Last Breath tmv-11

by Rachel Caine

  I’m breathing, she thought. How can I be breathing? I can feel my heart beating. I can feel . . .

  I can feel.

  The pain was fading now, but there was something else, something almost worse . . . something moving through her veins, like an ice-cold poison. Like death, but slower. Relentless.

  She felt freezing hands on her forehead, and Myrnin’s voice was inside her head, inside.

  You have to choose, he told her. If you want to live as you did before, you must fight. This is your choice. I brought you back, but now you must choose.

  She was confused, and scared, and hurting. Choose what?

  Human life, he said. Or the endless possibilities I have to offer. But you can’t change your mind once you’ve made that choice.

  Having Myrnin in her head was like being Alice down the rabbit hole. He sounded sane enough, but in the background rushed images, feelings, an utterly mad jittering landscape of too much color, too much pain, too much love, too much hunger, too much everything. This was what Myrnin was.

  And he scared her, and charmed her, and made her want to cry.

  The ice in her veins had something wonderful about it, because it felt like peace. Like stillness. Not like death, but with something of death in it, and something of life. It had the fierce, sharp clarity of eternity.

  Her heart was struggling to keep beating against it, and the struggle hurt. Life hurt. Everything about it brought pain, even the best things.

  Then let go, Myrnin whispered. I’ll catch you. But understand—you have to let go of everything when you fall. Even him.

  Shane.

  There was something about the uneven beat of her heart that reminded Claire of him—of the way he fought, every day, against something, even if it was only himself. Of the way he went still and peaceful when they were lying in bed together, on the edge of sleep. Of the taste of his kiss and the way he smiled at her and the way he had dared her to live.

  There was cold, rational survival in the ice running through her body, and an end to pain, but Myrnin had reminded her of something else, too: that pain was life, and life could be beautiful, with all its scars and flaws.

  It wasn’t just Shane that was pulling her back. It was Eve, and Michael, and her parents; it was Richard and Hannah and so many others, even Monica, because in the end, they shared that experience of life. Of risking everything, every day, with every breath.

  And she wasn’t ready to give that up. There was so much more to learn.

  She did it, in the end, for herself. For her own distant, uncertain future.

  The cold intensified, and she struggled to reject it, fought so hard she thought she should be weeping, but her body was a prison, and she couldn’t move it . . . and then she took in another, halting breath, and another, and the ice receded, warmed, melted, and was gone.

  Myrnin’s whisper said, Good girl, and she felt his sadness and loss, but then it was all gone, like the cobwebs of a dream swept away by a morning breeze.

  And she opened her eyes and said, “Ow.”

  As first words went, it was weak, whispery, and not very inspiring, but Eve shrieked and clapped her hands over her mouth, and Shane lunged up as if someone had pushed him straight off the floor.

  And Myrnin stepped back, staggered, and fell.

  Shane hesitated, glancing at him, then completed his rush to grab Claire and pull her into his arms. “Ow,” she repeated, and blinked. “Shane.” Her whole vocabulary had been reduced to single words. “Eve.”

  Eve blew her frantic kisses, then went to lean over Myrnin, who was lying on the floor with his eyes wide-open. “Hey,” she said. “Uh—are you okay?” She prodded him tentatively with a fingertip, and he did one of those vampire-quick grabs to get hold of her arm. Eve tried to pull back, but Claire knew that wasn’t likely to happen.

  “Eve,” Claire whispered. Shane was holding her as if she might break, and also as if he never intended to let go, but she pushed weakly at his shoulder and jerked her chin toward the action. “Eve!”

  Shane sighed and let her go. “Don’t you move,” he ordered, and turned to face the two of them. Eve was crouched down now, trying to pry his cold fingers off her skin. “Come on, man. Let her go.”

  Myrnin opened his mouth, and his fangs came out. Shane moved fast, planted his knee on the vampire’s chest, and helped Eve in her frantic struggle to get herself free. Together, they were able to pry enough fingers loose to let her break the hold, and she stumbled backward, rubbing what was sure to be a monster bruise.

  “Go get him blood. I think Michael’s got some stashed in the fridge,” Shane said. Myrnin was trying to grab him, too, but Shane batted it away, careful to keep his center of gravity over Myrnin’s to hold him in place. Claire realized that her boss’s eyes had gone red. Very dark red. “Better make it two pints.”

  Eve ran for the kitchen and came back with two sports bottles, both labeled with Michael’s name. “Here.” She passed over the first one, and Shane aimed the straw at Myrnin’s open mouth and squeezed a fine red spray into it.

  Myrnin froze, swallowed, opened his mouth again. Shane stuck the flexible straw in. “Drink up,” he said. “I’m not letting you go until you can form actual words.”

  It didn’t take long for Myrnin to drain the first bottle, and go through half the second, but by then his eyes had faded to a muddy brown, and he looked more—himself. “Sorry,” he managed to say, and Shane grunted noncommittally. His expression changed as he took another pull on the straw. “Ugh. Is this AB? I hate AB! Don’t you have anything else?”

  “Shut up and take it,” Shane said. “We’re not the freaking dispensary.” He hesitated, then shifted his weight and stood up, giving Myrnin room to get up on his own. “And thank you. For her.”

  “It was her choice,” Myrnin said. He looked past Shane as he climbed up, and caught Claire’s gaze. She got a flash again of sadness and longing, disappointment, pride . . . all complicated, all blazing through a mind she could only distantly understand. “She’s made it.” He sighed, and his shoulders rounded. “I’m tired. And there’s so much to do. I’m sorry; I can’t stay. As it is, Amelie’s men will be searching. They may well come here looking. If they do, don’t lie; tell them you don’t know where I’m going, because it’s the truth. I don’t honestly know myself.”

  “Wait,” Claire said. She couldn’t really move, not yet; her body was still aching and struggling to come to terms with being alive again. She supposed that Myrnin’s blood had done that much—repaired things, made it all work again in preparation for turning her vamp. There was a needle in her arm, and even as she realized that, Myrnin flipped a switch on the machine sitting on the table, hissing and chugging away, and the gears that had been spinning slowed, then stopped.

  He slid the needle out of her arm. Claire felt a rush of heat, then cold, then sick nausea, but she almost immediately felt better. Her heartbeat steadied down from its frantic pounding.

  “Wait,” she said again, more strongly. Myrnin didn’t pause as he coiled up tubing, and shoved things into a black leather bag. “Myrnin. Thank you. Thank you for letting me go.” Because it had been as much his will as hers, she realized—he’d let her make the choice, once he knew she wanted it. Not all vampires would have done that. Or could have.

  He nodded sharply, long hair veiling his face. He picked up the sports bottle, drained it, made a sound of disgust deep in his throat, and said, “Tastes like raspberries. I hate raspberries. Disgusting things.” He snapped his bag shut. “Keep her still and quiet for a bit. The healing’s done, but her body’s in shock. She’ll be cold. Get her water now, food in an hour, but not too much of either.” He managed to turn and smile, but there was something broken about it. “I must be off.”

  “And you must be leaving,” Eve said. It was trying to be a joke, but didn’t quite make it. “Sorry. Is there anything we can do to—?”

  “No,” he said. “Stay here. Whatever happens, you must not go out again, eve
n in daylight.”

  “Wait. Michael’s not back, and he’s supposed to be. Can you look for him? Please?”

  Myrnin stared at Eve for a few long seconds, then took her hands in his and gravely said, “If he hasn’t returned to you, you must accept that he never will. What’s out there now is death to vampires as much as to humans—more so, because we’re the real targets. Michael took a terrible risk. He knew that.”

  Past tense. Myrnin was talking about Michael in past tense. Claire felt Shane sink down beside her, and his warm arm went around her to hold her close. He spread the afghan over them both.

  “He can’t be gone,” Claire said. “Not now. Not when I—” Not when I came back.

  Eve looked blankly terrified as she held Myrnin’s gaze. “Please,” she said again. “He can’t be gone. Please bring him back!”

  He kissed her hands, first one, then the other, and stepped away. “We are all trying to do our best,” he said. “And I will not forget him.”

  That, Claire thought, was very far from a promise.

  Eve looked shattered, but she didn’t cry. She stood and watched as Myrnin walked to the blank wall of the living room, opened up a portal, and stepped through. Claire expected him to look back.

  But he didn’t.

  “Eve,” Claire said. Her voice sounded stronger, and her friend turned her head, just a little, in her direction. “Please. Come sit.”

  Eve did, at last, curling up on the couch on Claire’s other side and putting her arms around her. The three of them stayed under the blanket, huddling close, as the chill settled inside the house, and rain pounded the windows.

  “Something’s strange,” Eve said. “Things feel different. Not you, but—this. The house.”

  She was right, Claire realized. She didn’t have the sense of the house’s emotions, or anxieties; it didn’t respond when she reached out to it.

  It was just bricks and mortar and wood now.

  Myrnin had broken the Glass House to set her free.

  The first hint that something strange was going on with her was after she’d consumed the food and water that Myrnin had directed, and risen off the couch under her own power. Shane was hovering around her, obviously worried she was going to drop at any moment, but she felt . . . good. Steady. Even better than that, really.

  “Seriously, you should sit,” he said to her. “An hour ago you were—”

  “Dead,” Claire said, and rubbed the back of her neck. Something clicked in there, but not in a bad way. More like a relieving-tension way. She shook her head experimentally. Everything held together. “I know. And I’m so sorry, Shane. I know how hard it was for you. I saw.” He knew she was talking about the gun, about that desperate moment as he sat with his back to her door, when it seemed like he had nothing left. “Don’t you ever do that again. Promise me.”

  “I won’t,” he said, and put his arms around her. He felt so good to her, so real and warm and perfect, as if they were made to fit together. “Don’t you ever leave me again, though.”

  She kissed the soft, warm skin beneath his ear and whispered, “You have to make the same promise, you know.”

  “I do,” he whispered back, and hugged her hard enough to drive her newly recovered breath away. “What are we going to do about Michael?”

  “I don’t know.” She was miserably aware that for Myrnin, and probably for all the rest of the vampires, if you were missing now, you were presumed dead; that meant Naomi, Oliver, Michael, and all the rest wouldn’t be coming back even if they were still alive—not if rescue was left up to Amelie. “It’s worse than that. I can’t be sure but I think—I think Amelie’s not really planning to set us all free when the vampires leave.”

  He pushed her back to arm’s length. “What are you talking about?”

  Claire swallowed hard, and said, “I think she’s going to kill us. All of us. I think she’s going to take the vampires out of here, and destroy the entire town to be damn sure her enemies die here, too.”

  Eve said numbly, “Nuke the site from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.”

  That old movie line usually made them all smile, but not now. Not this time.

  Because this time, it was actually true.

  Shane let go of Claire and ran his hands through his shaggy hair in a distracted, anxious gesture. “They can’t do that. Myrnin—why did he bring you back if you were just going to die all over again? Why would he?”

  Claire hated to say it, but she knew the answer, in her heart. “Because he feels something for me, and he wanted to give me a chance to live. Like him. With him. But I refused.”

  Shane turned and looked at her, a blank expression on his face that turned quickly into . . . something else. Claire was glad Myrnin had gotten out while he still could. “Great,” he said. “I knew it.”

  “It’s not like that. He’s—” She shook her head in frustration. “It’s not like he’s in love with me or anything; it’s more complicated than that. I don’t even think he understands it, exactly.”

  “Yeah, he only loves you for your mind,” Shane said, and smacked his palm down on top of the dining table.

  One of the empty but still-blood-smeared vials tipped off the edge of the table.

  Claire was at least five feet away, but without even thinking about it, she stepped forward, reached out, and . . .

  . . . And suddenly she was holding the vial, and it had dropped only about two inches.

  She’d crossed five feet and caught something with perfect coordination in less than a second.

  What the hell . . . ?

  Shane and Eve had both started babbling at her. She held up her other hand for silence, put the vial down, and tipped it off the table again. She waited as it fell, then willed herself to catch it before it hit the ground.

  And then it was in her hand, one inch from the floor.

  Nobody could have caught that.

  Nobody human.

  But she was human—she had blood rushing through her veins, her heart was pumping, she was breathing . . . and she felt more alive than she could remember.

  Shane licked his lips and said, “It’s the blood.”

  “What?”

  “Vamp blood. It’s like the stuff they gave me to drink when I was at the gym, fighting—it’s got an effect on you. Makes you faster and stronger, at least for a little while. But when you crash, you crash hard. I know what you’re thinking, Claire, and it’s not a good idea. Not at all.”

  “What?” Eve asked anxiously. “What are you thinking? Why is it not good? Please, don’t do anything not good—it’s been a really awful day, Claire, and honestly, I don’t think I can take one more trauma right now.” Her voice was trembling, and she looked chalk-pale. “Unless it’s about Michael. If it’s about Michael, it’s a very good idea.”

  “I can try to find him,” Claire said. “Look, what choice do we have? Amelie’s not looking for Michael, or for any of them. She’s going to pack up and run with however many of her people are left. If we just wait here, we’re sitting ducks for the big Morganville apocalypse anyway. Maybe I can find out where they are, and I can get Michael, and Oliver, and Oliver can stop this. He’d rather fight than retreat. He can convince Amelie.”

  “That’s true,” Eve said. “He’s not really the giving-up type.” She blinked back tears and grabbed Claire’s hand, vial and all. “Do you really think you can find Michael?”

  “Wait a second. Think about it,” Shane said. “Eve, that thing that almost got us—that’s probably what got Michael, if the vamps are so scared. You want Claire to go one-on-one with it?”

  “I won’t,” Claire said. She already had, and it hadn’t ended well. “All I’m going to do is try to find where they’re keeping the ones they take. Then once I know where they are, we can get help. I can call—”

  Shane was shaking his head. “Phones are dead. Hell, for all I know, she’s downed carrier pigeons, too. There’s no way for us to find you if things go wrong, Claire, an
d I can’t—I won’t let you take that risk.”

  She put her hands on his face. He looked so serious now, and she ached for him, really, but there was no way that she could hide here. Hiding would get them all killed.

  Sometimes, you had to risk everything, and she knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this was the time.

  “You will, because you love me,” she told him, and kissed him. It was a gentle, sweet, wrenching kiss, and it made her want to cry at the thought of leaving him. “Shane, I’ll come back. Be ready when I do, because this is going to get dangerous.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers for a long few seconds, then stepped back.

  “You’re not seriously letting her go!” Eve said. “Did Myrnin give you the crazy? Because this is not safe!”

  “I know.” He let go of Claire’s hand. “And she’s not going alone. I’m going with her.”

  Well, Claire couldn’t honestly say that she hadn’t expected that, but she’d been dreading it. “You can’t,” she said. “Shane, I’m going to be on foot.”

  “Even more reason for me to go. Hey, don’t worry. I’ll carry the heavy weapons.”

  She didn’t want him to come with her. For good reason—she was scared of losing him, and she knew, knew, that what was out there waiting was capable of . . . anything. He’d survived terrifying experiences, she knew that, but this—this was different.

  She also knew that there was no way he’d take no for an answer. Just no way at all. He’d follow on his own if she tried to leave him, and that would only put him in even more danger.

  Finally, she shook her head and sighed. “Then get the stuff and hurry. We probably don’t have long before Myrnin’s blood wears off.”

  “Wait,” he told her. “Seriously. Do not move until I get back.”

  Claire nodded. She thought about bolting while his back was turned, but that wouldn’t do any good. He came back in less than a minute, anyway, wearing his jacket with the pockets loaded down.

  He handed her a set of blue squishy earplugs. “What?” She stared at them, confused, as he shoved a set in his own ears.