Midnight Alley (29 page)

Myrnin smiled, but it was a shadow of his usual manic grin. ‘‘I assure you, I probably have,'' he agreed. ‘‘But Claire, attend: already, my muscles disobey me. Soon I won't be able to walk, and then my voice will lock in my throat. And then blindness, and madness, and I will end my days locked in a black, dark place, screaming silently as I starve. If there were any shred of hope that I could avoid that fate, don't you think I would seize it?''

He said it so . . . calmly. As if it had already happened. ‘‘No,'' Claire said. She couldn't help it. ‘‘No, that isn't going to happen.'' She'd somehow thought that he'd just . . . fade away. Without pain. But this kind of torture—he didn't deserve it. Not even Oliver deserved to have this creeping up on him. ‘‘How— Do you know what causes it?''

Myrnin smiled, but the smile looked bitter. ‘‘I thought I did, once. Amelie knows much of what I've forgotten, but you may find your clues in the notebooks. I was cautious, of course, but if you look closely, you may find my theories. In any case, it no longer matters. I can feel myself slipping into the black. There's no return.''

‘‘How do you
know
?''

‘‘I've seen it happen. It's always the same. Amelie will lock me away because she'll have no choice; she must try to keep the secret, and it will take me a very long time to die, because I am so very old.'' He shook his head. ‘‘Doesn't matter. Not now. All that matters is that you go home, child, and never come back. I can't imagine I would have the unexpected strength of will to refuse such a lovely warm gift twice.''

It was stupid. She didn't like Myrnin, she
couldn't.
He was scary and strange and he'd tried to kill her not just once, but at least twice.

So why did she feel like she wanted to cry?

‘‘What if we use the crystals?'' she blurted. Myrnin's eyes narrowed. ‘‘I learned, when you had me take them. What if we use them now? Both of us? Would that help?''

He was already shaking his head. ‘‘Claire, it's a fool's quest. Even if we continue research on the cure, there's not enough time—''

‘‘The cure to your disease!'' She felt a sudden surge of hope as she dug through her backpack and came up with the shaker of crystals. ‘‘Isn't this what you've done so far?''

‘‘It is. Clever of you to discover that. But the point is, it's taken years to develop it, and it's at best only a temporary measure. Even a large dose will wear off in a few hours for either one of us, and the consequences for you . . .''

‘‘But if we can come up with a cure, a real cure?''

‘‘It's naïve to think that we could perfect such a thing in mere hours. No, I think you had better go. I have been quite noble today. You really should let me enjoy it while I can.'' He looked at the shaker in her hands, and for a second she thought she saw a spark of that quick interest that had driven him so hard in earlier meetings. ‘‘Perhaps—if I show you the research, you could carry that part of it onward. For the others.''

‘‘Sam said you were all sick. Even Amelie.''

Myrnin nodded. ‘‘As I am, so shall they all be. Every vampire who lives will suffer this in the next ten years, unless it is stopped.''

Ten years!
No. Not Michael.

She couldn't stand by without trying to stop it, at least for him.

 
‘‘Amelie brought us to Morganville to buy us time, to find a way to ensure our survival. She believed— she believed that humans might hold the keys to this plague, and she also believed that we could no longer afford to live as we had, preying in the night or hiding. She thought that humans and vampires could live in cooperation, and find the solution to our illness together. That quickly became impossible, of course; she realized, after telling the first few vampires, that they would go mad knowing what was to come, that they would kill indiscriminately. So it became a secret, a terrible secret. She told them part of the truth, that she was seeking a cure to what makes us sterile. Never the rest.''

‘‘So—Morganville's a kind of lab. She's trying to find a cure, and protect all of you at the same time.''

‘‘Exactly so.'' Myrnin rubbed his hands over his face again. ‘‘I'm getting tired, Claire. Best give me the crystals.''

She poured out a few in his hand. He met her eyes. ‘‘More,'' he said. ‘‘The disease has advanced. I will need a large dose to stay with you, even for a while.''

She poured about a teaspoon out. Myrnin popped it into his mouth, made a face at the bitterness, and swallowed. A shudder went through him, and she actually saw the weariness and confusion fade. ‘‘Excellent. That really was an amazing discovery. Too bad about the doctor; really, he was very bright.'' Oh dear. Myrnin was swinging toward the manic now, thanks to the drugs. That was dangerous. ‘‘You're very bright. Perhaps you could read through the notes.''

‘‘I—I'm just
now
starting advanced biochemistry—''

‘‘Nonsense, your native ability is clear.'' He pointed toward the shaker of crystals in her hand. ‘‘Take it.''

‘‘No. It's your medicine, not mine.''

‘‘And it will help you keep up with me, because we have very little time, Claire, very little.'' His eyes were bright and clear, like a bird's, and with about as much affection. ‘‘There are two ways you can assist me. You can take the crystals, or you can help me extend this period of clarity in other ways.''

She sat back on her heels. ‘‘You said you wouldn't.'' ‘‘Indeed. But you see, the disease makes me a sentimental fool. If I am to find an heir to my knowledge,
and
find a cure for my people, then I can't be burdened with such considerations.'' His gaze brushed over her, abstract and hungry. ‘‘You burn so very brightly, you know.''

‘‘Yeah,'' she muttered. ‘‘You said.'' She hated this. She hated that Myrnin could change like this, go from friend to enemy in the space of a minute. Which one was real? Or was any of it?

Claire shook half a teaspoon of the crystals into her palm.

‘‘More,'' Myrnin said. She added a couple, and he reached out, took the shaker, and poured a heaping mound of it into her hand. ‘‘You have a great deal to learn, and you are operating from such a disadvantage. Better safe than sorry.''

She didn't want to take it—well, she did, a little, because the strawberry smell of the crystals brought back flashes of the way the world had looked: diamond clear, uncomplicated,
simple.

Hard not to want that.

Myrnin said, ‘‘Take it, or I will have to take you, Claire. We have no more moves on our chessboard.''

She poured the crystals onto her tongue and almost gagged from the bitterness. The strawberry flavor was overwhelmed by it, and the aftertaste was rotten and cold on her tongue, and she thought for a second she might throw up. . . .

And then everything snapped into hot, sharp,
perfect
focus.

Myrnin no longer looked strange and pathetic; he was a burning pillar of energy barely contained by skin. She could see that he was sick, somehow; there was a darkness in him, like rot at the heart of a tree. The room took on a fey glitter.
Neurotransmitters,
she thought. Her brain was rushing a million miles an hour, making her giddy and breathless.
My reaction time must be ten times faster.

Myrnin bounded up to his feet, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to the shelves, where he began frantically pulling down books. Notebooks, textbooks, scraps of handwritten paper. Two black-bound composition books, the same kind Claire used in lab class. Even a couple of the cheap blue books she used for essay tests. Everything was crammed with fine, perfect handwriting.

‘‘Read,'' he said. ‘‘Hurry.''

All she had to do was flip pages. Her eyes captured things, like cameras, and her brain was so fast and efficient that she translated and comprehended the text almost instantly. Nearly two hundred pages, and she paged through as fast as her fingers could go.

‘‘Well?'' Myrnin demanded.

‘‘This is wrong,'' she said, and flipped back to the first third of the notebook. ‘‘Right here. See? The formula's wrong. The variable doesn't match up with the prior version, and the error gets replicated going forward—''

Myrnin gave out a fierce, sharp cry, like a hunting hawk, and snatched the book away from her. ‘‘Yes! Yes, I see it! That fool. No wonder he sustained me only for a few days. But you, Claire, oh, you are different.''

She knew she ought to be afraid of the slow, predatory smile he gave her, but she couldn't help it.

She smiled back.

‘‘Give me the next one,'' she said. ‘‘And let's start making crystals.''

 
When it wore off, it hit Myrnin first. He took more, but she could see it wasn't really working this time. Diminishing returns. That was why he'd only taken a few crystals last time, to prolong the effects even if the change hadn't been as dramatic.

This crash was like hitting a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

It started when he lost his balance, caught himself, and knocked a tray off the lab table; he tried to catch it in midair, a feat he'd been more than capable of an hour before, and missed it completely. He stared at his hands in frustration and viciously kicked the tray. It sailed across the room and hit the far wall with a spectacular clatter.

Claire straightened up from spreading the crystals out on the drying tray. She could feel the effects, too—her brain was slowing down, her body aching. It had to be worse for Myrnin, because of the disease.
It was wrong to do this,
she thought. Wrong, because his manic phase always led to dementia, and he'd wanted so badly to be himself again.

But the crystals drying on the tray could change that, or at least, she hoped they could. It wasn't that Myrnin had been wrong, but that his last assistant had made mistakes; whether deliberate or not, Claire couldn't tell. But the crystals in the tray would be more effective, and longer lasting.

Myrnin could stabilize again.

‘‘It isn't a cure,'' Myrnin said, as if he were reading her thoughts.

‘‘No, but it buys you time,'' Claire said. ‘‘Look, I can come tomorrow. Promise me you'll leave these here, all right? Don't try to take them yet; they're not ready. And they're more powerful, so you'll have to start with a small dose and work up.''

‘‘Don't tell me what to do!'' Myrnin barked. ‘‘Who is the master here? Who is the student?''

This was familiar, and dangerous. She lowered her head. ‘‘You're the master,'' she said. ‘‘I have to go now. I'm sorry. I'll come back tomorrow, okay?''

He didn't answer. His dark eyes were fixed on her, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Or even
if
he was thinking. He was right on the edge.

Claire took the shaker of the less effective crystals and stuffed it in her backpack—there wasn't that much left, but enough for one more dose for them both, and if he did something to the crystals during his manic phase, they might need it. She needed to ask Amelie for some kind of strongbox where she could store things. . . .

‘‘Why?'' Myrnin asked. She looked up at him, frowning. ‘‘Why are you helping us? Isn't it better for humans if we waste away and die? By helping me, you help all vampires.''

Claire knew what Shane would have done. He'd have walked away, considered it a win all around. Eve might have done the same thing, except for Michael.

And she . . . she was helping.
Helping.
She couldn't even really explain why, except that it seemed wrong to turn away. They weren't all bad, and she couldn't sacrifice people like Sam and Michael for the greater good.

‘‘I know,'' Claire said. ‘‘Believe me, I'm not happy about it.''

‘‘You do it because you're afraid,'' he said.

‘‘No. I do it because you need it.''

He just stared at her, as if he couldn't figure out what she was saying. Time to go. She shivered, shouldered her backpack, and hurried for the stairs. She kept looking behind, but she never saw Myrnin move. . . . Even so, he was in a different place, closer, every time she looked. It was like a child's game, only deadly serious. He wouldn't move while she was looking at him.

Claire turned and walked backward, staring at him. Myrnin chuckled, and the sound echoed through the room like the rustle of bat wings.

When her heels hit the steps, she turned and ran.

He could have caught her, but he didn't. She burst through the doors of the shack into the alley, breathing hard, sweating, shaking.

He didn't follow. She didn't think he could, past the steps. She wasn't sure why—maybe the same way that Morganville itself kept people in town, or wiped their memories, kept Myrnin confined in his bottle.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stir, and then she heard a voice. Whispering and indistinct. Shane? What was Shane doing here?

He was inside. He was inside and he was in trouble; she had to go to him. . . .

Claire found herself reaching for the door to the shack before she knew what she was doing.

‘‘Myrnin, stop it!'' she gasped and pulled away. She turned and ran down the alley toward the relative safety of the street.

It was only when she got there that she saw it was already nightfall.

Eddie wouldn't come for her after dark, and she was a long way from home. Too far to walk.

Claire was about to dial Michael at home when she spotted a police car cruising slowly down the cul-de-sac. Not a vampire squad car—this one had only light tinting on the front windows, although the back was blacked out. Claire squinted against the harsh brightness and waved. The effects of the crystals were ebbing fast, and she felt clumsy, strange, and exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. She'd have taken a ride with Satan in his big red handbasket if it had helped her get off her feet for a few minutes.