by Rachel Caine
‘No, don’t be – look, I’m sorry. I guess I was just – I shouldn’t have let you think that. I was just lonely, you know?’
‘I know lonely. Lonely is a good friend of mine. No harm, Claire. I’m not going to go curl up in a fetal ball and cry for more than, you know, six hours, max.’ He flashed her a ridiculously funny smile, and she laughed in return. ‘See you around, then.’
‘See you.’
He walked off, hands in his pockets, all loose angles and baggy jeans. The only thing he and Shane had in common, she thought, was the confidence. Shane could sling a casual nerd reference, but Nick probably couldn’t string together more than a few sentences without one; Shane knew his way around a fight, and Claire was fairly certain that she could take Nick with one hand tied behind her back. Maybe two.
And yet, there was that traitorous little tingle of interest. Probably just because he represented everything that wasn’t Morganville – a normal world, where the biggest thing most people had to worry about was the latest episode of their favourite show, or whether or not a girl would give up her phone number for a winning smile.
She liked that world. She just wasn’t sure that she was part of it … or ever would be. That was, Claire realised, what Nick represented to her: a world where a guy could just be amusing and interesting and funny, and not fight for his life every day against overwhelming odds. A life with a home, and kids, and just the usual, mundane worries.
No vampires and monsters. No wonder she felt some tingle of attraction.
Claire unlocked the front door, smiling quietly to herself, feeling oddly relaxed now, off her guard, and when she heard the scrape of footsteps behind her she turned, still smiling, and said, ‘Nick, I thought—’
It wasn’t Nick.
She didn’t know this guy. He was tall, broad-shouldered, handsome in a heavy kind of way that was probably going to turn unpleasant on him in a few years. He was Monica Morrell’s type, she thought, and all that went through her head in the same second as her threat assessment. No gun, no knife, but he carried himself as if he was ready to move at her, and alerts flashed red somewhere deep inside her.
She braced, ready to move.
‘Hi,’ he said, and stopped a few steps below her, but blocking the way down. ‘So, you’re Liz’s new roommate, right? She said she had an old friend moving in with her. I’m Derrick.’
‘Derrick,’ she repeated. Liz hadn’t mentioned him, but then, that didn’t necessarily spell trouble. Nevertheless, Claire edged one foot into the doorway, and calculated ahead what her body needed to do next in a hurry. Shift weight, swing right, complete the turn, slam the door, lock it. It was a one, maybe one-and-a-half second movement. Derrick didn’t look that fast, but she’d been fooled before. ‘If you’re looking for Liz, I think she’s already asleep.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’m not coming in. Just wanted to say hi.’
‘Hi,’ Claire said, without any warmth; she still felt weird about this. She didn’t like being doorstepped, especially by someone with that odd look in his eyes. ‘Look, it’s late. Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I—’
He held up his hands, but somehow, she didn’t take it as an apology, or a sign of surrender. ‘No problem. Just wanted to find out what your name was.’
‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’
She kept her eyes on him as she stepped inside, closed the door, and shot the bolts. For the first time, she was grateful for all the locks. Derrick didn’t move, at least until the door closed, but she felt a weird tension in him, as if every muscle was shaking with the desire to rush her.
Claire slid aside the small metal flap over the peephole and looked out.
Derrick’s face loomed huge, right there, staring as if he’d known she’d do it. She let out an involuntary gasp, let the flap slip down, and backed away until she bumped into the stairs. Honestly, she’d faced down vampires on her doorstep, and they generally weren’t that creepy.
She sat down on the steps, and in the dark next to her, in the shadowy space between the stairs and the hall table, she heard a breathy whisper. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Derrick.’
Somehow, Claire wasn’t surprised it was Liz, huddled there with her knees drawn up to her chest. She was wearing fuzzy pyjamas that were a pale grey in the dimness, and she looked like a terrified little girl.
Claire got up, sat down in the narrow, dark space with her, and put her arm around her friend. Liz leant in, and she was shaking, really shaking. Claire stripped off her coat and put it over Liz’s shoulders. ‘You’re all right,’ she said, and hugged her. ‘Liz, it’s okay. He’s outside. The door’s locked.’
‘But he’s here.’ Even though it was a whisper, it sounded like a wail of despair. ‘I didn’t think he knew where I was, but he’s here. He knows.’
‘Liz – who is he?’
‘I met him at my old school. It was a blind date, my friend set us up. I didn’t like him, but he – he just kept trying to date me. At first it was just texts and calls and flowers, but then he started following me. I started dating this other guy and he – he—’ Liz’s voice faltered, and she swallowed hard. ‘He just disappeared. He finally called me and said he had to move away, because Derrick had shown up and told him if he didn’t that he’d be dead. He told me – he told me that Derrick said he’d rather see me dead than with someone else, and to watch my back. So I left. I quit school, moved out of town, changed my hair and how I dressed, made new friends. I didn’t think he’d follow me, I really didn’t.’
‘But you were afraid he would,’ Claire said. ‘Because of all the locks on the door.’
Liz nodded miserably. ‘He sent me letters. He was really angry I left. He tracked me down in the last place I was, and sent me pictures of my new haircut telling me how cute I looked. He sent stuff to my mom and dad, too. He knows where all my family lives.’
‘Did you talk to the police?’
‘Sure.’ Liz sniffled and straightened up a little, and her voice gained some strength. ‘They took it seriously and all, but he never made any threats we could prove. He’s being really careful. It’s like he’s done this before and knows what not to do to get caught. That’s what makes it even scarier. I’m sorry. I should have warned you – I should have warned you what you might be getting into. I mean, you’re just … you’ve always been so nice and gentle, and I don’t want to put you in the middle …’
‘I’m not that gentle,’ Claire said. ‘Did you know I learnt how to fight? And I can use a bow and arrow?’
‘You what?’ Liz sounded incredulous. ‘You mean, you shoot at targets? Did you get into it because of that movie? And anyway, how does that even help?’
‘I mean the town I was living in was someplace where you’d better have good aim,’ Claire said. ‘And a strong stomach, and steady nerves. So if Derrick wants to come creeping, he’s in for a big, ugly surprise. I’m not going to hesitate to defend my home, myself, or my friend. Get me?’
‘You – you’re serious. What, you think you’re going to shoot him with an arrow?’
‘Well, not right now, because I didn’t carry them in my luggage,’ Claire said. ‘The bow’s packed in my boxes. Should be here soon, though. Meanwhile, what do you know about using a knife?’
‘I – excuse me?’
‘Come on,’ Claire said. She got up and offered her hand. ‘Let me show you.’
‘Claire, I can’t fight him!’
‘Why not?’
Liz seemed to be at a loss for words. She took Claire’s hand and pulled herself up to her feet. Claire switched on the light, and Liz seemed about to object; she winced and reached for the switch.
Claire stopped her. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to live in the dark, locked in here? Afraid to look out, answer the door, leave? Yes, he’s out there, and he’s clearly not going to leave you alone until one of three things happens: he hurts you, and gets arrested, or he makes a mistake, and gets arres
ted, or you stop him.’
‘You want me to kill him?’
‘I didn’t say kill. I said stop. That means defend yourself. There’s a difference between losing a fight and giving up. If you want to fight, come with me.’
‘I—’ Liz looked at her for a long, uncertain moment. ‘You’re different. I thought that from the beginning when you got off the plane, but it’s more than just surface, more than just how you look. You’re really different. You got … strong.’
‘In Morganville, you only get strong,’ Claire said. ‘Or, I guess, dead. But yes. And I know this isn’t Morganville, but we can still act for ourselves. Come on. First lesson is how to defend yourself with what’s around you …’
Liz hesitated when Claire pulled her toward the kitchen, and stared toward the door. ‘Is he still there, do you think?’
‘Maybe,’ Claire said. ‘I don’t really care. Let him get frostbite out there, or get arrested for trying to peep. Don’t play his game. Play yours.’
‘I don’t have a game.’
‘You will,’ Claire promised her, and gave her a smile that was probably every bit as scary as anything Derrick had in him. ‘You will.’
Myrnin hadn’t given Claire a whole lot of information about her new mentor, only a name (Irene Anderson) and the fact that she had once lived in Morganville, and been Myrnin’s assistant. It was fairly impressive that she’d survived the experience, but that hadn’t given Claire much context for what Anderson would be like.
Turned out that she was awesome.
For one thing, she was a whole lot younger than Claire had expected – mid-thirties, maybe. And when Claire knocked on her office door, she thought she’d arrived in the wrong place, because the petite woman standing there had no desk, and was wearing overalls that had seen better days, and was using some kind of very small handheld blowtorch on a pile of metal.
‘Just a sec,’ she said, without taking her eyes off what was happening. It was more like ten seconds, but then the woman shut off the burner, set it aside, and made a quick note on a pad of paper nearby. ‘There. Got it. So, you’re my ten o’clock, right?’
‘I’m Claire Danvers. You’re—?’
‘Dr Irene Anderson.’ The woman shoved goggles back on her head, and they slid off to hang hilariously off of her blonde ponytail, then clattered off to the floor. ‘I know, not what you were expecting, am I? Everybody says that. Including my own family. Hi.’ She came around the workbench and offered Claire her hand to shake. It was a decisive, firm grip, and she held Claire’s gaze long enough for it to be evident she had blue eyes to go with the blonde hair. Shane probably would have called her hot, though Claire was never sure exactly what his scale seemed to be … it had more to do with attitude than type. ‘Good to meet you. You’re young to have survived a year or two doing what you were doing.’
‘Are we not supposed to mention …?’
‘Morganville? Sure, you can. Sorry. Native caution is very normal. I’ve always been so careful about not discussing Myrnin that I often forget to use his name even when I’m able. Speaking of the man, I hear he’s better now.’
‘Better than he was when I got there.’
‘Ah. That’s good. I didn’t want to leave, but he was just too unstable for his good or mine, and I thought it was better if he had a vampire assistant for a while. Did he?’
‘I – don’t know. He’s never told me much about people he worked with before me. I know that he, um …’
‘Killed a lot of them? Yes, I know that too. And, of course, he killed the sainted Ada. He’ll never get over her.’ That earned an exasperated eye roll, which stopped when Dr Anderson noticed Claire wasn’t smiling. ‘What?’
‘Ada’s – well, dead, I guess. I suppose technically this would be the third and final time. As in, not coming back.’
Dr Anderson covered her mouth with one hand, and closed her eyes for a brief moment. ‘How’d he take that?’
‘Not very well,’ Claire admitted. ‘He kind of lost it. But he’s better now. I think it helped, letting go. He still has these – episodes, but they’re not as bad as they used to be most of the time. More aggravating than terrifying.’
‘That’s quite a change,’ her new professor said, and looked at Claire with more assessment. ‘You’ve done something I was never able to do, then. Congratulations. I was informed Myrnin had cracked the code on the disease—’
‘We’re calling it Bishop’s Plague these days.’
‘Ah. Bishop’s Plague … but now I think you had more to do with solving it than he did. Right?’
Claire didn’t answer. She looked around the office – though it was more junk room and lab than office – and saw a small, cluttered table stuffed in the corner. It had a duct-taped, sagging office chair, but no visitor accommodations. ‘Is this where we’re going to work?’
‘This? No. Definitely not. I was just tinkering while I was waiting for you. Before we go, you’ll need ID.’
‘I have a student ID card—’
‘Not that.’ Dr Anderson went to her desk, opened and closed drawers, muttered, and finally came up with some kind of black magnetic strip card with a logo on it that looked eerily familiar – the Founder’s sign. She typed and moused on the computer, then ran the card through a mag strip device. ‘Here. Press your thumb in the box where it says.’ She passed Claire a small tablet device, and Claire did as requested. While she did, the tablet clicked, and she realised it had taken a picture, too. Before she could ask about it, Dr Anderson took it back and tapped on the screen, then took the mag strip card she’d made and put it into a small white device attached to the computer.
It made some soft whirring sounds, and thirty seconds later, it spit out a finished ID card, complete with picture and thumbprint. Dr Anderson examined it, pronounced it good, and decorated it with an MIT lanyard as she handed it over. ‘Wear it around your neck,’ she said. ‘No tying it on your belt, or backpack, or wearing it as a headband, and trust me, I’ve seen students try to do all those things. If it’s not in the right place, you’ll get a visit from security, and you really don’t want that. Where we’re going, security’s very, very serious.’ Dr Anderson, Claire saw, was already wearing her own ID. It looked identical, except for the photo. ‘If you cut your hair or dye it, or your physical profile changes at all, you get new ID. It has all kinds of data encoded in it. Sounds Orwellian, right? It is. Get used to it.’
Claire scrambled to follow as Dr Anderson shucked her lab coat, tossed it on a hook, and led the way out of the office and down the long hallway to a sealed door with an electronic pass reader on it. Anderson buzzed in, but when Claire started to follow her through, the other woman stopped her. ‘Use your card after me,’ she said. ‘If you come through without swiping, alarms will go off. Like I said. Secure.’
Claire nodded, and let the door shut before she ran her own badge and got a green light to enter. She slipped the lanyard back over her head and stepped through into a very different world.
This part of the building looked new, shiny, and sterile. It was bustling with activity – grad students, professors, people in suits who looked like official government types, or maybe private industry. It was often groups composed of all of those, huddled together, walking and talking. She caught snatches of conversations about genetics, about drug therapies, about nanotech, and that was all in only a two-minute brisk walk. Dr Anderson exchanged nods with most of them, but there was no small talk.
Dr Anderson’s lab was marked with a simple white card in the slot that said RESTRICTED. Nothing else on the card … but when Claire moved to the side a little to allow Anderson to swipe through, she saw that there was something else on the paper, after all. The Founder’s logo had been printed on it holographically, so it was only visible from certain angles.
The door made a soft sighing sound as it opened, and a puff of cool air that smelt like metal and chemicals washed over Claire. Dr Anderson shut it behind her, and Claire badged through.
She didn’t need to be told twice about the security measures.
Inside it was … well, Myrnin’s lab, only sane, orderly, and clean. But she recognised a lot of what was going on at each of the worktables, though instead of using Dark Ages alchemical techniques, Dr Anderson had modern chemistry set-ups and state-of-the-art instruments and computers. It was like porn, but for science geeks. ‘Wow,’ Claire breathed, and ran her fingers tentatively over a brushed-steel worktable, not quite daring to get her fingerprints on any of the blindingly cool equipment yet. ‘You’re—’
‘Well funded? Yes. Amelie wanted to establish another, less chaotic method of research to validate and record Myrnin’s discoveries. You know him; he’s brilliant, and he’s the living embodiment of chaos theory. So my job is to find out why his discoveries work, document and make them easily reproducible with modern equipment and techniques. And now that’s your job, too.’
‘I was already doing that. Trying to, anyway. When he’d let me.’
Dr Anderson sent her a warm, knowing smile. ‘Yeah, I know how that goes. Working for Myrnin means being zookeeper, nanny and best friend. Trouble is, knowing when each of those things is necessary, because making a mistake means you become a Happy Meal. Badge of honour for you to have survived the experience, Claire. And for getting the hell out of Morganville. Bet you think the worst is over, right?’
Claire shuddered, thinking about the draug, and Bishop, about the thousand life-threatening moments she’d made it through since coming to town. ‘Hopefully,’ she said.
‘You’re wrong,’ Dr Anderson said. She sounded certain, and sober. ‘You live there, at that level, it’s like living inside a video game. Surviving is a high, an achievement. Then you come out here into the real world, and the PTSD starts to set in … because nobody cares what you went through, or that you survived it, and your body’s used to a constant adrenaline pump. It’s like coming off a drug. If it hasn’t hit you yet, it will … normal life takes a lot of getting used to, Claire. But if you need to talk to someone, well, I’ve been through it. What’s the biggest thing you’re missing so far?’