The Morganville Vampires

by Rachel Caine

  “Michael,” she said,“please take Claire to your friends. I am sure you would both prefer to be with them now.”

  “But . . .” Claire licked her lips. “Don’t you want me here? To help?”

  “You’ll help when it’s needed,” Amelie said. “For now, you should be elsewhere. We will be bringing in some of my people to remove them from Bishop’s influence. The process can be somewhat unsettling to witness.”

  Oliver made a rude noise as he continued his relentless pacing. “It’s far worse when it fails,” he said. “I hope you’re not fond of this carpet.”

  Amelie ignored that. “Myrnin and Dr. Mills had told me that the work could not continue on the serum without more of Bishop’s blood. Is that correct?” Claire nodded. “Difficult to achieve, I’m afraid, but I will include that in our calculations.”

  “We talked about drugging him.”

  “So Myrnin said.” Amelie wasn’t going to tell her anything. “It’s no longer your concern. I will rely on you and your friends to be in attendance this evening. You should come prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” Claire asked.

  Amelie’s eyebrows rose. “Anything. We are no longer following a plan. We are facing the final moves on the chessboard, and who wins will very much depend on nerve, skill, and the ability to do the unexpected. You may count on my father being ready to do his worst. We must be just as ruthless.”

  Claire thought about that moment in the tunnels, with Frank Collins. She hadn’t felt ruthless at the end. She’d felt sad.

  She didn’t suppose Amelie, Oliver, or any of the rest of them would have hesitated for a second. Frank Collins was a bad guy. He’d been a bad guy as a human, right? But still . . . there was just that one moment when she’d seen him as a man who loved his son.

  Maybe everybody had those moments. Even the worst people.

  Maybe it didn’t matter, except to her.

  The door opened at the far end of the room, and two of Amelie’s favorite vamp bodyguards came in, dragging a beat-up human. At least, Claire thought he was human; it was hard to tell, under all the dirt and bruises.

  Oh. She knew him. It was Jason Rosser, Eve’s crazy-ass brother. He looked like he’d been living in a garbage dump for months—for all Claire knew, he had been. Eve had said he’d been coming by the house, maybe even acting less insane, but right now, Claire couldn’t see it. He looked like a rabid sewer rat, and as he scanned the room, he was all gleaming, crazy eyes and bared teeth.

  When the guards let him go, at a nod from Amelie, Jason lunged for the Founder of Morganville. She didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. She didn’t have to.

  Oliver met him halfway, grabbed Jason by the throat, and slammed him down onto the carpet flat on his back.

  “You see?” Oliver said, and gave Amelie a freakishly calm smile. “You really should have thought about the carpet; you’ll never get the smell of him out of it. Really, Amelie, you do insist on bringing home strays.”

  “I also put them down when necessary,” she said. “This one happens to be yours, Oliver, yes? So I leave him to you for proper judgment.”

  Nobody said a word in protest to that. Not even Claire. Jason was nobody’s friend; Claire would never, ever forget the night he’d almost killed Shane, for nothing. She wasn’t about to speak up on his behalf.

  Oliver stared deep into Jason’s eyes and said, “You deserve to die, you know. Not only for the fact that you reek of guilt; I’m partial to a bit of mayhem now and then. No, you deserve to die because you broke the laws of Morganville without my permission.” Oliver’s smile widened into something out of a bad-clown nightmare. “So what then am I to do with you? You broke your word to Brandon. You broke your word to me. You had the bad taste to betray Amelie, in full public view. You took the side of that ancient reptile Bishop.”

  Jason laughed. It sounded like breaking ice. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “Vamps are getting a break for doing the same thing. I get to die. Perfect. Nothing ever changes around here, does it? If a vampire does it, they can’t help it. If a human does it, they’re lunch meat.”

  Amelie said, “Is there anyone who will speak for him?” Claire knew it was a pro forma kind of question, like, Speak now or forever hold your peace, but she was thinking about Eve. About how she was ever going to tell her that she’d watched her brother die, and hadn’t said a word . . .

  But as it happened, she didn’t have to.

  “I will,” Michael said.

  There was a collective intake of breath. Nobody—Claire included—could quite believe he’d spoken up. It even made Oliver turn and lose his bitch face.

  “Don’t do me no favors, Glass Ass,” Jason snapped.

  “I’m not.” Michael turned to Amelie. “He’s a pathetic little worm, but he’s just a criminal. He deserves to be punished. Not killed like some rabid dog.”

  “He’s a killer,” she said.

  “Well, if he is, he’s not the only one in this room, is he?”

  Amelie showed her teeth briefly in a smile. “Will you take his parole, Michael? Will you put him into your own household and shelter him with those you love?”

  Michael didn’t answer. He wanted to—Claire could see it—but he just . . . couldn’t.

  Finally, he shook his head.

  “If you won’t trust him with those you love, how can I trust him with anyone else’s family?” Amelie said, and nodded to Oliver.

  Claire blurted, “Wait!”

  “May we please have done with interruptions from the children’s section?” Oliver said.

  “Why is he here?” Claire asked, talking so fast that she stumbled over the words. “Why is he here? Who brought him here?”

  “Who cares?”

  Amelie held up a warning hand. “It’s a reasonable question. Who brought him to us?”

  “Nobody,” one of the guards said from the door. “He came through the portal.”

  “What?” Amelie crossed to Jason in a flash, knocked Oliver out of the way, and slammed the boy back against the closest wall. “Tell me how you came to work the portals.”

  “Somebody showed me,” Jason said. “He showed me a lot of things. He showed me how to kill. How to hide. How to get around town without anybody knowing.”

  “Who?”

  Jason laughed. “No way, lady. I’m not telling. That’s all I’ve got left to bargain with, right?”

  Amelie’s face twisted with anger, and she was about two seconds from snapping some bones for him. “Then you have nothing, because I will have it out of you one way or another.”

  Sam Glass, who hadn’t said a thing, slowly rose to his feet. “Amelie. Amelie, stop.”

  “Not until this worm tells me who showed him the portals!”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” Sam said. “I showed him. I showed him everything you showed me.”

  Silence. Even Oliver looked as if he didn’t quite understand what he’d just heard. Amelie stood there like an ivory statue, holding Jason in place with one flattened hand on his chest.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Sam, why would you do such a thing?”

  It felt, to Claire, like suddenly the room was empty and they’d all turned to ghosts, except for Amelie and Sam. There was something so powerful in the stare between them that it just vaporized the rest of the world. “I did the best I could,” he said softly. “You left me no choice. You wouldn’t see me. You wouldn’t speak to me, all those years. I was alone, and I—I wanted to do something good.” He took in a deep breath and walked toward her, coming close enough to touch, although he didn’t reach out. “Jason was a victim. Brandon brutalized him, and no one did anything to stop it. So yes, I taught the boy to fight, to defend himself from Brandon. I taught him to use the portals to help him escape when he needed to get away. I couldn’t stop Brandon, not without you, but I could try to save his victims. I thought I was helping.”

  “Don’t worry, man; I wasn’t going to throw you under the bus.” Jason laughed. �
��Fuck it, you were the only one who was ever good to me. Why should I?”

  “The boy rewarded you by showing my father everything you taught him,” Amelie said softly. She broke the stare with Sam and looked at Jason’s face. “Didn’t you?”

  “It was what I had to trade. You set up the rules, lady. I just followed them.”

  Amelie grabbed Jason by the hair and shoved him at Sam, who caught him in surprise, and then held him when Jason tried to break free. “He’s yours,” she snapped at Sam. “You created this. Deal with it.” She spun to Oliver. “You were right. Bishop does know how to use the network.”

  “Then we can take advantage of that,” Oliver said. “Since he assumes we do not know that he does.”

  They’d effectively dismissed Sam and Jason. Sam stared at Amelie with so much pain in his face that it made Claire hurt to look at it, then shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said, and nodded to Michael and Claire. “All of us. Now.”

  No one tried to stop them. When Jason tried to make one last clever little comment, Sam slapped a hand over his mouth and dragged him out. “Shut up,” he said. “You’re still alive. That’s a better outcome than you deserve.”

  Claire portaled them directly into the Glass House. She breathed an involuntary sigh of relief at finding Shane sitting on the couch, staring at a flickering TV screen like it held the secrets of the universe, and Eve pacing the hallway in her clumpy boots.

  Eve spotted them first, screamed, and threw herself on Claire like a warm Goth blanket. “Oh God, everybody thought you were dead! Or, you know, Bishoped, which would have been worse, right? What happened? Where did you go?”

  Over Eve’s shoulder, Claire saw that Shane had gotten to his feet. “You all right?” he asked. She nodded, and he closed his eyes in sudden relief. Claire patted Eve’s back, in thanks, love, and a little bit of get-the-hell-off-me . Eve got the message. She backed up, sniffling a little, and couldn’t keep a smile from ruining her sad-clown makeup.

  “Sorry about that,” Claire said. “I . . . well. It wasn’t exactly my idea, and I can’t really explain. . . .”

  “But you’re okay. No fang marks or . . . ” Eve’s gaze darted past Claire, and she stopped talking. Stopped moving, too.

  Shane, on the other hand, moved fast, putting himself between Claire and Jason. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “Fuck you too, Collins.”

  “Shut up,” Sam said, and gave Jason a warning shake that must have rattled his bones. “He’s here because I didn’t want to kill him. Any other questions?”

  Eve still wasn’t saying anything. Claire couldn’t blame her; she had the same kind of conflicted emotions passing over her face that Shane had when he thought about his dad. Love/hate/loss. That sucked, when Jason was standing right there. She hadn’t really lost him. Not yet.

  Michael went to her, the same way Shane had gone to Claire—to get between her and her brother. “He’s not welcome here,” Michael said, and that put the force of the Founder House behind it. Claire felt a pressure building, getting ready to evict Jason and—presumably—Sam, if Sam didn’t let go of him.

  “Wait,” Sam said. “You send him out there, he’s dead from all sides, and you know it. Bishop has no use for him, hasn’t since Jason’s assassination attempt failed. Amelie would kill him without blinking. You really want to do that to your girlfriend’s brother?”

  “Michael, don’t,” Eve said. “He won’t hurt us.” And everyone rolled their eyes at that. Even Jason, which was borderline hilarious.

  “Look,” Jason said, “all I want is a way out of this stupid town. You arrange that, and I’ll never show my face around here again. You can keep your stupid hero life-style. I just want out.”

  “Too late,” Shane said. “Last bus already left, man. And we’re thirty minutes away from Bishop’s big town hall meeting. You can run, but you can’t hide. Anybody who isn’t there is dead. He’s going to send out hunters. It’ll be open season.”

  “I could stay here,” Jason said quickly. “Upstairs. In the secret room, right?”

  They all looked at one another.

  “Oh, come on, it’s not like I’m going to run up your phone bill and watch pay-per-view. Besides, if I was going to kill you in your sleep, I would have already done it.” He made a kissy-face at Shane. “Even you, asswipe.”

  “Jesus, Jason.” Eve sighed. “Do you want to end up in the landfill, or what?” She touched Michael on the arm, and he glanced back at her and took her hand. “Can you tell if he lies to us?”

  “Uh, no. Drinking blood doesn’t make me a lie detector.”

  Sam spoke up somberly. “I can.” He shrugged when Michael gave him an odd look. “It’s just a skill. You pick it up, over time. People can’t control their bodies the way vampires can. I can usually tell when they’re lying.”

  “No offense, but you’ve been wrong plenty of times, Sam. Like, deciding that you could trust this little weasel as far as you can throw him,” Michael said, then caught a devastating pleading look from Eve. “All right. Go ahead. Ask him whatever you want.”

  Eve took in a deep breath, looked her brother in the eyes, and said, “Please tell me the truth. Did you kill those girls?”

  Because that had been Jason’s rep. Murdered girls, dumped all over town, a string of killings that had begun right after Jason had gotten out of jail, just about the time Claire had moved to Morganville. One body had been put here in their own house, in an attempt to implicate Shane and Michael.

  Jason blinked, as if he somehow hadn’t really expected her to ask. “The truth?”

  “Of course, the truth, idiot.”

  “I’ve done bad things,” he said. “I’ve hurt people. I need help.”

  Eve’s face fell. “You really did do it.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, Eve.”

  “Never is, is it? I really thought—”

  “He’s lying,” Michael said. He sounded as surprised as Claire felt. “Right, Sam?” Sam nodded. “My God. You really didn’t do it, did you?”

  Jason looked away from them. “Might as well have.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Eve snapped. “Either you did, or you didn’t!”

  “No,” her brother said. “Either I did, I didn’t, or I was there when it happened and didn’t stop it. Figure it out.”

  “Then who—”

  “I’m not saying. People think I’m a killer; they leave me the fuck alone. They think I’m just some sad-ass ride-along clown. They’ll kill me quick.” Jason looked up now, right at Eve, and for the first time, Claire thought he looked sincere. “I never killed anybody. Not on my own, anyway. Well, I came close with you, Collins.”

  “But you won’t tell us who did kill them?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you afraid?” Eve asked, very gently.

  Silence.

  “You know what?” Shane said. “Don’t care. Street him before we wake up with our throats cut by him or his imaginary playmate.”

  And they might have, except that the doorbell rang. Michael flashed to the window and looked out. “Crap. Our ride’s here. We don’t have time for this.”

  “Michael,” Eve said. “Please. Let him stay, at least for now. Please.”

  “All right. Get him upstairs and lock him in. Sam, can you stay with him?

  “No,” Sam said. “I have to go back to Amelie.”

  “We have to leave. Claire, can you shut down the portal that leads here?”

  “I can try, sure.”

  As Sam hustled Jason up the stairs to the second floor, Claire touched the bare wall at the back of the living room, and felt the slightly pliable surface of the portal lying on top of it. It was invisible, but definitely active.

  “Ada,” she whispered, and felt the surface ripple.

  Her phone rang. Claire answered it. No incoming caller ID had appeared on the display, just random numbers and letters. She answered.

  “What?” the computer snap
ped. “I’m busy, you know. I can’t just be at your constant beck and call.”

  “Shut down the portal to the Glass House.”

  “Oh, bother. Do it yourself.”

  “I don’t know how!”

  “I hardly have time to school you,” Ada said primly. God, she reminded Claire of Myrnin—not in a good way. “Very well. I shall do it for you this one time. But you’ll have to turn it on again yourself. And stop calling me!”

  The phone clicked off, and under Claire’s fingers, the surface turned cold and still, like glass.

  Blocked. Quantum stasis, she thought, fascinated, and wondered how that worked, for about the millionth time. She wanted to take Ada apart and figure it out. Yeah, if you live long enough. It had taken Myrnin three hundred years to put Ada together; it might take her that long just to figure out the basic principles he’d used.

  Michael came back into the living room, leading two other vampires—Ysandre, that smug little witch, and her occasional partner François, an equally nasty reject from some Eurotrash vampire melodrama.

  They were walking clichés, but they were also deadly. Claire couldn’t even look at François without remembering how he’d ripped the cross off of her neck and bitten her. She still had the scars—faint, but they’d always be there. And she couldn’t forget how that had felt, either.

  A hot flood of emotion came over her when she saw him smirking at her—hate, fear, loathing, and fury. She knew he could feel it coming off of her in sick waves.

  She also knew he enjoyed it.

  François gave her an elaborate bow and blew her a kiss. “Chérie,” he said. “The exquisite taste of you still lingers in my mouth.”

  Shane’s hands closed into fists. François saw that, too. Claire touched Shane’s arm; his muscles were tensed and hard. “Don’t let him bait you,” she whispered. “I was a snack. Not a date.”

  François closed his eyes and made a point of sniffing the air. “Ah, but you smell so different now,” he said, with elaborate disappointment. “Rich and complex, not simple and pure anymore. Still, I was the first to taste your blood, wasn’t I, little Claire? And you never forget your first.”