Текст книги "Lord of Misrule"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: Rachel Caine
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Claire thought about the mobs Richard had talked about, and the dead vampires, and felt sick. “They’d have dragged him off,” she said. “They’d have killed him.”

Michael had been right about Shane’s dad, but then, Claire had never really doubted it. Neither had Shane, from the sick certainty on his face. He wiped his eyes with his forearm, which really didn’t help much; they were all dripping wet, from head to toe.

“Let’s just get to the building,” Shane said. “We can’t do much until we find Richard.”

Only it wasn’t that simple, even getting in. The underground parking was crammed full of cars, parked haphazardly at every angle. As Eve inched through the shadows, looking for any place to go, she shook her head. “If we do manage to get people to leave, they won’t be able to take their cars. Everybody’s blocked in,” she said. “This is massively screwed up.” Claire, for her part, thought some of it seemed deliberate, not just panic. “Okay, I’m going to pull it against the wall and hope we can get out if we need to.”

The elevator was already locked down, the doors open but the lights off and buttons unresponsive. They took the stairs at a run.

The first-floor door seemed to be locked, until Shane pushed on it harder, and then it creaked open against a flood of protests.

The vestibule was full of people.

Morganville’s City Hall wasn’t all that large, at least not here in the lobby area. There was a big, sweeping staircase leading up, all grand marble and polished wood, and glass display cases taking up part of one wall. The License Bureau was off to the right: six old-time bank windows, with bars, all closed. Next to each window was a brass plaque that read what the windows were supposed to deliver: RESIDENTIAL LICENSING, CAR REGISTRATION, ZONING CHANGE REQUESTS, SPECIAL PERMITS, TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS, FINE PAYMENTS, TAXES, CITY SERVICES.

But not today.

The lobby was jammed with people. Families, mostly—mothers and fathers with kids, some as young as infants. Claire didn’t see a single vampire in the crowd, not even Michael. At the far end, a yellow Civil Defense sign indicated that the door led to a Safe Shelter, with a tornado graphic next to it. A policeman with a bullhorn was yelling for order, not that he was getting any; people were pushing, shoving, and shouting at one another. “The shelter is now at maximum capacity! Please be calm!”

“Not good,” Shane said. There was no sign of Richard, although there were at least ten uniformed police officers trying to manage the crowd. “Upstairs?”

“Upstairs,” Eve agreed, and they squeezed back into the fire stairs and ran up to the next level. The sign in the stairwell said that this floor contained the mayor’s office, sheriff’s office, city council chambers, and something called, vaguely, Records.

The door was locked. Shane rattled it and banged for entrance, but nobody came to the rescue.

“Guess we go up,” he said.

The third floor had no signs in the stairwell at all, but there was a symbol—the Founder’s glyph, like the one on Claire’s bracelet. Shane turned the knob, but again, the door didn’t open. “I didn’t think they could do that to fire stairs,” Eve said.

“Yeah, call a cop.” Shane looked up the steps. “One more floor, and then it’s just the roof, and I’m thinking that’s not a good idea, the roof.”

“Wait.” Claire studied the Founder’s glyph for a few seconds, then shrugged and reached out to turn the knob.

Something clicked, and it turned. The door opened.

“How did you . . . ?”

Claire held up her wrist, and the gold bracelet. “It was worth a shot. I thought, maybe with a gold bracelet—”

“Genius. Go on, get inside,” Shane said, and hustled them in. The door clicked shut behind them, and locked with a snap of metal. The hallway seemed dark, after the fluorescent lights in the stairs, and that was because the lights were dimmed way down, the carpet was dark, and so was the wood paneling.

It reminded Claire eerily of the hallway where they’d rescued Myrnin, only there weren’t as many doors opening off it. Shane took the lead—of course—but the doors they could open were just simple offices, nothing fancy about them at all.

And then there was a door at the end of the hall with the Founder’s Symbol etched on the polished brass doorknob. Shane tried it, shook his head, and motioned for Claire.

It opened easily at her touch.

Inside were—apartments. Chambers? Claire didn’t know what else to call them; there was an entire complex of rooms leading from one central area.

It was like stepping into a whole different world, and Claire could tell that it had once been beautiful: a fairy-tale room, of rich satin on the walls, Persian rugs, delicate white and gold furniture.

“Michael? Mayor Morrell? Richard?”

It was a queen’s room, and somebody had completely wrecked it. Most of the furniture was overturned, some kicked to pieces. Mirrors smashed. Fabrics ripped.

Claire froze.

Lying on the remaining long, delicate sofa was François, Bishop’s other loyal vampire buddy, who’d come to Morganville along with Ysandre as his entourage. The vampire looked completely at ease—legs crossed at the ankles, head propped on a plump satin pillow. A big crystal glass of something in dark red rested on his chest.

He giggled and saluted them with the blood. “Hello, little friends,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you, but you’ll do. We’re almost out of refreshments.”

“Out,” Shane said, and shoved Eve toward the door.

It slammed shut before she could reach it, and there stood Mr. Bishop, still dressed in his long purple cassock from the feast. It was still torn on the side, where Myrnin had slashed at him with the knife.

There was something so ancient about him, so completely uncaring, that Claire felt her mouth go dry. “Where is she?” Bishop asked. “I know you’ve seen my daughter. I can smell her on you.”

“Ewww,” Eve said, very faintly. “So much more than I needed to know.”

Bishop didn’t look away from Claire’s face, just pointed at Eve. “Silence, or be silenced. When I want to know your opinion, I’ll consult your entrails.”

Eve shut up. François swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up in one smooth motion. He downed the rest of his glass of blood and let the glass fall, shedding crimson drops all over the pale carpet. He’d gotten some on his fingers. He licked them, then smeared the rest all over the satin wall.

“Please,” he said, and batted his long-lashed eyes at Eve. “Please, say something. I love entrails.”

She shrank back against the wall. Even Shane stayed quiet, though Claire could tell he was itching to pull her to safety. You can’t protect me,she thought fiercely. Don’t try.

“You don’t know where Amelie is?” Claire asked Bishop directly. “How’s that master plan going, then?”

“Oh, it’s going just fine,” Bishop said. “Oliver is dead by now. Myrnin—well, we both know that Myrnin is insane, at best, and homicidal at his even better. I’m rather hoping he’ll come charging to your rescue and forget who you are once he arrives. That would be amusing, and very typical of him, I’m afraid.” Bishop’s eyes bored into hers, and Claire felt the net closing around her. “Where is Amelie?”

“Where you’ll never find her.”

“Fine. Let her lurk in the shadows with her creations, until hunger or the humans destroy them. This doesn’t have to be a battle, you know. It can be a war of attrition just as easily. I have the high ground.” He gestured around the ruined apartment with one lazy hand. “And of course, I have everyone here, whether they know it or not.”

She didn’t hear him move, but flinched as François trailed cold fingers across the back of her neck, then gripped her tightly.

“Just like that,” Bishop said. “Just precisely like that.” He nodded to François. “If you want her, take her. I’m no longer interested in Amelie’s pets. Take these others, too, unless you wish to save them for later.”

Claire heard Shane whisper, “No,” and heard the complete despair in his voice just as Bishop’s follower wrenched her head over to the side, baring her neck.

She felt his lips touch her skin. They burned like ice.

“Ah!” François jerked his head back. “You little peasant.” He used a fold of her shirt to take hold of the silver chain around her neck, and broke it with a sharp twist.

Claire caught the cross in her hand as it fell.

“May it comfort you,” Bishop said, and smiled. “My child.”

And then François bit her.

“Claire?” Somewhere, a long way off, Eve was crying. “Oh my God, Claire? Can you hear me? Come on, please, pleasecome back. Are you sure she’s got a pulse?”

“Yes, she’s got a pulse.” Claire knew that voice. Richard Morrell. But why was he here? Who called the police? She remembered the accident with the truck—no, that was before.

Bishop.

Claire slowly opened her eyes. The world felt very far away, and safely muffled for the moment. She heard Eve let out a gasp and a flood of words, but Claire didn’t try to identify the meaning.

I have a pulse.

That seemed important.

My neck hurts.

Because a vampire had bitten her.

Claire raised her left hand slowly to touch her neck, and found a huge wad of what felt like somebody’s shirt pressed against her neck.

“No,” Richard said, and forced her hand back down. “Don’t touch it. It’s still closing up. You shouldn’t move for another hour or so. Let the wounds close.”

“Bit,” Claire murmured. “He bit me.” That came in a blinding flash, like a red knife cutting through the fog. “Don’t let me turn into one.”

“You won’t,” Eve said. She was upside down—no, Claire’s head was in her lap, and Eve was leaning over her. Claire felt the warm drip of Eve’s tears on her face. “Oh, sweetie. You’re going to be okay. Right?” Even upside down, Eve’s look was panicked as she appealed to Richard, who sat on her right.

“You’ll be all right,” he said. He didn’t look much better than Claire felt. “I have to see to my father. Here.” He moved out of the way, and someone else sat in his place.

Shane. His warm fingers closed over hers, and she shivered when she realized how cold she felt. Eve tucked an expensive velvet blanket over and around her, fussing nervously.

Shane didn’t say anything. He was so quiet.

“My cross,” Claire said. It had been in her hand. She didn’t know where it was now. “He broke the chain. I’m sorry—”

Shane opened her fingers and tipped the cross and chain into her hand. “I picked it up,” he said. “Figured you might want it.” There was something he wasn’t saying. Claire looked at Eve to find out what it was, but she wasn’t talking, for a change. “Anyway, you’re going to be okay. We’re lucky this time. François wasn’t that hungry.” He closed her fingers around the cross and held on.

His hands were shaking. “Shane?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I couldn’t move. I just stood there.”

“No, he didn’t,” Eve said. “He knocked Franny clear across the room and he would have staked him with a chair leg, except Bishop stepped in.”

That sounded like Shane. “You’re not hurt?” Claire asked.

“Not much.”

Eve frowned. “Well—”

“Not much,” Shane repeated. “I’m okay, Claire.”

She kind of had to take that at face value, at least right now. “What time—”

“Six fifteen,” Richard said, from the far corner of the small room. This, Claire guessed, had been some kind of dressing area for Amelie. She saw a long closet to the side. Most of the clothes were shredded and scattered in piles on the floor. The dressing table was a ruin, and every mirror was broken.

François had had his fun in here, too.

“The storm’s heading for us,” Eve said. “Michael never got to Richard, but he got to Joe Hess, apparently. They evacuated the shelters. Bishop was pretty mad about that. He wanted a lot of hostages between him and Amelie.”

“So all that’s left is us?”

“Us. And Bishop’s people, who didn’t leave. And Fabulous Frank Collins and his Wild Bunch, who rolled into the lobby and now think they’ve won some kind of battle or something.” Eve rolled her eyes, and for an instant was back to her old self. “Just us and the bad guys.”

Did that make Richard—no. Claire couldn’t believe that. If anyone in Morganville had honestly tried to do the right thing, it was Richard Morrell.

Eve followed Claire’s look. “Oh. Yeah, his dad got hurt trying to stop Bishop from taking over downstairs. Richard’s been trying to take care of him, and his mom. We were right about Sullivan, by the way. Total backstabber. Yay for premonitions. Wish I had one right now that could help get us out of this.”

“No way out,” Claire said.

“Not even a window,” Eve said. “We’re locked in here. No idea where Bishop and his little sock monkey got off to. Looking for Amelie, I guess. I wish they’d just kill each other already.”

Eve didn’t mean it, not really, but Claire understood how she felt. Distantly. In a detached, shocked kind of way.

“What’s happening outside?”

“Not a clue. No radios in here. They took our cell phones. We’re”—the lights blinked and failed, putting the room into pitch darkness—“screwed,” Eve finished. “Oh man, I should not have said that, should I?”

“Power’s gone out to the building, I think,” Richard said. “It’s probably the storm.”

Or the vampires screwing with them, just because they could. Claire didn’t say it out loud, but she thought it pretty hard.

Shane’s hand kept holding hers. “Shane?”

“Right here,” he said. “Stay still.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“What for?”

“I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you, before, about your dad. . . .”

“Not important,” he said very softly. “It’s okay, Claire. Just rest.”

Rest? She couldn’t rest. Reality was pushing back in, reminding her of pain, of fear, and most important, of time.

There was an eerie, ghostly sound now, wailing, and getting louder.

“What is that?” Eve asked, and then, before anybody could answer, did so herself. “Tornado sirens. There’s one on the roof.”

The rising, falling wail got louder, but with it came something else—a sound like water rushing, or—

“We need to get to cover,” Richard said. A flashlight snapped on, and played over Eve’s pallid face, then Shane’s and Claire’s. “You guys, get her over here. This is the strongest interior corner. That side faces out toward the street.”

Claire tried to get up, but Shane scooped her in his arms and carried her. He set her down with her back against a wall, then got under the blanket next to her with Eve on his other side. The flashlight turned away from them, and in its sweep, Claire caught sight of Mayor Morrell. He was a fat man, with a politician’s smooth face and smile, but he didn’t look anything like she remembered now. He seemed older, shrunken inside his suit, and very ill.

“What’s wrong with him?” Claire whispered.

Shane’s answer stirred the damp hair around her face. “Heart attack,” he said. “At least, that’s Richard’s best guess. Looks bad.”

It really did. The mayor was propped against the wall a few feet from them, and he was gasping for breath as his wife (Claire had never seen her before, except in pictures) patted his arm and murmured in his ear. His face was ash gray, his lips turning blue, and there was real panic in his eyes.

Richard returned, dragging another thick blanket and some pillows. “Everybody cover up,” he said. “Keep your heads down.” He covered his mother and father and crouched next to them as he wrapped himself in another blanket.

The wind outside was building to a howl. Claire could hear things hitting the walls—dull thudding sounds, like baseballs. It got louder. “Debris,” Richard said. He focused the light on the carpet between their small group. “Maybe hail. Could be anything.”

The siren cut off abruptly, but that didn’t mean the noise subsided; if anything, it got louder, ratcheting up from a howl to a scream—and then it took on a deeper tone.

“Sounds like a train,” Eve said shakily. “Damn, I was really hoping that wasn’t true, the train thing—”

“Heads down!” Richard yelled, as the whole building started to shake. Claire could feel the boards vibrating underneath her. She could see the walls bending, and cracks forming in the bricks.

And then the noise rose to a constant, deafening scream, and the whole outside wall sagged, dissolved into bricks and broken wood, and disappeared. The ripped, torn fabric around the room took flight like startled birds, whipping wildly through the air and getting shredded into ever-smaller sections by the wind and debris.

The storm was screaming as if it had gone insane. Broken furniture and shards of mirrors flew around, smashing into the walls, hitting the blankets.

Claire heard a heavy groan even over the shrieking wind, and looked up to see the roof sagging overhead. Dust and plaster cascaded down, and she grabbed Shane hard.

The roof came down on top of them.

Claire didn’t know how long it lasted. It seemed like forever, really—the screaming, the shaking, the pressure of things on top of her.

And then, very gradually, it stopped, and the rain began to hammer down again, drenching the pile of dust and wood. Some of it trickled down to drip on her cheek, which was how she knew.

Shane’s hand moved on her shoulder, more of a twitch than a conscious motion, and then he let go of Claire to heave up with both hands. Debris slid and rattled. They’d been lucky, Claire realized—a heavy wooden beam had collapsed in over their heads at a slant, and it had held the worst of the stuff off them.

“Eve?” Claire reached across Shane and grabbed her friend’s hands. Eve’s eyes were closed, and there was blood trickling down one side of her face. Her face was even whiter than usual—plaster dust, Claire realized.

Eve coughed, and her eyelids fluttered up. “Mom?” The uncertainty in her voice made Claire want to cry. “Oh God, what happened? Claire?”

“We’re alive,” Shane said. He sounded kind of surprised. He brushed fallen chunks of wood and plaster off Claire’s head, and she coughed, too. The rain pounded in at an angle, soaking the blanket that covered them. “Richard?”

“Over here,” Richard said. “Dad? Dad—”

The flashlight was gone, rolled off or buried or just plain taken away by the wind. Lightning flashed, bright as day, and Claire saw the tornado that had hit them still moving through Morganville, crashing through buildings, spraying debris a hundred feet into the air.

It didn’t even look real.

Shane helped move a beam off Eve’s legs—thankfully, they were just bruised, not broken—and crawled across the slipping wreckage toward Richard, who was lifting things off his mother. She looked okay, but she was crying and dazed.

His father, though . . .

“No,” Richard said, and dragged his father flat. He started administering CPR. There were bloody cuts on his face, but he didn’t seem to care about his own problems at all. “Shane! Breathe for him!”

After a hesitation, Shane tilted the mayor’s head back. “Like this?”

“Let me,” Eve said. “I’ve had CPR training.” She crawled over and took in a deep breath, bent, and blew it into the mayor’s mouth, watching for his chest to rise. It seemed to take a lot of effort. So did what Richard was doing, pumping on his dad’s chest, over and over. Eve counted slowly, then breathed again—and again.

“I’ll get help,” Claire said. She wasn’t sure there wasany help, really, but she had to do something. When she stood up, though, she felt dizzy and weak, and remembered what Richard had said—she had holes in her neck, and she’d lost a lot of blood. “I’ll go slow.”

“I’ll go with you,” Shane said, but Richard grabbed him and pulled him down.

“No! I need you to take over here.” He showed Shane how to place his hands, and got him started. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and tossed it to Claire. “Go. We need paramedics.”

And then Richard collapsed, and Claire realized that he had a huge piece of metal in his side. She stood there, frozen in horror, and then punched in the code for the walkie-talkie. “Hello? Hello, is anybody there?”

Static. If there was anybody, she couldn’t hear it over the interference and the roaring rain.

“I have to go!” she shouted at Shane. He looked up.

“No!” But he couldn’t stop her, not without letting the mayor die, and after one helpless, furious look at her, he went back to work.

Claire slid over the pile of debris and scrambled out the broken door, into the main apartment.

There was no sign of François or Bishop. If the place had been wrecked before, it was unrecognizable now. Most of this part of the building was gone, just—gone. She felt the floor groan underneath her, and moved fast, heading for the apartment’s front door. It was still on its hinges, but as she pulled on it, part of the frame came out of the wall.

Outside, the hallway seemed eerily unmarked, except that the roof overhead—and, Claire presumed, all of the next floor above—was missing. It was a hallway open to the storm. She hurried along it, glad now for the flashes of lightning that lit her way.

The fire stairs at the end seemed intact. She passed some people huddled there, clearly terrified. “We need help!” she said. “There are people hurt upstairs—somebody?”

And then the screaming started, somewhere about a floor down, lots of people screaming at the same time. Those who were sitting on the stairs jumped to their feet and ran up, toward Claire. “No!” she yelled. “No, you can’t!”

But she was shoved out of the way, and about fifty people trampled past her, heading up. She had no idea where they’d go.

Worse, she was afraid their combined weight would collapse that part of the building, including the place where Eve, Shane, and the Morrells were.

“Claire?” Michael. He came out of the first-floor door, and leaped two flights of stairs in about two jumps to reach her. Before she could protest, he’d grabbed her in his arms like an invalid. “Come on. I have to get you out of here.”

“No! No, go up. Shane, they need help. Go up; leave me here!”

“I can’t.” He looked down, and so did she.

Vampires poured into the stairwell below. Some of them were fighting, ripping at one another. Any human who got between them went down screaming.

“Right. Up it is,” he said, and she felt them leave the ground in one powerful leap, hitting the third-floor landing with catlike grace.

“What’s happening?” Claire twisted to try to look down, but it didn’t make any sense to her. It was just a mob, fighting one another. No telling who was on which side, or even why they were fighting so furiously.

“Amelie’s down there,” Michael said. “Bishop’s trying to get to her, but he’s losing followers fast. She took him by surprise, during the storm.”

“What about the people—I mean, the humans? Shane’s dad, and the ones who wanted to take over?”

Michael kicked open the door to the third-floor roofless hallway. The people who’d run past Claire were milling around in it, frightened and babbling. Michael brought down his fangs and snarled at them, and they scattered into whatever shelter they could reach—interior offices, mostly, that had sustained little damage except for rain.

He shoved past those who had nowhere to go, and down to the end of the hall. “In here?” He let Claire slide down to her feet, and his gaze focused on her neck. “Someone bit you.”

“It’s not so bad.” Claire put her hand over the wound, trying to cover it up. The wound’s edges felt ragged, and they were still leaking blood, she thought, although that could have just been the rain. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

A gust of wind blew his collar back, and she saw the white outlines of marks on his own neck. “Michael! Did you get bitten, too?”

“Like you said, it’s nothing. Look, we can talk about that later. Let’s get to our friends. First aid later.”

Claire opened the door and stepped through . . . and the floor collapsed underneath her.

She must have screamed, but all she heard was the tremendous cracking sound of more of the building falling apart underneath and around her. She turned toward Michael, who was frozen in the doorway, illuminated in stark white by a nearby lightning strike.

He reached out and grabbed her arm as she flung it toward him, and then she was suspended in midair, wind and dust rushing up around her, as the floor underneath fell away. Michael pulled, and she almost flew, weightless, into his arms.

“Oh,” she whispered faintly. “Thanks.”

He held on to her for a minute without speaking, then said, “Is there another way in?”

“I don’t know.”

They backed up and found the next office to the left, which had suspicious-looking cracks in its walls. Claire thought the floor felt a little unsteady. Michael pushed her back behind him and said, “Cover your eyes.”

Then he began ripping away the wall between the office and Amelie’s apartments. When he hit solid red brick, he punched it, breaking it into dust.

“This isn’t helping keep things together!” Claire yelled.

“I know, but we need to get them out!”

He ripped a hole in the wall big enough to step through, and braced himself in it as the whole building seemed to shudder, as if shifting its weight. “The floor’s all right here,” he said. “You stay. I’ll go.”

“Through that door, to the left!” Claire called. Michael disappeared, moving fast and gracefully.

She wondered, all of a sudden, why he wasn’t downstairs. Why he wasn’t fighting, like all the others of Amelie’s blood.

A couple of tense minutes passed, as she stared through the hole; nothing seemed to be happening. She couldn’t hear Michael, or Shane, or anything else.

And then she heard screaming behind her, in the hall. Vampires,she thought, and quickly opened the door to look.

Someone fell against the wood, knocking her backward. It was François. Claire tried to shut the door, but a bloodstained white hand wormed through the opening and grabbed the edge, shoving it wider.

François didn’t look even remotely human anymore, but he did look absolutely desperate, willing to do anything to survive, and very, very angry.

Claire backed up, slowly, until she was standing with her back against the far wall. There wasn’t much in here to help her—a desk, some pens and pencils in a cup.

François laughed, and then he growled. “You think you’re winning,” he said. “You’re not.”

“I think you’re the one who has to worry,” Michael said from the hole in the wall. He stepped through, carrying Mayor Morrell in his arms. Shane and Eve were with him, supporting Richard’s sagging body between them. Mrs. Morrell brought up the rear. “Back off. I won’t come after you if you run.”

François’ eyes turned ruby, and he threw himself at Michael, who was burdened with the mayor.

Claire grabbed a pencil from the cup and plunged it into François’ back.

He whirled, looking stunned . . . and then he slowly collapsed to the carpet.

“That won’t kill him,” Michael said.

“I don’t care,” Eve said. “Because that was fierce.”

Claire grabbed the vampire’s arms and dragged him out of the way, careful not to dislodge the pencil; she wasn’t really sure how deep it had gone, and if it slipped out of his heart, they were all in big trouble. Michael edged around him and opened the door to check the corridor. “Clear,” he said. “For the moment. Come on.”

Their little refugee group hurried into the rainy hall, squishing through soggy carpet. There were people hiding in the offices, or just pressed against the walls and hoping not to be noticed. “Come on,” Eve said to them. “Get up. We’re getting out of here before this whole thing comes down!”

The fighting in the stairwell was still going on—snarling, screams, bangs, and thuds. Claire didn’t dare look over the railing. Michael led them down to the locked second-floor entrance. He pulled hard on it, and the knob popped off—but the door stayed locked.

“Hey, Mike?” Shane had edged to the end of the landing to look over the railing. “Can’t go that way.”

“I know!”

“Also, time is—”

“I know, Shane!” Michael started kicking the door, but it was reinforced, stronger than the other doors Claire had seen. It bent, but didn’t open.

And then it did open . . . from the inside.

There, in his fancy but battered black velvet, stood Myrnin.

“In,” he said. “This way. Hurry.”

The falling sensation warned Claire that the door was a portal, but she didn’t have time to tell anybody else, so when they stepped through into Myrnin’s lab, it was probably kind of a shock. Michael didn’t pause; he pushed a bunch of broken glassware from a lab table and put Mr. Morrell down on it, then touched pale fingers to the man’s throat. When he found nothing, he started CPR again. Eve hurried over to breathe for him.

Myrnin didn’t move as the refugees streamed in past him. He was standing with his arms folded, a frown grooved between his brows. “Who are all these people?” he asked. “I am not an innkeeper, you know.”

“Shut up,” Claire said. She didn’t have any patience with Myrnin right now. “Is he okay?” She was talking to Shane, who was easing Richard onto a threadbare rug near the far wall.

“You mean, except for the big piece of metal in him? Look, I don’t know. He’s breathing, at least.”

The rest of the refugees clustered together, filtering slowly through the portal. Most of them had no idea what had just happened, which was good. If they’d been part of Frank’s group, intending to take over Morganville, that ambition was long gone. Now they were just people, and they were just scared.

“Up the stairs,” Claire told them. “You can get out that way.”

Most of them rushed for the exit. She hoped they’d make it home, or at least to some kind of safe place.

She hoped they had homes to go back to.

Myrnin glared at her. “You do realize that this was a secretlaboratory, don’t you? And now half of Morganville knows where it is?”

“Hey, I didn’t open the door; you did.” She reached over and put her hand on his arm, looking up into his face. “Thank you. You saved our lives.”

He blinked slowly. “Did I?”

“I know why you weren’t fighting,” Claire said. “The drugs kept you from having to. But . . . Michael?”

Myrnin followed her gaze to where Eve and Michael remained bent over the mayor’s still form. “Amelie let him go,” he said. “For now. She could claim him again at any time, but I think she knew you needed help.” He uncrossed his arms and walked over to Michael to touch his shoulder. “It’s no use,” he said. “I can smell death on him. So can you, if you try. You won’t bring him back.”