Midnight Alley (14 page)

‘‘Claire, assist me,'' she said, as if they were continuing a conversation Claire hadn't even been in on. ‘‘Give her room, please.''

Hans let go, and Claire felt a wild urge to run, run out of this room, get Shane and just
go
, anywhere but here. There was something too big to understand in Amelie's eyes, something she didn't want to know. She started to take a step back, but Amelie's hand flashed out and grabbed her wrist and pulled, and Claire fell to her knees on the other side of Sam's body.

He looked dead.

Really, really dead.

‘‘When I tell you, take hold of the wood and pull,'' Amelie said, her voice low and steady. ‘‘Not until I tell you.''

‘‘But—I'm not very strong. . . .'' Why wasn't she asking Richard? Asking one of the vampires? Oliver, even?

‘‘You are strong enough. When I tell you, Claire.'' Amelie closed her eyes again, and Claire scrubbed her damp palms nervously over her blue jeans. The wooden stake in Sam's chest was round, polished wood, like a spike, and she couldn't tell how deep it was in his body. Was it in his heart? Wouldn't that kill him, once and for all? She remembered they'd talked about other vampires who'd gotten staked, and they'd died. . . .

Amelie's expression suddenly twisted in pain, and she said, ‘‘Now, Claire!''

Claire didn't even think. She fastened her hands around the stake and pulled, one massive yank, and for a terrifying second she thought it wouldn't work, but then she felt it sliding free, scraping against bone as it went.

Sam's whole body arched, as though he'd been shocked with one of those heart machines, and the circle of vampires moved back. Amelie kept hold of him, her fingers white as bone where they pressed on the sides of his head. Her eyes flew open, and they were pure blazing silver.

Claire scrambled backward, clutching the stake in both hands. Someone plucked it out of her grip— Richard Morrell, looking grim and tired. He put it into a plastic bag and zipped it shut.

Evidence.

Sam went limp again. The wound in his chest was bleeding a steady, slow trickle, and Amelie took off her jacket—white silk—and folded it into a pad to press it against the flow. Nobody spoke, not even Amelie. Claire sat there feeling helpless, watching Sam. He wasn't moving, not at all.

He still looked dead.

‘‘Samuel,'' Amelie said, and her voice was low and quiet and warm. She bent closer to him. ‘‘Samuel. Come back to me.''

His eyes opened, and they were all pupil. Scary owl eyes. Claire bit her lip and thought again about running, but Hans and Gretchen were at her back and she knew she didn't have a chance, anyway.

Sam blinked, and his pupils began to shrink slowly to a more normal size. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

‘‘Breathe in,'' Amelie said, in that same quiet, warm tone. ‘‘I'm here, Samuel. I won't leave you.'' She stroked fingers gently over his forehead, and he blinked again and slowly focused on her.

It was as though there was nobody else in all the world, just the two of them.
Amelie was wrong,
Claire thought.
It isn't just that Sam loves her. She loves him just as much.

Sam looked from Amelie to the circle of people, searching it for someone. When he didn't find the right one, he looked at Amelie again. His lips formed a name.
Michael.

‘‘Michael is safe,'' Amelie said. ‘‘Hans. Fetch him here.''

Hans nodded and left, walking quickly.
Michael.
Claire realized with a jolt that she'd forgotten he'd be here, forgotten all about him in the shock of all that had happened. Sam was, at least, looking better with every passing second, but Amelie continued to press the makeshift bandage to the wound in his chest.

Sam's hand crept up, clumsy and slow, to cover hers, and for a long few seconds they looked at each other silently, and then Amelie nodded and let go.

Sam held the bandage in place and, with Amelie's help, pulled himself to a sitting position. She helped him lean against the wall.

‘‘Can you tell us what happened?'' she asked him. Sam nodded, and Claire looked up to see Richard Morrell crouching down, notebook and pen at the ready.

Sam's voice, when it finally came, was soft and thin, and it was clearly an effort for him to speak at all. ‘‘Went to see Michael,'' he said.

‘‘But Michael was here, with us,'' Amelie said. ‘‘We summoned him during the night.''

Sam's hand—the one not occupied holding the jacket to his chest—rose and fell helplessly. ‘‘Sensed he wasn't home, so I backed out of the drive. Someone pulled open the car door—Taser, couldn't fight back. Staked me while I was down.''

‘‘Who?'' Richard asked. Sam's eyes closed briefly, then opened.

‘‘Didn't see. Human. Heard the heartbeat.'' He swallowed. ‘‘Thirsty.''

‘‘You must heal first,'' Amelie said. ‘‘A few more moments. Is there anything at all you can tell us about this human who attacked you?''

Sam's eyes opened again, with an effort. ‘‘He called me Michael.''

Michael arrived just in time to hear that last part. He looked at Claire, wide-eyed, then crouched down beside Sam. ‘‘Who did? The one who did this?''

Sam shook his head. ‘‘I don't know who. Male, that's all I know. He used your name. I think he thought I was you.'' Sam's lips curled in the pale ghost of a smile. ‘‘Guess he didn't see the hair before he staked me.''

The article in the newspaper.
Captain Obvious.
Somebody had decided to take out the newest vampire in town, and it was sheer luck that they'd gotten Sam instead. It could have been Michael lying in the street.

And from the look on Michael's face, he was thinking the exact same thing.

 
Amelie was agitated. It wasn't really obvious, but Claire had seen her enough to know the difference. She moved more swiftly, and there was something less calm than usual in her eyes. Claire shivered a little when Amelie summoned her into a side room. It was small and empty, probably some kind of meeting room. Amelie didn't come alone; a tall blond vampire guy followed along and stood with his back to the door, a flesh-and-blood deadbolt. No getting out quickly, or at all, really.

‘‘What happened?'' Amelie demanded.

‘‘I don't know,'' Claire said. ‘‘I was asleep. I woke up when—''
When I heard the sirens,
she'd been about to say, but again, that wasn't really true. She'd felt something, a flash of alarm that had come out of nowhere. And Shane and Eve had felt it, too. It normally would take a nuclear explosion to blast Shane out of sleep in the predawn hours, but he'd been wide-awake. ‘‘It was like some alarm went off in the house.''

Amelie's face went very still and smooth. ‘‘Indeed.''

‘‘Why? Is that important?''

‘‘Maybe. What else?''

‘‘Nothing—we went downstairs. The sirens were going outside, and by the time we got down there it was all over, I guess. Sam was down on the road, and the cop was already there.''

‘‘You saw no one else?''

Claire shook her head.

‘‘And your friends?'' Amelie asked. ‘‘Where were they?''

It wasn't a casual question. Claire felt her pulse speed up, and tried to stay calm. If Amelie didn't believe her . . . ‘‘Asleep,'' she said firmly. ‘‘Shane was with me, and I saw Eve come out of her own room. They couldn't have done it.''

Amelie shot her a look. Not one that made her feel any too secure. ‘‘I know how much you value their lives. But understand, Claire, if you lie for them, I will not forgive it.''

‘‘I'm not lying. They were in their rooms when I came out. The only one missing was Michael, and he was here with you.''

Amelie turned away from her and paced the length of the room in slow, graceful steps. She looked so perfect, so . . .
together.
Unable to help it, Claire blurted out, ‘‘Aren't you worried about Sam?''

‘‘I am more concerned about whoever attacked him not receiving another chance to do such harm,'' Amelie said. ‘‘Sam was old enough to survive such a thing—but only barely. If the stake had remained in his chest much longer, or the sun had burned him, he could not have survived. Had the assassin succeeded in attacking Michael, he would have died almost instantly. It would take decades for him to build up an immunity.''

Claire's mouth opened, shut, and opened again when she found the words. ‘‘You mean—vampires
don't
die from stakes in the heart?''

‘‘I mean that it takes quite a lot to kill one of us,'' Amelie said. ‘‘More every year we survive. You could put a stake through
my
heart, and I would simply pull it out and be very annoyed with you for ruining my wardrobe. If I failed to remove it within a few hours, it would damage me, perhaps seriously, but it would not destroy me in the way you're thinking. We are not so fragile, little Claire.'' Her teeth gleamed for a second like pearls as she smiled. ‘‘You would do well to tell your friends. Especially Shane.''

‘‘But—Brandon—''

Amelie's smile faded. ‘‘He was tortured,'' she said. ‘‘Burned with sunlight to reduce his resistance. By the time he was murdered, he had no more strength than a newborn. Shane's father understands us too well, you see.''

And now, so did Claire. Which probably wasn't good. ‘‘The cops took Shane and Eve to the police station. I don't want anything to happen to them.''

‘‘I'm sure you don't. As I did not want anything to happen to my dear Samuel, who would willingly die for the rights of breathers in this town.'' Amelie's tone had gone cold and dark, and it gave Claire a deep-down trembling in her stomach. ‘‘I wonder if I have been too lenient. Allowed too much freedom.''

‘‘You don't own us,'' Claire whispered, and it seemed like the bracelet around her wrist tightened all of a sudden, pinching. She grabbed at it, wincing.

‘‘Do I not?'' Amelie asked coolly. She exchanged a glance with the vampire at the door. ‘‘Let her leave. I am done with her.''

He bowed slightly and stepped out of the way. Claire resisted the urge to lunge for the exit. Being in the same room with Amelie, never mind her guard, was scary and intense, but she needed to at least try. ‘‘About Shane and Eve—''

‘‘I don't interfere in human justice,'' Amelie said. ‘‘If they are innocent, then they will be released. Go now. I shall expect you to attend to Myrnin today, and I have arranged for some additional classes at university for you to attend. A list has been provided to you at your home this morning.''

Claire hesitated.

‘‘Sam was supposed to take me to Myrnin—who's going to—''

Amelie spun on her, and there was something wild and terrible in her eyes. ‘‘Little fool, don't bother me with trivia! Go
now
!''

Claire ran.

 
The house was empty when she arrived. No Shane, no Eve, and she hadn't seen Michael again at the Elders' Council building before Hans and Gretchen had bundled her off. Claire felt very alone, and she locked all the doors and made sure of all the windows.

The house felt . . . warm, somehow. Not in the hot-air sense, but cozy. Welcoming. Claire put her hand flat on the wall in the living room. ‘‘Can you hear me?'' she asked, and then felt stupid. It was just a house, right? Just wood and bricks and concrete and wiring and pipes. How could it hear her?

But she couldn't shake the feeling that the
house
had jabbed her awake this morning, her and Shane and Eve. That it had been trying to warn them. The house had saved Michael, after all, when he'd been killed by Oliver; it had given him what life it could, as a ghost. It
wanted
to help.

‘‘I wish you could talk,'' she said. ‘‘I wish you could tell me who tried to kill Sam.''

But it couldn't, and she was talking to a dumbass
wall
. Claire sighed, turned away, and caught a glimpse of a piece of paper stirring in a breeze.

A breeze that wasn't there.

The paper was lying on the table, on top of Michael's guitar case. Claire grabbed it and read it, barely daring to believe— What was she thinking? That the house was going to provide her with the name of Sam's would-be Van Helsing? Of course not. It wasn't an answer to her question.

It was a class schedule printout, stamped AMENDED in big red letters. Her core classes were mostly gone; the notation next to them showed that she'd tested out.

What caught her attention, though, was what had been scheduled in their place.
Advanced Biochem. Philosophical Studies. Quantum Mechanics. Honors Myth and Legend.

Wow. Was it wrong that she felt her heart skip a beat over that? Claire checked the times, then her watch. She barely had an hour until the first new class, but she couldn't go yet. Not until she'd heard from Shane and Eve.

Thirty minutes later she was on the phone, trying to get somebody to answer her questions at the police station, when she heard the locks rattle on the door and Eve's voice saying, ‘‘—dumbass,'' and the knot of fear in Claire's chest began to loosen. ‘‘Yo, Claire! You here?''

‘‘Here,'' she said, and hung up to come down the hall toward them.

Eve had her arm around Shane, half supporting him. Claire blinked and focused on his face. At the swelling and bruises. ‘‘Oh God,'' she said, and hurried to his side to help Eve. ‘‘What happened?''