Last Breath tmv-11

by Rachel Caine

  Convincing Michael and Eve of her continued existence was more difficult than Claire had expected.

  “Oh, come on, dude, you were a ghost when I moved in here!” Shane said. They were standing downstairs in the dusty parlor, with Claire floating unseen in the corner (which, by the way, really needed vacuuming). “Totally missing during the day. And you don’t believe that I just saw her?”

  “Shane—” Eve stepped forward, hands outstretched, looking distressed but determined. “Sweetie, you really have to understand that you’re under a lot of stress—”

  “Oh, you didn’t just call me sweetie. Eve, it’s me. Shane. You’ve called me a lot of things, but sweetie? Knock it off.” He swung around toward Michael again, who had his arms folded, head down. “Seriously, can you not just believe me? Because it’s true. I can hear her!”

  “I don’t hear her. And it’s after sunset. If she’s been saved by the house, why isn’t she here?”

  Shane took in a deep, calming breath. “She is,” he said. “Claire, help me out, here. Say something. Do something.”

  “They can’t hear me,” she said. She’d been trying everything, but whatever power had zipped for her at sunset had been temporary; she couldn’t make them understand, and even with all her concentration she couldn’t touch physical objects anymore, much less tip something over. “I don’t have enough power, I guess. But you can hear me, and that’s what’s important. Keep believing, Shane. Please.”

  Michael was talking over her. “Look, man, I want to believe you. I do. I’d be happy if there was anything left of her, even a ghost . . . but she’s not here. It’s my house. I’d know.”

  “Bullshit!” Claire shouted, and Shane laughed.

  “She just called bullshit,” he said, when Eve and Michael both gave him worried looks. “Honest. She did.”

  “I’m—really spooked about you, honey,” Eve said slowly. “Seriously, you can’t hear her. You can’t.”

  “Because she’s dead? Don’t call me honey, or baby, or sweetie, or chocolate-covered marshmallow doughnuts, or whatever the code-word-for-crazy phrase of the day is, because I am not making this up!” Shane shouted it this time. “She stopped me—” He paused, course-corrected, and said, “She knocked over that damn yellow cat thing in her room. I asked her to do it, and she did.”

  “Maybe you should get some rest,” Michael said.

  “Maybe you should stop treating me like I have brain damage! Look, for once, just trust me. You know how much it makes me want to vomit to say this, but Myrnin was right. The house saved her—it’s just that she’s not as strong as you were, or the connection’s not there, or something. I know she’s here.”

  Michael stared at him, a frown forming on his forehead, and as Eve started to say something, he reached out and silenced her with a hand on her arm. “Wait,” he said. “What time was this?”

  “I can hear her now, man.”

  “When you saw her. When she knocked over the cat.”

  Shane thought about it a moment, then said, “Sunset. Around then. It was already dark in her room.”

  “Sunset,” Michael repeated. “You’re sure.”

  Shane shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly watching the clock, but yeah, I think so.”

  “What?” Eve asked. She sank down into one of the faded parlor chairs and stared up at him with a mixture of dread and hope. “What is it?”

  “Sunset was when I manifested in physical form,” Michael said. “Maybe—if he’s right—that’s when Claire can make herself known. A little. Shane, you’re sure—”

  “If you ask me if I’m imagining it again, I’m going to punch you out, Dead Man Walking.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows and glanced at Eve. “He doesn’t sound crazy.”

  “Er,” she clarified, “crazier. He sounds like he’s back to normal, which is baseline crazy.”

  “Says the girl dressed up in formal Goth mourning,” Shane said. “Seriously, who buys a black lace veil? You keep that on hand for special occasions, like prom and kids’ birthdays?”

  Claire felt a laugh bubbling up. This . . . this was what she’d wanted. Life. Normal life, even if she wasn’t connected the way she had been.

  That’s next. I’ll make it back. I have to make it back.

  Eve swept back the filmy net covering that had been over her face. “Excuse me, but my best friend just died, right here in our house! And you’re mocking me?”

  “She’s not gone, Eve. And that is one cracked-out fashion statement, even for you.”

  Michael wasn’t getting sidetracked, Claire realized. He was still watching Shane, and even if he believed, he was still wary. “You said she stopped you. From doing what?”

  Shane’s body language changed. His shoulders squared, and hunched forward a little, as if he was protecting himself from an attack. “Nothing.”

  Michael knew; Claire could see it. He’d known Shane a long time; he’d seen him hit bottom even before Claire had met the boy. He’d been there when Shane had been dragged out of his burning house, screaming for his sister.

  If anybody could guess what Shane had been about to do, it was Michael, and from his expression, Shane knew that, too.

  “You’re not going to do nothing again, are you?” Michael asked. “Because if you are, come talk to me. Please.”

  Shane nodded, one short jerk.

  “What?” Eve asked, mystified.

  Shane changed the subject, fast. “Claire? Look, can you try again? See if you can make some noise. Anything.”

  It was almost midnight, and Claire was heartily sick of trying, but she concentrated, again, and pushed at the dusty vase sitting on the even-dustier table nearby.

  It shivered, just a little.

  Just enough to make a soft scraping sound.

  Eve cried out and jumped out of her chair, staring at the vase; she’d been the closest to it. “Did you hear it?” she asked. She picked up the vase and put it back down. “It moved. I heard it!”

  “Eve, chill,” Michael said. “If she did move it, that wasn’t much. It means she’s really weak, if that’s the best she can do even at night.”

  “And?” Shane asked. He took a step forward. “What?”

  Michael shook his head. He picked up the vase, ran his fingers over the dusty surface, and put it back down. “Claire, if you can hear me, do it again. Try.”

  She concentrated so hard it felt like she might collapse into a tiny white dot, like a dying star, and the vase shivered and rocked. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

  Michael steadied it, and smiled. A real, warm smile of relief. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and said, “Thank you.”

  “I was right, wasn’t I?” Eve suddenly shrieked and jumped like a cheerleader, waving her hands in the air. The black mourning veil floated in the air behind her like a cloud. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  “Excuse me, you were right? I’ve been yelling at you guys for half an hour while you gave me the sad eyes and counseling!” Shane shouted back, but he was grinning now. He ran at Michael and hugged him fiercely, then Eve, catching her in midair as she squealed in delight. He spun her around. “She’s here. She’s really here!”

  Claire wanted to collapse on the couch, but being insubstantial, collapsing was sort of theoretical. She settled for hovering close to it, and moved quickly as Shane threw himself in a relieved, boneless slouch on that end of the cushions. He covered his face with his hands for a moment. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright with tears. “She’s here,” he said again, more softly. “Thank you, God.”

  “Claire? Do it again, with the vase,” Eve said. She knelt down and stared intently at it. “Go on, do it!”

  She reached deep again, but there wasn’t anything left, really . . . and then she felt a dim, whispered trickle of power. Of course. The house had power, loads of it. She might not be a Glass, but she was something to it—it had saved her. And if she was careful, maybe she could siphon off just a little..
..

  She could actually see the power running through the boards and beams now, a close-knit cage of light. There, right in the middle, was a particularly bright, pulsing thread, like . . . well, like a blood vessel.

  She touched it and got a shock, a small one, not the kind that hurt, but a feeling of stability and warmth.

  Then her fingers sank into the flow of power, and the vase flew off the table and bashed into the wall and shattered into pieces, and Eve gasped and fell back, staring. She shot to her feet and did a victory dance. “Yes! Yes, that’s my girl!”

  Claire felt a ripple of power, and when she looked back, Hiram Glass was standing behind her. “Stop,” he said. “Take your hands off that. Now.”

  She did, and the sudden removal of that surge of energy left her feeling even weaker and less real than before. Claire felt all the joy in her melt away, even while her Glass House family was celebrating.

  Hiram was angry.

  “You stupid, stupid creature,” he hissed. “Don’t ever touch my lifeblood again. Do you understand? You are not a Glass. You don’t belong here, no matter what the house thinks. It’s a dumb beast. A pet. It has no intelligence. I say who lives and dies, not the house, and I don’t choose to help you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She hoped Shane couldn’t hear her now—or hear the dread in her voice. There was something awful about Hiram now, something cold and black and violent. “I didn’t mean—”

  Hiram gave her a vicious, dry smile. “You won’t last,” he said. “You’re already beginning to feel it. You’re like the afterimage of the sun—a ghost, burned in for a moment, but after a few blinks it’s gone. The house might have saved you temporarily, but you’re just a memory without my help. And memories fade, Claire. They fade.”

  No, that couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. She looked at Shane, laughing, knuckle-bumping Michael. Eve was twirling in delight, catching Michael in her arms and kissing him.

  This couldn’t be temporary. It just couldn’t.

  Hiram gave her another bitter little smile when she said it, shrugged, and rippled into nothing.

  He didn’t even bother to convince her.

  That, more than anything else, made her sickly sure he wasn’t lying.

  Nobody slept. Claire couldn’t move objects anymore, no matter how hard she tried, and the effort exhausted her—but ghosts, apparently, didn’t need unconsciousness like humans did. She stayed awake, drifting, watching as her friends broke out the cherished stash of Shiner and each had a beer in celebration.

  “This is weird,” Shane said, swigging one as Michael popped the cap on his own. “I mean, seriously. She died today. We should be—”

  “She’s not dead,” Michael said. “And we’ll get her back. You convinced me, man.” He held up his hand, and Shane high-fived it. “But we need Myrnin. He’s the one who said he could do it.”

  “I have his cell number,” Eve volunteered. “Claire gave it to me. We could call?”

  “Phones are out,” Michael reminded her. She looked crushed. “I’ll have to go get him.”

  “What about the portal thingie? Can you go through—Wait.” Eve turned to Shane, frowning. “You went through, didn’t you? How’d you do that?”

  Shane shrugged. “Don’t know exactly. I’m not sure I could do it again.”

  “Okay, Michael?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the right stuff, I guess. I’ve tried. Even if I get it to open, it’s just black. Congrats, butthead; you can do something I can’t.”

  “I’ll add it to the list,” Shane said loftily. “So, you want me to give it a shot?”

  “It won’t do any good,” Claire said. She had to concentrate harder than before, and she wasn’t sure Shane heard her, so she repeated it. He jerked and looked off into empty air, not remotely close to where she was floating. “Myrnin’s not there. Amelie has him at Founder’s Square.”

  “Say that again,” Shane said. “Something about Myrnin?”

  She composed herself and tried again. It was getting harder. Maybe that was just because Hiram had spooked her so hard, but she didn’t think so. “Myrnin’s at Founder’s Square,” she said again, very distinctly. She looked at the hot, burning lattice of power that ran through the walls of the Glass House with real longing, but she didn’t dare try to touch it again. Hiram would know.

  “Founder’s Square.” Shane had shut his eyes to listen, and now he opened them and looked over at Michael. “Claire says he’s at Founder’s Square.”

  Michael tipped the bottle and drank about half of it in three long gulps, then put it down. “I can’t take the easy way,” he said. “I have to go in person, get him, and bring him back.”

  “But—what if he won’t come?” Eve said, wide-eyed, as she anxiously turned her unsipped beer in her hands. “Michael, what if Amelie won’t let you come back, either? Don’t go. I have a wicked bad feeling.”

  “I’ll come back,” he promised her. “How could I leave you?” He kissed her, long and sweet. It left her breathless, with splashes of color high in her pale cheeks.

  “Maybe we should go along,” Shane said. “Strength in numbers, man.”

  Michael smiled at Eve and shook his head. “After she bitch-slapped the Founder? Not a good idea. The two of you don’t just have baggage with the vampires—you’ve got baggage trains. I go alone, and I come back with Myrnin.”

  He went into the kitchen, where he picked up his keys, and then he looked around and said, “Claire? Are you here?”

  She tried doing the cold-spot thing, but clearly, she wasn’t powerful enough now to pull it off. Even moving through him didn’t work.

  “I didn’t want to tell them, but—if I don’t come back, Claire, you have to find a way to stay with Shane. Somehow. Understand? And take care of Eve. I need you to promise me.”

  He wasn’t confident now, not like he’d been in front of the others. He knew it was dangerous, going out there. Deadly dangerous.

  “I will,” she said. He still couldn’t hear her. Even though it was not a good idea, she reached out and touched the house’s power line, soaking up energy. She heard her voice actually ring and echo here in the black-and-white world as she said, “I’ll do everything I can, Michael. I love you. Take care.”

  He heard her. She saw the relief wash over him, and he smiled, and then he was gone.

  Claire let go of the pulsing latticework of power, and immediately felt exhausted. Thin. Faded.

  She saw a flash of color—color, in this black-and-white world—and pirouetted in midair to face it.

  Leaning against the closed kitchen door, cutting her off from Shane and Eve, was Hiram. The color came from the red brocade vest he was wearing, and the gold gleam of a watch chain. He looked almost real, almost more real than her live friends in their black-and-white world.

  “I warned you,” he said. “I warned you not to touch that again.”

  “Michael needed to hear me.”

  “He’s running off on a fool’s errand, and if he dies out there, I can’t save him again,” Hiram said. “That’s your fault, girl. He’s hell-bent on saving something that ain’t even real anymore.”

  “I’m real!” she snapped. “More real than you.”

  He looked down at himself, in all the glorious Technicolor, and Claire felt stupid saying it. Of course he was more real, or at least had more power. “I said it before: the house likes you. Doesn’t mean I have to like you. It’s all instinct. I’m the brain, Claire. And I’ve decided you’re dangerous. You keep blundering about, touching things you’re not allowed to handle. You’re a toddler in a room full of glass.”

  “Don’t you mean I’m dangerous to you?” she asked.

  Hiram smiled, but it was a terribly cold kind of thing. “I should have ripped you up and thrown you out when you first crossed over.”

  Claire backed off instinctively. There was something real about him, even though he was a ghost, just like her. Hiram had power. More than she�
�d thought. What had he said? Something about his bones in the foundations and his blood in the mortar . . . ugh. But that would make him very strong, she guessed. And very territorial. He was part of the house, but the house was still something else, with its own will. The house had saved her, and Hiram didn’t agree.

  Dangerous.

  He was drifting in her direction, even though he wasn’t seeming to move. Claire hesitated for a second, and as she did, he rushed at her. She had the absolute certainty that if he touched her, got hold of her with those strong, grabbing hands, he would rip her to pieces.

  Claire shrieked and dropped straight through the floor. It was all she could think of . . . and suddenly she was falling through wood, dirty pipes, a totally startled rat, a freak-out number of cockroaches, and into the dark, creepy basement, which, with the lights out, was super-awful creepy.

  It was also dangerous. She heard Hiram’s soft, bodiless laugh. “I’m in the foundations, girl. You think you can fight me better down here?”

  Claire wasn’t actually sure she could fight him at all, but he was absolutely right: this was the last place she wanted to try. Instead, she arrowed herself up, fast, blurring through the floor, through the parlor, up again into the second floor, and . . .

  . . . Into the secret room, which was directly overhead but on the attic level. This was Amelie’s retreat, from when the house had originally been built (Hiram, she guessed, had been around even then). It had always been Claire’s special retreat when things got intense, and now she hesitated there, trembling, waiting for Hiram to come screaming through the walls after her.

  But he didn’t. She listened, she extended her new and very awkward senses (this being-dead thing took work), and she sensed . . . nothing. It was as if this room existed in a different house altogether. It even felt different . . . and, she realized with a sudden shock, it definitely looked different, because the lights were on, and she could see the dusty red velvet of the sofa, and the brown wood, and the colored jewellike glass of the Tiffany lamps.

  Color.

  When she closed her eyes, she could actually feel Hiram, but he was outside the room. He’d hit the floor and bounced off, and now he was circling around like a shark, looking for a way inside.