Midnight Alley (10 page)

He stood up and wandered away,
tsk
ing over the broken glass, righting the fallen books. As if she'd ceased to exist. Claire sat up and rolled to her feet, shaky and scared.

Sam was standing just a few feet away. She hadn't seen or heard him approach, and he hadn't acted to save her. His face was tense, his eyes uneasy.

‘‘He's sick,'' Claire said.

‘‘Sick, sick, sick, yes, I am,'' Myrnin said. He had his head in his hands now, as if it hurt him. ‘‘We're all sick. All doomed.''

‘‘What's he talking about?'' Claire turned to Sam.

‘‘Nothing.'' He shook his head. ‘‘Don't listen to him.''

Myrnin looked up and bared his teeth. His eyes were fierce, but they were sane. Mostly sane, anyway. ‘‘They won't tell you the truth, little morsel, but I will. We're dying. Seventy years ago—''

Sam moved Claire out of his way, and for the first time since she'd met him, Sam actually looked threatening. ‘‘Myrnin,
shut up
!''

‘‘No,'' Myrnin sighed. ‘‘It's time for talking. I've been shut up enough.'' He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed and full of tears. ‘‘Oh, little girl, do you understand? My race is dying. My race is dying and I don't know how to stop it.''

Claire's mouth opened and closed, but she couldn't find anything to say. Sam turned toward her, fury still radiating off him like heat. ‘‘Ignore him,'' he said. ‘‘He doesn't know what he's saying. We should go, before he remembers what he was about to do. Or forgets what he shouldn't.''

Claire cast a look back over her shoulder at Myrnin, who was holding a broken glass pipe in his hands, trying to fit the two pieces back together. When it wouldn't go, he dropped it and covered his face with both hands. She could see his shoulders shaking. ‘‘Can't—shouldn't somebody help him?''

‘‘There's no help,'' Sam said in a voice flat with anger. ‘‘There's no cure. And you're not coming back here again if I can do anything about it.''

6

Claire kept her silence for about half the ride home, and Sam didn't offer anything, either. The pressure of questions finally was too much for her. ‘‘He was telling the truth, wasn't he?'' she asked. ‘‘There's some kind of disease. Amelie tried to make me think that not making more vampires was her choice, but that's not really true, is it? You
can't.
She's the only one who isn't sick.''

Sam's face went tight and still in the glow of the dashboard lights. Sitting in the car was like traveling through space; the dark-tinted windows refused even starlight, so it was just the two of them in their own pocket universe. He had the radio on, and it was playing classical music, something light and sweet.

‘‘No use telling you to shut up, is there?''

She said regretfully, ‘‘Probably not. And I wouldn't stop trying to find out.''

Sam shook his head. ‘‘Do you even
have
a sense of self-preservation?''

‘‘Shane asks me that all the time.''

That made Sam smile, despite his obvious unease. ‘‘All right,'' he said. ‘‘Amelie's sick, too. It's getting harder and harder for her to create new vampires— she was barely able to bring Michael over; I was terrified it would kill her this time. The truth is, we're all sick. Myrnin's been searching for the cause—and the cure—for seventy years now, but it's too late now. He's too far gone, and the chance that anyone else could help him through it is too small. I can't let her sacrifice you like this, Claire. I told you that he's had five assistants. I don't want you to become another statistic.''

Oh God.
The vampires were all dying.
Claire felt a rush of pure adrenaline, enough to make her hands tremble with the force of it. She felt a fierce surge of something like . . . satisfaction. And then another one, right on top of it, of guilt.
What about Sam? What about Michael?
Yeah, and what about Oliver and all those scary vamps like him? Wouldn't it be great to see them go?

‘‘What if he doesn't find the cure?'' Claire asked. She tried not to give away any of what she was feeling, but she was sure Sam could hear her elevated heartbeat. ‘‘How long—?''

‘‘Claire, you need to forget you ever heard any of this. I mean it. There are a lot of secrets in Morganville, but this one could kill you. Say
nothing
, understand? Not to your friends, and not to Amelie.
Do you understand?
''

His intensity was even more terrifying than Myrnin's, because it was so controlled. She nodded.

It didn't stop the questions from swirling in her brain, or the possibilities.

Sam let her out at the curb and watched her until she was inside the house—it was full dark, and there were plenty of hunting vampires out on a clear, cool night like this. Nobody would hurt her—probably— but Sam wasn't in the mood to take chances.

Claire shut the door and locked it, leaned against the wood for a long few seconds, and tried to get her head together. She knew her friends would bombard her with questions—where had she been, was she crazy being out alone in the dark—but she couldn't answer them, not without violating some order from either Amelie or Sam.

They're dying.
It seemed impossible; the vampires seemed so strong, so frightening. But she'd seen it. She'd seen the way Myrnin was decaying, and how afraid Sam was. Even Amelie, perfect icy Amelie, was doomed. Wasn't that a good thing? And if it was, why did she feel so sick when she thought about Amelie going slowly mad, like Myrnin?

Claire took a few more deep breaths, willed her mind to shut up for a while, and pushed off to walk down the hall.

She didn't get far. There was stuff piled everywhere. It took her a second, but she recognized it with a shock of horror. ‘‘Oh no,'' she whispered. ‘‘Shane's stuff.'' It was blocking the hallway. Claire shoved a path through the boxes and suitcases piled there.
Oh crap.
There was the PlayStation, unplugged and looking mournful, in a heap with its game controllers.

‘‘Hey? Hey guys? What's going on?'' Claire called, edging around the barricades. ‘‘Anybody here?''

‘‘Claire?'' Michael's shadow appeared at the end of the hall. ‘‘Where the
hell
have you been?''

‘‘I—got held up late at the lab,'' she said. Which wasn't a lie. ‘‘What's happening?''

‘‘Shane says he's moving out,'' Michael said. He looked deeply angry, but it was covering up hurt, too. ‘‘Glad you're here. I was about to come looking for you.''

Claire heard the indistinct buzz of voices upstairs. Eve's voice, high and strident. Shane's rumbling low. There was about a sixty second delay, and then Shane came down the stairs carrying a box. His face was pale but determined, and although he hesitated for a second when he saw Claire was back, he kept coming down.

‘‘Seriously, dumbass, what the
hell
are you doing?'' Eve demanded from the top of the stairs. She darted around and got into his path, forcing him to back up and try to get around her. ‘‘Yo, village idiot! Talking to you!''

‘‘You want to live here with him, fine,'' Shane said tightly. ‘‘I'm going. I've had enough.''

‘‘You're moving
at night
? Do you have a head wound?''

He faked Eve to the right and moved past her to the left.

And ran into Claire, who didn't move. She didn't say anything, and after a few seconds of silence he said, ‘‘I'm sorry. Got to do it. I told you.''

‘‘Is this about your dad?'' she asked. ‘‘About this prejudice you've got against Michael now?''

‘‘Prejudice? Jesus, Claire, you act like he's still really Michael. Well, he's not. He's one of them. I'm done with this crap. If I need to I'll go break some laws and get my ass thrown in jail. Better that than living here, looking at him—'' Shane stopped dead and shut his eyes for a second. ‘‘You don't understand. You just don't understand, Claire. You didn't grow up here.''

‘‘But I did,'' Eve said, stepping up closer. ‘‘And I don't get your paranoid bullshit, either. Michael hasn't hurt
anybody
! Especially you, you jerk. So lay off.''

‘‘I am,'' Shane said. ‘‘I'm leaving.''

Claire didn't move out of his way. ‘‘What about us?''

‘‘You want to go with me?''

She slowly shook her head, and saw the pain in his face for a split second before it turned hard again.

‘‘Then we've got nothing to talk about. And sorry to break it to you, but there's no
us.
Get it straight, Claire, it's been fun, but you're not really my type—''

Michael
moved
. He smacked the box out of Shane's hands, and it flew halfway across the room, skidded across the wood floor the rest of the way, and slammed into the baseboard, where it tipped over and spilled things all over the place.

‘‘Don't,'' he said, and grabbed Shane by the shoulders and flattened him against the nearest convenient wall. ‘‘Don't you disrespect her. Be an asshole to me, fine. Be an asshole to Eve if you want to; she can give it right back. But don't you take it out on Claire. I've had enough of your crap, Shane.'' He stopped and took a breath, but the anger wasn't burning out of him, not yet. ‘‘You want to go, get the hell out, but you'd better take a good hard look at yourself, my man. Yeah, your sister died. Your mom died. Your dad's a violent, prejudiced asshole. Your life has
sucked.
But you don't get to be the victim anymore. We keep cutting you breaks, and you keep screwing up, and it's
enough.
I'm not letting you whine anymore about how your life sucks worse than ours.''

Shane's face went dead white, then red.

And he socked Michael in the face. It was a solid, painful punch, and Claire winced and covered her mouth in sympathy, moving back.

Michael didn't move. Didn't even react. He just stared into Shane's eyes.

‘‘You're just like your dad,'' he said. ‘‘You want to stake me now? Cut my head off? Bury me out back? That work for you,
friend
?''

‘‘Yes!'' Shane screamed, right in his face, and there was something so frightening in his eyes that Claire couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Michael let him go, walked over, and picked up a couple of things from the pile that had spilled from the box Shane had been carrying out.

A pointed stake.

A wickedly sharp hunting knife.

‘‘You came prepared,'' he said, and tossed them to Shane, who caught them out of the air. ‘‘Go for it.''

Eve screamed and threw herself in front of Michael, who gently but firmly moved her out of the way.

‘‘Go on,'' he said. ‘‘We do this now, or we end up doing it later. You want to move out so you can kill me with a clear conscience. Why wait? Come on, man, do it. I won't fight.''

Shane turned the knife in his hand, the edge slashing the light with every agitated move. Claire felt frozen, winter-cold, unable to think of anything to say or do. What had happened? How did things get this bad? What—

Shane took a step toward Michael, a sudden long lunge, and Michael didn't move. His eyes—they weren't cold at all, and they weren't vampire-scary, either. They were human, and they were afraid.

For a long breath, nobody moved, and then Michael said, ‘‘I know you feel like I betrayed you, but I didn't. This wasn't about you. It was for me; it was so I didn't have to be trapped here anymore. I was dying here. I was buried alive.''

Shane's face twisted, as if that hunting knife had slid into his own guts. ‘‘Maybe you should have stayed dead.'' He raised the stake in his right hand.

‘‘Shane,
no
!'' Eve was screaming, trying to get between them, but Michael was holding her off. She turned on him in a fury. ‘‘Dammit, stop it! You don't really want to die!''

‘‘No,'' Michael said. ‘‘I don't. He knows I don't.'' Shane paused, trembling. Claire watched his face, his eyes, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. What he was feeling. It was just a face, and she didn't know him at all.

‘‘You were my friend,'' Shane said. He sounded lost. ‘‘You were my best friend. How screwed up is this?''

Michael didn't say anything. He took a step forward, took the knife and stake out of Shane's hands, and pulled him into a hug.

And this time, Shane didn't resist.

‘‘Asshole,'' Michael sighed, and slapped his back.

‘‘Yeah,'' Shane muttered, stepped back, and scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘‘What-ever. You started it.'' He looked around and focused on Claire. ‘‘You. You were supposed to be home already.''

Crap. She'd hoped they'd forget all about her late arrival, in the explosion of Shane's freak-out. But of course, he'd try to find a way to shift attention away, and there she was, a sitting duck.

‘‘Right,'' Eve said. ‘‘Guess you forgot the number to call and tell us you weren't dead in a ditch.''

‘‘I'm fine,'' Claire said.

‘‘Amy wasn't. She was murdered and stuffed in our trash can, so excuse me if I got a little bit worried that you might be
dead
.'' Eve crossed her arms, her dark stare getting even more fierce. ‘‘I already checked out there for you, before Shane decided to pull this crap.''