Morning classes went pretty well, and Claire spent her breaks hanging at the coffee bar at the UniversityCenter, where Eve barista'd her way through the day. Eve was good at it -- calm, efficient, seemingly impervious to the pissy demands and bitchiness of a lot of the students. Claire had figured out that the rude ones were mostly Protected, so it was a class thing; Eve had elected not to sign up with a vampire for protection, and those who had, looked down on her.
Or else they were just bitchy. Which was equally possible. People didn't have to have a vampire connection to be arrogant jerks.
Eve was working today with another girl, somebody Claire didn't know; she had long straight brown hair that shimmered like a curtain when she moved. She wore it loose around her shoulders, which Claire guessed was okay because she wasn't working directly with the drinks or anything, just taking orders and cash. Her name tag said AMY, and she looked cheerful and sweet. She and Eve were talking like friends, which was good; Eve needed that. Claire killed time between classes by skimming through her English Lit -- boring -- and reading a book she'd checked out from the library on advanced string theory -- not boring. She liked the whole idea of vibrating strings being the basis of everything, that there were all kinds of surfaces that vibrated. It made the world more ... exciting. Always in motion.
Her watch beeped to let her know she was going to be late for class if she didn't hurry, so she packed it up, waved to Amy and Eve, and jogged out of the UC and into the warm afternoon sunshine.
As she was blinking in the glare, she ran into Monicaliterally as Monica was coming up the steps while she was going down. Claire automatically reached out to steady the other girl when she wavered, and then thought, what am I doing? Because Monica had once laughed as Claire tumbled down a flight of stairs and cracked her head halfway open.
"Hey, watch it, bitch!" Monica snapped, and then did a double-take. "Claire? Oh, hi. Cute shirt!"
Claire looked down at herself, mystified. It wasn't. She didn't really own any clothes she'd classify as cute, and even the best of them would never match Monica's standards, which were much higher.
"You on your way to class?" Monica continued brightly. "Too bad, I'd buy you a mocha or something."
"I -- uh -- yeah, I've got class." Claire edged around and tried to descend the steps, but Monica got in her way. Monica's smile was friendly, but it didn't really warm up her big, pretty eyes. "I'll be late."
"One thing," Monica said, and lowered her voice. It occurred to Claire that it was almost the first time she'd seen Monica alone, not flanked by Gina and Jennifer, not trailing an entourage of The Popular. "I'm having a party on Friday night. Can you come? It's at my parents' house. Here's the address." Before Claire could react, Monica pressed a slip of paper into her hand. "Keep it quiet, all right? I'm only asking the best people. Oh, and wear something nice, it's formal."
And then Monica was gone, breezing by her up the steps, where she fell in with a group of girls and went into the UC's glass atrium chatting and laughing.
The best people? Claire eyed the slip of paper, thought about throwing it away, and then shoved it in her pocket.
Maybe this was a golden opportunity to convince Monica that she wasn't ever going to be anything like a friend.
She headed out for class, moving quickly, but keeping her eyes peeled. When she spotted the guys she was looking for, she veered off the sidewalk and onto the grass.
Gamers. Nerds. They sat around outside most of the afternoon moving counters around on complicated-looking boards and rolling dice. She'd seen them every day for weeks, and in all that time she'd never seen any kind of girl with them, or even approach them. In fact, they stared at her when she cleared her throat like she was an alien from one of the planets on their game board.
"Hi," she said, and thrust out the slip of paper. "My name's Monica. I'm having a party on Friday night. If you guys want to come. Tell your friends."
One of them reached out and gingerly took the slip of paper. Another snatched it away from him, read it, and said, "Wow. Really?"
"Really."
"Mind if we hand it out to some people?"
"Knock yourself out."
Claire headed off to class.
"Claire Danvers?"
Last class of the day, and Claire looked up, startled, from writing the date in her notebook. The professor didn't usually take roll. In fact, he seemed pretty much indifferent to who showed up, which was sometimes next to nobody. Like today -- she was one of about twelve people. Showing up was really kind of useless in this particular case, since Professor What's-His-Name lectured from PowerPoint slides, bullet by bullet, and then made them available on his website right after the lecture. No wonder most people skipped.
She raised her hand, wondering what was going on. She had a guilty flash of handing over the party invitation to the Nerd Squad, but no, how could they find out so soon? And besides, who'd care, besides Monica?
The professor -- gray, wrinkled, tired and unenthusiastic -- stared at her for a second without recognition, then said, "You're wanted in Administration. Next building over, third floor, room 317. Go now."
"But -- " Claire started to ask what was going on, but he'd already dismissed her and turned back to his PowerPoint, droning on in a monotone. She stuffed books into her bag, wondered again what was going on, and left without much regret.
She'd been in the Administration building exactly three times -- once to register, once to file the official paperwork to move off campus, once to do an add/drop. It looked just like any administration building at any school -- grubby and utilitarian, with tired, crabby employees and desks piled high with file folders. She avoided the first-floor Registrar's office and went up the steps. The second floor was quieter, but still full of people talking, keys clicking on computers, printers running.
The third floor was whisper-quiet. Claire started down the hallway, and the silence sank deeper. She couldn't even hear sounds from outside the windows, although she could clearly see people out there walking and talking, and cars tooling around the street below. Room 317 was at the end of the hall. All of the glossy wooden doors were firmly closed.
She knocked on 317, and thought she heard someone say "Come in," so she turned the knob and stepped inside ... into darkness. Complete, velvety darkness that disoriented her immediately. The knob slipped out of her hand and the door clicked shut, and she couldn't find it again. Her hand moved over what felt like featureless, smooth wall.
A light bloomed behind her, and she turned to see the flare of a match, and a candle wick catching fire. In the glow, Amelie's face shone like perfect ivory.
The elder vampire looked exactly the same as before: cool, queenly, pale, with her white-blonde hair twisted back in an elegant updo that must have required servants to achieve. She was wearing a white silk suit, and her skin was flawless. If she wore makeup, Claire couldn't tell. Her eyes were eerie in the near-dark ... luminous and not quite human, and very beautiful.
"My apologies for the dramatics," Amelie said, and smiled at her. It was a very nice smile, cool and polite. Claire's mother had always loved the Hitchcock movie Rear Window, and Claire was struck by the thought that if Grace Kelly had ended up a vampire, this was how she'd have looked. Icy and perfect. "Don't bother looking for the door. It's gone."
Claire's heartbeat speeded up, and she knew Amelie could tell, though the vampire didn't comment on it; she just shook out the match and dropped it in a silver dish on the table next to the candle. Claire's eyes adjusted gradually to the dimness. She was standing in a fairly small room, some kind of library crammed with books. Crammed was a generous way to put it -- they were double-stacked on the shelves, leaning in towers on the top of the bookcases, filling the corners in untidy ziggurats. So many books that the whole room smelled like ancient paper. There wasn't any wall space, except the way Claire had come in, that wasn't blocked up by packed, groaning shelves.
"Hi," Claire said awkwardly. She hadn't seen Amelie since signing the Protection papers and putting them, as instructed, in the mailbox outside. She'd expected some kind of visit, but ... nothing. "Um -- what should I call you?"
Amelie's delicate brows rose, pale on pale. "I know that the concept of manners has declined, but I should think you would know at least some polite form of address that would be appropriate."
"Ma'am," Claire stammered. Amelie nodded.
"That will do." She lit another candle. The light strengthened, flickering but casting a warm and welcome glow. Claire spotted another door in the shadows, small and fitted with an antique-style doorknob. There was a big skeleton key in the massive lock.
Nobody else in the room, just her and Amelie.
"I have called you to discuss your studies," Amelie said, and sat down in a chair on the other side of the table. There wasn't any seat on Claire's side, so she stood there, awkwardly. She put her backpack down and folded her hands.
"Yes ma'am," she said. "Aren't my grades okay?" Because usually a 4.0 GPA was okay by most standards.
Amelie dismissed it with a wave. "I did not say classes, I said studies. No doubt you are finding the local college beneath your abilities. You are said to be quite exceptional."
Claire didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She wished she had a chair. She wished she could say something nice and get back to class and never, ever see Amelie again, because as superficially polite and kind as the old vampire was, there was something ice-cold about her. Something unsettlingly not human.
"I would like you to study privately with a friend of mine," Amelie said. "For credit, of course." She looked around, smiling very slightly. "This is his library. Mine is far more orderly."
Claire's throat felt tight and uncomfortable. "A ... uh ... vampire friend?"
"Is that an issue?" Amelie folded her white hands together on the table. The candlelight flickered in her eyes.
"N-no ma'am." Yes. God, she couldn't imagine what Shane was going to say.
"I believe you will find him most interesting, Claire. He is indeed one of the most brilliant minds I have ever encountered in my long life, and he has learned so much through his lifetime that he could never teach it all. Still, he has much to pass along. I have been seeking the right pupil, one who can quickly grasp the discoveries he has made."
"Oh," Claire whispered faintly. So ... an old vampire. Her experience wasn't so good with the older ones. Like Amelie, they were cold and strange, and most of them were cruel, too. Like Oliver. Oh God, she wasn't talking about Oliver, was she ...? "Who -- ?"
Amelie looked down. Just for an instant, and then she met Claire's eyes and smiled. "You have not met," she said. "Not formally, at any rate. His name is Myrnin. He is one of my oldest friends and allies. Understand, Claire, that your actions since you came to Morganville, including your agreement with me, has won my trust. I would not grant this honor to any but those I found worthy."
Flattery. Claire recognized it, and knew the slight warmth in Amelie's voice was probably calculated, but it still worked. "Myrnin," she repeated.
"It is an old name," Amelie agreed, in response to the question in Claire's tone. "Old and forgotten, now. But once he was a great scholar, known and revered. His works should not be forgotten as well."
There was something strange in that, but Claire was too nervous to figure out what Amelie could be trying to say. Or not say. She was working hard to swallow a lump in her throat, but it was about the size of a poisoned apple and seemed to be growing larger. She could only nod.
Amelie smiled. It looked kind of artificial, like an expression she'd practiced in a mirror rather than learned as a child. Smiling was something her face just didn't naturally do, Claire decided. And sure enough, the smile was gone in seconds, without a trace.
"If you're ready ...?"
Claire cast an involuntary, helpless look at the blank wall behind her. There wasn't a door, and that meant there was no way to retreat. So she didn't really have a choice.
Amelie wasn't waiting for her answer, anyway. The ice queen stood up and walked -- oh so very undead Grace Kelly -- to another small, low doorway with the key in the lock. She turned the key, withdrew it, and looked down at it for a moment before holding it out to Claire. "Keep it," she said. "Leave your book bag here, please. I shouldn't want you to forget it. You will leave through the same door that brought you."
Claire's fingers closed around the key, registering rough, cold, heavy metal. She shoved it in the pocket of her blue jeans as Amelie swung open the door, and leaned her backpack against a convenient bookcase.
"Myrnin?" Amelie's voice was low and gentle. "Myrnin, I've brought the girl I told you about. Her name is Claire."
Claire knew that tone of voice. You used it with old, sick people, people who didn't really understand what was happening anymore. People you didn't think were really going to be around for long. Coming from Amelie, it was really odd, because she could hear the love in that low voice. Could vampires love? Well, sure, she guessed; Michael could, right? So why not Amelie, too?
Claire stepped out from behind Amelie at the vampire's imperative gesture, and anxiously scanned the room. It was big, full of the weirdest mixture of equipment and junk she'd ever seen. A brand new widescreen laptop computer with a shimmying belly dancer as a screen saver. An abacus. A chemistry set that looked straight out of some old Sherlock Holmes movie. More books, carelessly piled around as trip hazards, leaning in columns on every table. Lamps -- some electric, some oil. Candles. Bottles and jars and shadows and angles and ... and a man.
Claire blinked, because she was expecting an old, sick person; expecting it so much she looked around again, trying to find him. But the only man in the room sat in a chair, peacefully reading a book. He marked the spot with a finger, closed it, and looked up at Amelie.
He was young, or at least he looked it. Shoulder-length curling brown hair, big dark puppy-dog eyes, flawless, faintly golden skin. Frozen at the age of maybe twenty-five, just enough for creases to be forming at the corners of his eyes. Also, he was really really ... pretty.
And he didn't look sick. Not at all.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. He spoke English, but with some kind of accent, nothing that Claire could identify. It sounded a little bit like Irish, a little bit like Scottish, but more ... liquid, somehow. Welsh? "Claire, is it? Well, come forward, girl, I won't bite." He smiled, and unlike Amelie's cool attempt it was a warm, genuine expression, full of merriment. Claire took a couple of steps toward him. She sensed Amelie tensing behind her, and wondered why. Myrnin seemed okay. Seemed more okay than any vampire she'd seen so far, except maybe Sam, Michael's grandfather -- next to Michael, the youngest vampire in Morganville.
"Hello," she said, and got an even wider smile.
"She speaks! Excellent. I have no use for someone without a backbone. Tell me, young Claire, do you like the sciences?"
That was an antique way of saying it ... the sciences. People usually said science or mentioned a specific thing, like biology or nuclear studies or chemistry. Still, she knew the right answer. "Yes sir. I love the sciences."
His dark eyes glittered, full of slightly wicked humor. "So very polite, you are. And philosophy?"
"I -- I don't know. We didn't study it in high school. I just got to college."
"Science without philosophy is nonsense," he said, very seriously. "And alchemy? Do you know anything of it?"
She just shook her head to that one. She knew what it meant, but wasn't it all about turning lead into gold or something like that? Sort of con man science?
Myrnin looked tragically disappointed. She almost wanted to lie to him and tell him that she'd gotten an A in Alchemy 101.
"Don't be difficult, Myrnin," Amelie said. "I told you, this age doesn't regard the subject with much respect. You won't find anyone with a working knowledge of the Hermetic arts, so you'll have to use what's available. From all accounts, this girl is quite gifted. She should be able to understand what you have to teach, if you are patient."
Myrnin nodded soberly and put the book aside. He stood up -- and up -- and up. He was tall, gawky, with long legs and arms -- like a human stick bug. He was wearing a weird mixture of clothes, too -- not homeless-guy weird, but definitely funky. A vertically striped knit shirt under what looked like some kind of frock coat, and blue jeans, old ones, with holes in the knees. And flip-flops. Claire stared at his exposed toes. Somehow, with that outfit, flip-flops looked almost indecent.
But he had pretty feet.
He extended his hand to Claire, bending over to do it. She carefully took it and shook. Myrnin looked surprised, then delighted. He pumped the handshake enthusiastically enough to make her shoulder ache. "A handshake, is that the correct way to greet these days?" he asked. "Even for such a lovely young woman? I know it's common among men, but among women it seems quite a violent gesture -- "
"Yes," Claire said quickly. "It's fine. Everybody does it." God, he wasn't going to try to kiss her hand or anything, was he? No, he was letting go and crossing his arms. Studying her.
"Quickly," he said. "What's the elemental designation for rubidium?"
"Um ... Rb."
"Atomic number?"
Claire frantically called to mind the periodic table. She'd used it the same way other kids used puzzles, back when she was young; she'd known everything. "Thirty-seven."
"Group number?"
She could see the square on the table now, as real as if it was a card in her hand. "Group one," she said confidently. "Alkali metal. The period number is five."
"And what are the dangers of working with rubidium, young Claire?"
"It spontaneously burns when exposed to air. It also reacts violently to water."
"Solid, liquid, gas, plasma?"
"Solid to forty degrees centigrade. That's the melting point." She waited for the next question, but Myrnin only cocked his head and watched her. "How did I do?"
"Adequately," he said. "You've memorized well. But memorization is not science, and science is not knowledge." Myrnin stalked over to a leaning stack of books, tossed some carelessly to the floor, and found a threadbare volume that he flipped open without much regard for the fragile pages. "Ah! Here. What is this, then?"
He held the book out to her. Claire squinted at the dim illustration. It looked a little like a small square sail, full of wind. She frowned and shook her head. Myrnin snapped the book closed with a sharp clap, making her jump.
"Too much to teach her," he said to Amelie. He began to pace, then got distracted and fiddled with a glass retort full of some noxious green liquid. "I don't have time to coddle infants, Amelie. Bring me someone who at least understands the basics of what I am trying to -- "
"I've told you before, there is no one available who would recognize that symbol, and in any case, the field has never attracted the most trustworthy of characters. Give Claire a chance. She's a quick study." Her voice cooled to a measured, icy tone. "Do not force me to make it an order, Myrnin."
He stopped moving, but he didn't raise his head. "I don't want another student." He sounded resentful.
"Nevertheless, you must have one."
"Have you explained the risks?"
"I leave that to you. She is yours, Myrnin. But make no mistake, I will hold you responsible for her performance, and for her safety."
Claire heard the click of metal, and when she looked behind her, Amelie was ... gone.
She'd left her alone. With him.
When Claire turned back to him, Myrnin had raised his head and was staring straight at her. Warm, brown eyes no longer amused. Very serious.
"It seems neither of us has much choice," he said. "We'll just have to make the best of it, then." He fumbled through the stacks of books and came up with one that looked just as threadbare and fragile as the first one he'd mishandled, but this one was much was thinner. He thrust it forward, toward her, and Claire took it. The inscription on the cover was in English. Metals in Egyptian Inscriptions.
"The symbol I showed you is for copper," Myrnin said. "Know the rest when you come back tomorrow. I will also expect you to read Basil Valentine's Last Will and Testament. I have a copy here -- " He shoved books around, almost frantic, and located something with a cry of satisfaction. He held that out to her as well. "Pay special attention to the alchemical symbols. You'll be expected to copy them out until you know them by heart."
"But -- "
"Take them! Take them and get out! Out! I'm busy!"
Myrnin rushed past her, bowling over stacks of books in his haste, to fling open the door through which Amelie had disappeared. He was at least a foot taller than the door itself, like a human in a hobbit-house. He stood there, jittering his foot in impatience, the flip-flop making plastic slaps between flesh and floor.
"Did you hear me?" he snapped. "Go. No time now. Get out. Come tomorrow."
"But -- I don't know how to get home. Or back here."
He stared for a second, and then he laughed. "Someone will have to bring you. I can't configure the system just for you!"
Configure the system? Claire stopped, staring back. "What system? These -- doorways?" The implications were dizzying. If Myrnin understood the doorways, controlled the doorways, the ones that appeared and disappeared out of nowhere in Morganville ... I need to know. I need to know how that works.
"Yes, I am responsible for that, among many other things," he said. "Later, Claire. Go now. Talk tomorrow."
He took hold of her and bodily shoved her through the doorway, and slammed it behind her. She heard his hand hit the wood with stunning force.
"Lock it!" he shouted. Claire dug the key out of her pocket. She could barely get it in the lock; the light was bad here, and her hands were shaking. But she managed, and heard the solid click as the tumblers fell. "Take the key!" Myrnin yelled.
"But -- "
"You're responsible for me now, Claire. You must keep me safe." Myrnin's voice had fallen lower now, as if he'd gotten tired. "Keep me safe from everyone."
And then he started ... crying.
"Myrnin?" Claire said, bending closer to the door. "Are you okay? Should I come in and -- "
The whole door vibrated with the force of his blow. Claire scrambled backward, shocked.
And the crying continued. Lost, little-boy crying.
Claire hesitated for a few seconds, then turned to see that Amelie hadn't left after all. She was standing quietly by the desk, in the glow of the single candle, and her expression was composed, but sad.
"Myrnin's mind is not what it once was. He has periods of lucidity, however. And at all costs, you must take full advantage of these to learn what he has to teach. It can't be lost, Claire. It must not be lost. There are things he does that --" Amelie shook her head. "There are projects in motion that must continue."
Claire's heart was racing, her whole body shaking. "He's crazy, he's a vampire, and you want me to be his student."
"No," Amelie said. "I require you to be his student. You will comply, Claire, by the rules of the contract you signed of your own free will. This is valuable work. I would not risk you unnecessarily."
Have you explained to her the risks? Myrnin had asked that. "What risks?" Claire demanded.
Amelie merely pointed to the bookcase, where her backpack still leaned. Claire grabbed it and hauled it to her shoulder -- and paused, because a doorway had formed in the blank area of the wall. A solid wooden door, with a plain knob. Identical to those at the university. "Open it," Amelie said.
"But -- "
"Open the door, Claire."
Claire did, and the glare of fluorescent lights and the dead, air-conditioned smell of the AdministrationBuilding swept over her in a rush.
Amelie blew out the light. In the darkness, Claire couldn't see her anymore.
"Be ready at four o'clock tomorrow in the University Centre," Amelie said. "Sam will fetch you. I suggest you do the reading Myrnin requires of you. And Claire -- tell no one what you're doing here. Absolutely no one."
It wasn't until Claire was in the hall, with the door shut, that she realized Amelie hadn't answered her question. She opened the door again, but -- there was just a room piled with discarded, broken furniture. Something moved furtively in the corner. There was a window with crooked blinds, but no Amelie. No cave of books. No Myrnin.
"He's sick," Claire said aloud, to whatever was rustling in the corner behind a three-legged desk. "That's why she talked to him like that. He's old, and he's sick. Maybe even dying."
She shut the door gently, adjusted the weight of her backpack, and looked down at the two ancient books in her hand.
Last Will and Testament.
She hoped that wasn't a sign of her future.
Eve chattered on about her day on the drive back, talking about some boy who had totally tried to ask her out, and Amy's boyfriend Chad who'd come by to help clean up and was a total sweetheart, and how her boss was a toerag but at least he'd given her a twenty-cent-an-hour raise. "I think that's just for not quitting in the first couple of weeks," Eve said, but she sounded pretty jacked about it, and Claire was pleased for her. "Yeah, it's only a couple more dollars a week, but -- "
"But it's something," Claire nodded. "Congratulations, Eve. You deserve it. You're really good at this. I'll bet you could run the whole thing if you wanted."
"Me? Manager?" Eve laughed so hard she snorted. "Yeah, like I'd be able to order people around and have anybody listen to me. Get serious."
"No, I mean it. You're nice, people like you, you know what you're doing. You could."
Eve shot her a sideways look that was almost a frown. "You're serious."
"Yep."
"I don't know if I'm ready for management. Don't you have to wear a tie for that?"
"You've got one," Claire said solemnly.
"Only one with the Grim Reaper on it. Hey, wait. That could be my management style! Screw up and I'll kill you." Eve grinned. "They ought to teach that in business school."
"They probably do here," Claire sighed.
"What's up with you, CB?" CB stood for Claire Bear, which was Eve's funny nickname for her. Claire didn't think she much resembled a bear, not even the stuffed Gund variety. "You seem really, I don't know, thoughtful."
"Yeah, well -- " She couldn't talk to Eve about Myrnin. "Homework and stuff." Yeah, it was just that she'd never had quite this kind of pass/fail pressure before. She'd flipped through the book on Egyptian inscriptions. That was pretty straightforward, though she wasn't sure how actually Egyptian it all was. Interesting, though. The other one, Last Will and Testament, was lots tougher. Tons of symbols in some weird notation she didn't understand. She'd be up all night trying to make sure she remembered even the basics. "Eve ... has anybody ever broken their contract in Morganville? I mean, and lived?"
"Contract?" Eve shot her yet another look, this one definitely coming with a side order of frowning. "You're talking about a vamp contract? Sure. People have tried everything, one time or another. But not very successfully."
"What happened?"
"Back in the old days, they got hanged. These days, I think they just throw 'em in jail until they rot, if the vampires don't eat 'em, but hey. Not like you and me have to worry about it, right? Live free or die!" Eve held up her hand. "High five!"
Claire slapped it, without much enthusiasm. She was thinking about the way the pen had felt in her hand, moving across that stiff paper. Signing her life away. And she felt ashamed.
"Why?" Eve asked.
"Huh?"
"Why are you asking?" Eve made the turn onto Lot Street, and the glow of the windows of the Glass House -- home -- spilled out into the street. "C'mon, Claire. Someone you know thinking about it?"
"Um ... there's this guy at school. I just heard him say -- I wondered, that's all."
"Well, quit wondering. His problem, not yours. Ready for the fire drill? Quick like a bunny. Go!" Eve braked the black Caddy hard, Claire threw open her passenger-side door and jogged around the back of the car, banged open the white picket gate, and raced up the walk to the steps with her house keys in her hand. She heard the engine die, and the noisy clatter of Eve's shoes behind her.
Eve's steps stopped. Stopped dead. Claire whirled, scared and expecting to see a vampire on the prowl, but Eve was just checking the mailbox, grabbing a small handful of stuff and then hurrying up the steps as she sorted through it. Claire stepped over the threshold, and Eve followed, hip-bumping the door shut behind them and shooting the bolt with her elbow, a feat Claire would never have tried -- or been able to accomplish with half that grace.
"Electric bill, water bill -- internet bill. Oh, and something for you." Eve pulled out a small bubble-padded mailer from the pile and handed it over. "No return address."
Who'd be sending her anything? Well, Mom and Dad, sure, and the occasional card from another relative. Her former BFF Elizabeth had sent a postcard from Texas A&M, but only the one. Claire didn't recognize the neat handwriting on the outside of the envelope. Eve left her to it and walked down the hallway, yelling to let Shane and Michael know they were back, to which Michael yelled back for her to get in here and make me some dinner, now, woman.
"News flash, boy, you're supposed to be evil, not redneck!"
Claire ripped open the package and upended it, and small jewelry box slid out into her hand. A nice one -- red velvet, with some kind of gold crest embossed on it. She felt the skin tighten up on the back of her neck. Oh no.
Suspicions confirmed as she flipped up the lid and saw the gold bracelet nestled on blood-red velvet. It was pretty, and it wasn't too big; delicate enough to circle one of her small wrists.
The Founder's Symbol was embossed discreetly in a small gold cartouche.
Oh, no.
Claire bit her lip and stared at the bracelet for a long time, then snapped the lid shut, put it back in the envelope, and went to join Eve and Michael in the kitchen.
"So?" Eve was getting down pots, and Michael was rummaging in the refrigerator. "Spaghetti okay with you?"
"Fine," Claire said. She wondered if she looked spooked. She hoped not, but even if she did Eve was looking at Michael, and he was looking back, and she was safe from any kind of major inspection while they were making eyes at each other.
Until she turned, and ran into Shane, who'd come in the kitchen door behind her. The package felt hot and heavy in her right hand, and she took an involuntary step back.
Which hurt him. She saw the flash of it in his eyes. "Hey," he said. "You all right?"
She nodded, unable to speak, because if she said anything it would have to be a lie, and she didn't want to lie to him. Shane stepped closer and put a warm hand on her face, and it felt good, so very good that she leaned into it, then further, into his arms. He made her feel small and loved, and for just a second, what was in the package in her hand didn't matter.
"You're working too hard," he said. "You look pale. School okay?"
"School's fine," she said. That wasn't a lie, school was definitely not what scared her anymore. "I guess I need more sleep."
"Just a few more days until the weekend." He kissed the top of her head, bent closer, and whispered, "My room. I need to talk to you."
She blinked, but he was already stepping back and heading out the door. She looked over her shoulder at Eve and Michael, but they were happily talking as Eve adjusted the flame under the pots, and they hadn't noticed anything.
Claire shoved the package into her backpack, zipped it up, and followed Shane upstairs.
Shane's room was very utilitarian -- his bed was never made, though he made an attempt as she came in to straighten out the sheets and toss the blanket over it. Couple of posters on the wall, nothing special. No photos, no mementos. He didn't spend a lot of time here, except to sleep.
Claire leaned her backpack against the wall and sat down next to him on the bed. "What?" she asked. If she'd expected a wild pre-dinner make-out session, she was disappointed. He didn't even put his arm around her.
"I'm thinking of leaving," he said.
"Leaving? But Eve's making dinner -- "
He turned and made eye contact. "Leaving Morganville."
She felt a surge of utter panic. "No. You can't!"
"Done it before. Look, this place, it's -- I didn't come back here because I missed it. I came back because my Dad sent me, and now that he's been and gone and I'm not doing his dirty work anymore -- " Shane's eyes were begging her to understand. "I want a life, Claire. And you don't belong here. You can't stay. They'll kill you. No, worse. They'll make you into one of them, one of the walking dead. I'm not talking about the vampires, either. Nobody who lives here has a pulse, not really."
"Shane -- "
He kissed her, and his lips were warm and damp and soft and urgent. "Please," he whispered. "We need to leave this town. It's going to get bad. I can feel it."
God, why was he doing this? Why now? "I can't," she said. "I -- school, and -- I just can't, Shane. I can't leave." Her signature on a piece of paper. Her soul on a platter. It had been the price to keep them safe, but she'd have to keep on paying, right? As apprentice to Myrnin. And she guessed that wouldn't be a long-distance study course.
"Please." It was barely a whisper from him, his lips brushing hers, and honestly, she would have done almost anything for him when he used that tone, but this time ...
"What happened?" she asked.
"What?"
"Was it something with Michael? Did he -- did you -- ?" She didn't even know what she was asking, but something had deeply disturbed Shane, and she had no idea what it was.
He looked at her for a long few seconds, then pulled away, stood up, and walked to his window to look down on the back yard they never really used. "My dad called," he said. "He told me that he was coming back, and he wanted me to be prepared to take out some vampires. If I stay, I'm going to have to kill Michael. I don't want to be here, Claire. I can't."
He didn't want to make the choice, not again. Claire bit her lip, hard; she could hear the pain in his voice, although he wasn't going to let her see it in his expression. "You really think your dad will come back?"
"Yeah. Eventually. Maybe not this month, maybe not this year, but ... someday. And next time, he'll have what he needs to start a real war around here." Shane shivered; she saw the muscles in his back tense up under the tight gray shirt he was wearing. "I need to get you out of here before you get hurt."
Claire got up, walked to him, and put her arms around him from behind. She leaned against him, her head on his back, sighed. "I'm more worried about you," she said. "You and trouble ..."
"Yeah." She heard the smile in his voice. "We're like that."