by Rachel Caine
Amelie’s office, without its usual complement of guards, was halfway down the next hall, or at least that was the door that Myrnin was in the act of kicking open. It took several attempts, which must have meant that Amelie had built her security against vampires, not humans—sensible, really. Before Claire reached him, Myrnin had beaten the locks, and the heavy wooden door splintered open with a crash. “Faster would be better,” he said, “given that her guards are not fully off duty, and they may not appreciate that I took dire measures, even with permission. They have to fix the doors eventually, you know.”
He zipped inside, kicked open Amelie’s inner sanctum door with a few more violent blows, and by the time Claire got there he was at the desk, ripping open another (locked) drawer and removing a black box.
He hissed and dropped it on the desktop in surprise. His fingers looked burned—in fact, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming from them. But it was a black box, not …
Claire picked it up, or tried to. It was very heavy. When she scratched it with her thumbnail, the paint peeled off and bright metal was revealed.
Silver.
“Locked,” she said. “Do you have the key?”
“Cherub, do I look like I have any keys to anything in this room? The doors I just knocked down would argue against that, I’d think. Here.” He snatched up a letter opener—steel, not silver—and set it against the lock. “Hold the box still.”
She did, and he hit the letter opener sharply on the end with the heel of his hand, and it drove into the lock and snapped it. Claire folded back the hinged top and said, “Oh, no.”
Because there were literally dozens of keys in the box, and not a one of them was labeled. They had colored tags, but that didn’t mean anything to her or, she could tell, to Myrnin. He shook his head and said, “Bring the box. Damnation, I believe her security is coming.” He glared at her injured right hand, then took hold of a heavy velvet curtain over the window and ripped it down. It didn’t make the room that much lighter, since darkness was falling fast. Myrnin smothered the box in the thick velvet and scooped it up. “Well? What are you waiting for? Run!”
She didn’t know what they were really running from, and wasn’t in any mood to find out. She’d memorized turns this time—right out the door, down the hall, left, then another left—and then she spotted the vampire guards at the end of the long stretch of corridor.
And her friends, waiting.
“Why is there a bloody towel on your hand?” Shane demanded, and then he spotted Myrnin behind her. “Maybe that question’s for you, asshole. What happened?”
“She touched something she shouldn’t have, and we don’t have time for this. Here.” Myrnin shoved the curtain-swaddled box at Eve, who yelped at how heavy it was. Michael took it from her. “It’s full of keys. Find the ones we need. Careful of the silver, there’s a good lad.” He didn’t pause, just hurried on with Michael and Eve in his wake. “To the garage!”
That left Shane still holding Claire. He didn’t let go. “What happened to your hand?” he asked. “Because if it was him—”
“It wasn’t.” Well, that was debatable, but she wasn’t about to tell Shane; there was enough tension between him and Myrnin already. “It was Amelie. She’s turning into … one of them. The draug.” She stripped off the towel and showed him her hand, and the red pinpricks of bite—or stings—that covered her fingers. He winced. “We don’t have much time to save her.”
“If we can,” he said, and lifted her injured hand to his lips. His kiss felt so good that it washed relief all the way through her. “I know you. You’re going to try like hell to make everything right again.”
“Hell’s what’s coming,” she said. “I’m just trying to avoid it. Come on.”
As soon as the elevator doors opened, they heard the sound of an engine coughing, catching, and taking up a heavy thrumming idle. Shane cocked his head in that direction. “That’s our cue,” he said. “You ready?”
“No.” She laughed a little, and he kissed her, and she just wanted that, more of that and less of the blood and terror. Morganville had always been bad, but this had to get better. It had to.
But first, she strongly suspected, it was going to get worse.
Driving inside an armored truck was boring, Claire found. She’d gotten the shotgun seat, which was useless even though she actually had a shotgun, because the windows were vampire tinted and she couldn’t see a thing. Michael drove in silence, with an occasional muttered “Sorry” when the heavy truck hit a bump. It wasn’t made for bumps. At all. The three in the back were getting bounced around like mad—no, two of them, Eve and Shane. Myrnin had taken the only seat, the one as plush as a throne, with a safety harness. It had obviously been built for Amelie. There were hanging straps for, well, hangers-on, and Shane and Eve were clinging to them, not that it helped much.
“I think I may puke,” Shane called up, which was met by a chorus that he’d better not. He wasn’t serious, at least. Or Claire hoped he wasn’t. “You could fill this thing up with water and detergent and spin clothes in it. Does it even have shocks?”
“Stop complaining,” Myrnin said, sitting perfectly comfortably in his velvet-covered seat. “It is the most protected vehicle you could possibly wish to be inside. It is bulletproof, lightproof, and most important, waterproof, although if you could please not put that to the test by driving it into any deep ponds I would appreciate it.”
Michael looked sideways at Claire and said, “Could you please see if you can get him to shut up before Shane punches him, or I do?”
“Myrnin,” she said wearily, “just shut up.”
“You wound me.”
“Not yet, but keep it up.”
Myrnin didn’t answer that, but his smirk, which Claire glimpsed over her shoulder, was enough to make her want to smack him anyway. He was clearly feeling better.
The bouncing slowed to a crawl, finally, and Michael said, “I can see the treatment plant up ahead. The gates are shut. Do you want me to run it?”
“Yes. The less time we spend on foot, the better,” Myrnin said. “Run the gate by all means, and take us as near as you can to the main entrance. No discussion once we arrive, we simply move, and everyone must know their jobs. Michael, you and Eve will stay behind to lock the vehicle; we don’t want any unpleasantly moist surprises waiting for us when we get back. Once it’s locked, you go in and to the second floor on the north side. There are clearly marked manual valve control panels at the end of the hall; shut them all down and evacuate back to the vehicle immediately. Yours is the shortest distance, so you should get back to the truck the fastest. That is why you will have the keys.”
“What if something happens? Are these the only keys?”
“Yes,” Myrnin said, “so don’t let anything happen, by all means. I should deeply prefer not to have to rescue anyone on this particular outing. Shane, you and Claire will take the manual valve controls on the second floor, on the south side. You have a greater distance to go, so you should do the same as Michael and Eve—shut down the valves and run back for the van.”
“And what about you?” Claire asked.
“I will be in the center of the first floor, main control room at the far east end of the building. I will be there to disable the start-up panels and program the system to reverse the flow of the pipes. That process is going to take the longest.”
Shane raised his hand. “Uh, question?”
“Yes?”
“You didn’t design this plant, did you? It’s not made out of—I don’t know, cow entrails and flywheels or anything?”
Myrnin gave him a cool, blank look and said, “In fact this was built by an engineering firm from Houston, I believe. In the 1950s. There is a sad lack of entrails, cow or otherwise. Are you finished?”
“Suppose so.” Shane shrugged. “Hey, is it okay if I wear the flamethrower this time?”
“Can anybody stop you?” Myrnin asked. “By all means.”
Shane
grinned and put the straps on, lifting the contraption onto his back and checking the ignition flame to be sure it turned on. “Good to go.”
“Hold on,” Michael said, and pressed the accelerator. Shane and Eve yelped and clung to their panic straps with both hands. Claire felt that they were hurtling through space blindly, and she fought an urge to yell at him to slow down because she couldn’t see, but he could, and then there was a shudder, the truck thumped hard, and he did hit the brakes to bring them to a skidding stop.
The sudden silence lasted only an instant before Myrnin bellowed, “Move, now!” and lunged with vampiric speed, throwing open the back doors. Shane scrambled out after him and swung Eve down just as Michael stepped out of the driver’s side and Claire got out on the passenger’s side. Michael locked up the doors from the electronic key fob and handed it to Eve.
“You hang on to the keys,” he said. “Insurance.”
She gave him a curious look, but at least it wasn’t angry anymore. Just … conflicted. Then the two of them ran after Myrnin, who had already disappeared inside.
Shane took Claire’s hand in his. The water treatment plant was a sprawling mass of concrete, pipes, and shadows, and nothing was moving.
Overhead, thunder rumbled, and it seemed that the clouds were growing thicker. No rain yet, but it was coming. Could the draug actually push the clouds? Make them go where they wanted? That seemed impossible, but then, the thought of something able to break itself apart into individual drops and reform was impossible in itself.
“Stay with me,” Shane said, and she nodded. The weight of her shotgun was heavy in her right hand, but it didn’t slow her down any as they ran after their friends, into the dark.
The water treatment plant had a horrible smell to it, rotten eggs mixed with vomit, and Claire hadn’t expected that. Her eyes teared up, and she coughed and choked and made a completely useless fanning motion in front of her nose, as if the stench was something she could wave off. Shane seemed wretched, too, but stoic about it. “Burst pipe, probably,” he said. “Raw sewage. Try not to breathe too deep, but keep breathing. You’ll get used to it.”
“The not-breathing-deep part is easy,” she said. “This is really gross.”
“Did I ever tell you I worked trash and dead animal pickup? One of the many glamorous jobs I’ve held in Morganville. Not everybody can be a rock star or a mad scientist vampire assistant. Somebody has to clean up the crap. In my case, literally.”
The lights were on in the plant, but they seemed dim and discolored somehow, and they flickered from time to time. The electrical grid wasn’t too stable, Claire guessed, or else the place was running on emergency power. She felt for the small LED flash that she’d clipped to the belt loop of her jeans—still there. It wasn’t super bright, but it would help. Eve had brought some monster aluminum-cased thing that could double for a baseball bat, of course; she’d also blinged it up with Swarovski crystals, but that was just Eve. Always finding a fun use for the glue gun that nature never intended.
There were stairs going up and down. “Second floor,” Shane said, and she nodded. They went up fast but quietly, and as they reached the landing of the second floor, Claire heard something that sounded like a distant gush of water through pipes, and then the lights just … failed. Then they struggled back on, flickering badly.
“Not good,” Shane said. “Come on. This way.”
The hallway was long, straight, and uncomplicated, except that the pipes running overhead had developed leaks … some slow drips, some silvery (or brown) streams of water that had created thick pools on the floor. The smell was stronger here. Right, Claire thought. Avoid brown water at all costs. Not that the apparently clear water would be safer; it was just less disgusting.
“Hang back,” Shane said, and unhooked the nozzle from the pack on his back. He thumbed the ignition switch on the side, and the blue pilot flame wicked on, hissing slightly. “Fire in the hole!”
And he unleashed an incredibly dense stream of flame that rolled over the puddles, steaming them into a boil. When he took his finger off the trigger and the flames died, Claire blinked to bring her eyes back to pre-flamethrower focus, and looked for any sign of the draug.
Nothing. The way seemed clear.
“Go!” she said, and ran forward. Shane matched her. He had the nozzle still at the ready and the pilot light burning, but they didn’t need it after all; apart from splashes, the pools of water didn’t produce any evil beings, grab at their feet, or do anything at all. They raced breathless to the end of the hall, and Claire pointed at a panel of switches marked with red signs on their right. MANUAL VALVE SHUTOFF CONTROL, it read. USE ONLY IN AUTHORIZED EMERGENCY.
“I think this qualifies,” Shane said. The valves were covered with glass panels, but there was a handy little hammer hanging from a chain, and he used it to shatter all of the panes, one after another. “You start from that end. I’ll take this one.”
That was an okay plan until Claire tried to turn the valve—it was big, heavy, and, most important, hadn’t been moved (probably) since they’d stuck the glass over it in the 1950s. She tried, but it just wasn’t happening. Shane was managing his first one, with difficulty, but Shane had about ten times her upper-body strength.
She threaded her shotgun through the spokes on the valve and used it as a lever, careful to keep her hands far away from the trigger mechanism. With a deep, metallic groan that vibrated up through the floor, the valve started to turn. As it spun, it got a little easier, and she tightened it off, took the shotgun out, and moved to the next one.
“Claire,” Shane said.
“Almost got it!” She gritted her teeth and threw her shoulders into it, and the second valve squealed as rust flaked free.
“Claire!”
She looked up this time, and saw that he was facing away from her, down the hallway. The expression on his face … she didn’t want to look.
But she had to.
The draug were approaching in utter silence, gliding through the metal halls like ghosts. Identical men, all gray and indistinguishable and yet so very wrong, rippling and boneless.
There must have been twenty of them coming their way.
“Get behind me,” Shane said.
“I’m not done!” She threw herself into moving the valve again, the last one, and more rust flaked as the metal screamed and turned, inch by grudging inch. Her hands slipped, slick with sweat, and then Shane was shouldering her aside and grabbing the makeshift lever of the shotgun and applying his own strength to it. It turned another half circle, and jammed tight.
“That’s it, we’re boned,” he said, and pulled the shotgun out to hand it to her. She almost dropped it, but got it under control and pointed it at the approaching draug. Tight into her shoulder. She was already badly bruised there, but a few more hematomas were a small price to pay. She looked silently at Shane, and he stepped forward, gripping the nozzle of the flamethrower. He pressed the ignition button, and when the blue flame leaped into life, he grinned fiercely.
“I love this job,” he said, and he probably would have added something else to that, something witty and funny, but before he could, the draug closest to him flung out its hand, which stretched impossibly far and turned into water, clear and formless, and hit the nozzle with a wet, sizzling slap.
It drowned out the ignition flame.
Shane looked down, shocked, and hit the button again. Then again. He got a clicking sound, but no pilot light.
“Fuck,” he whispered, but he didn’t waste time on regrets; he just holstered the nozzle and grabbed the shotgun from the rig on his back. “Claire, stairs. Now.”
She was already on it. Over her shoulder was the dim light of an exit sign, with the reassuring figure of a little stick man walking down steps. She backed up toward it and it looked clear … but the hallway had looked clear when they’d come that way, too. The draug were more than nasty—they were clever. Really clever.
She kicked the door open,
and saw nothing. Again. No choice, really; the draug were steadily advancing toward them now, and Shane was saving his shotgun blasts to make them count. Between the two of them they could take out maybe half of the draug that were facing them. Retreat was the only option.
“Come on!” she shouted, and plunged down the first six steps. At the halfway point, where the stairs turned, she looked back. Shane had backed through the door, and now he unloaded one ear-shattering blast from his shotgun, jumped in, and slammed the door. Then he hit the quick-release button on the flamethrower. Its heavy weight clanged to the metal floor, and he grabbed the loose nozzle and jammed it through the door handle to hold it shut. It wouldn’t stop the draug for long, if it stopped them at all, but he’d done what he could.
He was coming down toward her when she heard the sound … like water through pipes, but different this time. Closer. Echoing.
And she saw the wave flood down the steps from the next floor up, thick and murky.
It hit Shane in the back and knocked him off his feet. Then, instead of continuing to fall down the steps as gravity demanded, it just … stopped, formed a thick, trembling bubble, and consumed him.
He floated in the liquid, as if it had more density than real water. He was thrashing, but he couldn’t get leverage.
“No!” Claire screamed, and lifted her shotgun, but there was nothing she could do; firing at it was firing at him, and she couldn’t, couldn’t.
More fluid rushed down the steps toward her, and she saw his face through the distorted lens of the liquid drowning him, saw the fear and the rage and the horror, and she saw him say something. Maybe it was her name.
Maybe it was just run.
She ran.
The liquid snaked after her, more like tentacles than a wave now, grabbing and reaching for her as she flung herself forward and around the corner of the stairwell. Shane wasn’t in the way now, and she fired wildly up at the thing. The noise slammed her like a physical blow, and the hammer of the shotgun hit her shoulder with brutal force. She hardly felt it, because the real pain was inside, where she was screaming Shane’s name.