Midnight Alley (16 page)

‘‘You know what, Claire?'' Jason asked. He got up, stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, and smiled at her again. ‘‘I'm going to like you a lot. You're a scream.''

He strolled off, and Claire tried to get up and see where he was going, but she couldn't. Her knees wouldn't cooperate. He was out of sight in seconds.

Claire looked at the coffee bar. Eve was standing there, motionless, staring right at her with huge dark eyes, and even without the Goth rice powder she'd have been pale as death.

Eve mouthed,
You okay?

Claire nodded.

She really wasn't, though, and the cut on her wrist wouldn't stop bleeding. She dug in her backpack and found an adhesive bandage—she always kept them, just in case she got blisters on her feet from all the walking. That seemed to do the trick.

She was smoothing it in place when she felt someone standing over her, and jumped, expecting the return of Jason, complete with psycho stabbing attack.

But it was Michael. He had his guitar case in his hand, and he looked—great. Relaxed, somehow, in a way that she'd never really seen him. There was even a slight flush of color in his face, and his eyes were shining.

But that quickly faded, and he frowned. ‘‘You're bleeding,'' he said. ‘‘What happened?''

Claire sighed and held up her wrist to show him the bandage. ‘‘Man, you would be so embarrassed if I said it was something else.'' Michael looked blank. ‘‘I'm a girl, Michael, it could have been all natural, you know. Tampons?''

Vampire or not, he was
such
a guy, and his expression was priceless—a combination of embarrassment and nausea. ‘‘Oh crap, I hadn't really thought that through. Sorry. Not really used to this yet. So—what happened?''

‘‘Paper cut,'' she said.

‘‘Claire.''

She sighed. ‘‘Don't freak, okay? It was Eve's brother, Jason. I think he just wanted to scare me.''

Michael's eyes widened, and his head turned fast, searching the coffee bar for Eve. When he saw her, the relief that spread over his face was painful—and it didn't last long before it curdled into something grim. ‘‘I can't believe he'd come here. Why can't they catch this jerk?''

‘‘Maybe somebody doesn't want to,'' she said. ‘‘He's only killing human girls.
If
he's the one doing it.'' Although he'd pretty much confessed, hadn't he? And the knife was a big clue. ‘‘We can talk about it later. I need to get—'' She remembered, just in time, that she couldn't talk to Michael about Myrnin. ‘‘Get to class,'' she said. She hadn't really thought Amelie would make her go alone, and she wasn't sure she could do it. Myrnin was fascinating, most of the time, but then when he turned . . . no, she couldn't go alone. What if something happened? Sam wouldn't be there to help get him off her.

Michael didn't move. ‘‘I know where you're going,'' he said. ‘‘I'm your ride.''

She blinked. ‘‘You're my—what?''

He lowered his voice, even though nobody was paying attention. ‘‘I'll take you where you're supposed to go. And I'll wait for you.''

 
Amelie had told him, Claire found out on the way to Michael's new car. She'd needed to, apparently; she hadn't trusted any vampire but Sam with the information and access to Myrnin, but Michael had an investment in Claire's well-being, and Sam was going to be out of action for a couple of days at least. ‘‘But he's okay?'' Claire asked.

Michael opened the door to the parking garage for her, an automatic gesture that he'd probably learned from his grandfather, once upon a time. He had some of Sam's mannerisms, and they had the same walk. ‘‘Yeah,'' Michael said. ‘‘He nearly died, though. People—vampires—are pretty wired right now. They want the one who staked him, and they don't really care how it happens. I made Shane promise to keep his ass inside, and not to go out alone.''

‘‘You really think he'll keep his word?''

Michael shrugged and opened the door of a standard-issue, dark vampire-tinted sedan, exactly the same as the one Sam had driven. A Ford, as it happened. Nice to know the vamps were buying American. ‘‘I tried,'' he said. ‘‘Shane doesn't listen to much of anything I have to say. Not anymore.''

Claire got into the car and buckled in. As Michael climbed in the driver's side, she said, ‘‘It's not your fault. He's just not dealing with it very well. I don't know what we can do about that.''

‘‘Nothing,'' Michael said, and started the car. ‘‘We can't do anything about it at all.''

It was a short drive, of course, and as far as Claire could tell from the dimly seen streets outside, Michael took the same route Sam had to the alley, and Myrnin's cave. Michael parked the car at the curb. When she got out, though, Claire realized something, and bent to look into the dim interior of the car, then ducked back inside.

‘‘Crap,'' she said. ‘‘You can't come inside, can you? You can't go out in the sun!''

Michael shook his head. ‘‘I'm supposed to wait out here for you until the sun goes down; then I'll come in. Amelie said she'd make sure you were safe until then.''

‘‘But—'' Claire bit her lip. It wasn't Michael's fault. There were about three hours of sun left, so she was just going to have to watch her own back for a while. ‘‘Okay. See you after dark.''

She closed the car door. When she straightened she saw that Gramma Katherine Day was on the porch of her big Founder House, rocking and sipping what looked like iced tea. Claire waved. Gramma Day nodded.

‘‘You bein' careful?'' she called.

‘‘Yes ma'am!''

‘‘I told the queen, I don't like her putting you down there with that thing. I told her,'' Gramma Day said, with a fierce stab of her finger for emphasis. ‘‘You come on up here and have some iced tea with me, girl. That thing down there, he'll wait. He don't know where he is half the time, anyway.''

Claire smiled and shook her head. ‘‘I can't, ma'am. I'm supposed to be there on time. Thank you, though.'' She turned toward the alley, then had a thought. ‘‘Oh—who's the queen?''

Gramma made an impatient fly-waving gesture. ‘‘
Her,
of course. The White Queen. You're just like Alice, you know. Down the rabbit hole with the Mad Hatter.''

Claire didn't dare think about that too much, because the phrase
Off with her head!
loomed way too close. She gave Gramma Day another polite smile and wave, hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder, and went to night school.

8

Amelie had made sure she was safe, all right. She'd done it by locking Myrnin up.

Claire dropped her backpack at the bottom of the stairs—where it was easy to grab in midrun—and spotted a new addition to the lab: a cage. And Myrnin was inside it.

‘‘Oh my God—'' She took a few steps toward him, navigating around the usual haphazard stacks of books, and bit her lip. It was, as far as she could tell, the same cage that the vampires had used to lock up Shane in Founder's Square—heavy black bars, and the whole thing was on wheels. Vampire-proof, hopefully. Whoever had locked Myrnin in had been nice enough to give him a whole pile of books, and a comfy (if threadbare) tangle of blankets and faded pillows. He was lounging in the corner on the cushions, with a pair of old-fashioned, Benjamin Franklin-style glasses perched on the end of his hooked nose. He was reading.

‘‘You're late,'' he said, as he turned a page. Claire's mouth opened and closed, but she couldn't think of a thing to say. ‘‘Oh, don't fret about the cage. It's for your precaution, of course. Since Samuel isn't here to watch over you.'' He turned another page, but his eyes weren't moving to follow text. He was pretending to read, and somehow that was worse than heart-breaking. ‘‘Amelie's idea. I can't say that I really approve.''

She finally was able to say, ‘‘I'm sorry.''

Myrnin shrugged and closed the book, which he dropped with a bang on the pile next to him. ‘‘I've been in cages before this,'' he said. ‘‘And no doubt I will be let out once your appointed guardian is here to chaperone. In the meantime, let's continue with our instruction. Pull a chair close. You'll excuse me if I don't get up, but I'm a bit taller than—'' He reached up and rapped the bars overhead. ‘‘Amelie tells me you have enrolled in advanced placement classes.''

Claire gratefully took that as an opportunity not to think about how disturbingly reassuring this was, seeing him locked up like an animal in a cage, because of
her.
She read off her class schedule, and answered his questions, which were sharply worded and a strange mix of expert knowledge and complete ignorance. He understood philosophy and biochem; he didn't know anything at all about quantum mechanics, until she explained the basics, and then he nodded.

‘‘Myth and Legend?'' he echoed, baffled, when she read off the class title. ‘‘Why would Amelie feel it necessary . . . ah, no matter. I'm sure she has reason. Your essay?'' He held out his hand. Claire dug the stapled computer printout from her bag and handed it over. Six pages, single spaced. The best she could do on the history of a subject she was only just now starting to understand. ‘‘I'll read it later. And the books I gave you?''

Claire went to her backpack and pulled them out, then came back to her chair. ‘‘I read through
Aureus
and
The Golden Chain of Homer.
''

‘‘Did you understand them?''

‘‘Not—really.''

‘‘That's because alchemy is a very secretive field of study. Rather like being a Mason—are there still Masons?'' When she nodded, Myrnin looked oddly relieved. ‘‘Well, that's good. The consequences would be quite terrible, you know, if there weren't. As to alchemy, I can teach you how to translate the codes that were spoken and written, but I'm more concerned that you learn the mechanics than the philosophy. You do understand the methods outlined in the texts for constructing a calcining furnace, yes?''

‘‘I think so. But why can't we just order what we need? Or buy it?''

Myrnin flicked the silver ring on his right hand into the bars of his cell, setting up a metallic ringing. ‘‘None of that. Modern children are fools, slaves to the work of others, dependent for everything. Not you. You will learn how to build your tools as well as use them.''

‘‘You want me to be an
engineer
?''

‘‘Is it not a useful thing for one who studies physics to understand such practical applications?''

She stared at him doubtfully. ‘‘You're not going to make me get an anvil and make my own screwdrivers or anything, are you?''

Myrnin smiled slowly. ‘‘What a good idea! I'll consider it. Now. I have an experiment I'd like to try. Are you ready?''

Probably not.
‘‘Yes sir.''

‘‘Move that bookcase—'' He pointed to a leaning monstrosity of shelves that looked ready to collapse. It was groaning with volumes, of course. ‘‘Push it out of the way.''

Claire wasn't at all sure the thing would hold together to
be
pushed, but she did as he said. It was better built than it looked, and to her surprise, when she'd pushed it aside, she found a small arched doorway. It was secured with a big heart-shaped iron lock.

‘‘Open it,'' he said, and picked up the book he'd dropped upon her entrance, leafing randomly through the pages.

‘‘Where's the key?''

‘‘No idea.'' He flipped faster, frowning at the words. ‘‘Look around.''

Claire looked around the lab in complete frustration. ‘‘In
here
?'' Where was she supposed to start? It was all piles and stacks and half-open drawers, nothing in any order at all that she'd been able to determine so far. ‘‘Can you give me a hint, at least?''

‘‘If I remembered, I would.'' Myrnin's voice was dry, but just a little sad, too. She shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye. He folded the book closed again and stared out of the cage—not at her, or at anything, really. There was a careful blankness to his face. ‘‘Claire?''

‘‘Yeah?'' She pulled open the first drawer near the door. It was full of bottles of what looked like dust, none of them labeled. A spider scuttled frantically out of sight into the darker recesses, and she made a face and slammed it shut.

‘‘Can you tell me why I'm in this cage?'' He sounded odd now, strangely calm with something underneath. Claire pulled in a deep breath and kept looking in the drawers. She didn't look directly at him. ‘‘I don't like cages. Bad things have happened to me in cages.''

‘‘Amelie says you have to stay in there for a while,'' she said. ‘‘Remember? It's to help us.''

‘‘I don't remember.'' His voice was warm and soft and regretful. ‘‘I'd like to get out of here. Could you open it, please?''

‘‘No,'' she said. ‘‘I don't have the—''

Keys,
except that she did. There was a ring of them sitting right there in front of her, half-hidden by a leaning tower of loose, yellowing pages. Three keys. One was a great big iron skeleton key, and she was instantly almost sure that it fit the big heart-shaped lock on the door behind the bookcase. The other one was newer, still big and clunky, and it had to be the key to Myrnin's cage.

The third was a tiny, delicate silver key, like the kind that opened diaries and suitcases.