Black Dawn tmv-12

by Rachel Caine

  “How long have you been here, Claire?” he asked, in a very different tone. “Almost two years, yes?”

  “Almost.” Her eighteenth birthday was approaching fast. Once, she’d have been so focused on that milestone that nothing else would have mattered, but it almost seemed meaningless now. In every way that could possibly count, she was already adult. In Morganville, you really did grow up fast.

  “I’ve only been here a bit longer than you,” he said. “Did you realize that?”

  She hadn’t really. Oh, she supposed she knew intellectually that Oliver had drifted into town about six months before she’d made it to Texas Prairie University, but he’d seemed such a longtime fixture by then that imagining Morganville without him had been impossible. “What’s your point?”

  “I am as ill-equipped to lead here as you,” he said. “Most vampires came with Amelie, or soon after; a few entered gradually over the long years. But I came to conquer. I came to take my rightful place as the leader of the last of our kind. I came to kill Amelie and destroy this place. And they all know it. It makes my situation somewhat … difficult.”

  She knew it, too—at least she’d always suspected it; by the time she’d arrived there had been a cautious truce between Amelie and Oliver, but they were pretty much equally matched in power and ruthlessness, and Claire had always figured that Oliver had made an attempt to take over at least once before she’d come to town.

  And Amelie, weirdly, had let him live to try again.

  “She’s so very intelligent, and so very cold,” Oliver said. He was no longer exactly talking to Claire, more just … talking. “She knew that forcing me to act as her second-in-command would seem a worse punishment than outright death, and Amelie, above all others, dislikes to do her own violence; queens never dirty their own hands. I was … suited, and after a short time it ceased to be such a shackle dragging on me. She had—has—no reason to trust me. None. But she did, and I was forced to … respect that. And her.” He paused then, and said, “I find myself in the curious position of saving humans. Saving this town. Saving her. These are not instincts that come to me naturally.”

  That was, she supposed, some kind of roundabout apology. She didn’t think she accepted it, mostly, but she did see his point, a little: Oliver wasn’t built, like Amelie, to be a calm, ice-cold ruler. He was a warlord, impatient and brutal, and he had no long-term interest in the little people.

  “So you are right,” he finished, even more quietly. “In order to accomplish these things, I will need the help of humans, and of you and your friends. It galls me, but there is no possibility of success without mortal assistance. Vampires have battled the draug, fled from the draug, and died. But the draug are not used to fighting mortals. You are … unpredictable. And as a general, I will use whatever weapons come to hand to win my battles. Do you understand me?”

  She gave him a small, thin smile. It felt like a cut in her lips. “You’re saying that we’re expendable.”

  “All soldiers are expendable, young or old, vampire or human, and ever have been.” He turned his head a little, as if he’d heard something, and a moment later the door to Amelie’s room opened and Theo Goldman stepped out. They exchanged a look, and Theo shook his head.

  “It won’t go well,” he said. “Her transformation is … under way. She can hold to herself for a while longer, but within another day, two at most, she won’t be the Amelie we know. I can’t stop the poison inside her without destroying her as well. Nothing can. We have to take action before she becomes … what he intends her to be.”

  “But not yet,” Oliver said.

  “Soon. Would you like me to do it? An injection of silver nitrate would be …”

  “A cruel death,” Oliver finished. “And not one due a queen. I’ll care for her when the time comes, you may mark me on it, with a straight, sharp blow.”

  Theo shook his head. He seemed very sad now, Claire thought, but in a grave, distant way … the way doctors were sad about terminal patients. “Be sure you don’t wait too long, Oliver. Now—I must see to Naomi. She took a great risk to find me, and she’s paid a price for ingesting the blood. I shall need a donor of Bishop’s line to help her.”

  “Naomi.” Oliver’s voice was a little too flat. “Save her, then. I care not. Make Amelie comfortable first. That is all I ask of you.”

  Theo nodded, frowning a little. “You’re going to fight the draug, I gather.”

  “It is what she wanted. And in truth, what I want as well.” Oliver’s eyes gleamed a little with red sparks. “Not many good fights left in this sad, pallid world, with its frail, sensitive people. The draug at least do not mewl and whine about a few bruises.”

  “You’ve always been insane,” Theo said. “Insane for your beliefs, insane for power, insane for blood. I suppose that may be what we require now. More insanity.”

  “That may be the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me, Doctor.”

  “I didn’t mean it kindly. Come, Claire. I don’t like leaving you in the company of such a—” Theo stopped, looking at her, and his eyes widened, just a little. She didn’t know why, and then realized that there must have been a mark on her cheek. Maybe not quite a bruise.

  Theo turned back to Oliver. “You struck her.”

  “She was impertinent.”

  “Hit one of them again, and you will answer to me.”

  Oliver smiled. “You terrify me.”

  “I should,” Theo said softly. His eyes glowed with hellfire, just for a moment. “There is nothing more frightening than a medical man willing to inflict pain, Oliver. And I will, should you abuse the power you’ve been given. Or taken.” He took Claire by the arm. “Come. There’s nothing here for you, and we should see to Naomi as quickly as possible.”

  When she and Theo left Amelie’s rooms, Myrnin was standing in the round area with the coffee station, staring at the remaining bits of breakfast on the trays and frowning as if he couldn’t quite work out what to do with the cup and saucer in his hand.

  I’m in vampire central, Claire thought. She wasn’t used to being constantly surrounded by the nonbreathing sort of people; most of the time it was just her, Shane, Eve … and she never really thought of Michael as a vampire, much. Myrnin was familiar, but she never forgot how sharp his fangs were, either. She was with Theo, had just come from Oliver, and now there was Myrnin, and she was starting to feel a little like a hamburger at a dieters’ convention. Nobody was likely to snack on her, but absolutely everybody noticed she was edible.

  Myrnin was, not surprisingly, dressed weirdly. Well, not weirdly for him, but Theo’s old-fashioned suit jacket and pants were positively wallpaper by comparison. Myrnin had dragged out the Hawaiian shirts again; today’s was neon yellow, with palm trees and surfboards. He was also wearing baggy knee-length shorts, which left his legs looking … pale. Very, very pale.

  He’d actually matched the whole thing with sandals this time, instead of bunny slippers, which indicated a certain razor-sharp focus in his thinking, the coffee confusion notwithstanding. He set the cup and saucer down empty with a rattle as his gaze focused on Claire.

  “How is Amelie?” he asked, moving from her to Theo. “Oh, and hello, glad you’re not dead, Doctor.”

  “Likewise,” Theo said pleasantly. “But she is not well, my friend. As you no doubt already know.”

  “You were up all night,” Claire said. “I saw the weapons room. How long did all that take you?”

  Myrnin flipped a hand impatiently, pushing the whole question, and her concern, aside. “Weapons are simple,” he said. “I’ve set up a workshop for them, and I’ve put Amelie’s bully boys to work, as well as a few human … volunteers, from the prisons. We have more important concerns than that, if we are to save ourselves. Defense alone won’t work. We need to launch an offensive operation.”

  Myrnin was talking like a soldier. Myrnin. Claire looked at him doubtfully. “Have you, ah, talked to Oliver?”

  “Yes,” Myrnin sa
id. “He thinks I am insane.”

  That did not bode well, not at all. “Ah … okay. Let me … get back to you.”

  He put his hand on her arm and said very seriously, “I am not exaggerating when I tell you that if we do not take a more aggressive and scientific approach to this problem, we lose the rest of the town, and we will all die. Do you understand me? We cannot hold here unless we plan our moves now, in detail.”

  “And Oliver’s not giving you help, if things are that bad?”

  “Oliver has his own concerns, and just now those revolve around Amelie. While I have no such constraints, dear as she may be to me. Gather your friends and I will show you why I have such concerns. Please.” He turned to Theo then. “And you, good doctor, could be quite the asset as well.”

  But Theo was already shaking his head. “Quite impossible,” he said. “Naomi is very ill, and I must see to her immediately. Dragoon someone else, Myrnin.” He walked to one of the guards who had just entered the room—it was Billy Idol—and they exchanged words. Billy Idol pointed a spike-braceleted arm down one of the spoke hallways, and Theo left without a backward glance.

  “Claire? Please.”

  When Myrnin asked like that, with those dark, puppy-dog eyes pleading his case, she couldn’t really do much except nod. “I’ll find them,” she said, “and then you’re going to explain this. In detail. And you’d better not be wasting our time.”

  “True, there is no time to waste,” he agreed, and picked up his cup and saucer again. “There is a shocking lack of tea in this array of choices, do you realize that? Also, the carafe of type O is quite empty.”

  Claire gave him a wordless stare and headed for the door.

  “But the AB is still warm. Lovely.”

  Claire shuddered and reached for the knob of the door, but it twisted before she touched it, and opened to admit Shane. “Hey,” he said, and the warmth she felt at his brief smile was out of all proportion to the moment. “Where’s Theo? Naomi’s looking pretty bad.”

  “He just headed that way,” she said.

  His dark gaze stayed on hers. “And Amelie?”

  “They wouldn’t let me see her,” Claire said. “Which I think we both know means she’s not doing all that well.”

  He nodded slowly, his face settling into grim, hard-edged lines. “Oliver takes over, we’re long-term screwed, you know that. Maybe we win against the draug, but what happens then? He’s old-school vamp, with old-school ideas about how humans ought to behave.”

  She couldn’t really dispute that, not at all, and it gave her a sick, rolling feeling in her stomach. She hoped that Shane couldn’t see where Oliver had hit her, because if he did, the human/vampire war wouldn’t even be that far off. But luckily, he didn’t see it—or if he did, he must have assumed it was due to all their running, jumping, and fighting the night before. Not unreasonably.

  “Where are your friends?” Myrnin asked, as he sipped on whatever blood type was in his coffee cup. “Michael and Shreve.”

  “Eve.”

  “Yes, yes, that one.” He flipped a hand impatiently. “Get them.”

  “Eve’s not here,” Shane said. When Claire sent him a startled look, he shrugged. “I asked. She took about a dozen vampires, got Oliver’s approval, and went out to set up weapons caches at different places around town. She’s not back yet.”

  “Did Michael go with her?”

  He didn’t say anything, but she knew all too well what that meant—even before Michael came walking in, looking rumpled, tired, and about as depressed as she’d ever seen him. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he walked over to the center table and tested the carafes.

  “That’s AB,” Myrnin said helpfully. “It’s still warm. Oh, and there’s a hint of sweetness in it. High triglycerides. I think the donor needed a bit of medication.”

  “Are you high?” Michael asked him, in a totally colorless voice.

  Myrnin blinked, and looked at Claire for help. “He means, are you on drugs.”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “More than usual?”

  “Oh. No, no, just the usual doses. And where is Shreve?”

  “Eve,” they all said in unison, and exchanged a look. Well, Shane and Claire did, and Michael made a fast-aborted effort at it. Shane licked his lips and continued, “She’s out.”

  “Of the building?” Michael asked, still in that same nothing voice.

  “Yeah. She’s got escorts, though.” That sounded weak, even from Shane, and he clearly didn’t know where to take it from there. “I mean, I’m sure she’s okay and everything.”

  Michael just nodded. He looked tight and grim, and he sipped his cup of blood as if he really didn’t want it at all. Myrnin looked from him to the others, eyebrows going up and down as if he was about to blurt out a question that none of them wanted to answer, and then shrugged. “Very well,” he said, “evidently there is some difficulty that I really don’t care about, and is no doubt quite dramatic. Does anyone else care for coffee?”

  Claire glanced at the red-stained cups he and Theo had left, and shuddered. “No, thanks.”

  Shane clearly decided a change of subject was in order. He turned his most harassed expression on Michael. “Bro,” he said, in an injured tone, “I had to go out with a flamethrower, and you weren’t there to see it.”

  “Pics or it didn’t happen.”

  “Dude, little busy for pics. You know, throwing flame.”

  That earned a glance up, and a brief grin, and some of the tension leaked out of Michael’s body language … but not all. And the grin didn’t last. “Wish I’d been there,” he said, with a clear implication of anywhere but here. Which did not, again, bode well for the whole deal with Eve.

  Myrnin rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough of this. Follow me.” He immediately set off at a rapid, though not vampire-quick, walk down yet another hallway, identical to all the others; Claire fell in with Shane, behind Michael.

  “What the hell are we into now?” Shane asked her.

  “Nothing good,” she replied. “But then, that kind of describes our day, right?”

  “Speak for yourself. It describes my whole life.” He reached out and took her in his arms, a sudden and unexpected crush that drove her breath right away. “Except for you.” He kissed her, and despite everything, despite the hurry and the vampires and the draug and the doom hanging over them, it felt like sunlight shining right through her skin, melting her bones into soft, pliable gold. It couldn’t have lasted long, that kiss, but it felt eternal to her, as if it might echo forever. “I can handle anything now.”

  “Well,” she whispered with their lips still touching, “as long as you have a flamethrower.”

  He laughed, and let go … but kept hold of her hand.

  Myrnin led them into a room that had obviously started life as another ballroom … but in the course of what could have been only hours, or at most a day, he had managed to transform it into a chaotic mess that reminded Claire strongly of his original laboratory. Books were stacked, scattered, and dropped everywhere, some open to a possibly important reference, or maybe just opened at random. He’d dragged furniture in to improvise work space, with limited success, and he’d taken the shades off the elegant lamps to let the bright incandescent bulbs glare freely. The room smelled strongly of oil and metal, and … burned hair?

  Myrnin strode across the deep maroon carpet (now liberally smudged with spots of dirt, oil, and who knew what else) to what had once been a giant sideboard, except that he’d ripped it away from the wall and shoved it into the middle of the room. It held about a dozen books, scraps of metal, bars of silver, and nails; he swept the whole thing clean with one dramatic gesture and then unfurled a set of blueprints across the lavish marble top—already stained from at least one chemical spill.

  It was a map of Morganville. A standard-issue civilian kind of map, but there was a clear plastic overlay on it, marked with careful, precise handwriting and colored dots—Myrnin’s writing, th
ough far more controlled than Claire had ever seen it. The entire side of town from the border up to the TPU gates had been colored in flat black, simply marking it out.

  Draug territory.

  “Now,” he said, and set random pieces of junk at the four corners of the map to hold it open. “Obviously, we’re here.” He pointed to a red dot overlay on the building at Founder’s Square. “This is the police perimeter around us.” A solid red line, as precisely drawn as with a compass. “This is the outer ring of our defenses.” Another ring, but this one of individual red dots, spread evenly. It reached as far as Lot Street, where the Glass House—their home—sat empty. “There is nothing within this circle that has not been drained of standing water, or salted with silver if we couldn’t drain it, so the draug cannot get here easily.”

  “The rain—,” Shane began, but Myrnin cut him off.

  “They can use the rain only when it is heavy and constant, and even then it’s a risk; by spreading themselves so thin, they lose many parts into the dry soil. It’s a bit of a kamikaze attack, to put it in human terms, and they dare not employ that method to attack us here, in our stronghold; there’s no catch basin for them to use that hasn’t been treated and prepared against them. But our problem is outside of this circle.” He tapped the other two-thirds of the town, where black dots and puddles of dark ink marred the surface. “I’ve tracked all the reports I could find. Claire, you said the draug came after you just now, correct?”

  She nodded. “Came after Theo and Naomi, probably. But there were a lot of them.”

  “Not so many now,” Shane said, and yeah, that was smug. “Flamethrower.”

  “Still, worrisome,” Myrnin said, and marked the map where Shane pointed. “That is far out of the area that Oliver predicted they would occupy. Could you hear the singing?”

  “Naomi had that noise cancellation device, but Theo—” Claire’s throat closed up on the words, but she forced them out anyway. “Theo had needles in his ears. To keep himself from hearing.”

  Myrnin’s eyebrows climbed again, and he tapped the marker against his lips. “An interesting tactic. Perhaps one we should think about as emergency equipment to be issued to all personnel.”