by Rachel Caine
Claire thought about something, with a sickening wrench. ‘‘Are you sure?’’
‘‘What do you mean?’’ Amelie looked up, slowly, her eyes fierce and bright.
A rush of images flitted through Claire’s mind: Oliver, grabbing her in her own house. The dead girl in the basement. Jason appearing and disappearing from Monica’s party, and reappearing near Common Grounds.
Oh no.
‘‘Can you tell?’’ Claire asked. ‘‘If somebody’s using the portal?’’
‘‘Myrnin could, I suspect, but I cannot. Why?’’ Amelie stood up, and this time the frown was definite. ‘‘What do you know?’’
‘‘I think you’ve got a traitor,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Somebody showed Oliver, and Oliver showed Jason. And Captain Obvious and his friends probably knew, too. Jason must have shown them—’’
‘‘Impossible,’’ Amelie interrupted with a flash of impatience. ‘‘My people are beyond suspicion.’’
‘‘Then how did Jason bring a dead girl into Michael’s house without permission? Because you said he’d have to be invited in. And he wasn’t.’’
Amelie froze, and her eyes went cold and flat. ‘‘I see,’’ she said, and then whirled toward the small door that led into the narrow, overstuffed library, and the door that Claire had once used to come in from the university. ‘‘You seem to be proven right. Someone’s coming in. Go, take the doorway. Hurry.’’
Claire opened the door. Beyond it, air rippled, and shifted . . . her living room. A stranger’s house. A quiet white room with a stained-glass window.
‘‘Now!’’ Amelie said sharply. ‘‘That’s the hospital.’’
Claire stepped through. As she looked back, she saw Oliver walk into Myrnin’s lab, look around, and focus on Amelie. Jason was right behind him, grinning, clearly Oliver’s new pet. Or maybe, Oliver’s pet all along.
‘‘Interesting,’’ Oliver said, and then turned his head to look at the open doorway, and Claire. ‘‘And unexpected.’’
She slammed the door between them, heart pounding, and it vanished on her side. That didn’t mean it couldn’t reappear, but at least she was safe for the moment. She didn’t think Amelie would let Oliver follow her.
She hoped.
She flipped pages in the notebooks. Myrnin had clawed them, but only the last one, and only at the back. The rest were intact.
She left the white room and found that she was standing in the hospital’s nondenominational chapel— more of a meditation room than anything else. It was empty, except for one person kneeling near the front.
Jennifer. She scrambled to her feet when she saw Claire, and blurted, ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Her eyes were red, and she sniffled and swiped angrily at her eyes, smearing mascara and ruining what was left of her makeup. She had freckles. Claire had never known that.
‘‘Saving your friend,’’ Claire said. ‘‘I hope.’’
It took three days for the lab to work out a counteragent, but once they did, Monica came off the ventilator within hours. Or so Claire heard from Richard Morrell, who dropped by on Wednesday night, as the four of them—Shane being finally released from the hospital—were sitting down to dinner.
‘‘I’m glad she’s going to be okay,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Richard—I’m sorry. If I’d known—’’
‘‘You’re lucky that stuff didn’t fry you, too,’’ he said, but without any real heat. ‘‘Look, my sister isn’t the best person I’ve ever met, but I love her. Thanks for helping.’’
Claire nodded. Michael was nearby, seeming to be just lounging but, she knew, ready to step in if Richard went postal. Not that Richard would. So far, he was the best-adjusted Morrell she’d met.
‘‘Don’t come by the hospital,’’ Richard continued. ‘‘I’m trying to convince her you weren’t out to kill her. If you show up, I may not be able to keep a lid on things. As it is—’’ He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. ‘‘Just watch your back, Claire.’’
‘‘She doesn’t need to,’’ Eve said, and put her arm around Claire’s shoulders. ‘‘Tell your sister, if she messes with Claire, she messes with all of us.’’
Richard’s expression went deliberately bland. ‘‘I’m sure that’ll terrify her,’’ he said. ‘‘Night, Claire. Eve.’’ He nodded to Michael. Shane hadn’t gotten up from the table, partly because hey, gut wound, but also he wasn’t about to put himself out for any Morrell, even Richard. Claire had the impression Richard was just as happy not to have to make nice.
Claire saw Richard out the door, locked it, and came back to fight over who would get the last taco. Which, of course, turned out to be Shane. ‘‘Wounded!’’ was his new comeback, and it was one they couldn’t really argue with, at least for a couple of weeks. He happily loaded up his plate, and Claire sat back and felt, for the first time in days, a little of the tension relax. Shane was even being civil to Michael again, especially after she’d explained to him how Michael had raced to her rescue. That mattered to Shane, in ways that other things didn’t.
When the knock came on the front door, the four of them froze, and Michael sighed. ‘‘Right. My turn to play doorman, I guess.’’
Claire nabbed some meat off Shane’s plate. He pretend-stabbed her hand, and ended up licking Claire’s fingers for her, one at a time.
‘‘Okay, that’s either gross or hot, but I’m thinking gross, so quit it,’’ Eve said. ‘‘If you’re going to be licking each other, get a room.’’
‘‘Good idea,’’ Shane whispered.
‘‘Wounded!’’ Claire shot back mockingly. ‘‘And anyway, I thought you wanted to play it safe.’’
‘‘Dude, I live in Morganville. How exactly is that playing it safe?’’
Michael came back down the hall with a very odd expression. ‘‘Claire,’’ he said. ‘‘I think you should come.’’
She pushed away from the table and went after him. He opened the door and stepped aside.
Her parents were standing on the step.
‘‘Mom! Dad!’’ Claire threw herself into their arms. It was stupid to be so cheered by the sight of them, but for a second she enjoyed being stupid, through and through.
And then the dread hit her, and she backed up and said, ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Please say you’re dropping something off. Please.
Her mother—dressed in pressed blue jeans and a starched blue work shirt and a Coldwater Creek jacket, even in the heat of summer—looked taken aback. ‘‘We wanted to surprise you,’’ she said. ‘‘Isn’t that all right? Claire, you are only sixteen—’’
‘‘Nearly seventeen,’’ Claire sighed, under her breath.
‘‘And really, we ought to be able to come see you when we want to, to be sure you’re safe and happy.’’ Claire’s mom gave Michael a distracted, nervous smile. ‘‘All right, then, I’ll tell you the truth. We’ve been very worried about you, honey. First you had that trouble in the dorm; then you were attacked and ended up in the hospital—and someone told us about that party.’’
‘‘What?’’ She sent Michael a look, but he looked just as surprised as she felt. ‘‘Who told you?’’
‘‘I don’t know. An e-mail. You know I can never figure those things out; anyway, it was some friend of yours.’’
‘‘Oh,’’ Claire breathed, ‘‘I really don’t think it was. Mom, look, it was—’’
‘‘Don’t tell us it was nothing, honey,’’ her dad cut in. ‘‘I read all about it. Drinking, drugs, fighting, destruction of property. Kids having sex. And you were at this party, weren’t you?’’
‘‘I—no, Dad, not like—’’ She couldn’t lie about it. ‘‘I was there. We were all there. But Shane wasn’t stabbed at the party; it was after, on the way home.’’ She realized as soon as she said it that neither one of them had mentioned anything about Shane. And it was too late to take it back.
‘‘Stabbed?’’ her mother echoed blankly, and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘‘Oh, that is just
it. That’s the last straw!’’
‘‘Let’s talk about all this inside,’’ her father said. He looked so grim now. ‘‘We’ve decided we had to make a change.’’
‘‘A change?’’ Claire echoed.
‘‘We’re moving,’’ he said. ‘‘We bought a nice house on the other side of town. Looks kind of like this one, maybe a little smaller. Even has the same layout to the place, I think. Good thing we did. Clearly, things are much worse than we thought.’’
‘‘You’re—’’ She could not have heard that right. ‘‘Moving here? To this town? You can’t! You can’t move here!’’
‘‘Oh, Claire, I was so hoping you’d be happy,’’ her mom said, in that tone that Claire dreaded. The I’m-so-disappointed-in-you tone. ‘‘We’ve already sold our old house. The truck with the furniture should get here tomorrow. Oh’’—she turned to Claire’s father— ‘‘did we remember to—’’
‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—yes,’’ he rumbled. ‘‘What-ever it is, yes, we remembered.’’
‘‘Well, you don’t have to be—’’
‘‘Mom!’’ Claire interrupted desperately. ‘‘You can’t move here!’’
Michael put his hand on her shoulder. ‘‘Just a second,’’ he said to her parents, and pulled Claire a few feet back. ‘‘Claire, don’t. It’s already too late. If the Council hadn’t wanted them here, they wouldn’t be here, and they wouldn’t have a Founder House. If it looks like this house and has the same layout, that’s what it is, a Founder House. That means Amelie wants it to happen. She probably made it happen.’’
That didn’t exactly make her feel any better. She was shaking all over now. ‘‘But they’re my parents!’’ she whispered fiercely. ‘‘Can’t you do something?’’
He looked grim and shook his head. ‘‘I don’t know. I’ll try. But for now we’d better just make nice, okay?’’
She didn’t want to. She wanted to drag her parents out to their car and make them go.
How could Amelie do this to her? No, that was obvious: it was easy. Her parents were just another way to force Claire to do whatever the vampires needed. And now that she knew so much, now that she was their only hope of working with Myrnin on a cure, they’d never let her go.
‘‘Hello?’’ Claire’s mom called. ‘‘Can we come in?’’
Michael kept his expression blank and friendly. ‘‘Sure. Everybody inside.’’ Because it was getting dark.
Claire’s mom and dad stepped over the threshold. As Michael started to swing the door shut, a third person stopped the door from closing with an open hand and stepped through. Claire had no idea who he was. She’d never seen him before, and she was sure she’d have remembered. He had thick gray hair, a big gray mustache, and huge green eyes behind thick, fifties-style eyeglasses.
Michael froze, and Claire knew instantly that something was very, very wrong.
‘‘Oh,’’ Claire’s mother said, as if she’d forgotten all about him. ‘‘This is Mr. Bishop. We met him on our way into town; his car was broken down.’’
Mr. Bishop smiled and tipped an invisible hat. ‘‘Thank you for the kind invitation to enter your home,’’ he said. His voice was incredibly deep and smooth, with an inflection that sounded like Russian. ‘‘Although I really didn’t require one.’’
Because he was a vampire.
Claire backed slowly away. Michael looked like he couldn’t move at all as Bishop walked into the house.
‘‘I don’t want to upset your nice family,’’ Bishop said in a lower tone, focusing on Claire, ‘‘but if Amelie isn’t here to talk to me in half an hour, I’ll kill everyone breathing in this house.’’
Claire involuntarily looked after her parents, but they were already moving down the hall. They hadn’t heard.
‘‘No,’’ Michael said. ‘‘You won’t touch anyone. This is my house. Get out now, or I’ll have to hurt you.’’
Bishop looked him up and down. ‘‘Nice bark, puppy, but you don’t have the teeth. Get Amelie.’’
‘‘Who are you?’’ Claire whispered. There was menace boiling off this old man like fog. She could almost see it.
‘‘Tell her that her father’s come to visit,’’ he said, and smiled. ‘‘Aren’t family reunions nice?’’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In addition to the Morganville Vampires series, Rachel Caine is the author of the popular Weather Warden series, which includes Ill Wind, Heat Stroke, Chill Factor, Windfall, and Firestorm. Her sixth Weather Warden novel, Thin Air, was released in August 2007, and she is currently at work on the seventh in the series. Rachel and her husband, fantasy artist R. Cat Conrad, live in Texas with their iguanas, Popeye and Darwin, a mali uromastyx named (appropriately) O’Malley, and a leopard tortoise named Shelley (for the poet, of course).
Please visit her Web site: www.rachelcaine.com; and her MySpace: www.myspace.com/rachelcaine.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Praise for the Morganville Vampires series
"An electrifying, enthralling coming-of-age supernatural tale.’’ —The Best Reviews
"A solid, utterly compelling story that you will find addictive and hypnotic. If Rachel Caine is not on your autobuy list, put her there immediately, if not sooner.’’
—The Eternal Night
‘‘Rachel Caine brings her brilliant ability to blend witty dialogue, engaging characters, and an intriguing plot.’’ —Romance Reviews Today
‘‘A rousing horror thriller.’’ —Midwest Book Review
Praise for Rachel Caine’s Weather Warden series
‘‘You’ll never watch the Weather Channel the same way again.’’ —Jim Butcher
‘‘The Weather Warden series is fun reading . . . more engaging than most TV.’’ —Booklist
‘‘A kick-butt heroine who will appeal strongly to fans of Tanya Huff, Kelley Armstrong, and Charlaine Harris.’’ —Romantic Times
‘‘Hugely entertaining.’’ —SF Crowsnest
‘‘A fast-paced thrill ride [that] brings new meaning to stormy weather.’’ —Locus
‘‘An appealing heroine with a wry sense of humor that enlivens even the darkest encounters.’’ —SF Site
‘‘I dare you to put this book down.’’
—University City Review (Philadelphia)
‘‘Rachel Caine takes the Weather Wardens to places the Weather Channel never imagined!’’
—Mary Jo Putney
‘‘A spellbinding . . . thought-provoking, action-packed thriller.’’ —Midwest Book Review
THE MORGANVILLE VAMPIRE NOVELS
Glass Houses
The Dead Girls’ Dance
Midnight Alley
Feast of Fools
NAL Jam
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Copyright © Roxanne Longstreet Conrad, 2008
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To the Time Turners, who keep me moving