Текст книги "Carpe Corpus"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: Rachel Caine
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Monica didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. Jennifer took her silence for encouragement, and put the edge of the knife on Claire’s cheek.

It felt hot. Claire stopped breathing.

“You’re sure,” Monica said. “You don’t know what happened to my brother.”

Nowshe could breathe, because Monica hadn’t nodded a go-ahead on the cutting. “No. But maybe I could find out. If you don’t piss me off.”

The pressure of the knife went away. Claire kept watching Monica, which was where the real threat was coming from.

“Why would you help me?” Monica asked, which was a pretty reasonable question.

“Not helping you. I’m looking to help Richard. I likeRichard.”

Monica nodded. “You do that. I’m going to give you a day. If I don’t hear from Richard, or he doesn’t show up alive and well, then you’re the next one who disappears. And I promise you, they’ll never find the body.”

“If I had a nickel for every time somebody said that to me around this town . . .” Claire said, and Monica’s lips quirked into something that was almosta smile. “Come on; you know it’s true. Morganville. Come for the education, stay for the terrifying drama.”

“Try being born here,” Monica said.

“I know. Not easy.” Claire looked up at Gina, who was still holding her down; Gina exchanged looks with Monica, then shrugged and let go. Claire flexed her shoulders. She’d probably have aches later, if not bruises. “How’s your mom holding up?”

“She’s . . . not, exactly. It’s been hard.” Monica actually thawed a little. Not that they would ever like each other, Claire thought; Monica was a bully, and a bitch, and she would always feel entitled to more than anyone around her. But there were moments when Monica was just a girl only a little older than Claire—someone who’d already lost her dad, was losing her mom, and was afraid of losing her brother.

Then she surprised Claire by asking, “Your parents okay?”

“I don’t know if okayis the right word for it, but they’re safe. For now, anyway.” Claire picked up her backpack. “Mind if I go finish my test now?”

Monica raised one eyebrow. “You wantto take the test? Seriously? I was giving you an excuse, you know. They’d let you make it up. You could probably just buy the answers.” She said that as if she really couldn’t imagine wanting to take any test, ever.

“I like tests,” Claire said. “If I didn’t, why would I still be in Morganville?”

Monica smiled this time. “Wow. Good point. It is kind of pass/fail.”

Test turned in (and still ahead of everyone else), Claire headed for the University Center. Specifically, she headed for the coffee bar, which was where Eve put in her slave-wage hours pulling espresso shots for the college crowd. There was more of a line than usual; with Common Grounds being “closed for renovations” (according to the sign), more students were settling for the local fare than usual. Behind the hissing machines, Eve worked with silent concentration, barely looking up as she delivered each order, but when she said, “Mocha,” and slid it across, Claire touched her on the hand.

“Hey,” she said.

Eve looked up, startled, and blinked for a second, as if she had trouble remembering who Claire was, and why she was standing in front of her interrupting the flow of work.

Then she yelled, “Tim! Taking five!”

“No, you’re not!” Tim, who was working the register, yelled back. “Do nottake that apron off. Eve!”

Too late. Eve’s apron hit the counter, and she ducked under the barrier to join Claire on the other side. Tim sighed and motioned one of the other register clerks to cover the espresso station as they walked away.

“One of these days, he’s going to fire you for that,” Claire said.

“Not today. Too busy. And he’ll forget by tomorrow. Tim’s kind of like a goldfish. Three-second memory.” Eve looked relaxed. In fact, despite the fact that she was typically Gothed up in red and black, with clown-white makeup and bloodred lipstick, Eve looked almost . . . content. “Thanks.”

Claire sipped the mocha, which was actually pretty good. “For what?”

“You know what.”

“Don’t, actually.”

Eve’s smile turned wicked around the edges. “Michael came by.”

“Oh?” Claire dumped her backpack on a deserted table. “Tell.”

“You’re too young.”

“Seventeen as of yesterday.”

“Oh? Oh.Um . . . sorry.” Eve looked deeply ashamed. “I . . . Happy birthday. Man, I can’t believe I forgot that. Well, in my defense, I was kinda pissed at you.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. It’s okay. But you owe me a cake.”

“I do?” Eve flopped into the chair across from her. “Okay. It’ll probably suck, though.”

Claire found herself smiling. “I hope so. Anyway. What happened with Michael?”

“Oh, you know. The usual.” Eve traced a black fingernail in some carving on the tabletop—apparently Martin + Mary = HOT, or at least it had once. “We talked. He played guitar for me. It felt . . . normal for a change.”

“And?”

“Like I’m going to tell you.”

Claire stared at her.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. God,don’t nag, okay?” Eve scooted her chair closer. “So. We kissed for a while—did I mention what an awesome kisser he is? I did, right?—and . . .”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to end up on Blood Bank Row because I told you dirty little stories about me and Michael, Miss Barely Seventeen. So just, you know, imagine.” Eve winked. “You can be really vivid if you want.”

“You suck.” Claire sighed.

Eve opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying a single word. Before either of them could think what to say next, a shadow fell across the table.

Claire had never seen him before, but he had the typical cool-boy-on-campus look . . . a loose black T-shirt over a nice expanse of shoulders, comfortable jeans, the usual pack full of books. Dark hair, kind of an emo cut, and expressive dark eyes beneath his bangs.

“Hi,” he said, and shuffled from one foot to the other. “Umm, do you mind if I . . . ?” He pointed to the remaining chair at the table. Claire looked around. All the other tables were full.

“Knock yourself out,” Eve said, and pushed his chair out with her foot. “Hope you’re not allergic to girl talk.”

“Not likely. I have four sisters,” he said. “Hey. I’m Dean. Dean Simms.” When he extended his hand for Eve to shake, Claire automatically checked his wrist. Not a Morganville native; there was no bracelet, and no sign that there had ever been one. Even those who’d gladly ditched the symbols of Protection still had the tan lines.

“Eve Rosser.” From the wattage of Eve’s smile, she liked what she saw across the table. “This is Claire Danvers.”

“Hey.” He gravely shook hands with Claire, too; she thought it was a kind of forced, formal thing for him. He seemed a little nervous. “Sorry to bust in on you. I just need a place to go over my notes before my test.” He dug around in his backpack and came up with a battered spiral notebook, which had an elaborate ink-pen drawing of some kind of car doodled all over the front. He saw Claire looking at it, and a faint pink blush worked up over his cheeks. “Core classes. You get bored, right?”

“Right,” she said. She’d skipped core classes—tested out of them—but she understood. She’d gotten so bored that she’d read the entire Shakespeare library of plays, and that had been her freshman year in high school. But she’d never been a doodler. “Nice drawing.”

“Thanks.” He flipped open the notebook, past pages of tight, neat handwriting.

“What class?” Eve asked. “Your test.”

“Um, history. World History 101.”

Claire had easily bypassed that one. “Seems like you’ve got all the notes you need.”

He smiled. It was awkward and nervous, and he quickly looked down at his pages again. “Yeah, I scribble a lot when I’m in class. It’s supposed to help with memory, right?”

“Does it?” Eve asked.

“I’ll tell you after the test, I guess.” He focused on his notes, looking even more uncomfortable. Claire looked at Eve, who gave a tiny little whatevershrug.

“So,” she said. “Plans for today?”

“Apart from . . .” Nothing Claire could say in front of an innocent bystander. “Well, not really. Did you know that Richard Morrell’s gone missing? Monica asked me to find him.”

“Back up. What?”

“Monica asked me to—”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. Now you’re doing favors for the Morrell family? Girlfriend, there’s nice, and then there’s utterly dumb. You don’t need to do Monica any favors. What has she ever done for you?”

“That’s why it’s called a favor,” Claire pointed out. “Not an evening of the score. It’s something you do beforethey owe you one.”

“You’re just asking for it. Stay out of trouble, okay? Just keep your head down. I knowthat’s what Michael told you. If Shane was here, that’s what he’d say, too.”

Dean was doing a very good imitation of studying, but the tips of his ears had been turning pink, and now, he looked up and stage-whispered, “Yeah, about that. I kind of know Shane.”

Which brought the conversation to a quick halt. Dean looked around and lowered his voice even more. “I also know his dad.”

“Oh God, please. Tellme you’re not one of Frank Collins’s lame-ass vampire hunters.” Eve sighed. “Because if you are, dude, way to go low-profile. Buy some life insurance today, and please, make me the beneficiary.”

“Not exactly a vampire hunter, but . . . I do work for Frank Collins, sort of.”

Eve looked at Claire. “I think we found a good choice to replace Captain Obvious.” Captain Obvious had been part of the secret vampire-hating underground when Claire had first arrived in Morganville; he’d ended up being a little tooobvious toward the end. Obviously dead.

“Because he’d be dead before he got his first sentence out when he came face-to-face with a vampire?” Claire asked, deadpan.

“I was thinking just put him in a custom T-shirt that says, ‘Hello, my name is Dean and I’m here to kill you, evil bloodsucking creatures of the night.’ With an arrow pointing at his neck that says, ‘Bite here.’ ”

Dean was flipping his attention back and forth between them in obvious consternation. “Okay, let me start over. I’ve been trying to find out where Shane and his father are. Do you have any idea?”

“Friend,” Eve said, and pointed toward her skull-graphic-covered self. “Girlfriend.” The black fingernail turned toward Claire. “Housemates.” The finger gestured to include them both. “So yeah, we know. How exactly do youknow Shane?”

“I . . . I met him when he and his mom and dad were on the run. Did he tell you about that?”

Both girls nodded. Shane’s sister had been killed in a house fire; the Collins family had done the forbidden in response—they’d packed up and fled Morganville . . . with some kind of vampire help, because that was the only way to get past the barriers if you were wearing a Protection mark. Out in the world, though, things hadn’t gone well. Shane’s parents had each gone crazy in their own special way: his dad had become a cold, hard, vampire-hunting drunk, and his mom had turned into a depressed, possibly suicidal drunk, leaving Shane to make his way as best he could.

“I was there,” Dean said. “When Mrs. Collins died. I mean, I was in the motel court. I saw Shane after he found her. Man, he was totally fucked-up.”

“You were there?” Claire repeated.

“My brother was running with his dad by then, so yeah. I was around. Me and Shane kind of hit it off, because we were both getting dragged around without any say in what was happening.”

“Wait a minute. Shane never said anything about coming back to Morganville with a friend,” Eve said.

“Yeah, he wouldn’t, because he doesn’t know I’m here. Mr. Collins—Shane’s dad—sent me after him. I was supposed to stay to keep an eye on Shane, kind of watch his back.” Dean shook his head. “Except nothing was the way he said it would be. I didn’t know where to hide, so I enrolled at TPU because it gave me an excuse to hang around. Then I kind of lost track of everybody a few weeks ago.” He looked at them hopefully. “So? What do I do now?”

Claire and Eve stared at him in silence for a moment, and then Eve said, very seriously, “Look. We know Frank Collins—know, hate, whatever. And you need to give up on that evil old loser. You seem like kind of a sweet kid. Pack it in and go away. Get out while you still can.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Dean said. “It was supposed to be easy. I mean, the good guys were supposed to win,you know? The vampires were supposed to die.”

“And then what, you guys take over and run the town?” Claire sighed. “Not likely. And I’ve met Mr. Collins. Not a good idea to give him the keys to the city, either.”

Dean looked at her like he thought she was crazy, and that it really was a pity. “At least he’s not a vampire.”

“They’re not all bad,” Claire said.

For a split second, she thought she saw an altogether different Dean watching her—same guy, same emo haircut, but his eyes were weird. Not vampire weird. Odd weird.

Then he blinked, and it was gone, and she thought it was just her imagination. If you couldn’t be paranoid in Morganville, though, where could you?

“Well, that’s new to me,” Dean said. He smiled, and it was a real smile. A warm one, not at all nervous. “I just always thought the whole bloodsucking thing made being bad a lock.”

“What you know about vampires could fit into a mosquito’s ass,” Eve said, irritated. “All you know is what you grew up seeing on TV. You ever actually meetone?”

Dean didn’t answer that, but the tips of his ears grew red and his smile disappeared as he faced Eve directly. “Yeah, well, I’m not some collaborator who’s willing to apologize for what these monsters do. Maybe that’s the point. Anyway—it wasn’t really my choice. I just came because Frank asked, and I didn’t have anyplace else to go. My brother was running with Frank, and he was all I had.”

Eve’s eyes remained watchful. “So where’s Big Scary Bro now?”

“Dead,” Dean said softly. “He got killed in the fighting. I’m all alone.”

Claire stared down at the table, suddenly not interested at all in her mocha, no matter how delicious. The truth was that some of those guys—the foot soldiers, the ones who’d come along to Morganville with Frank Collins as his shock troops—well, some of those guys hadn’t fared well, either in the fight or in jail. She didn’t know who they were, not by name. Up until this moment, they’d just been labeled in her head as Frank Collins’s minions. But they all had names, friends, lives. They all had families. Claire wouldn’t know Dean’s brother from any of his fellow muscle-bound biker dudes, but that didn’t mean Dean didn’t mourn him.

That led Claire to a terrifyingly real waking nightmare—Bishop summoning her, telling her that he’d decided to let Shane go. Shane lying there, not moving . . .

“Hey, Claire?” Eve snapped her fingers under Claire’s nose, and Claire jerked so hard she slopped coffee onto the table. “Damn, girl. You space so hard, you ought to look into a career at NASA. So. We agree that Mr. Dean here is a terrible excuse for a vampire hunter, is in a whole lot of trouble if he doesn’t keep his head down, and he should head for the hills if he knows what’s good for him?”

“Sure,” Claire said, but Dean was already looking oddly stubborn.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “My brother would have wanted me to finish what I started. I told Frank Collins I’d look out for Shane. I’m staying until I know they’re okay.”

“That’s sweet, but how exactly are you going to look out for him, seeing that he’s in jail?” Eve said. “Unless you want to look after his girl instead.” She winked at Claire.

The tips of Dean’s ears turned even redder. “That’s not what I meant.”

Except that Claire had the funny feeling that he did.

She avoided Eve’s gaze for another few seconds, then pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. She had nowhere to be, but this was turning weirdly uncomfortable all around.

“Gotta go,” she said, and grabbed up her backpack. She’d had about all the Dean time she wanted.

Eve blinked. “You barely touched the mocha!”

“Sorry. You have it.”

“I workin a coffee bar. No. Here, Dean. Knock yourself out.”

The last she saw before she ducked off into the crowds, heading for nowhere in particular, was Eve handing Dean her abandoned drink, and chatting like old friends.

Claire really didn’t have a lot of ideas about what to do for the rest of the day, but one thing she did notintend to do was go against Michael’s instructions. No way was she going anywhere near Vampire Central today. Going home didn’t have much appeal, either, but it seemed the safest thing to do. As she walked, she dialed Richard Morrell’s cell phone number. It went to voice mail. She tried the new chief of police next.

“Hannah Moses, go,” said the brisk, calm voice on the other end.

“Hey, Hannah, it’s Claire. You know, Claire Danvers?”

Hannah laughed. She was one of the few people Claire had ever met in Morganville who wasn’t afraid to really laugh like she meant it. “I know who you are, Claire. How are you?”

“Fine.” That was stretching the truth, Claire supposed, but not according to the standards of Morganville, maybe. “How does it feel to be in charge?”

“I’d like to say good, but you know.” Claire could almost hear the shrug in the older woman’s voice. “Sometimes being a know-nothing spear carrier’s comforting. Don’t have to know about how the war’s going, just the battle in front of you.” Hannah was, in real-world terms, a soldier—she’d just come back from Afghanistan a few months ago, and she was as badass a fighter as Claire could even imagine, outside of ninja TV stars. She might not do the fancy high kicks and midair spins, but she could get the job done in a real fight.

Even against vampires.

Hannah finally said, “I’m guessing you didn’t call just because you missed me.”

“Oh. No . . . I just . . . Did you know Richard Morrell is missing?”

“All over it,” Hannah said, without a change at all in her tone. “Nothing to be concerned about. Let me guess, Monica put you onto it. I already told her it’s handled.”

“I don’t think she believes you.”

On the other end of the phone, Hannah was probably grinning. “No shit? Well, she’s bad; she’s not stupid. But her brother’s safe enough. Don’t worry. Richard can take care of himself, always has.”

“Is something going on? Something I should know about?” Hannah said nothing, and Claire felt a hot prickle of shame. “Right. I forgot. I’m wearing the wrong team jersey, right?”

“Not your fault,” Hannah said. “You were drafted; you didn’t join up. But I can’t talk strategy with you, Claire. You know that.”

“I know.” Claire sighed. “I wish . . . you know.”

“I really do. You go home, and stay there. Understand?”

“On my way,” Claire promised, and hung up.

On the other side of the street, college-adjacent businesses were starting to close up shop, even though it was still early. Nobody liked to be caught outside as night approached; it was unsafe during the day, but it was a hell of a lot worse at twilight, and after.

Claire slowed as she passed Common Grounds. The security shutters were still down, the door was closed, but there was something . . . something . . .

She crossed the street, not really sure why she did, and stood there for a few seconds, staring like an idiot at the locked door.

Then she heard the distinct, metallic sound of a dead bolt snapping back, and in slow motion, the door sagged open just a bare inch. Nothing showed but darkness.

I amnot going to say, “Hello, is anyone there,” like some stupid, too-dumb-to-live chick in a movie, Claire thought. Also, I am not going in there.

I’m really not.

The door opened another inch. More darkness. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Claire said. “How stupid do you really think I am?”

This time, the gap opened to about a foot. Standing well back from any hint of sunlight was someone she knew: Theo Goldman, vampire and doctor.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t come to you. Will you do me the honor . . . ?”

There were a lot of vampires in Morganville who scared Claire, but Theo wasn’t one of them. In fact, she liked him. She didn’t blame him for trying to save his family, which included both humans and vampires. He’d done what he had to do, and she knew it hadn’t been for any bad motives.

Claire stepped inside. Theo shut the door and locked it securely after her. “This way,” he said. “We keep all the lights off in the front, of course. Here, allow me, my dear. I know you won’t be able to see your way.”

His strong, cool hand closed around her upper arm in a firm, but not harsh grip, and he guided her through blind darkness, zigzagging around (she assumed) tables and chairs. When he let go, she heard a door close behind them, and Theo said, “Shield your eyes. Lights coming on.”

She closed her eyes, and a flare of brightness reddened the inside of her lids. When she looked, Theo was stepping away from the light switch and moving toward the group of people sitting at the far end of the room. His dark-haired wife rose from her chair, smiling; except for her generally pale skin, she didn’t look much like a vampire, really. Theo’s kids and grandkids—some physically older than Claire, some younger—sat in a group playing cards. In the dark, because all the ones playing were vampires. The humans weren’t here at all.

“Claire,” Patience Goldman said, and extended her hand. “Thank you for coming inside.”

“Um . . . no problem,” she said. “Is everything okay?” It hadn’t been for a while. Bishop had been thinking of killing all the Goldmans, or making them leave Morganville. Something about their being Jews. Claire didn’t really understand all the dynamics of it, but she knew it was an old anger, and a very old feud.

“Yes, we are fine,” Theo said. “But I wanted to tell you that we will be leaving Morganville tonight.”

“You . . . what? I thought Bishop said you could stay—”

“Oh, he did,” Theo said, and his kindly face took on a harder look. “Promises were made. None that I believe, of course. It’s no sin for a man like him to break a promise to a man like me; after all, I am hardly better than a human to him.” His wife made a sound of protest, and Theo blinked. “I did not mean that to slight you, Claire. You understand what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Bishop had carried over some prejudices from his human days, and a big one had to do with a dislike of Jewish people, so maybe he didn’t look at Jewish vampires as being any different—any better—than mere humans, who weren’t real to Bishop, anyway. “But . . . why tell me? You can’t trust me, you know.” She rubbed her arm under the long-sleeved T-shirt, feeling ashamed all over again. “I can’t help it. If he asks me, I have to tell him about you.”

Theo and his wife exchanged a look. “Actually,” Patience said, “you don’t. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That the influence of the charm he used on you is fading.” Patience stepped forward. “May I?”

Claire had no idea what she was asking for, but since Patience was holding out her cool white hands, Claire hesitantly extended hers. Mrs. Goldman pushed the shirt sleeve up to expose the tattoo, turning it this way and that, studying it.

“Well?” Theo asked. “Can you tell?”

“It’s definitely significantly weakened,” his wife said. “How much, it’s hard to tell, but I don’t think he can compel her without a large effort. Not anymore.”

That was news to Claire. Good news, actually. “Does he know what I’m thinking?”

“He never did, my dear,” Patience said, and patted her hand before releasing it. “Mr. Bishop’s skills are hardly all-powerful. He simply uses our fear to make them seem so.” She nodded to her husband. “I think I can safely mask her from him, if he should look for her.”

“Wait, what?” Claire asked.

Their eldest son, Virgil, threw down a handful of cards in annoyance and crossed his arms. “Oh, just tell her,” he said. “They want to take you with us.”

“ What?”

“It’s for the best,” Theo said quickly. “We can escort you safely out of town. If you stay, he’ll kill you, or turn you vampire so he can control you better. You simply have no options here, my dear. We only want to help you, but it has to be now. Tonight. We can’t risk waiting any longer.”

“That’s . . . kind of sweet,” Claire said carefully, and measured the distance between where she stood and the door. Not that she could outrun one vampire, much less six. “But I’m okay here. Besides, I really can’t leave now. Shane—”

“Ah.” Theo snapped his fingers, and his smile took on a wicked sort of tilt around the edges. “Yes, of course. The boy. As it happens, I did not forget young Mr. Collins; Clarence and Minnie have gone to fetch him. Once they arrive here, we will make sure you both are safely away.”

Claire’s eyes widened, and suddenly she couldn’t get a breath. Her heart started to pound, first from anticipation, then from outright fear. “You . . . you decided to break Shane out of jail?”

“Call it our last good act of charity,” Theo said. “Or our revenge on Mr. Bishop, if you like. Either way, it’s of benefit to you, I think.”

“Does Amelie know what you’re doing?”

Theo’s expression smoothed out into a frighteningly blank mask. “Amelie finds it better to skulk in the shadows, while people die for her lack of courage. No, she does not know. If she did, she’d no doubt have a dozen reasons why this was a mistake.”

It wasa mistake. Claire couldn’t say why, but she knew it, deep down. “She promised me she’d take care of him,” Claire said. “She’s got a plan, Theo. You shouldn’t have interfered.”

“Amelie’s plans are subject to her own needs, and she never bothered to include me,” Theo said. “I am offering you and your boy a way out of Morganville. Now. Tonight.And you need never return here again.”

It wasn’t that simple. “My parents.”

“We can take them with us as well.”

“But . . . Bishop can find us,” Claire said. “Vampires found Shane’s family when they left town before. They killed his mother.”

“Shane and his father blame vampires for what was only a very natural human despair. Shane’s mother took her own life. You see that, don’t you? Claire?” Theo seemed to want her to agree, and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe he doubted it himself. When she didn’t, he looked disappointed. “Well, it’s too late now, in any case. We can discuss this once we’re safely away. We will help you find a place well beyond Bishop’s—and Amelie’s—reach before we move on ourselves.”

One of the grandsons—the middle one, Claire couldn’t remember his name—made a rude sound and threw down his cards. “Grandpapa, we don’t wantto leave.” The other children tried to shush him, but he stood up. “We don’t! None of us do! We have lives here. We stopped running. It was safe for us. Now you want us to go out there again, start over again—”

“Jacob!” Theo’s wife seemed shocked. “Don’t talk to your grandfather so!”

“You never ask us. You want us all to pretend that we’re still children. We’re not, Grandmother. I know you and Grandpapa can’t accept that; I know you don’t want to let us go, but we can make our own decisions.”

Mrs. Goldman seemed not to know what to say. Theo looked very thoughtful, and then nodded. “All right. I’m listening. What decision have you made?”

“To stay here,” Jacob said. “We’re staying here.” He looked down at his brothers and sisters, who all nodded—some reluctantly, though. “You can go if you want, but we’re not letting Bishop drive us out. And no matter what you say, that’s what you’re doing. You’re just saving him the trouble of exiling us.”

“If exile was what I was worried about, I would agree with you. It isn’t.”

“You think he’ll try to kill us?” Jacob shook his head. “No. It’s not the old days, Grandpapa. Nobody’s hunting us here.”

“If I have learned anything in my long life, it is that someone is alwayshunting us,” Theo’s wife said. “Now sit down, Jacob. The rest of you, sit down. We’ll have no more of this. You’re being rude in front of our friend.”

Claire wanted to apologize, somehow; Jacob shot her a borderline-angry look, but he dropped back in his place on the floor, shoulders slumped. She’d never thought about it, but she supposed for a lot of vampires Morganville was about as good as it could get—no looking over your shoulder, waiting to be discovered. No worrying about putting down roots, making friends, having some kind of a life.

“Theo,” Mrs. Goldman said, and nodded toward the door where they’d come in. “I hear someone coming.”

“She has better ears than I do,” Theo confessed to Claire. “Stay here. I will let them in.”

“But—”

“Stay here. There’s nothing to fear. You’ll be with your young man soon.”

He left, shutting the door behind him. Mrs. Goldman drifted quietly over to speak to her children and grand-children in a low, urgent voice—the way moms always talked to kids who were throwing tantrums in front of company—and Claire was left not quite knowing what she ought to do. If they hadmanaged to bust Shane out of jail, well, that was good, wasn’t it? Maybe not according to Amelie’s plan, but that didn’t make it a bad thing. Not automatically.

Claire took her cell phone out and speed-dialed the Glass House. No answer, at least not on the first three rings.

On the fourth ring, she thought she heard someone pick up, but it was drowned out by a warning cry from Mrs. Goldman from behind her.

The door smashed open, and Theo came flying through, crashing into Claire and sending her to the floor. The phone skittered out of her hands and underneath the shadowy bottom of an old, upholstered chair. She couldn’t breathe; Theo’s shoulder had hit her in the stomach, and as she struggled to get her muscles working again, she saw black spots swimming at the edge of her vision. Her whole body felt liquid and hot, and she wasn’t sure what had just happened, except that it was bad. . . .

Mrs. Goldman vaulted over Claire’s body and grabbed Theo, who was feebly trying to right himself. She pulled him back into the corner, with the children, and fearlessly stood in front of all of them, fangs flashing white as she faced their enemies.

“Now, don’t be doing that,” said a honey-dark voice from the doorway’s shadows. “There’s no need for violence, is there?” The light caught on the vampire’s face, and Claire felt sick. Ysandre, Bishop’s icky little pet slut. She was dressed for business just now, in black leather pants and a long-sleeved heavy jacket with a hood. She could have been drawn in black and white, except for the slash of red that was her mouth. “Got something for you, missus.”