The Morganville Vampires

by Rachel Caine

‘‘We got a tip,’’ Hess continued, ‘‘that you’d gone berserk and were trying to kill your friends. But since I see they’re all standing here alive and well, I’m guessing little Jason is the real problem.’’

  Richard came back, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Clearly, he didn’t like touching Jason, either. ‘‘Did he break in?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Shane said. ‘‘He pulled a gun on us and grabbed Claire at the back door. He was trying to drive away with her. Michael stopped him.’’

  Michael, Claire realized as her heartbeat started to slow, had also been shot six times in the chest at point-blank range. His loose white shirt had the blackened ragged holes to prove it, each one rimmed with a thin outline of red. She remembered Myrnin swiping the knife carelessly down his arm, laying open veins and arteries and muscles just to get a blood sample.

  She couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t look like there was a mark on Michael’s chest under the shirt, and he wasn’t moving like a man with bullets buried inside. Not even one in shock.

  Wow.

  ‘‘What did he want?’’ Detective Hess asked. ‘‘Did he say?’’

  ‘‘He said he wanted to talk to me,’’ Claire said. That much was true, but she didn’t want to drag Oliver into this. It was enough of a mess already. ‘‘I think he really did want to. He just knew he wouldn’t be able to do it here. I don’t—I don’t think he really meant to hurt me.’’ This time.

  Shane was looking at her like she’d grown a second head, one with serious brain damage. ‘‘It’s Jason. Of course he meant to hurt you! Wasn’t the gun pointed at your head a clue?’’

  He was right, of course, but—she’d seen the look in Jason’s eyes, and it hadn’t been the predatory glee she’d seen before when he was playing his little sadistic games. This had been flat-out desperation. She couldn’t explain it, but she believed Jason.

  This time.

  Shane was still watching her with a frown. So was Michael. ‘‘Are you all right?’’ Shane asked, and folded his arms around her. The warm weight of his body pressed against hers, and she realized just how cold she felt. She was shivering, and her knees felt weak underneath her. I could collapse, she realized. And he’d catch me.

  But she stayed on her own two feet, pulled back, and looked him in the eyes.

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she said. She kissed him. ‘‘Everything’s fine.’’

  9

  Eve hadn’t said a word, but she’d allowed Michael to take her back inside once the cops had pulled away; she’d taken only one look at her brother as he’d been hauled off in handcuffs, but that had been enough. On top of the shock of her father’s death, and the trouble with Michael, Eve didn’t seem to have any emotion left to spare.

  Through common consent, none of them went to bed. They didn’t eat. The four of them crammed onto the couch, grateful for the warmth and the company, and put on a movie. A scary one, as it turned out, but Claire was glad to focus on someone else’s problems for a change. Being hunted by a city full of zombies might have seemed like a relief in some ways—at least you knew whom to run from, and whom to run toward. She lay with her head on Shane’s chest, listening more to him breathe than to the characters babbling at one another. His hand kept a slow, steady rhythm on her hair, stroking all her tension and fear away.

  Eve and Michael didn’t cuddle, but after a while, he put his arm around her and pulled her closer, and she didn’t resist.

  By the time the DVD menu came on after the credits, they were all sound asleep, and trouble was far, far away.

  Fridays were usually good days, classwise; even most of the professors were in better moods.

  Not this Friday, though. There was a weird tension in the air, along with the increasingly chilly bite to the wind. Her first professor of the day had lost his temper over a cell phone going off, and reduced some sophomore sorority girl to tears before exiling her from the class with a flat-out failing grade. Her second class didn’t go much better; the TA had a headache, maybe a hangover, and was grumpy as hell—too much to bother slowing down as he sped through the lecture, or to answer any questions.

  The only good thing about her third hour was that she was confident it would be over in under an hour. Professor Anderson had widely advertised today’s supposedly pop quiz; only a complete coma patient wouldn’t know to come prepared. Anderson was one of those professors—the ones who gave you plenty of chances, but the test was The Test, full stop. He gave only two a year, and if you didn’t do well on both of them, you were screwed. He had a reputation for being a nice guy who smiled a lot, but he’d never yet allowed anybody extra-credit work, or so Claire had heard.

  The history majors liked to call his class Andersonville, which was a not very funny reference to the Civil War prison camp. Claire had studied her brains out, and she was absolutely sure that she would ace the test, and have extra time left over.

  She stopped off in the restroom, since she was a little early, and carefully balanced her backpack against the wall of the bathroom stall as she did her business. She was going over dates and events in her head when she heard a soft, muffled laugh from near the sinks. Something about it made her freeze—it wasn’t innocent, that laugh. There was something weird about it.

  ‘‘I hear there’s a test in Andersonville today,’’ a voice said. A familiar one. It was Monica Morrell. ‘‘Hey, does this color look okay?’’

  ‘‘Nice,’’ Gina said, fulfilling her job as Affirmation Friend #1. ‘‘Is that the new winter red?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, it’s supposed to shimmer. Is it shimmering? ’’

  ‘‘Oh yeah.’’

  Claire flushed the toilet, grabbed her backpack, and braced herself for impact. She tried to look as if she didn’t care a bit that Monica, Gina, and Jennifer were occupying three out of the four sinks in the bathroom. Or that the rest of the place was deserted.

  Monica was touching up her hooker-red lipstick, blowing kisses at her reflection. Claire kept her eyes straight ahead. Get the soap. Turn on the water. Wash—

  ‘‘Hey, freak, you’re in Andersonville, right?’’

  Claire nodded. She scrubbed, rinsed, and reached for the paper towels.

  Jennifer snagged her backpack and pulled it out of her reach.

  ‘‘Hey!’’ Claire grabbed for her stuff, but Jennifer dodged out of her way, and then Monica took hold of her wrist and snapped something cold and metallic around it. For a crazy second Claire thought, She’s switched bracelets with me. Now I’m Oliver’s property. . . .

  But it was the cold metal of a handcuff, and Monica bent down and fastened the other end to the metal post on the bottom of the nearest bathroom stall.

  ‘‘Well,’’ she said as she stepped back and put her hands on her hips, ‘‘I guess you’ll be finding out just how tough the little general can be, Claire. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’re so smart, you’ll just fill in those test answers by the power of your mind or something. ’’

  Claire yanked uselessly at the handcuffs, even though she knew that was stupid; she wasn’t going anywhere. She kicked the bathroom stall. It was tough enough to stand up to generations of college students; her frustration wasn’t going to make a dent.

  ‘‘Give me the key!’’ she yelled. Monica dangled it in front of her—small, silver, and unreachable.

  ‘‘This key?’’ Monica tossed it into the toilet in the first stall and flushed. ‘‘Oops. Wow, that’s a shame. You wait here. I’ll get help!’’

  They all laughed. Jennifer contemptuously shoved her backpack across the floor to her. ‘‘Here,’’ Jennifer said. ‘‘You might want to cram for the test or something.’’

  Claire grimly opened her backpack and began looking for something, anything she could use as a lock-pick. Not that she knew the first thing about picking locks, exactly, but she could learn. She had to learn. She barely looked up as the three girls exited the restroom, still laughing.

  Her choices were a couple of paper clips, a bobby
pin, and the power of her fury, which unfortunately couldn’t melt metal. Only her brain.

  Claire took the cell phone out of her pocket and considered her choices. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Eve or Shane had experience with handcuffs—and getting out of them—but she wasn’t sure she wanted to endure the questions, either.

  She called the Morganville Police Department, and asked for Richard Morrell. After a short delay, she was put through to his patrol car.

  ‘‘It’s Claire Danvers,’’ she said. ‘‘I—need some help.’’

  ‘‘What kind of help?’’

  ‘‘Your sister kind of—handcuffed me in a bathroom. And I have a test. I don’t have a key. I was hoping you—’’

  ‘‘Look, I’m sorry, but I’m heading to a domestic-disturbance call. It’s going to take me about an hour to get over there. I don’t know what you said to Monica, but if you just—’’

  ‘‘What, apologize?’’ Claire snapped. ‘‘I didn’t say anything. She ambushed me, and she flushed the key, and I have to get to class!’’

  Richard’s sigh rattled the phone. ‘‘I’ll get there as fast as I can.’’

  He hung up. Claire set to work with the bobby pin, and watched the minutes crawl by. Tick, tock, there went her grade in Andersonville.

  By the time Richard Morrell showed up with a handcuff key to let her loose, the classroom was dark. Claire ran the whole way to Professor Anderson’s office, and felt a burst of relief when she saw that his door was open. He had to give her a break.

  He was talking to another student whose back was to Claire; she paused in the doorway, trembling and gasping for breath, and got a frown from Professor Anderson. ‘‘Yes?’’ He was young, but his blond hair was already thinning on top. He had a habit of wearing sport jackets that a man twice his age would have liked; maybe he thought the tweed and leather patches made people take him seriously.

  Claire didn’t care what he looked like. She cared that he had the authority to assign grades.

  ‘‘Sir, hi, Claire Danvers, I’m in—’’

  ‘‘I know who you are, Claire. You missed the test.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I—’’

  ‘‘I don’t accept excuses except in the case of death or serious illness.’’ He looked her over. ‘‘I don’t see any signs of either of those.’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  The other student was watching her now, with a malicious light in her eyes. Claire didn’t know her, but she had on a silver bracelet, and Claire was willing to bet that she was one of Monica’s near and dear sorority girls. Glossy dark hair cut in a bleeding-edge style, perfect makeup. Clothes that reeked of credit card abuse.

  ‘‘Professor,’’ the girl said, and whispered something to him. His eyes widened. The girl gathered up her books and left, giving Claire a wide berth.

  ‘‘Sir, I really didn’t—it wasn’t my fault—’’

  ‘‘From what I just heard, it was very much your fault,’’ Anderson said. ‘‘She said you were asleep out in the common room. She said she passed you on the way to class.’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t! I was—’’

  ‘‘I don’t care where you were, Claire. I care where you weren’t, namely, at your desk at the appointed time, taking my test. Now please go.’’

  ‘‘I was handcuffed!’’

  He looked briefly thrown by that, but shook his head. ‘‘I’m not interested in sorority pranks. If you work hard the rest of the semester, you might still be able to pull out a passing grade. Unless you’d like to drop the class. I think you still have a day or two to make that decision.’’

  He just wasn’t listening. And, Claire realized, he wasn’t going to listen. He didn’t really care about her problems. He didn’t really care about her.

  She stared at him for a few seconds in silence, trying to find some empathy in him, but all she saw was self-absorbed annoyance.

  ‘‘Good day, Miss Danvers,’’ he said, and sat down at his desk. Pointedly ignoring her.

  Claire bit back words that probably would have gotten her expelled, and skipped the rest of her classes to go home.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, a clock was ticking. Counting down to Bishop’s masked ball.

  There was one comforting thing about the theory of complete apocalypse: at least it meant she wouldn’t have to fail any classes.

  Just when she thought her Friday couldn’t get any worse, visitors dropped by the house at dinnertime.

  Claire peered out the peephole, and saw dark, curling hair. A wicked smile.

  ‘‘Better invite me in,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘Because you know I’ll just go hurt your neighbors until you do.’’

  ‘‘Michael!’’ Claire yelled. He was in the living room, working out some new songs, but she heard the music stop. He was at her side before the echoes died. ‘‘It’s her. Ysandre. What should I do?’’

  Michael opened the door and faced her. She smiled at him. François was with her, both of them sleek and smug and so arrogant it made Claire’s teeth itch.

  ‘‘I want to talk to Shane,’’ Ysandre said.

  ‘‘Then you’re going to be disappointed.’’

  François raised his eyebrows, reached down, and pulled a bound human form from the bushes on the side of the steps. Claire gasped.

  It was Miranda, looking completely terrified. Tied hand and foot, and gagged.

  ‘‘Let’s put it another way,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘You can let us in to talk, or we have our dinner alfresco, right here on your veranda.’’

  There was absolutely no right answer to that, Claire thought, and saw Michael struggle with it, too. He let the silence stretch for so long that Claire was really afraid Miranda would be killed—François seemed glad to have the chance—but then Michael nodded. ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘Come in.’’

  ‘‘Why, thank you, honey,’’ Ysandre said, and strolled in. François dropped Miranda on the wooden hallway floor and followed her. Claire knelt next to the girl and untied her hands.

  ‘‘Are you okay?’’ she whispered. Miranda nodded, eyes as big as saucers. ‘‘Get out of here. Run home. Go.’’

  Miranda stripped off the ropes around her ankles, scrambled up, and escaped.

  Claire shut the door and hurried to the living room.

  François had shoved Michael’s guitar out of the way and taken the chair. Ysandre sat on the couch, as comfortable as if she owned the world and everything in it. ‘‘How kind of you to ask us in, Michael. I didn’t think we got off to a very good beginning. I want to start over.’’

  François laughed. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said. ‘‘We should be friends, Michael. And you shouldn’t be living with cattle.’’

  ‘‘Is this all you have? Because if it is, I think we’re all done.’’

  ‘‘Oh, not quite,’’ Ysandre said.

  ‘‘They’re making dinner,’’ François said. ‘‘That’s ironic, don’t you think? When they let ours go.’’

  ‘‘These humans, all they do is eat,’’ Ysandre said. ‘‘No wonder they’re all fat and lazy.’’

  Shane came out of the kitchen. He wasn’t surprised, Claire saw; he must have heard them. ‘‘You’re not invited, ’’ Shane said. Ysandre kissed her lips toward him.

  ‘‘Oh, Shane, I really don’t care whether I am or not, and you aren’t anywhere near powerful enough to make me leave,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s Friday, my love. You received the costume I want you to wear for tomorrow?’’

  Shane nodded unwillingly, like his neck had frozen stiff. His eyes were more than a little crazy.

  ‘‘You need to go,’’ Claire said to Ysandre, with a bravado she really didn’t feel.

  ‘‘What do you think, Michael? Do I?’’ Ysandre locked gazes with him, and there was something awful in her eyes. ‘‘Do I have to go?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘Stay.’’

  Claire gaped.

  They make you feel things. Do things, whe
ther you want to do them or not. Shane had said it, but Claire hadn’t imagined that they could do it to other vampires. Even one as young and inexperienced as Michael.

  "Michael!"

  He didn’t look at her. He seemed completely caught in the web of Ysandre’s attraction.

  Claire dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She hesitated over the address book.

  ‘‘Deciding who to call for help?’’ François yanked the cell phone out of her hands and threw it across the room. ‘‘Amelie won’t thank you for distracting her from all her preparations. She’s busy, busy, busy, making sure everything goes just right to welcome our beloved father properly.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you ought to ask Michael what to do,’’ Ysandre said, and laughed, showing fang. She pronounced it like Michelle. ‘‘I’m sure he’ll help dispatch us. So fierce, isn’t he?’’

  Michael’s eyes were slowly turning crimson.

  They can make you feel things. Do things.

  ‘‘Shane,’’ Claire said. ‘‘We need to get out of here. Now.’’

  ‘‘I’m not leaving Michael.’’

  ‘‘Michael’s the problem.’’

  Ysandre laughed. ‘‘You really are clever, ma chérie.’’

  François snapped his fingers in front of Michael’s face. ‘‘Dinner’s ready.’’

  Michael opened his mouth and snarled. Full fangs.

  And he turned and fixed his gaze on Claire.

  ‘‘Oh, crap,’’ Shane breathed. He grabbed Claire’s arm. ‘‘Kitchen!’’

  They retreated. Shane shoved the table against the swinging door, for all the good it would do, and they backed up toward the rear door.

  Claire opened the refrigerator and took Michael’s last two sealed bottles out of the back of the refrigerator. Have to tell Michael to pick up more, she thought, and how weird was that? Running short of blood was getting as normal as needing Coke or butter.

  She was gibbering in her head, that was it. And yet, oddly calm.

  Michael burst into the room and headed straight for them.

  Claire stepped into his path, held out a bottle, and said, ‘‘You’re not one of them. You’re one of us. One of us, and we love you.’’