by Rachel Caine
Monica kept on frowning, but she didn’t seem inclined to argue with Hannah. Nobody did, Claire noticed. The former marine had an air about her, a confidence that somehow didn’t come off at all like arrogance.
“Great,” Monica finally said. “Wonderful. Like I needed another problem. By the way, Claire, your house really sucks ass. I hate it here.”
It was Claire’s turn to smile this time. “It probably hates you right back. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she said. “You’re a natural leader, right?”
“Oh, bite it. Someday, your boyfriend won’t be around to—” Monica widened her eyes. “Oh, snap! He’s isn’t around, is he? Won’t be back, ever. Remind me to send flowers for the funeral.”
Eve grabbed the back of Claire’s shirt. “Whoa, Mini-Me, chill out. We’ve got to get moving. Much as I’d like to see the cage match, we’re kind of on a schedule.”
The hot crimson haze disappeared from Claire’s eyes, and she took in a breath and nodded. Her muscles were aching. She realized she’d managed to clench just about every muscle, iron-hard, and tried to relax. Her hands twinged when she stretched them out of fists.
“See you soon,” Monica said, and shut the door on them. “Wait, probably not, loser. And your clothes are pathetic, by the way!”
That last part came muffled, but clear—as clear as the sound of the locks snapping into place.
“Let’s go,” Hannah said, and herded them off the porch and down the walk toward the white picket fence.
Walking on the street, heading vaguely north, was a vampire. “Oh, crap,” Eve said, alarmed, but the vamp didn’t seem to care about them, or even know they were there. He was wearing a police uniform, and Claire remembered him; he’d been riding with Richard Morrell, from time to time. Didn’t seem like a bad guy, apart from the whole vampire thing. “That’s Officer O’Malley. Hey! Hey, Officer! Wait up!”
He ignored them and kept walking.
Claire looked east. The sun’s golden glow was heating up the sky, fast. It wasn’t over the horizon yet, but it would be in a matter of seconds, minutes at most. “We’ve got to get him,” she said. “Get him inside somewhere.”
“And do what, babysit him the rest of the day? O’Malley’s not like Myrnin,” Eve said. “You can’t stake him. He’s not that old. Seventy, eighty, something like that. He’s only a little older than Sam.”
“We could run him over,” Hannah said. “It wouldn’t kill him.”
Eve sent her a wide-eyed look. “Excuse me? With my car?”
“You’re asking for something nonlethal. That’s all I’ve got right now. The three of us aren’t any kind of match for a vampire who wants to get somewhere, if he fights us.”
Claire took off running toward the vampire, ignoring their shouts. She looked back. Hannah was after her, and gaining.
She still got to Officer O’Malley first, and skidded into his path.
He paused for a second, his green eyes focusing on her, and then he reached out and moved her aside. Gently, but firmly.
And he kept on walking.
“You have to get inside!” Claire yelled, and got in front of him again. “Sir, you have to! Right now! Please!”
He moved her again, this time without as much care. He didn’t say a word.
“Oh, God,” Hannah said. “Too late.”
The sun came up in a fiery burst, and the first rays of sunlight hit the parked cars, Eve’s standing figure, the houses . . . and Officer O’Malley’s back.
“Get a blanket!” Claire screamed. She could see the smoke curling off him, like morning mist. “Do something!”
Eve ran to get something from the car. Hannah grabbed Claire and pulled her out of his way.
Officer O’Malley kept walking. The sun kept rising, brighter and brighter, and within three or four steps, the smoke rising up from him turned to flames.
In ten more steps, he fell down.
Eve ran up breathlessly, a blanket clutched in both hands. “Help me get it over him!”
They threw the fabric over Officer O’Malley, but instead of smothering the flames, it just caught fire, too.
Hannah pulled Claire back as she tried to pat out the flames. “Don’t,” she said. “It’s too late.”
Claire turned toward Hannah in a raw fury, struggling to get free. “We can still—”
“No, we can’t,” Hannah said. “There’s not a damn thing we can do for him. He’s dying, Claire. You tried your best, but he’s dying. And he’s not going to take our help. Look, he’s still trying to crawl. He’s not stopping.”
She was right, but it hurt, and in the end, Claire wrapped her arms around Hannah for comfort and turned away.
When she finally looked back, Officer O’Malley was a pile of ash and smoke and burned blanket.
“Michael,” Claire whispered. She looked at the sun. “We have to find Michael!”
Hannah went very still for a second, and then nodded. “Let’s go.”
7
The gates of the university were shut, locked, and there were paramilitary-style men posted at the gates, all in black. Armed. Eve coasted the big car slowly up to them and rolled down the window.
“Delivery for Michael Glass,” she called. “Or Richard Morrell.”
The guard who leaned in was huge, tough, and intimidating—until he saw Hannah in the backseat, and then he grinned like a kid with a new puppy. “Hannah Montana!”
She looked deeply pained. “Don’t ever call me that again, Jessup, or I will gut you.”
“Get out and make me stop, Smiley. Yeah, I heard you were back. How were the marines?”
“Better than the damn rangers.”
“Don’t you just wish?” He lost the smile and got serious again. “Sorry, H, orders are orders. Who sent you? Who’s with you?”
“Oliver sent me. You probably know Eve Rosser—that’s Claire Danvers.”
“Really? Huh. Thought she’d be bigger. Hey, Eve. Sorry, didn’t recognize you right off. Long time, no see.” Jessup nodded to the other guard, who slung his rifle and pressed in a key code at the panel on the stone fence. The big iron gates slowly parted. “You be careful, Hannah. This town’s the Af-Pak border all over again right now.”
Inside, except for the guards patrolling the fence, Texas Prairie University seemed eerily normal. The birds sang to the rising sun, and there were students out—students!—heading to class as if there were nothing wrong at all. They were chatting, laughing, running to make the cross-campus early-morning bell.
“What the hell?” Eve said. Claire was glad she wasn’t the only one freaked out by it. “I know they had orders to keep things low profile, but damn, this is ridiculous. Where’s the dean’s office?”
Claire pointed. Eve steered the car around the winding curves, past dorms and lecture halls, and pulled it to a stop on the nearly deserted lot in front of the Administration Building. There were two police cruisers there, and a bunch of black Jeeps. Not a lot of civilian cars in the lot.
As they walked up the steps to the building, Claire realized there were two more guards outside of the main door. Hannah didn’t know these guys, but she repeated their names and credentials, and after a brief, impersonal search, they were allowed inside.
The last time Claire had been here she’d been adding and dropping classes, and the building had been full of grumpy bureaucrats and anxious students, all moving at a hectic pace. Now it was very quiet. A few people were at their desks, but there were no students Claire could see, and the TPU employees looked either bored or nervous. Most of the activity seemed centered down the carpeted hall, which was hung with formal portraits of the former university deans and notables.
One or two of the former deans, Claire was just now realizing, might have been vampires, from the pallor of their skins. Or maybe they were just old white guys. Hard to say.
At the end of the hallway they found not a guard, but a secretary—just as tough as any of the armed men outside, though. She sat behind an expensive-loo
king antique desk that had not a speck of dust on it, and nothing else except a piece of paper centered exactly in the middle, a pen at right angles to it, and a fancy, black multiline telephone. No computer that Claire could spot—no, there it was, hidden away in a roll-out credenza to the side.
The room was lushly carpeted, so much so that Claire’s feet sank into the depth at least an inch; it was like walking on foam. Solid, dark wood paneling. Paintings and dim lights. The windows were covered with fancy velvet curtains, and there was music playing—classical, of course. Claire couldn’t imagine anybody would ever switch the station to rock. Not here.
“I’m Ms. Nance,” the woman said, and stood to offer her hand to each of them in turn; she didn’t even hesitate with Eve, who intimidated most people. She was a tall, thin, gray woman dressed in a tailored gray suit with a lighter gray blouse under the jacket. Gray hair curled into exact waves. Claire couldn’t see her shoes, but she bet they were fashionable, gray, and yet somehow sensible. “I’m the secretary to Dean Wallace. Do you have an appointment?”
Eve said, “I need to see Michael.”
“I’m sorry? I don’t think I know that person.”
Eve’s expression froze, and Claire could see the horrible dread in her eyes.
Hannah, seeing it too, said, “Let’s cut the crap, Ms. Nance. Where’s Michael Glass?”
Ms. Nance’s eyes narrowed. They were pale blue, not as pale as Amelie’s, but kind of faded, like jeans left in the sun. “Mr. Glass is in conference with the dean,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to—”
The door at the far end of her office opened, and Michael came out. Claire’s heart practically melted with relief. He’s okay. Michael’s okay.
Except that he closed the door and walked straight past them, a man on a mission.
He walked right past Eve, who stood there flat-footed, mouth open, fear dawning in her expression.
“Michael!” Claire yelped. He didn’t even pause. “We have to stop him!”
“Great,” Hannah said, and the three of them took off in pursuit.
It helped that Michael wasn’t actually running, just moving with a purpose. Claire and Eve edged by him in the hall and blocked his path.
His blue eyes were wide-open, but he just didn’t see them. He sensed an obstacle, at least, and paused.
“Michael,” Claire said. Dammit, why couldn’t I have tranquilizers? Why? “Michael, you can’t go out there. It’s already morning. You’ll die.”
“He’s not listening,” Hannah said. And she was right; he wasn’t. He tried to push between them, but Eve put a hand in the center of his chest and held him back.
“Michael? It’s me. You know me, don’t you? Please?”
He stared at her with utterly blank eyes, and then shoved her out of his way. Hard.
Hannah sent Claire a quick, commanding look. “Get help. Now. I’ll try to hold him.”
Claire hesitated, but Hannah was without any doubt better equipped to handle a potentially hostile Michael than she was. She turned and ran, past startled desk jockeys and coffee-bearing civil servants, and slid to a stop in front of one of the black-uniformed soldiers. “Richard Morrell,” she blurted. “I need him. Right now.”
The soldier didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and said, “Admin to Morrell.”
“Morrell, go.”
The soldier unclipped the radio and silently offered it to Claire. She took it—it was heavier than the walkie-talkies—and pressed the button to talk. “Richard? It’s Claire. We have a big problem. We need to stop Michael and anybody else . . .” How could she say vampire without actually saying it? “Anybody else with a sun allergy from going outside.”
“Why the hell would they be—”
“I don’t know! They just are!” The image of Officer O’Malley on fire leaped into her mind, and she caught her breath on a sob. “Help us. They’re going out in the sun.”
“Give the radio back,” he ordered. She handed it to the black-uniformed man. “I need you to go with this girl and help her. No questions.”
“Yes sir.” He clicked off the radio and looked down at Claire. “After you.”
She led the way back toward the hallway. As they reached it, there was a crash of glass, and Hannah came flying out to land flat on her back, blinking.
Michael walked over her. Eve was hauling on his arm, trying to hold him back, but he shook her off.
“We can’t let him get outside!” Claire said. She tried to grab him, but it was like grabbing a freight train. She’d forgotten how strong he was now.
“Out of the way,” the soldier said, and pulled a handgun from a holster at his side.
“No, don’t—”
The bureaucrats scattered, hiding under their desks, dropping their coffee to hug the carpet.
The soldier sighted on Michael’s chest, and fired three times in quick succession. Instead of the loud bangs Claire had been expecting, there were soft compressed-air coughs.
And three darts feathered Michael’s chest, clustered above his heart.
He still took three steps toward the soldier before collapsing in slow motion to his knees, and then onto his face.
“All clear,” the soldier said. He took hold of Michael, turned him over, and yanked out the darts. “He’ll be under for about an hour, probably no longer than that. Let’s get him to the dean’s office.”
Hannah wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth, coughed, and rolled to her feet. She and Eve helped Claire grab Michael’s shoulders and feet, and they carried him down the hallway, past paintings that were going to need some major repair and reframing, past splintered panels and broken glass, into Ms. Nance’s office.
Ms. Nance took one look at them and moved smartly to the door marked with a discreet brass plaque that said DEAN WALLACE. She rapped and opened the door for them to carry Michael through.
Dean Wallace was a woman, which was kind of a surprise to Claire. She’d been expecting a pudgy, middle-aged man; this Dean Wallace was tall, graceful, thin, and a whole lot younger than Claire would have imagined. She had straight brown hair worn long around her shoulders, and a simple black suit that was almost the negative image of Ms. Nance’s, only somehow less formal. It looked . . . lived in.
Dean Wallace’s lips parted, but she didn’t ask a question. She checked herself, then nodded at the leather couch on the far side of the room, across from her massive desk. “Right, put him there.” She had a British accent, too. Definitely not a Texas girl. “What happened?”
“Whatever it is, it’s happening all over,” Hannah said as they arranged Michael’s unconscious body on the sofa. “They’re just taking off. It’s like they don’t even know or care the sun’s up. Some kind of homing signal just gets switched on.”
Dean Wallace thought for a second, then pressed a button on her desk. “Ms. Nance? I need a bulletin to go out through the emergency communication system. All vampires on campus should be immediately restrained or tranquilized. No exceptions. This is priority one.” She frowned as she got the acknowledgment, and looked up at their little group. “Michael seemed very rational, and there was no warning this would happen. I just thought he had somewhere to go. He didn’t seem odd, at least at first.”
“How many other vampires on campus?” Hannah asked.
“Some professors of course, but they’re mostly not here at the moment, since they teach at night. No students, obviously. Apart from the ones Michael and Richard brought in, we have perhaps five in total on the grounds. More were here earlier, but they headed for shelter before sunrise, off campus.” Dean Wallace seemed calm, even in the face of all this. “You’re Claire Danvers?”
“Yes ma’am,” she said, and shook the hand Dean Wallace offered her.
“I had a talk with your Patron recently regarding your progress. Despite your—challenges, you have done excellent course work.”
It was stupid to feel pleased about that, but Claire couldn’t help it
. She felt herself blush, and shook her head. “I don’t think that matters very much right now.”
“On the contrary, it matters a great deal, I believe.”
Eve settled herself down next to the sofa, holding Michael’s limp hand. She looked shattered. Hannah leaned against the wall and nodded to the soldier as he exited the office. “So,” she said, “want to explain to me how you can have half the U.S. Army walking the perimeter and not have massive student panic?”
“We’ve told all students and their parents that the university is cooperating in a government emergency drill, and of course that all weapons are nonlethal. Which is quite true, so far as it goes. The issue of keeping students on campus is a bit trickier, but we’ve managed so far by linking it to the emergency drills. Can’t go on for long, though. The local kids are already well informed, and it’s only a matter of time before the out-of-town students begin to realize that we’re having them on when they can’t get word out to their friends and relatives. We’re filtering all Internet and phone access, of course.” Dean Wallace shook her head. “But that’s my problem, not yours, and yours is much more pressing. We can’t knock out every vampire in town, and we can’t keep them knocked out in any case.”
“Not enough happy juice in the world,” Hannah agreed. “We need to either stop this at its source, or get the heck out of their way.”
There was a soft knock on the door, and Ms. Nance stepped in. “Richard Morrell,” she announced, and moved aside for him.
Claire stared. Monica’s brother looked like about fifty miles of bad road—exhausted, red-eyed, pale, running on caffeine and adrenaline. Just like the rest of them, she supposed. As Ms. Nance quietly closed the door behind him, Richard strode forward, staring at Michael’s limp body. “Is he out?” His voice sounded rough, too, as if he’d been yelling. A lot.
“Sleeping the sleep of the just,” Hannah said. “Or the just drugged, anyway. Claire. Radio.”
Oh. She’d forgotten about the backpack still slung over her shoulder. She quickly took out the last radio and handed it over, explaining what it was for. Richard nodded.
“I think this calls for a strategy meeting,” he said, and pulled up a chair next to the couch. Hannah and Claire took seats as well, but Eve stayed where she was, by Michael, as if she didn’t want to leave him even for a moment.