Текст книги "Ghost Town"

Автор книги: Rachel Caine

Соавторы: Rachel Caine
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“No!” Shane yelled, and ran forward to yank the stake out of Oliver’s chest. Oliver convulsed and rolled over on his side, but Shane hardly even paused.

He came after Myrnin and Claire with the weapon.

Frank Collins grabbed his son from behind and slung him out of the way just as Shane hit a trip wire, almost invisible in the dim light.

All Claire could see from her perspective was a brilliant flash of light, which was followed almost immediately by an incredible, numbing roar of sound. She felt stinging cuts open up on her body, even as Myrnin shoved her down to the floor and fell atop her, and a choking wave of dust washed over her. She twisted free of Myrnin, who was lying dazed, and tried to scramble to her feet.

In front of the machine, a huge metal column had tipped over and pinned Frank Collins in a pile of rubble. Shane was lying a few feet away, covered in pale dust but still alive and breathing; as Claire pulled herself up, she saw Michael get to him and check his pulse. He gave her a thumbs-up gesture, then moved to where Frank was pinned. He tried to lift the metal column, but it was too heavy even for his vampire strength.

And Frank didn’t look good. There was a steady, thick stream of blood running from his chest to pool on the floor around him.

“Help me!” Michael yelled, and Oliver managed to crawl over and put his shoulder to the pylon as well. “Push!”

“No use,” Frank gasped. “I’m done. Finish this. Claire, finish it.”

She turned toward the console of the machine. It was covered in dust, and the screen was cracked, but it was still alive and working. She reached for a handful of wiring, but stopped just an inch away as she felt the hair on her arms stirring and standing up.

“You can’t,” Myrnin said as he rolled over and stared at her. “You can’t stop it. It’s all right. Once you let go, it feels better. You’ll feel better. Just . . . let go.”

“I can’t do that.” She was crying now, out of sheer frustration and fright. “Help me. Help me!”

“It can’t be turned off now,” Myrnin said. “I made sure. Ada won’t ever be hurt again. Not by you, not by me. She’s safe.”

“She’s killing us!” Claire screamed. “God! Stop!”

“No, she’s fixingus,” Myrnin said. “Don’t you understand? I read the journals, the ones upstairs. Morganville hasn’t been right for years. It’s been changing, turning into something wrong. She’s made us right again. All of us.”

“Bullshit,” Frank Collins said, and coughed blood. “Shut it down, Myrnin. You have to do it.”

Myrnin looked at him over the pile of rubble. “Don’t you want to go back to when you were happy, when we were allhappy? You, your wife, your daughter, your son? It can all come back. You can feel that way again. She can make you feel that way.”

Frank laughed. “You’re going to give me my family back?” he said. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Not me,” Myrnin said. “Not really. But I can make it all as it was, for you as well as me. You, of all people, should want that.”

Frank’s throat worked, as if he were swallowing something unpleasant. His eyes were bright and very, very cold. “So you’re God now,” he said. “You can bring back the dead.”

“I can give you a new family. This girl can be your new daughter. We can find you a wife. I can make you forget. You’ll never know the difference, and she’ll forget all about who she once was.”

“You really think that’s tempting,” Frank Collins said, very softly. “It’s sick. My wife and daughter are dead, and you’re not going to make me believe a lie. You’re not going to pervert their memories. My son loves that girl, and I’m not letting you take her away from him, too.”

Myrnin looked up, as if he’d sensed something. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s starting.”

Claire heard the pitch of the machine’s hum changing, shifting to something higher, more urgent. She felt a pulse of power from it, and something went weird in her head. Something she needed.

Something that held her in place in the world, in time, in space.

It hurt. It felt like her brain was being shredded, ripped in half, and memories spilled out in a silvery stream. She couldn’t hold on to them; it was all just . . . noise.

The pain stopped, but something worse took over. Panic. Horror. Fear. She was looking at a room full of strangers. Scary people in a scary place. How had she gotten here? What was . . . what was happening? Where was she?

Why wasn’t she at home?

No, that wasn’t right. She knew them; she knew them all. That was Shane, getting to his feet . . . then everything shifted, and he was a boy she didn’t know, dark-haired, dusty. A stranger. He started toward her, but then he wavered and stopped, and put his hands to his head as if it hurt. Hers still hurt, too. There was a sound, a weird sound that wasn’t really there, wasn’t really a sound at all, and she felt . . .

Lost. She felt so lost, and alone, and terrified.

It was like having mental double vision. She knew these people at some very basic level, but she’d also forgotten them. She didn’t/ did know the man with the scarred face, and the boy reaching out to her, and the girl with the dark hair and the pale face, and the other golden-haired boy. She could see them in one way, with names and histories, but it kept fading out. Disappearing.

No. She didn’t know anyone here, and she’d never felt so vulnerable and horrible in her life. She wanted to go home.

There was another stranger dressed in funky old Victorian clothes, like some steampunk wannabe, staring at her with big, dark eyes. He reached out for her, and she knew that wasn’t right. Knew she had to stumble away from him, into the arms of the boy.

Another older, gray-haired man elbowed her out of the way and slammed the Victorian man into the wall, then dragged him out and down the tunnel. He was yelling at them all to follow. Claire didn’t want to; she didn’t trust them, any of them.

But the boy took her hand and said, “Trust me, Claire,” and she felt something inside that had been howling in fear go quiet.

Another wall of pain slammed into her, and she almost went down. It was all going away, everything she was, everything. . . .

She fell to her knees and realized that she was kneeling next to a man with a scar on his face. He was trapped under a fallen metal pillar, and it looked bad, really bad. She tried to move it, but he reached out and caught her hand in his. “Claire,” he said. “Get out of here. Do it now.”

He let go and rummaged through a bag that had fallen next to him. He brought out something round and dark green, about the size of an apple.

Grenade.The word floated through her mind and dissolved into mist. There was some reason she should be afraid of that, but she couldn’t really think what it was.

The dark-haired boy was yelling at her now, pulling her to her feet. He looked down and saw the thing, the grenade. “Dad,” he whispered. “Dad, what are you doing?”

“Get out of here,” the man said. “I’m not going to lose you, too, Shane. It’s starting to all go away, and I can’t let that happen. I have to stop it. This is the only way.”

The boy stood there, looking down at him, and then dropped to his knees and put his hand on the man’s head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the man said. “I need a little help, and then you need to get your friends out of here. Understand?”

The boy was crying, and trembling, but he nodded.

He reached down and took hold of the metal ring in the grenade, and his dad yanked his arm in the other direction. The pin sprang free.

“Go,” the man said. “I love you, son.”

The boy didn’t want to go. Claire practically dragged him across the room, in the direction all the others had already gone. They stopped at the mouth of the tunnel, and Claire saw the man roll the grenade slowly across the floor, until it clicked against the metal of a huge, Frankenstein tangle of cables and clockworks, pipes and keyboards.

She knew him. She was almost sure she did as he turned his head and smiled at her.

His name was Frank. Frank Collins.

Frank said, “Good-bye.”

Claire gasped and yanked Shane into the tunnel. He tripped and went down, and she did, too, and it was a good thing.

In another second, the world exploded behind them.

She woke up to a ringing sound in her ears. Her whole body ached, and her head felt like it had been filled with battery acid, but she was alive.

And she felt . . . whole. Herself again.

When she moved, she found she was pinned under a heavy, warm weight. Shane.She wriggled out from underneath and turned him over, frantic with terror that he’d been hurt, but then she saw he was breathing, and his eyes fluttered open, looking momentarily blank and oddly surprised. They focused on her face. He said something, but she pointed to her ears and shook her head. She helped him sit up, and ran her hands anxiously over him. He had some cuts and bruises, but nothing bad.

Shane pointed to her and raised his eyebrows to make it a question. She made an okay sign. He gave her a thumbs-up on his own behalf.

A sudden burst of light overhead caught her by surprise, and she looked up to see a trapdoor fly open as light poured down. A lithe figure in a white suit dropped, landing lightly on her high-heeled feet, and looked around at the damage. If Amelie spoke, Claire couldn’t hear it; she moved over to stand beside Oliver, who was bending over Myrnin and holding him down.

Myrnin didn’t seem as if he needed to be held down. He was shivering, pale, and hollow eyed, and when he met Claire’s eyes, he looked quickly away.

She saw tears.

Michael and Eve were standing together, wrapped in each other’s arms, looking like they didn’t intend to ever let go. Claire reached down and took Shane’s hand, pulling him upright. She felt a cautious kind of joy, a dawning realization that they might actually be okay, after all.

Until Shane turned his head and looked down the tunnel, and Claire remembered. Worse, she saw himremember. His lips parted, and she saw him yell, Dad!, and he ran down the tunnel toward the machine room.

Claire ran after him, heart pounding.

The machine was destroyed. Really, truly scrapped. It was hard to believe just how ripped apart it was, actually; she supposed that there’d been some kind of chain reaction inside of it, because it looked like it had just crushed in on itself at some points. There were pieces everywhere, bent and scattered. Nothing moved. There was a thick, choking haze of dust hanging in the air.

Shane headed straight for the wreckage. Claire tried to stop him, but he shook her off, face white and blank. Dad?She heard a dim echo of the shout this time, and heard the dread in Shane’s voice.

She grabbed Shane’s arm, and he looked down at her. She had no idea what to say, but she knew her expression would communicate how sorry she was.

Shane pulled free and ran over to the machine’s wreckage—and stopped. Just . . . stopped, staring down.

Claire didn’t know what to do. She felt awful and scared and sick, and she knew she should go to him, but something told her not to. Something told her to wait.

Amelie touched her shoulder, frowning, and Claire jumped in tense surprise. Amelie looked from her to Shane’s motionless figure, and Claire saw knowledge dawn in Amelie’s face. She went to Shane and put her arm around his shoulders, then turned him around, and Claire knew that he’d seen something behind that tangle of metal. Something awful. There was a burned-out, dead look in his eyes again, and it felt like her heart turned to ash in sympathy for him.

Claire rushed over and into his arms, and after a few seconds, he hugged her. Then he put his head on her shoulder, and even if she couldn’t hear him, she felt the way his body shook, and the dampness of his tears against her skin.

Claire combed her fingers through his hair and did the only thing she could do.

She held on.

SIXTEEN

The only thing that approached the sadness Claire felt for Shane was the sympathy she felt for Myrnin.

Maybe it was all wrong; after all, it was his fault. All of it. But in destroying the machine, Frank Collins had reset things back to the way they should be—including Myrnin’s sanity.

Sane, he understood what he’d done, and Claire could hardly stand to look at him, to see that awful, stunned, horrified expression in his eyes. He hadn’t said a word, not a word. When Amelie tried to speak to him, he averted his eyes and sat, motionless and quiet, head down.

Oliver, as usual, had no sympathy at all. “West is dead,” he said flatly. “Or worse, perhaps. Collins sacrificed himself to put it right. Let him brood, if he wants to brood.”

Myrnin raised his head then, slowly, and fixed his dark, tragic eyes on Oliver. He said nothing, but there was something very nasty in the way they looked at each other.

“Well?” Oliver demanded. Myrnin looked away. “All because you couldn’t lose your precious Ada without going mad. Promise me, Amelie, that you’ll crucify me with silver before you allow me to fall in love.”

“I hardly think there’s any chance of that,” Amelie said. “I doubt you have the capacity.” She sounded remote and cold, but there was something almost painful in it, too. “There is some positive news, I suppose. Most people seem to have recovered their memories. Whatever damage has been done seems to be temporary.”

“Positive news,” Oliver repeated. “Except that our boundaries are down, and all our defenses. You knowthat can’t continue. The machine—”

“Isn’t working,” Claire said, and got up from the chair where she sat next to Shane. “It isn’t working. It isn’t goingto be working, not for months, if it ever does again. Get over it, Oliver.” She was angry, she realized. Shaking. And she knew that it was because of Shane’s dad. “Could you maybe take a minute or something? Just feelsomething?”

Amelie and Oliver both looked at her with identically surprised expressions. “Feel what?” Oliver asked. “Grief? For Frank Collins? Are you sure your memory is entirely restored?”

Claire gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to flip him off. She shouldn’t have. Eve silently did it for her, from where she stood near the portal, slapping dust and debris off of her Goth black. Her boots were still untied. “Hey, Oliver?” she called. “Didn’t see youbiting the bullet back there and taking one for the team. You were out of there faster than me.”

That put Oliver’s mood dangerously toward the dark, but Eve clearly didn’t care. She was distressed, too. And angry.

Myrnin finally spoke. “I knew,” he said, very softly. “I knew that I wasn’t . . . myself. I let myself believe that what I was doing was safe, but it wasn’t. Maybe even then my mind was . . . going.” He looked up, and there was a faraway, miserable look on his face. “If I’d believed Claire in the first place, we could have stopped this. It didn’t have to happen this way. But I wanted . . . I suppose that deep inside, I wanted things to be . . .” He took a deep breath. “I wanted her back. I wanted the past. I wanted to feel . . . less constrained by the rules. And that’s what the machine picked up from me. That’s what it tried to do.”

“Well,” Oliver said. “You got your wish.”

Amelie shook her head. “This gets us nowhere,” she said. “Frank Collins did us a great service, regardless of his history. I will honor that.”

Shane looked up. “How?” His voice was hollow and empty. “A plaque?”

“How would you prefer he be honored?” Amelie asked. “If it’s within my power, I’ll grant it to you.”

Shane didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. It was, Claire thought, like he’d already figured out what he was going to say. “Let Kyle out of the cage in Founder’s Square,” he said. “Put him on probation. But don’t kill him.”

Silence fell, long and heavy, and for a few dreadful seconds Claire thought that Amelie was angry. But she was just . . . pensive. She finally said, “All right.”

Oliver made a frustrated, furious noise in the back of his throat, picked up a glass beaker that had somehow survived all the destruction, and smashed it to smithereens against the far wall. “Enough!” he barked. “Will you continue to bend to every breather who—”

Amelie grabbed him by the arm, pulled him to face her, and said, “Stop.” Her tone was chilly, and quiet, and deadly serious. “We will stoptearing at each other, Oliver. It does neither of us good. It solves nothing. It breeds mistrust and paranoia and ill feelings, and we are not so numerous in this town that we can afford our ambitions. I told you we will rule as equals, but mark me: unless we change, unless we learn how to risk our safety and compromise, the humans willrise up. They willdestroy us. I don’t grant this because the boy is innocent. I grant it because mercy is more to our cause than justice.”

Oliver stared at her without speaking or moving. There was something odd about his expression, something . . . vulnerable? Claire wasn’t sure. She’d never really seen anything like it. “And what if I decide I want to rule alone after all?”

“I won’t fight you for it,” she said. “But your arrogance would destroy Morganville, and all of us.”

“I’ve ruled men before,” he said.

“Not to any lasting effect. You tried to change those you ruled. You couldn’t.” Amelie let go of him, and put her hand on his chest, lightly. “Your ideals didn’t survive you. Mine must, or we will all perish together. I’m sure you don’t want that.”

“No,” Oliver said, oddly quiet. “No, that’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

He hesitated, and then he inclined his head. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “But for now . . . for now, a truce.”

Amelie let another second tick away, and then stepped away from him. “I’ll dispatch police to monitor the roads out of town. We’ll have to hope that we can maintain order with more conventional means until—”

“Until what?” Myrnin asked bitterly. “Until I create another miracle? Another brilliant feat that turns fatal because you won’t allow me to build it as it mustbe built? No. No, I’ll create nothing else, Amelie. This cannot be done properly unless you stop telling me how to do my job!”

“Ah,” Oliver said. “I think I have thought of what it is I want. To never have to listen to him complain again.”

Amelie raised her pale eyebrows, staring at Myrnin, and then turned to Claire.

“It’s no longer Myrnin’s job,” she said. “And I suppose you’d best begin thinking how you’ll solve our problems, Claire.”

“What?”

“It was going to be your responsibility in a few years. This merely moves up our plans, I believe. Myrnin can assist you, but I will expect results within the week.”

Claire realized, with a sinking sensation, that she’d just become . . . the new Myrnin? How was that even possible?

Things could not possibly be worse than that—until she failed. She supposed then things would take a turn for the extra bad.

At least she had a week.

Myrnin shook his head. “Amelie. Don’t be ridiculous. The girl isn’t—”

“Enough,” Amelie said, and the iron snap of command in her voice made him fall silent. “You’ve done enough. People are dead, Myrnin.”

Claire couldn’t even say she was wrong. Not about that.

Shane cleared his throat. “Uh, about Kyle—”

Amelie turned to Oliver. “Make the call,” she said. “Unless you’re planning to take my place.”

He let a few seconds go by, then pulled out his cell phone and ordered the prisoner in Founder’s Square released.

Well, Claire thought. At least somebodywould be happy.

She didn’t see how it was going to be her.

* * *

Back home that evening, the four of them sat down to dinner. It was a quiet kind of thing, a little awkward, as if none of them knew where to start. They were all bruised, cut, and exhausted, for one thing; for another, nobody really wanted to say what they were all thinking. Or to bring up Shane’s dad at all.

Eve, of course, decided to go at it from the opposite direction completely. “I can’t believe I went home to my parents’,” she said, a little too brightly. “Ugh. Revolting. My mom made my room into a hoarder’s paradise, you know, full of boxes of crap. She ought to be in some freaky reality show. The weirdest part about it? I didn’t really expect anything else, somehow. I just figured she’d pitched out my stuff and was pretending I’d never even been there. I pretended that often enough.” Eve played with her plate of spaghetti, but she wasn’t really eating it. “I kept asking her where my dad was. She kept saying he was on his way home.” Eve’s father, Claire remembered, had been dead a year. No wonder she was playing with her food instead of eating. Eve swallowed a gulp of water. “I wonder if maybe I should call her, see if she’s okay.”

“We can go over there if you want,” Michael offered. “I know you don’t like going by yourself.”

Eve gave him a grateful little smile. “You’re awesome,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Shane wasn’t talking at all. He was eating, though; he’d already cleaned one plate of spaghetti and was working on his second one. She wanted to talk to him, but she knew he wouldn’t want her bringing it up, not in front of the others. Shane didn’t like to be vulnerable, not even with his friends. He knew they’d understand, but that wasn’t the point. He just needed to be . . . stronger than everybody else.

Eve said, “At least you’ve got an appetite, Shane.”

That fell into an awkward silence, because Shane didn’t come back at her at all. He just kept eating. Claire twirled some noodles on her fork and said, “My mom called. Dad’s getting surgery this weekend in Dallas. They said he needed some kind of valve transplant, but it all looks like it’s going to be okay, really okay. I’m going to ask for permission to go up on Friday.”

“You don’t have to ask permission,” Shane said then. “You can just go. The machine’s dead. Just go.” His voice sounded flat, and wrong.

They all looked at one another, the rest of them. “There’ll be roadblocks,” Michael finally said. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah, it never is, is it?” Shane threw down his fork, pushed back from the table, and took his stuff into the kitchen. Claire went after him, but as soon as she came in the door, he dumped his food in the trash and his plate in the sink and turned to go.

“Shane—”

He held up both hands, pushing her off without touching her. “Give me some room, okay? I need room.” He left. She stood there, looking at his plate sitting in the sink, and felt her heart breaking again. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? What had she done? It hurt; it really did. She felt like . . . like she was losing him again.

She was tired of losing him.

Claire walked back out to the table. Shane had already disappeared upstairs, and his door shut with a slam. Michael and Eve were looking down at their plates.

“Awkward,” Eve finally said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Michael shook his head. “He lost his dad. It hurts.”

“I know,” Eve said sharply. “Remember? Not like I don’t have the T-shirt for that one.”

“Sorry. I just meant—”

“I know.” Eve sighed, and took his hand. “I know. Sorry. I’m just a little . . . weird. I guess we all are.”

“The truth is, he lost his dad a long time ago. Maybe when his sister died. Maybe when Frank . . . uh . . .” Claire didn’t quite know how to say it.

Michael did. “Got turned.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think he ever really faced it, though. Now it’s right in his face. He can’t really avoid it anymore. His dad’s just . . . gone.”

“That’s not it,” Shane said from the stairs. They all jumped, even Michael, whom Claire guessed hadn’t heard him coming, either. Shane could be quiet when he wanted to. “It isn’t that he’s gone. My problem is that I knew my dad. I was afraid of him, and then I wanted to please him, and then I hated him because I thought he was just a hundred percent evil, especially after he turned vamp. But he wasn’t. I was wrong about him. He came to help. And when he had to, he died so we could make it through this.”

They all looked at him silently. Shane sat down on the steps.

“The point is,” he said, “it’s too late for me to really love him now. That’s what hurts.”

Claire got up, holding her plate, but Eve took it away from her. “Go,” she said. “I’ve got this. But you owe me laundry duty.”

Claire nodded and went up the steps. Shane raised his head, and their eyes met. She held out her hand.

After a long moment, he took it and stood up. “You know, even when I didn’t know you, I wanted to know you,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me. Sorry.”

“I’m not,” Claire said, and led him upstairs.

* * *

Her cell phone rang at about four in the morning, vibrating around on the nightstand and sending her fumbling for it in a bleary haze. Claire pulled herself carefully out from under Shane’s heavy arm and slipped out of bed, grabbed a robe, and walked out into the hall to answer the call.

The screen said Myrnin. Claire closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then flipped the phone open and said, “It’s four in the morning. And it wasn’t exactly an easy day.”

Myrnin said, “I can put up the boundaries.”

The way he said it gave her pause, because it wasn’t manic; it wasn’t crazy; it was just . . . a simple statement of fact. “You can? How? The whole thing was . . . destroyed.”

“Yes,” he said. “It was. But as I once told you, the machine was a support system. An amplifier. The important part of creating the boundaries and the memory control isn’t the machine; it’s the mind.”

“Myrnin—” Claire wanted to scream, throw the phone, do somethingcrazy. But she didn’t. She swallowed all that and forced herself to say, very carefully, “Myrnin, I am not putting my brain into a jar to get you out of the doghouse with Amelie. That’s never, ever going to happen.”

“I know that,” Myrnin said. “You don’t need to.”

Claire drew in a deep, calming breath. “I don’t.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Come to the lab,” he said. “Come now.”

He hung up. Claire stared at the phone through narrowed, bleary eyes, then turned around and went back into her room.

Getting dressed in silence, in the dark, was a little challenging, but she managed, and sneaked carefully down the hallway, down the stairs, and hopped on one foot as she put her shoes on in the living room. She turned on a light and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked . . . well, pretty much like she’d been rousted out of bed without enough sleep. Bedhead. Creased skin. Wrinkled clothes.

“I’ll kill him if this is for nothing,” she told her reflection, and grabbed her backpack, which was sitting in the corner. She threw it over her shoulder and walked over to the section of blank wall where the portal would appear. A few moments of concentration, and the black doorway appeared, stabilized, and she walked through, into Myrnin’s lab.

It was still a whole lot worse for wear. Broken glass glittered on the floor. Tables were overturned. There was still a faint haze of dust in the air.

Then it occurred to her tired, lagging brain, with a real shock, that she shouldn’t have been able to do that. Not coming through the portal. The machine had controlled the portal . . . and the machine was a crushed metal mess in the basement.

Why had it worked?

Myrnin was in the back of the lab, standing in front of . . . something she couldn’t see too clearly. He didn’t turn around. “Claire,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yeah. Does Amelie know you’re doing this?”

“She instructed me to rest,” he said. “So no, in fact she doesn’t. But ultimately, I don’t think she’ll be angry.”

“You don’t think so? Are you crazy?”

He didn’t answer that directly. “I’ve been working all night,” he said. “Some of the parts were still usable, but I was only able to cobble together the very basic elements.”

“Elements of what?”

Myrnin finally moved, and Claire walked a few more steps toward him before stopping cold, her breath locked in her throat, her heart lurching, then hammering very, very fast.

Because that was a brain. In a jar. A jar of faintly green liquid that bubbled. There were tubes, copper tubes, circulating liquid, and there were wires, and there were clockworks ticking along, but there was a brain.

In a jar.

“What did you do?” Claire’s voice didn’t sound at all like her own. She didn’t even realize that she’d said it out loud, until Myrnin looked directly at her.

“What I had to do,” he said. “It won’t work any other way. It’s too dangerous. I can’t risk anything like that happening again, and neither should you, Claire. Next time, we may not be so fortunate.”

“You killed somebody,” she said. Her throat was so tight that she thought she might choke on the words. “Oh, my God, you killed somebody and . . . put their brain . . . in—”

“The point is that the barriers are up,” Myrnin said. “And we are safe. I did what I knew had to be done. But you mustn’t tell him.”

“Tell who?” Claire couldn’t decide whether she was furious or terrified. Probably both.

Myrnin didn’t answer.

The voice came out of her cell phone speaker, slightly muffled by her pocket—an eerie, disembodied voice that nevertheless was familiar.

The last thing she’d heard it say was Good-bye.

“He means Shane,” said Frank Collins. The brain in the jar. “Don’t tell Shane, Claire. This is going to have to be our secret.”