Midnight Alley (28 page)

It came again, a thumping knock on the front door. She yawned and pushed back the blanket that Michael had draped over her, and, still trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes, padded to the door.

She had to stand on tiptoes at the peephole to see out. Some guy, nobody that clicked any immediate recognition—not Jason, at least. That was good. Claire looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign Michael had heard. She had no idea where he'd gone.

She opened the door. The guy standing outside looked up and held out a padded mailer with stickers on it; she took it and read her own name on it. ‘‘Oh,'' she said, preoccupied. ‘‘Thanks.''

‘‘No problem, Claire,'' he said. ‘‘Be seeing you.''

There was something way too familiar about the way he said it. She jerked her head up, staring at him, but she still didn't know him. He was just . . . normal. Average height, average weight, average everything. There was a silver bracelet on his wrist, so he was human, not vampire.

‘‘Do I know you?'' she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn't answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. ‘‘Hey, wait! Who are you?''

He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early-afternoon heat, frowning, but she'd left her shoes off, and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet; she'd fry like bacon.

She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn't know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn't answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.

She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately—heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.

It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who'd dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.

‘‘Everything okay?'' Michael's voice came from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.

‘‘Sure,'' she said. ‘‘Just mail.''

‘‘Good stuff?''

‘‘Don't know yet; I haven't read it. Probably junk.''

‘‘Enjoy the fact that you don't have electricity, water, cable, Internet, and garbage to pay for,'' he said. ‘‘Look, I'm going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There's stuff in the fridge if you're hungry.'' A brief pause. ‘‘Don't open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf.''

‘‘Michael,
tell
me you're not putting blood in our refrigerator.''

‘‘I told you not to open it. So you'll never know.''

‘‘You
suck
!'' Of course he did; he was a vampire. ‘‘I mean, not in a good way, either!''

‘‘Eat something! I'm sleeping.'' And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.

Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, as though it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.

It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.

It read:

 
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.

Amelie wasn't happy.

That wasn't good.

Two days.
And Michael could go with her only in the evenings. . . .

She couldn't wait.

Claire checked in her backpack. The red crystal shaker was still inside, safely zipped into a pocket.

If she took Michael's car—no, she couldn't. She'd never be able to see through the tinting, even if she felt confident in her ability to drive it. And Detective Lowe wasn't going to give her a ride. She could try Detective Hess, but Lowe's attitude had made her gun-shy.

Still, she couldn't just go out alone.

With a sigh, she called Eddie, the taxi driver.

‘‘What?'' he snapped. ‘‘Don't I get a day off? What is it with you?''

‘‘Eddie, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I need a favor.'' Claire hastily checked her wallet. ‘‘Um, it's a short trip, I'll pay you double, okay? Please?''

‘‘Double? I don't take checks.''

‘‘I know that. Cash.''

‘‘I don't wait. I pick up, I drop off, I leave.''

‘‘Eddie! Double! Do you want it or not?''

‘‘Keep your panties on. What's the address?''

‘‘Michael Glass's house.''

Eddie heaved a sigh so heavy it sounded like a temporary hurricane. ‘‘You again. Okay, I come. But I swear, last time. No more Saturdays, yes?''

‘‘Yes! Yes, okay. Just this time.''

Eddie hung up on her. Claire bit her lip, slipped the note from Amelie into her bag, and hoped Michael had been serious about going to bed. Because if he'd eavesdropped on her, even by accident, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

It took five minutes for Eddie to arrive. She waited on the sidewalk, and jumped in the back of the battered old cab—barely yellow, after so much sun exposure—and handed Eddie all the cash she had. He counted it. Twice.

Then he grunted and flipped the handle on the taxi meter. ‘‘Address?''

‘‘Katherine Day's house.'' One thing Claire had learned about riding with Eddie—you didn't need numbers, only names. He knew everybody, and he knew where everybody lived. All the natives, anyway. The students, he just dropped on campus and forgot.

Eddie threw an arm over the back of his seat and frowned at her. He was a big guy, with a lot of wild dark hair, including a beard. She could barely see his eyes when he frowned, which was pretty much always. ‘‘The Day House. You're sure.''

‘‘I'm sure.''

‘‘Told you I'm not staying, right?''

‘‘Eddie,
please
!''

‘‘Your funeral,'' he said, and hit the gas hard enough to press her back into the cushions.

12

Myrnin's shack was easy enough to get into—the trick, after all, wasn't getting in. It was getting out. Light slashed in thin ribbons through the darkness where the boards didn't quite meet, but it wasn't exactly easy to see, and she didn't much like roaming around in Myrnin's lair in the dark. Or even half dark. She found a flashlight on the shelf near the door and thumbed it on. A pure white circle of light brushed across the dusty floor and showed her the narrow steps at the back that led down.

She went very slowly. Very carefully. ‘‘Myrnin?'' She said it quietly, because he'd hear her; he'd told her that his ears were sensitive because of the silence and his lack of company.

He didn't answer.

‘‘Myrnin?'' Claire could see the hard edge of light at the bottom of the steps. He had everything on, it looked like—the light had a funny color, a mixture of fluorescent bulbs and oil lamps, candles and incandescents. ‘‘Myrnin, it's Claire. Where are you?''

She almost missed him, because he was so still. Myrnin was usually in motion of some kind—moving fast, like a hummingbird, from one bright attraction to the next. But what was standing in the center of the room looked like Myrnin—only completely still. Vampires did breathe, a little; the blood they took from humans needed oxygen, Claire had figured out, although a lot less than in a normal person. But his chest was still, his eyes were open and staring, and he wasn't moving at all. Not even to look at her. His attention was focused somewhere off to the side.

‘‘Myrnin?'' She put her bag down slowly. ‘‘It's Claire. Can you hear me?''

His chest rose just a fraction, and he whispered, ‘‘Get out. Go.''

And tears slid out of his wide, staring eyes to run down his pale cheeks.

‘‘What is it? What's wrong?'' She forgot about caution, and moved toward him. ‘‘Myrnin, please tell me what's wrong!''

‘‘You,'' he said. ‘‘This is wrong.''

And then he just—collapsed. Dropped like his knees had given out, and the rest of him followed. It wasn't a graceful fall, and it would have hurt a normal human, maybe badly. Myrnin's head hit the floor with a solid crack, and Claire crouched down next to him and put her hand on his chest—not sure what she was doing, what she was supposed to be feeling for. Not his pulse—vampires didn't have one, at least not that humans could detect. She knew that from leaning against Michael.

‘‘I can't do this,'' Myrnin said. His cold hand flashed out and grabbed hold of her arm, hard enough to bruise. ‘‘Why are you here? You weren't supposed to come!''

‘‘What are you talking about?'' Claire tried to pull free, but she might as well have been pulling against a bridge cable. Myrnin could snap her bones, if he wanted. Or even if he got careless. ‘‘Myrnin, you're hurting me. Please—''

‘‘Why?''
He shook her, and she could see the panic in his eyes. That made her take a deep breath and forget the ache where he was holding her. ‘‘You weren't supposed to come back!''

‘‘Amelie sent me a note. She said I had only two days to learn—''

Myrnin groaned and let her go. He covered his eyes with his hands, dry-scrubbed his face, and said, ‘‘Help me up.'' Claire put a hand under his arm and managed to get him upright, leaning against a solid lab cabinet that seemed like it was bolted to the floor. ‘‘Let me see the note.''

She went back to the stairs, grabbed her backpack, and produced the note. Myrnin unfolded it in shaking hands and looked at it intently.

‘‘What? Is it a fake?''

‘‘No,'' he said slowly. ‘‘She sent you to me.'' He dropped the note in his lap, as if it had gotten unbearably heavy, and rested his head against the hard surface of the lab cabinet. ‘‘She's lost hope, then. She's acting out of fear and panic. That isn't like her.''

‘‘I don't understand!''

‘‘That's exactly the problem,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘You don't. And you won't, child. I explained this to her before—even the brightest human can't learn this quickly. And you are so very young.'' He sounded tired and very sad. ‘‘Now we come to the last of it, Claire. Think it through: Amelie sent you to me, knowing that I do not believe you are the solution to my problems.
Why would she do that?
You know what I am, what I do, what I crave. Why would she put you in front of me if she didn't want me to—to—'' He seemed to be begging her to understand, but he wasn't making any sense. ‘‘You don't know what she is capable of doing, child.
You don't know!
''

There was so much fear in his voice, and in his face, that she felt a real sense of dread. ‘‘If she didn't want you to teach me, why did she send me?''

‘‘The question is, why—after being so careful to provide you with escorts—would she send you to me
alone
?''

‘‘I—'' She stopped, remembering. ‘‘Sam said to ask you about the others. The other apprentices. He said I wasn't the first—''

‘‘Samuel is quite intelligent,'' Myrnin said, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. ‘‘You glow, you glow like the finest lamp. So much possibility in you. Yes, there have been others Amelie sent to learn. Vampires and humans. I killed the first one almost by accident, you must understand, but the effect—you see, the more intelligent the mind, the longer my clarity lasts, or so we thought at first. The first bought me almost a year without attacks. The second . . . mere months, and so on, in ever-decreasing cycles as my disease grew worse.''

‘‘She sent me here to die,'' Claire said. ‘‘She wants you to kill me.''

‘‘Yes,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘Clever, isn't she? She understands my desperation so well. And you do glow so brightly, Claire. The temptation is almost—'' He shook his head violently, as if trying to throw something out of his mind. ‘‘Listen to me. She seeks to fend off the inevitable, but I can't accept this trade. Your life is so fragile, just beginning; I can't steal it away for half a day, or an hour. It's no use.''

‘‘But—I thought you said I could learn—''

He sighed. ‘‘I wanted to believe, but it isn't possible. Yes, I could teach you—but you'd be nothing more than a gifted mimic, a mechanic, not an engineer. There are things you cannot do, Claire, not for years at best. I'm sorry.''

Myrnin was saying that she was stupid, and Claire felt a hot, strange spark of anger. ‘‘Let go of my arm!'' she snapped, and he was surprised enough that some of the blankness in his dark eyes went away, replaced with concern. He slowly relaxed his fingers. ‘‘Explain it to me. You're not all-knowing; maybe you forgot something.''