Morganville - 10 - Bite Club (26 page)

She looked awful -- dark circles around her eyes, hair a mess, skin sallow. But she felt better.

Because she had a good idea of what to do next.

Was it safe? No, definitely not. But waiting to see if Shane might change his mind was worse than torture. It was like being eaten an atom at a time.

Claire raced back to her room, grabbed clothes, showered in record time, tied her shoulder-length hair back in a sloppy knot, and was down the stairs and out the back door without even stopping for coffee, although she did take her book bag, mainly because it contained her wallet and some potentially useful vampire-repelling equipment.

Because she was going to see the wizard. Not Myrnin...the real wizard.

"Excuse me?" Amelie said. "You barge in on me without an appointment, in my office, and you expect me to grant your request without an adequate explanation? Not like you, Claire. Not like you at all."

Amelie, regardless of the hour, looked cool and fresh and unnaturally beautiful. She was wearing pale blue today, in a straight, subdued style, although she'd condescended to put on pants. She even had on pearls. At six in the morning.

Claire stood, because she hadn't been invited to take one of the thick leather armchairs next to the desk, and, besides, she wasn't in a sitting kind of mood.

Amelie's office in Founder's Square had been a little tricky to access; she didn't want to use portals, and popping in uninvited on the Big Vampire Boss (much less popping in with a bag full of anti vampire equipment) probably wasn't a fabulous survival tactic, anyway. But getting through the levels of guards and social secretaries also hadn't been easy. Amelie had hired someone to sit at a desk in front of her office, and that vampire -- the nameplate on her desk said her name was Bizzie O'Meara, and she'd looked deadly serious about her job -- hadn't been at all understanding about the concept of emergencies.

Amelie herself had opened the door, looking cross at all the noise, and waved Claire inside. That didn't mean, however, that Claire was welcome. Just stuck.

"Well?" Amelie said. That tone was about as close as the Founder of Morganville ever came to showing temper, at least with humans. There was an icy, cutting edge to it that left the unmistakable impression of a threat, even if the details weren't exactly specified. "Explain yourself."

"I can't," Claire said, and readjusted the book bag on her shoulder. "Not yet, anyway.

I'm investigating. When I'm sure about what I know, I'll tell you. But in order to get proof, I need access to someone who's being held for crimes against Morganville."

Amelie raised her eyebrows about a millimeter. "Really. Of course, the answer to that would be no."

"But I need -- "

"Prisoners who are held on that particular charge don't get visitors, Claire. Nor do they get furloughs. They are mine, for life, to do with as I wish. And this...individual...may not even be alive, for all you know."

That was scarily true. Claire hesitated, then said, "Kim."

"Kim," Amelie repeated, as if she had no idea who Claire was talking about.

"Oh.Her. Well, yes, she is alive -- I'd hardly execute someone so young, even if she is unpleasant and unmanageable. She remains in custody, as she will at my pleasure until she proves to me that she deserves to see daylight once again."

"She's good at doing things online that even you and Myrnin couldn't find, and that's pretty rare. I need her expertise." Claire was in danger of giving things away and she knew it; she had no idea if Frank would lie to the Founder, or even if hecould. Part of what drove him was machinery and programming; his human brain might want to lie for his son, but what about the rest of him? She couldn't be sure about anything. "I need her help to find someone."

"Does this have to do with my father?"

That was an extremely dangerous question, because it did, in a small and indirect way, but to answer yes meant spilling everything. It was ninety percentno , anyway.

"Not directly," Claire said. "But it might help."

"Hmmm. And do you think she'd actually help you?" Amelie sat down at her desk, looking every inch the woman in charge. "I think you don't know this Kim very well.

She loathes you, in particular, more than anyone else. Even more than me, I believe."

"Because of Shane. Yeah, I know. She likes him."

Amelie just shrugged, completely uninterested in mere mortal feelings.

"I think she'll help me on this. Please. Just let me talk to her. I do need her help."

Amelie drummed her pale-pink-painted fingernails on the desk in a slow rhythm, staring at Claire with those unsettling gray eyes. Her phone gave a low buzz for attention. She ignored it. "I don't like you assuming that you have the run of my office, Claire. Are we understood?"

"Yes."

More drumming. Claire couldn't stop glancing at those long, shapely, pale fingers, with their razor-sharp (and perfectly manicured) nails. As Amelie probably intended.

"All right," Amelie said. "I'll give you access for five minutes. If you can get that person to agree, I will let her help you on this...project. But she cannot leave her confinement. Are we understood?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Amelie said. "You're not going alone." She pressed a button on the phone, which had stopped buzzing, and said, "Bizzie. Please get Michael Glass to my office immediately."

"Ma'am," Bizzie's disembodied voice said. "Oliver is calling for you."

"Oliver can wait. I want Michael here. Send a car."

"Yes, Madam Founder."

"You, Claire," Amelie said, lifting her finger from the phone button, "will sit and be quiet. I am greatly annoyed with your behavior. I realize that it is all the rage among young people to defy authority, but I do not tolerate it. Not in my presence."

"It's not -- " Oh, what was the use? Claire dropped her book bag to the floor and sat, folding her arms.

She knew that looked defensive. She didn't care. "I'm not defying you. It's just that I want to be sure of things before I tell you about them."

"That's quite an interesting assumption to make, as I may not require the gift of your expertise," Amelie said. "For instance, I am well aware that my father, Bishop, is missing. I am also aware that several vampires once loyal to him have been acting oddly, and several who were not are now missing. I am aware that Gloriana's presence in this town is somewhat...unsettling for many, although perhaps not for Oliver." She sounded just a shade sharp on that last part. About Oliver? Weird. "Has Gloriana, perhaps, decided to practice her wiles on your Shane, then?"

That wasway too close to the truth. "Oliver says she's not interested in human boys that way." That was true. It just didn't quite answer the question. "She went after Michael; that's what Eve said."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. But it seems to have passed without any significant bloodshed." More fingernail drumming. When Claire glanced at Amelie's face, she saw the vampire was staring out her tinted windows, which minimized the rising sun.

There was a distant expression on her face. Amelie could look almost as young as Claire herself sometimes; she'd probably been only about twenty when she'd become what she was now. But just now, she looked her actual age, with all the weight of centuries on that smooth, unlined face. "You're well aware how dangerous this town is, Claire. But what you may not understand, not fully, is that it is held together by will. My will. Without my influence, vampires would fight for control, and humans would be slaughtered in the streets. Not all my kind have the vision to understand that such behavior is...counterproductive to the long-term survival of my species. Like some of your own contemporaries, younger vampires want what they want, when they want it, regardless of consequences." She paused for a moment. Claire didn't know if she was supposed to say anything, so she kept quiet. "I've been struggling to educate them for many years. And, in truth, I'm growing tired of the struggle. I remember what it was like when I had no responsibilities, no worries. And that is beginning to seem quite good to me."

That seemed ominous. "What...what do you mean?"

Amelie's gray gaze came back to her, but the expression didn't change. "Morganville is an experiment," she said. "One I've fostered and encouraged for a long time, in human terms, and even for a significant period in vampire measures. But it doesn't seem to me that my kind have learned much about living among humans productively. Or that humans have learned how to tolerate our differences. Oliver thinks it's a fool's errand, you know. And he may be right about that."

"It's not," Claire said. "I know there are problems; there are always problems.

People -- people can't even live with each other without violence and problems, much less with you. But somehow we manage. We can manage."

"I've always thought so," Amelie said softly. "And I've fought for that principle. I've bled for it. I've buried loved ones for it. But what if I'm wrong, Claire? What if Morganville is a folly of arrogance? You know as well as I that there are humans who will never accept living with us. And vampires who will never accept living with humans. What are we fighting so hard to prove?"

Claire didn't know how they'd gotten to this; it felt completely wrong to be having this conversation. She wasn't old enough; she didn't understand where it was coming from. And hearing that Amelie had doubts...that hurt. And it scared her. So many things crashing down. Maybe she wasn't the only one with that feeling, she realized with a start. That was a new and entirely unpleasant sort of thought.

It actually made her blink.

She fell back on something her parents had taught her. "Anything worthwhile is worth fighting for," Claire said. "Not always with guns and stuff. But with...taking a stand. Right?"

Amelie seemed to focus on her again. For a few seconds she regarded her, frowning, and then smiled just a little. "So I recall," she said. "Not all wars are waged with bullets and swords, indeed. Some are wars of wills and ideas. It's good we both remember that." The smile faded. "But not all ideas win the war, and not all wills are strong enough. Darkness can descend so easily."

"It won't here," Claire said. "We just have to be stronger."

Amelie inclined her head, but Claire couldn't tell if it was agreement. She frowned again, this time at the phone, and after a hesitation, pushed the intercom button.

"Bizzie?" she asked. "Have you confirmation that Michael is in the car?"

The answer came back immediately. "No, Founder. The car is there, but the others in the house report that Michael Glass is not there."

"Not there," Amelie repeated. "Very well. Call his cell phone. I believe he has one of those. I will wait."

Bizzie left the speaker on as she dialed. It rang and rang on the other end, and then Michael's recorded voice said, "Michael Glass's phone. Leave a message," over the sound of his guitar. It cut off. Bizzie said, "Madam? No answer."

"I can hear that," Amelie said. She looked at Claire. "Do you know where he is?"

"No," Claire said. She felt her stomach tightening unpleasantly. "He -- We all went home last night. I don't know why he's not there." But she did. Deep down, she did.

Michael had tried something, something that had got him in trouble -- and, worse, he hadn't even told anyone.

Eve was going to kill him. And if Eve didn't, Claire decided she'd be next in line.

The idea of Michael going missing now made her feel as shaky as if the earth under her feet had moved. Michael was a rock; even the first time she'd met him, as a half ghost, he'd been the calmest and most capable one of the group.

But this time, if he'd gone off on his own, he'd made a mistake. A big one.

Amelie must have read something on her face, because she said, "Have my car brought around, Bizzie. The usual complement of guards."

"Yes, Founder."

Amelie rose to her feet. Claire just stared at her in confusion, until she said, "I am, of course, going with you. And you will tell me where you believe Michael might have gone, because I am not losing yet another of my people to this mystery."

Claire resisted the urge to say, Yes, Founder, and silently -- in defeat -- followed her to the limousine.

By usual complement, Amelie must have meant "more vampires than a Dracula convention" because besides Amelie and her driver, there were two silent, suit-wearing guards in sunglasses, and a heavily tinted town car carrying four more that followed along. Amelie ignored their presence -- but then, she'd grown up in an age when servants were no more than moving furniture -- and leaned forward, hands clasped. She still sat like a lady, knees together and demurely angled, even though she was wearing pants. "Now," she said. "You will tell me everything you declined to tell me earlier. We are past the amusingly amateur portion of this problem. If you know where my father is, or even suspect you have a clue, no matter how small, you will tell me. "

Claire felt sick, hot, and trapped -- mostly because she was trapped, no doubt about it.

She squeezed her eyes shut and said, "If I tell you everything, you have to make me a promise."

Ominous silence, broken only by the faint hiss of the road noise beneath the car.

Claire had no idea where they were heading, and realized that she'd just done the same thing Michael had: she'd taken off without letting anyone know where she was going. She could disappear just as quickly. She risked a look at Amelie, and saw the same expectant, waiting expression. No anger yet.

Amelie smiled, very slightly -- in fact, if Claire hadn't known her as well as she did, she'd never have seen it at all. "You're always asking for promises, Claire.

Sometimes that seems charming, as if you simply expect me to be honorable enough to keep them."

"How about today?" Amelie inclined her head. That wasn't a yes, though; Claire could see it in the cold glitter of her eyes. "It's just that if Shane...if Shane's got anything to do with this, it's because he's been glamoured. By Gloriana. It's not his choice. And he'd never, ever help Bishop. You know that." It came out in a rush, and even to her ears, it sounded incoherent.