, only names. He knew everybody, and he knew where everybody lived. All the natives, anyway. The students, he just dropped on campus and forgot.
Eddie threw an arm over the back of his seat and frowned at her. He was a big guy, with a lot of wild dark hair, including a beard. She could barely see his eyes when he frowned, which was pretty much always. ‘‘The Day House. You’re sure.’’
‘‘I’m sure.’’
‘‘Told you I’m not staying, right?’’
‘‘Eddie, please!’’
‘‘Your funeral,’’ he said, and hit the gas hard enough to press her back into the cushions.
12
Myrnin’s shack was easy enough to get into—the trick, after all, wasn’t getting in. It was getting out. Light slashed in thin ribbons through the darkness where the boards didn’t quite meet, but it wasn’t exactly easy to see, and she didn’t much like roaming around in Myrnin’s lair in the dark. Or even half dark. She found a flashlight on the shelf near the door and thumbed it on. A pure white circle of light brushed across the dusty floor and showed her the narrow steps at the back that led down.
She went very slowly. Very carefully. ‘‘Myrnin?’’ She said it quietly, because he’d hear her; he’d told her that his ears were sensitive because of the silence and his lack of company.
He didn’t answer.
‘‘Myrnin?’’ Claire could see the hard edge of light at the bottom of the steps. He had everything on, it looked like—the light had a funny color, a mixture of fluorescent bulbs and oil lamps, candles and incandescents. ‘‘Myrnin, it’s Claire. Where are you?’’