Bitter Blood (44 page)

“Then I’ll call Shane,” Claire shot back, and pulled out her phone. She paced as it rang, and rang, and rang, and went to voice mail. She hung up and texted him, with a 911. No details. And finally, after five long minutes, he called back.

“Don’t hang up,” she said. “I need your help.”

“Is it Eve?”

“No,” she said reluctantly.

“Then no.”

“Wait! Wait, listen to me. I have to go to the cemetery. There’s—someone’s in trouble, Shane. If you don’t go with me, I have to go alone. Please. I know you’re angry at me, but—but be angry tomorrow. Tonight, just please, do this for me.” He was silent on the other end, but she could hear the uneven hitch of his breathing. “Shane, please. One time.”

“Who’s in trouble?”

She’d been afraid he’d ask that. But she couldn’t lie. Claire squeezed her eyes shut and said, “Myrnin.”

Shane hung up. Claire screamed, a raw and wild sound, and threw the phone violently on the table. Miranda’s eyes were round as saucers.

“Wow,” she said. “So…you’re not going?”

“No,” Claire said grimly. “I
am
going. Alone.”

Eve’s hearse was still parked out on the curb. Miranda argued with Claire all the way out to the picket fence, but she wasn’t listening anymore. She’d put on Eve’s long leather coat over her jeans and plain black shirt, and brought along a heavy canvas bag full of weapons, plus her own backpack, which had all kinds of things she might need—even textbooks, if she got study time. At the very least, they were a kind of paper-based armor she could put between herself and something attacking her.

“But—what do I do if you don’t come back?” Miranda asked frantically as Claire settled in the driver’s seat. The Grim Reaper on the dash shivered and nodded its head, eye-lights flashing. “Claire! Who do I call?”

“Call Shane,” she said. “Maybe he’ll feel bad if I’m dead. But make sure Eve’s okay, and give her the medication she needs just before sunrise. Do
not
let her get up and do anything, and if she starts to run a fever, call the hospital and get them to send the ambulance. Promise me.”

“I will.” Miranda looked on the verge of tears. “This is bad. This is a really bad idea….”

“I’m open to suggestions.” When the other girl didn’t offer any, Claire shook her head. “Wish me luck.”

“I—” Miranda sighed. “Good luck. I’ll wait for you to come back, and if you’re not back before sunrise, I’ll call…
somebody.
Amelie. I’ll call Amelie.”

“Don’t do that,” Claire said. “Because it might
be
Amelie. Okay?”

“But—”

Claire didn’t give her time to argue.

The hearse drove differently from any other car she’d tried in her very limited driving experience…. It was heavy, hard to manage, and had terrible stopping distance, as she found when she rolled through a stop light while pumping the brakes. Luckily, no Morganville police cruisers caught sight of her. She passed some custom-tinted vampire cars. No one tried to stop her.

Claire drove the mile, give or take, out to the cemetery, which brushed the limits of the Morganville township. The place was surrounded by a thick stone wall and had heavy wrought-iron gates; the lightning-struck dead white tree loomed high, all spiky branches and intimidating angles. The gates were locked, of course. Claire considered ramming them, but she knew Eve would never forgive her for it, so she strapped the canvas bag over her shoulders, on top of her backpack, and climbed. The iron was cold and slick under her fingers, but there were plenty of crossbars, and she managed to make it to the top, then slipped down the other side.

Morganville Cemetery was an old one, back to pioneer days, full of time-sanded headstones that were hardly readable anymore, thanks to the constant wind. What grass there was grew fitfully. Nobody visited here with any reliability; the newer cemetery, Redeemer, was closer to the center of town, and that was where present-day burials were done. This was mostly just here for historical value.

It wasn’t a very likely spot for vampires to hang out, at least; there hadn’t been anyone with a pulse visiting the place in years. But it was still plenty creepy, all right—shadows like black knives across the ground, harsh and sharp in the moonlight. Tree branches rattled like dry bones.

Claire was headed for the tree when she saw the vampires appear
on top of the wall and drop easily down, landing without breaking their stride. There were two of them, moving together. One had pale hair; the other had graying locks.

Amelie and Oliver?

She dropped to the ground behind a large carved angel and hoped that it would be enough to hide her. She also hoped she hadn’t landed on one of the huge fire ant mounds that dotted the grounds; if she had, this was going to be a very short and unpleasant adventure. If the fire ants didn’t bite her into a coma, the vampires would.

They passed fairly close to where she was hiding, and luck was with her; the wind had shifted, carrying her human scent away from them. And it was
not
Amelie with the pale hair shifting in the breeze, Claire realized, as she caught sight of the girl’s face, her smile, her dimples.

That was Naomi. Walking with Oliver. But Naomi was supposed to be dead.
Of course,
Claire thought in horror.
Bishop’s other daughter. She might have the same powers, too.
If Naomi and Oliver were in it together, Naomi could have turned Michael against them.

And Amelie didn’t know.

The two of them strolled through the weeds, through tombstones and tumbleweeds, and came to a halt under the white tree. Oliver dragged a fallen piece of marble away, and Claire heard it grate on metal.

She was also close enough to hear the voices, and she heard Oliver say, “No need to go down after him. Between this and the morning sun, he’s finished.” He reached into his pocket and came out with a bottle Claire recognized—one of the weapons that Shane had first developed. Then he shared it with Captain Obvious and his crew. And then with the vampires, to use against the draug…It was silver nitrate. Oliver had on gloves, but he still
handled the bottle carefully as he opened the top, then poured it into the ground—no, not into the ground.

Through the metal grate on the ground.

Claire heard Myrnin’s scream of raw pain and fury, and she had to press both hands to her mouth to keep quiet. There was a splashing sound, and scraping, as if he were clawing his way up from a great distance below.

“He won’t get far,” Naomi said. “No vampire’s strong enough to make it all that way to the top before sunrise, and the silver in the grate will keep him in. If he falls, the silver in the water will finish him. Well done, Oliver. Now go back to Amelie. Our little chess pawns are almost all in place. We’ll play our last moves soon.”

“Yes,” he said, “my queen.”

“Your white queen,” Naomi said, and laughed. “I like the sound of that. You’re a useful blunt instrument, Oliver. I shall keep you in my court when I take my rightful place.”

“Amelie,” he said, and it seemed it was hard for him to get the words out. “What of Amelie?”

“What about her?” Naomi asked. She was staring down through the grate, to where she’d just condemned Myrnin to death. “A wise ruler never leaves a rival at her back. Though I might consider a merciful exile, if you beg hard enough on her behalf. Would you, Oliver? Beg?”

He said nothing. He stood with his hands locked behind his back, and from what Claire could see of him, his face was hard as stone and his eyes flaring red.

“Obviously not,” Naomi said. “Your personal dignity was always more important to you than mere emotion, wasn’t it? Very well.” She leaned over the grate. “Myrnin? I leave you to your gods.” She put her fingers to her mouth and blew him a delicate
little kiss, and then she and Oliver turned away, drifting soundlessly through the deserted graveyard, then up and onto the wall.

Then Naomi turned and looked right at Claire’s hiding place, and smiled. “Did you really think I wouldn’t see that ridiculous car, or sense your presence? Since your friend Eve is indisposed, I assumed it would be you rushing to the rescue,” she said. “I think our little friend has outlived her usefulness after all, though it would have been a nice finishing move to use her to plant a dagger in Amelie’s back. Michael. Take her off the board.”

Claire gasped, because Michael jumped up on the wall next to Naomi, scanned the graveyard, and fixed his gaze right where she was.

Naomi nodded. “Adieu, Claire. It’s too bad there will be no place for you in the Morganville we are to create.”

She left.

And then Michael jumped down and came at her.

Claire ran.

Michael wasn’t even trying hard, Claire thought; there was no real reason he couldn’t catch her within ten feet. He was very, very fast, and she wasn’t; the heavy leather coat she’d decided to wear was weighing her down, and so was the weapons bag. She wanted to leave it, but she didn’t dare.

Are you really going to try to kill him?
she asked herself, and didn’t have any idea of the answer. She tripped over a fallen, tilted grave marker and went flying, rolled, and the canvas bag ripped open on a jagged piece of broken marble. The fabric was tough, but it had weakened along the zipper, and things spilled out through the gap…. The first one she laid hands on was a plastic Baggie full of random silver chain links, scavenged from old jewelry Eve had
bought through the Internet. It made a nice, heavy handful as Claire opened it, and as she stumbled to her feet, she twisted and threw it at Michael.

The silver hit him, and where it struck skin, she saw sparks; it was more surprising than painful, but it slowed him down, giving her a moment to sort through her other available choices. She passed over the silver nitrate; she didn’t want to hurt him—she really didn’t.

Her hands closed on Shane’s silver-tipped baseball bat, which was the biggest thing in the canvas bag, and she yanked it out.

She didn’t even have time to prepare a decent swing as Michael lunged forward, but she did manage to get the coated end of the wood into place so that his momentum took him chest-first into it; the silver scorched him hard, and he veered off with a cry of pain.

Then it was a temporary standoff as Claire set her feet and took up a batter’s stance, ready and watching as he paced beyond her reach.

“Michael?”

He didn’t answer. His face looked as immobile and frozen as that of the marble angel behind him.

“Michael, please don’t do this. I know this isn’t your fault; Naomi’s using you. I don’t want to hurt you. I swear….”

“Good,” he said. “That makes it easy.”

“But I will!” she finished, and took a swing at his knees as he came into reach. He jumped over the bat, landed lightly, and sprang for her with hands outstretched.

Something hit him in the neck with a soft, coughing hiss, and Michael landed off-balance, staggered, and shook his head in confusion. There was something sticking out of his neck.

A dart.

He pulled it out, looked at it in confusion, and turned away
from Claire, toward the wall…and sitting on top of it, with a heavy rifle in his hands, was Shane Collins.

“Sorry, man,” Shane said. He kicked free and dropped off the wall, flexing his knees and loading another dart into the tranquilizer gun. He aimed as he walked toward them. “You’re going to feel real damn bad for a while. Don’t make me hit you again. I’m not sure it won’t kill you.”

Michael growled something, but he was already losing his ability to function; he went down to one knee, then pitched forward to his hands, and then slowly sank down on his side. His back arched in a silent scream.

Claire dropped the bat and tried to go to him, but Shane caught her by the waist and lifted her up to stop her. She kicked and twisted, but he held her. “You get close to him, he could finish the job,” he said. He slung her around and sent her stumbling well away from Michael, and from himself. “You came to get Myrnin. Go get him. I’ll cover you.”

There was still no hint of forgiveness in him, either for Claire or—as he looked at his fallen, suffering friend—for Michael. He was here to fulfill a duty as he saw it, and that was all.

But it was more than she’d ever expected. It was
something.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Shane nodded, not meeting her eyes, and racked the second tranquilizer dart into place as he watched Michael writhe painfully on the ground.

Claire raced over the uneven graves toward the white tree; even uncovered, the silver grate, circular with bars that formed a simple cross, was almost invisible until she nearly stepped onto it. That would have probably broken her ankle. The grate was locked in place with an old, rusted lock, and Claire whaled at it frantically with the silver-tipped bat until it broke in two.

She threw back the cold, tarnished metal and tried to see into the dark. Nothing. Not even a hint of life.

“Myrnin?” She shouted it down. She had to cover her nose from the smell that rose up from the narrow little hole—rot, sewage, mold, a toxic brew of the worst things she could imagine. “Myrnin! Can you hear me?”

Something thumped down on the ground next to her, and Claire looked up to see that Shane had tossed over a coil of nylon rope he’d retrieved from the weapons bag. She nodded and unwrapped it, tied off one end around the dead tree, and dropped the other down into the hole. “If you can hear me, grab the rope, Myrnin! Climb!”

She wasn’t sure for long moments whether he was there, or even whether he
could
get out. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was already gone.

But then she felt the rope suddenly pull taut, and in seconds, she saw something pale appear in the dark below, gradually becoming clearer as it moved up toward her.

Myrnin climbed as if he’d learned how from his pet spider, swarming up with frantic speed. He had burns on his face and hands and lower legs, silver burns, but that didn’t slow him down, and when he reached the top of the hole, Claire grabbed his forearms and dragged him out on the side that wasn’t blocked by the raised silver grate.

He collapsed on his back, foul water bleeding out of his soaked and ruined clothes, out of his matted black hair, and after a second of silence he whispered, “I knew you’d come, Claire. I knew you would. Dear God, you took your time.”