Black Dawn

CLAIRE



"She should be back by now," Michael said, checking his cell phone as they followed Myrnin out of the lab and into yet another maze of hallways. "Claire. You text her."



"Her cell won't work," Claire said. "The human network's still down, except for police and emergency workers." The vampire network was, of course, fully operational ... at least for now. "Maybe one of the guys with her ...?"



"I don't know who they are," Michael said, and frowned at the screen. "She ought to be back."



What he really meant was that he ought to be with her, Claire thought, but she didn't say that out loud. "She's okay," she assured him. "Eve knows her way around town, just like you do. Just like Shane." It was true, but she knew it wasn't particularly comforting. The draug represented an entirely new dimension of danger that not even Morganville natives were fully equipped to handle. "She's got loads of vamp firepower."



"Yeah," he said softly, and for a moment she saw a flash of red in his blue eyes. "Look how that turned out before."



Ouch. She had a sudden vivid vision of him crouched over Eve's motionless body, his fangs in her neck. The look on his face, the desperate and unholy joy of it ... it haunted her. She couldn't imagine what it was like to be in his head right now, or for that matter, in Eve's. That moment had destroyed all the expectations they might have had about themselves.



"She'll be okay," Shane said. "Let's worry about us, bro. Because no matter how much of a little operation Myrnin wants to tell us this is, it ain't."



Michael nodded. He still looked pale and miserable, and he wasn't going to get much better until Eve got back ... and maybe not even then, if things were as bad as she feared.



Maybe mortal danger was the best thing for him right now.



It was still grudgingly daylight outside, but they didn't go out in it ... not at first. Myrnin said it wasn't necessary. Instead, he led them down a maze of corridors into a storeroom, small and dark, that stank of chemicals. Claire remembered it. It seemed a whole lot smaller with the five of them packed inside, but Myrnin squirmed past her, shut the door, and flipped on the overhead bulb, which swung in true horror-movie fashion back and forth above their heads. Just barely above Shane's, in fact; he hunched to avoid it.



"Great," Shane said. "Look, I'd rather not be on janitorial duty. I have allergies to cleaners."



"And to cleaning," Michael said.



"Look who's talking. Didn't they do one of those Animal Planet documentaries about the roaches in your room?"



Myrnin gave a frustrated growl and crossed to the other side of the room, next to the industrial shelving that held bleach, gloves, scrub brushes, and other things that Claire didn't think were going to be of much use against the draug. There was one uncluttered wall, and he faced it, took a shallow breath, and closed his eyes.



The wall wavered, as if a heat wave had passed over it, but then it solidified again into just ... a wall, plain white, with the usual scuffs and dings any wall got over time. Claire poked it experimentally. Paint over drywall over boards. "I don't think that's working," she said. "Isn't Frank still, you know, on duty?"



"On and off," Myrnin said. He tried again, with the same results-a flicker that might have signaled the establishment of a portal to another location, but too brief and unstable to step through. If it went where it was supposed to go, which might not have been the case. "Frank has been unreliable of late, to be perfectly honest."



Frank was the town's computer nerve center-literally. He was a brain wired into Myrnin's computer in his lab, a sinister mixture of steampunkish brilliance and vampiric blood. Frank had started out a Morganville native, then left town, then came back at the head of a motorcycle gang to try to take it over. That hadn't gone well, and he'd ended up a vampire himself ... the last thing he'd ever wanted to be. From there, he'd become a brain in a jar, mainly because Myrnin had needed one and Frank's had been not quite dead enough.



Oh, and Frank Collins was-had been? still was?-Shane's father, a fact that had haunted Claire for a long time since she'd discovered what Myrnin had done, since Shane had thought his father was completely dead and gone. The discovery hadn't gone over well, and even now, at the mention of his dad's name, Shane's face went stiff and blank, as if he'd reached for a mask. Self-defense. Frank hadn't exactly been Father of the Year even before he'd taken up running with bikers and hunting vampires, much less become one.



"What's wrong with Frank?" Shane asked. "Too much vodka in his blood smoothies? Or is he just being his usual bastard self?"



"Shane," Claire murmured, half in reproof and half in sympathy. There really had never been all that much about his dad that she could find to like, and she tried to find something good in everyone. Frank had been drunk, abusive, and angry when he was a human; as a vampire, he'd been mostly suicidal from rage over his conversion. He'd hurt Shane, a lot, but a son never stopped loving a father, she supposed. Even if he didn't want to.



"He's been having trouble adapting," Myrnin said. "I fear Frank won't be able to bear the strain of disembodiment for too much longer. I'll have to disconnect him and look for a new subject unless he stabilizes soon." He must have thought about that for a second, because he said, not as if he really meant it, "Sorry."



Even though he wasn't glancing her way, Claire felt a kind of pressure settle on her; Myrnin's original plan, which she very well knew, was that she would be the one to end up in the center of his machine, the eyes and ears and nervous system of Morganville. It wasn't a role she ever wanted to play, and he knew that.



It didn't mean he'd really given up his dream, though.



Though he might have been halfheartedly apologizing to Shane, too. Who knew?



After another try, Myrnin sighed and shook his head. "The portals aren't working," he said. "We will have to go in vehicles. It's not my preference, but it's the best option we have. Going on foot is a ridiculous risk. We will certainly need a fast escape route."



"Lucky for you I have a bitchin' pickup downstairs," Shane said. "Which provides an excellent fire platform for a flamethrower, by the way."



"I was thinking more along the lines of a tank," Myrnin said. "Pity we don't have one."



"Actually," Michael said slowly, his forehead creased in thought, "we just might. Follow me."



Anything was better, Claire thought, than the smelly, chemical-heavy cleaner's closet, and she sucked down a deep, clean breath of air once they were back in the hall. It made her cough. She could almost imagine her breath puffing out the sickly gold color of Pine-Sol. Her clothes reeked of the stuff. She didn't know if it was bothering any of the others, but it definitely wasn't her favorite smell in the world, especially in that intense burst.



Michael led them down to the elevators and pressed the button for the parking garage. He looked ... well, smug. Definitely smug.



"Spill it," Shane said. "You look like you won a year's shopping spree at the blood bank or something."



"You'll see," he said, and then the elevator doors dinged and rolled open ...



... And Eve was standing there. She was wet and muddy, and there were four other vampires with her. She actually took a surprised step back when she saw Michael.



And he took the same step back when he saw her.



Oh, so not good. Claire's heart practically ripped in half at the expression on Eve's face-a fast-changing mixture of longing, anger, fear, love, and finally, sadness. She reached up and pulled her earplugs out and said, "Sorry-I was just surprised."



Michael didn't answer. He was looking ... well, sick was probably the only word for it. Myrnin ignored the whole thing and pushed past him, out of the elevator. Shane, after a hesitation, followed, with Claire. Michael stepped out last, and only because the doors started to shut on him.



In the sudden and uncomfortable silence, the brown-haired vamp standing next to Eve took his headphones off and said, "Is there some problem?" He was talking to Michael, but he was looking at Eve.



"No," she said, and smiled brightly. "Thanks, Stephen. It's all good. You guys go on."



"Good work," said the tall, dark-haired vampire woman, and opened the elevator doors again for the four of them to step inside while Eve lingered behind. "Call on us anytime, Eve."



She nodded without taking her gaze off Michael, her dark eyes large and unreadable now.



"Making new friends?" he asked her. No mistaking the jealousy in that tone. "Stephen? I thought you were off vampires."



"Lighten up," Eve said. "I saved his life. It's not like we're going out."



Even Shane winced at that one. Michael didn't. He remained stone-faced, staring at his girl, and then he shrugged and said, "Well, you can go with your new friends or come with us. Your choice, I guess."



"Where are we going?" Eve asked, like it wasn't even a real question. Which it probably wasn't.



"The water treatment plant," Myrnin said. "I'll catch you up if you'd like."



"That's-okay," Eve said, and held up a hand when he would have kept talking. "I'm so not in the mood, Chatty Batty. Just hand me something to do."



"Oh," he said, and rubbed his hands together, "I think I can do that. Yes, absolutely. Michael? If you would lead on, please?"



Michael was no longer smug, but he led them toward the far end of the garage. It felt oppressive and damp down here, and smelled of wet concrete and mold-smells that reminded Claire vividly of the draug, the pool, the horrific fight to survive.



The fear.



She took hold of Shane's hand, which was strategically stupid but emotionally smart; his warm, steady grip anchored her and made her feel less out of control. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he didn't let go.



A boxy gray shape loomed up in the dark, and Myrnin said, "Ahhhhh," in the way people do when they finally understand something. Claire squinted, but couldn't see much until Eve flicked on her flashlight and cast a harsh white glare over the gunmetal gray surface.



It was an armored cash truck, with some logo on it that was too sun-faded to read. It had a thick metal hide and a very intimidating door on the back.



"Nice. Gun ports," Shane said, flicking a fingernail at a round metal covering on the side of the truck. "Heavy steel. Run-flat tires. Bullet-resistant glass. Me likey, Mikey."



"It's a tank," Michael said. "Or at least as close as we're likely to get around here."



"Pop quiz," Eve said, and held up her black-fingernailed hand like a kid in school. "Does this thing actually, y'know, run?"



"Oh, yes," Myrnin said. He was walking around the truck, tapping a finger on his bottom lip. His expression was elated but thoughtful. "It's the Founder's personal security vehicle, for her protection in emergencies. Used for her personal evacuation only."



"Where are the keys?" Shane asked. He'd tried the driver's side door, but it was, of course, locked.



"No one but Amelie and her assistant would know, and her assistant was evacuated with the others, I'm afraid. Don't bother trying to force the lock, Michael. It's hardened against vampires as well as humans. Without the proper keys, we're not getting in. And yet ... it is a good idea. Very good indeed." Myrnin turned suddenly and focused directly on Claire. "I will go ask Amelie for the keys."



"Excuse me?" Claire blinked. "That's ... really not a good idea. Oliver wouldn't let me anywhere close to her. He said she was ..."



"Unpredictable," Myrnin said briskly. "Well, if anyone can handle unpredictable, I should think it would be me. Don't worry. Oh, all right, then do worry, if that pleases you, but we need the key, and Amelie's got it. There's no choice."



"Pickup truck," Shane said. "That's a choice."



"Not a good one where we're going," Myrnin said. He held out a finger toward Michael, then Shane, then Eve, and said, "Stay."



"Excuse me, we're not your pets," Eve said. "You don't get to order us around ..." But she was talking to empty air. Myrnin had already vanished, vampire-speed. The only one who might have caught him was Michael, but Michael wasn't moving.



When Claire started after him, Michael grabbed her by the shoulder. "No," he said. "He's right. Nobody's better qualified to handle unpredictable vampires than he is. Certainly not you. You are way too vulnerable."



"I'm not staying here," she said. "Are you coming or not? Because I don't think you want to have to tie me up to make me stay."



Shane heaved a sigh. "Nobody's tying her up," he said. "Sorry, Mike. It's not that I don't think you're right, it's that I know my girl. She's going. We can either watch her back or stay here. And I'm not staying here, mostly because I don't take orders from-what did you call him?"



"Chatty Batty," Eve said. "Hey, it fits."



"I like it."



Claire shook off Michael's hand. He let her. "Then let's go, before he gets himself killed."



Shane probably didn't mean it when he said, "Wait, that was an option? Because I could still stay."



Myrnin was already well ahead of them, of course, and they had the guards to deal with, but since Claire had already been admitted once today, with Theo, they let her in.



But only her.



"We're with the band," Shane said, and tried to push his way past. That got him an iron-hard vampire grip on his arm that made him wince and stopped him cold. "Claire, don't. Stay with me. He'll be okay."



But in her bones Claire didn't really think he would be. She looked at the guard holding Shane's arm and asked, "Is Oliver still in there, too?"



"He's gone to find the doctor," the guard said. "Myrnin just went in."



"So he's alone?" She felt a surge of anxiety. "Well, he wants us with him."



"Us?" The vampire wasn't buying that one. "You, maybe. The others stay here. They're not on the list."



"There's a list? And I'm not on it?" Eve said. "I'm deeply hurt. I'm always on the list."



"It's not a club," Michael said.



"Still."



Claire backed away, down the hall, mouthed, Sorry, to Shane, and hurried on. From the look on his face, she knew they'd be having a serious conversation about this later, but she couldn't wait to try to talk it out now.



Myrnin was in trouble. She could just feel it.



Inside the room, Claire shut the heavy door but didn't lock it behind her; the anteroom was a sitting area, hushed and airless. It reeked of the damp and sickness, and it also seemed a little like a museum ... as if someone had created it for show, not for use. This is how vampires lived in the twenty-first century, the exhibit card would read. Pretending that everything was normal.



Claire took in a slow, calm breath and opened the bedroom door. She half expected to find it empty, but Myrnin was there, standing stock-still a few feet from the bed.



Looking at Amelie.



She looked like her own statue-immobile and white, lying exactly in the center of the bed with her hands folded over her stomach. The sheets were drawn up and folded back just below her arms. It looked as if she was wearing some kind of thick white nightgown, with incredibly delicate lace at the collar and cuffs. Her hair was loose, and it spilled over the pillow in a pale silk fan.



There was a thick bandage on her throat, but it was soaked through with dark, wet blood.



Seeing her like this was ... strange. She looked very young, and vulnerable, and somehow very sad. Claire remembered seeing pictures of the tombs of queens, of the marble images carved to top them that were replicas of the bodies below. Amelie looked just like that ... an eternal monument to her own mortality.



Myrnin raised his head and saw Claire standing there, and his expression turned from blank to tormented. "Get out," he said. "Get out now, while you still can!"



He sounded absolutely serious, and Claire took a step backward, intending to follow his instructions.



And then Amelie opened her eyes.



It was sudden, a flash of movement that made Claire's heart skip a beat. Amelie's eyes were a paler gray than they'd always been, more like dirty ice.



"Someone's here," she whispered. "Someone ..."



"Claire, get out," Myrnin said, and took a step closer to the bed. "I'm here, Amelie. Myrnin. Right here."



"You shouldn't be here," she whispered. Her voice was thin as silk, and just as soft. "Where is Oliver?"



"Gone, for the moment," Myrnin said. "Oh, my dearest. You are far too pale. Let me get something for you to eat." He meant blood, Claire thought. Amelie had no color under her skin. She looked almost translucent.



"Don't you mean someone?" Amelie asked. It was nearly a joke, but it wasn't funny. "I asked Oliver to end my suffering. I didn't mean to make him so angry, but he really must face facts, soon. Will you do it for me, Myrnin? As my friend?"



"Not yet," he said, and took her hand in his. "I am not quite ready to let you go. None of us are."



"All things die, even vampires." That same distant tone, as if none of it mattered any longer. "If it was only death I faced, I would go gladly. But I can feel it now, inside me. The pull of the sea. The tides. The hunger." Amelie's eyes focused on Myrnin again, and there was a strangely luminous glow to them. "The seas came first. All life flowed from them and must in the end return there. As I'm returning. As you will. I was a fool to believe the draug could be defeated. They are the tide. The sea. The beginning and end of us." The glow intensified, and Claire found herself oddly ... calmed by it. Amelie seemed so peaceful, lying there. And being around her seemed so safe. Myrnin must have felt the same; he sank to a sitting position on the edge of her bed. "There's no escaping the tides, don't you see? Not for me, or you, or Morganville. Because the tide always comes."



Myrnin pulled in a sharp gasp, and looked down at his hand, held in hers. He tried to pull free, but couldn't. "Stop," he said, in a voice only half as strong as it should have been. "Amelie, stop. You must not do this."



"I'm not," she said, sounding very sad. "There's so much inside that isn't me any longer. You shouldn't have come. Either of you."



Her ice-pale gaze captured Claire's, and Claire knew she was walking forward, drawn by forces she didn't understand and couldn't control. She couldn't stop herself. Didn't really want to stop herself.



And then she stretched out her hand and Amelie's pale, strong fingers locked over hers.



She felt the tingle, and then the burning, like a million needles piercing her skin.



She watched the bitter cold of Amelie's skin change, take on warmth.



Blood.



Blood drawn out of Claire. By a touch.



The same was happening to Myrnin, Claire realized. He was panting now, mumbling frantic pleas, trying to pry her hand free from his but failing.



Amelie no longer needed fangs to feed. Like the draug, she fed at a touch.



And it was happening so fast. Claire felt light-headed, pleasantly tired, even though somewhere deep inside she was shrieking in protest.



Just close your eyes, Amelie's voice was saying gently, far away. Just close your eyes and sleep now.



And then something hit her and knocked her away, halfway across the room and into a heavy wooden table with a gigantic bowl of dried flowers. It all crashed to the carpet, spilling shattered glass and broken petals, and Claire was lying on her side, staring up at the wall. There was a painting there, something famous, with dark paint and bright bursts of color all done in furious layers and peaks. She blinked slowly, not quite comprehending what had just happened, and saw a bright spot of red closer to her than the painting.



Blood. Blood on her hand-no, on her fingers, welling out as if she'd been stabbed with a hundred pins.



It hurt in a sudden, blazing ignition of feeling, and she realized what had just happened. It crashed in on her fast and hard, and she felt terror rip through her. She squirmed back and up, sitting against the corner, holding her injured hand close to her chest.



Oliver was helping Myrnin unwrap Amelie's fingers from his wrist. As soon as it was done, Myrnin fell to the floor and half crawled, half slid into another corner, cradling his wrist just as Claire was holding her own injured fingers. He looked ... appalled. And scared.



Oliver was standing between the two of them and the bed. Amelie hadn't moved. Not at all. Oliver looked as furious as Claire had ever seen him, face as sharp and pale as bone, eyes like coals smoldering red beneath the black. "You idiots," he snapped, and came toward Claire. When she flinched, he looked even angrier. "I'm not set to hurt you, stupid girl. Let me see your hand."



She was all too aware of the red pooling in her palm, but he didn't wait for her consent; he snatched her arm, vamp fast, and stretched it out to inspect the wound. If the blood itself affected him at all, he showed no signs of it. He took a moment, then let her go, strode away, and came back with a small white towel, which he pitched into her lap. "Clean yourself," he said. "I told you very clearly you were not to enter this room. I never took you for this much of a fool. And you, Myrnin. What the devil were you thinking?"



"We need the key," Claire said. Her teeth were inexplicably chattering, and she felt ice-cold inside, as if she'd lost a lot of blood, not just a little. Maybe it was shock. "The k-k-key to the armored truck, downstairs. W-we need to use it to g-get to the water plant. Myrnin said she had it."



"The key?" Oliver almost laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. It wasn't only the key, was it?"



Myrnin raised his head then. "I needed to find out just how much you've been lying to me about her condition. A considerable amount, it seems to me."



Claire never saw Oliver hit him; she just inferred that it happened from the blur, and Myrnin's head snapping back. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of one hand, never looking away from Oliver, and said, "You said that she was holding her own. She just asked me to kill her."



"She fights," Oliver said. "And she fights it better without these ridiculous distractions. Take the girl and get out. You risked yourself, and her, for nothing. I thought you liked the child better than that."



"I like both of them better than that. But I came for a reason, and the reason still holds."



"Your curiosity is an addiction that will kill you one of these days. I'm not Amelie. I'll not put up with your whims. Consider this fair warning, Myrnin: when I tell you to stay away, stay away, and keep your pets on leashes."



Myrnin looked past him at Claire. "Are you all right?" He still seemed shaken, but he was pulling himself together fast. He stood up and helped her rise as well. She didn't think she was all right, exactly, but she nodded anyway. Bruises, for sure, but nothing broken. Her hand was the worst of it, and the towel Oliver had thrown at her was soaking up the blood. "Oliver. We still need those keys."



"Keys?" Oliver interrupted, and barked out a laugh. "Keys to what?"



"The Founder's transport car. The armored one. I require them," Myrnin said.



"Be off with you. I don't have them."



"No, the Founder has them." Myrnin stressed the noun a bit more than necessary, and it seemed to make Oliver angrier still, if that was even possible. "And the Founder will give them to me, if she's still herself at all. She knows that I wouldn't ask for no reason."



"Myrnin." Amelie's quiet, gray voice hardly broke the surface of the silence, but both of them turned toward her instantly. There was a flash of something in Oliver's face, something like-fear, Claire thought. It was gone too fast for her to be certain.



"I am sorry, but I cannot control this," Amelie said. "It's best that you leave now. All of you. Leave me to this. I fight it as I can." Her eyes slowly closed, then opened again. "Keys. Keys are in the black box in my desk. Take them." It hurt her to do whatever she was doing-even Claire could see it-but she even smiled, just a little, through the pain. "I don't want to hurt my friends. Oliver has been trying to protect you, you should know that."



"Oh, my dear," Myrnin said, and blinked back tears. "Amelie, hold. You must hold. I'll be back and we will find a way to stop this."



"No," she said. "Don't come back. Never come back, Myrnin. Or I'll have you." She suddenly looked toward Claire, and the impact of it made Claire take in a sharp, painful breath. "I'll remember the taste of you. Don't let me get so close again."



It was a naked, chilling warning, and Claire took it seriously. So, she saw, did Myrnin.



But Oliver had to drive it home. "If you do come back," he said, "I'll kill you before she gets you. It would be a kindness."



Myrnin shook his head. "She'll get you first, you know that."



"I'm not as easy as all that." Oliver held the door for them, and his eyes brushed over Claire, then came to rest on Myrnin. "You of all people should know."



Then he let the door slam shut behind them.



"Let me see," Myrnin said, in the sudden silence of the anteroom, and she realized he was asking about her hand. She unwrapped it and held it out, and flinched as his cool fingers touched her hot, bloodied ones. "They've swollen a bit, but that's good. Your body is fighting the infection. You'll be all right." His hand came away with a smear of blood on it, and he looked at it, then sighed and wiped it on the towel. "That is a great waste."



"What, the blood?"



"Of course not." He sighed. "Amelie, of course. We shall not see her like again in these weak times."



He set a wicked fast pace down the hall; Claire grimly trudged along for her enforced aerobic workout and wondered if her hand might feel better if she just hit him. He was so far ahead she almost missed which turns he'd taken; this building always got her turned around, as she suspected it was supposed to do. There were no signs, no names on doors, just those expensively generic paintings. She supposed that if she could tell one old masters landscape from another, she'd know her way around, but her brain wasn't really wired that way.



"Slow down!" she finally yelled, as Myrnin disappeared around a distant corner. She was tired, shaky, and irritable, and the bruises she'd collected were making themselves felt, definitely. She also had a hot pinpoint headache forming in the center of her forehead.



Myrnin popped his head-just his head-back around the corner at a very weird angle to say, "Oh, just hurry up!" and then he vanished. If Claire had been in the habit of cursing like, say, Shane, she'd have scorched the carpet with it. Instead, she just set her teeth together, hard, and moved faster.



Amelie's office, without its usual complement of guards, was halfway down the next hall, or at least that was the door that Myrnin was in the act of kicking open. It took several attempts, which must have meant that Amelie had built her security against vampires, not humans-sensible, really. Before Claire reached him, Myrnin had beaten the locks, and the heavy wooden door splintered open with a crash. "Faster would be better," he said, "given that her guards are not fully off duty, and they may not appreciate that I took dire measures, even with permission. They have to fix the doors eventually, you know."



He zipped inside, kicked open Amelie's inner sanctum door with a few more violent blows, and by the time Claire got there he was at the desk, ripping open another (locked) drawer and removing a black box.



He hissed and dropped it on the desktop in surprise. His fingers looked burned-in fact, there was a faint wisp of smoke coming from them. But it was a black box, not ...



Claire picked it up, or tried to. It was very heavy. When she scratched it with her thumbnail, the paint peeled off and bright metal was revealed.



Silver.



"Locked," she said. "Do you have the key?"



"Cherub, do I look like I have any keys to anything in this room? The doors I just knocked down would argue against that, I'd think. Here." He snatched up a letter opener-steel, not silver-and set it against the lock. "Hold the box still."



She did, and he hit the letter opener sharply on the end with the heel of his hand, and it drove into the lock and snapped it. Claire folded back the hinged top and said, "Oh, no."



Because there were literally dozens of keys in the box, and not a one of them was labeled. They had colored tags, but that didn't mean anything to her or, she could tell, to Myrnin. He shook his head and said, "Bring the box. Damnation, I believe her security is coming." He glared at her injured right hand, then took hold of a heavy velvet curtain over the window and ripped it down. It didn't make the room that much lighter, since darkness was falling fast. Myrnin smothered the box in the thick velvet and scooped it up. "Well? What are you waiting for? Run!"



She didn't know what they were really running from, and wasn't in any mood to find out. She'd memorized turns this time-right out the door, down the hall, left, then another left-and then she spotted the vampire guards at the end of the long stretch of corridor.



And her friends, waiting.



"Why is there a bloody towel on your hand?" Shane demanded, and then he spotted Myrnin behind her. "Maybe that question's for you, asshole. What happened?"



"She touched something she shouldn't have, and we don't have time for this. Here." Myrnin shoved the curtain-swaddled box at Eve, who yelped at how heavy it was. Michael took it from her. "It's full of keys. Find the ones we need. Careful of the silver, there's a good lad." He didn't pause, just hurried on with Michael and Eve in his wake. "To the garage!"



That left Shane still holding Claire. He didn't let go. "What happened to your hand?" he asked. "Because if it was him-"



"It wasn't." Well, that was debatable, but she wasn't about to tell Shane; there was enough tension between him and Myrnin already. "It was Amelie. She's turning into ... one of them. The draug." She stripped off the towel and showed him her hand, and the red pinpricks of bite-or stings-that covered her fingers. He winced. "We don't have much time to save her."



"If we can," he said, and lifted her injured hand to his lips. His kiss felt so good that it washed relief all the way through her. "I know you. You're going to try like hell to make everything right again."



"Hell's what's coming," she said. "I'm just trying to avoid it. Come on."



As soon as the elevator doors opened, they heard the sound of an engine coughing, catching, and taking up a heavy thrumming idle. Shane cocked his head in that direction. "That's our cue," he said. "You ready?"



"No." She laughed a little, and he kissed her, and she just wanted that, more of that and less of the blood and terror. Morganville had always been bad, but this had to get better. It had to.



But first, she strongly suspected, it was going to get worse.



Driving inside an armored truck was boring, Claire found. She'd gotten the shotgun seat, which was useless even though she actually had a shotgun, because the windows were vampire tinted and she couldn't see a thing. Michael drove in silence, with an occasional muttered "Sorry" when the heavy truck hit a bump. It wasn't made for bumps. At all. The three in the back were getting bounced around like mad-no, two of them, Eve and Shane. Myrnin had taken the only seat, the one as plush as a throne, with a safety harness. It had obviously been built for Amelie. There were hanging straps for, well, hangers-on, and Shane and Eve were clinging to them, not that it helped much.



"I think I may puke," Shane called up, which was met by a chorus that he'd better not. He wasn't serious, at least. Or Claire hoped he wasn't. "You could fill this thing up with water and detergent and spin clothes in it. Does it even have shocks?"



"Stop complaining," Myrnin said, sitting perfectly comfortably in his velvet-covered seat. "It is the most protected vehicle you could possibly wish to be inside. It is bulletproof, lightproof, and most important, waterproof, although if you could please not put that to the test by driving it into any deep ponds I would appreciate it."



Michael looked sideways at Claire and said, "Could you please see if you can get him to shut up before Shane punches him, or I do?"



"Myrnin," she said wearily, "just shut up."



"You wound me."



"Not yet, but keep it up."



Myrnin didn't answer that, but his smirk, which Claire glimpsed over her shoulder, was enough to make her want to smack him anyway. He was clearly feeling better.



The bouncing slowed to a crawl, finally, and Michael said, "I can see the treatment plant up ahead. The gates are shut. Do you want me to run it?"



"Yes. The less time we spend on foot, the better," Myrnin said. "Run the gate by all means, and take us as near as you can to the main entrance. No discussion once we arrive, we simply move, and everyone must know their jobs. Michael, you and Eve will stay behind to lock the vehicle; we don't want any unpleasantly moist surprises waiting for us when we get back. Once it's locked, you go in and to the second floor on the north side. There are clearly marked manual valve control panels at the end of the hall; shut them all down and evacuate back to the vehicle immediately. Yours is the shortest distance, so you should get back to the truck the fastest. That is why you will have the keys."



"What if something happens? Are these the only keys?"



"Yes," Myrnin said, "so don't let anything happen, by all means. I should deeply prefer not to have to rescue anyone on this particular outing. Shane, you and Claire will take the manual valve controls on the second floor, on the south side. You have a greater distance to go, so you should do the same as Michael and Eve-shut down the valves and run back for the van."



"And what about you?" Claire asked.



"I will be in the center of the first floor, main control room at the far east end of the building. I will be there to disable the start-up panels and program the system to reverse the flow of the pipes. That process is going to take the longest."



Shane raised his hand. "Uh, question?"



"Yes?"



"You didn't design this plant, did you? It's not made out of-I don't know, cow entrails and flywheels or anything?"



Myrnin gave him a cool, blank look and said, "In fact this was built by an engineering firm from Houston, I believe. In the 1950s. There is a sad lack of entrails, cow or otherwise. Are you finished?"



"Suppose so." Shane shrugged. "Hey, is it okay if I wear the flamethrower this time?"



"Can anybody stop you?" Myrnin asked. "By all means."



Shane grinned and put the straps on, lifting the contraption onto his back and checking the ignition flame to be sure it turned on. "Good to go."



"Hold on," Michael said, and pressed the accelerator. Shane and Eve yelped and clung to their panic straps with both hands. Claire felt that they were hurtling through space blindly, and she fought an urge to yell at him to slow down because she couldn't see, but he could, and then there was a shudder, the truck thumped hard, and he did hit the brakes to bring them to a skidding stop.



The sudden silence lasted only an instant before Myrnin bellowed, "Move, now!" and lunged with vampiric speed, throwing open the back doors. Shane scrambled out after him and swung Eve down just as Michael stepped out of the driver's side and Claire got out on the passenger's side. Michael locked up the doors from the electronic key fob and handed it to Eve.



"You hang on to the keys," he said. "Insurance."



She gave him a curious look, but at least it wasn't angry anymore. Just ... conflicted. Then the two of them ran after Myrnin, who had already disappeared inside.



Shane took Claire's hand in his. The water treatment plant was a sprawling mass of concrete, pipes, and shadows, and nothing was moving.



Overhead, thunder rumbled, and it seemed that the clouds were growing thicker. No rain yet, but it was coming. Could the draug actually push the clouds? Make them go where they wanted? That seemed impossible, but then, the thought of something able to break itself apart into individual drops and reform was impossible in itself.



"Stay with me," Shane said, and she nodded. The weight of her shotgun was heavy in her right hand, but it didn't slow her down any as they ran after their friends, into the dark.



The water treatment plant had a horrible smell to it, rotten eggs mixed with vomit, and Claire hadn't expected that. Her eyes teared up, and she coughed and choked and made a completely useless fanning motion in front of her nose, as if the stench was something she could wave off. Shane seemed wretched, too, but stoic about it. "Burst pipe, probably," he said. "Raw sewage. Try not to breathe too deep, but keep breathing. You'll get used to it."



"The not-breathing-deep part is easy," she said. "This is really gross."



"Did I ever tell you I worked trash and dead animal pickup? One of the many glamorous jobs I've held in Morganville. Not everybody can be a rock star or a mad scientist vampire assistant. Somebody has to clean up the crap. In my case, literally."



The lights were on in the plant, but they seemed dim and discolored somehow, and they flickered from time to time. The electrical grid wasn't too stable, Claire guessed, or else the place was running on emergency power. She felt for the small LED flash that she'd clipped to the belt loop of her jeans-still there. It wasn't super bright, but it would help. Eve had brought some monster aluminum-cased thing that could double for a baseball bat, of course; she'd also blinged it up with Swarovski crystals, but that was just Eve. Always finding a fun use for the glue gun that nature never intended.



There were stairs going up and down. "Second floor," Shane said, and she nodded. They went up fast but quietly, and as they reached the landing of the second floor, Claire heard something that sounded like a distant gush of water through pipes, and then the lights just ... failed. Then they struggled back on, flickering badly.



"Not good," Shane said. "Come on. This way."



The hallway was long, straight, and uncomplicated, except that the pipes running overhead had developed leaks ... some slow drips, some silvery (or brown) streams of water that had created thick pools on the floor. The smell was stronger here. Right, Claire thought. Avoid brown water at all costs. Not that the apparently clear water would be safer; it was just less disgusting.



"Hang back," Shane said, and unhooked the nozzle from the pack on his back. He thumbed the ignition switch on the side, and the blue pilot flame wicked on, hissing slightly. "Fire in the hole!"



And he unleashed an incredibly dense stream of flame that rolled over the puddles, steaming them into a boil. When he took his finger off the trigger and the flames died, Claire blinked to bring her eyes back to pre-flamethrower focus, and looked for any sign of the draug.



Nothing. The way seemed clear.



"Go!" she said, and ran forward. Shane matched her. He had the nozzle still at the ready and the pilot light burning, but they didn't need it after all; apart from splashes, the pools of water didn't produce any evil beings, grab at their feet, or do anything at all. They raced breathless to the end of the hall, and Claire pointed at a panel of switches marked with red signs on their right. MANUAL VALVE SHUTOFF CONTROL, it read. USE ONLY IN AUTHORIZED EMERGENCY.



"I think this qualifies," Shane said. The valves were covered with glass panels, but there was a handy little hammer hanging from a chain, and he used it to shatter all of the panes, one after another. "You start from that end. I'll take this one."



That was an okay plan until Claire tried to turn the valve-it was big, heavy, and, most important, hadn't been moved (probably) since they'd stuck the glass over it in the 1950s. She tried, but it just wasn't happening. Shane was managing his first one, with difficulty, but Shane had about ten times her upper-body strength.



She threaded her shotgun through the spokes on the valve and used it as a lever, careful to keep her hands far away from the trigger mechanism. With a deep, metallic groan that vibrated up through the floor, the valve started to turn. As it spun, it got a little easier, and she tightened it off, took the shotgun out, and moved to the next one.



"Claire," Shane said.



"Almost got it!" She gritted her teeth and threw her shoulders into it, and the second valve squealed as rust flaked free.



"Claire!"



She looked up this time, and saw that he was facing away from her, down the hallway. The expression on his face ... she didn't want to look.



But she had to.



The draug were approaching in utter silence, gliding through the metal halls like ghosts. Identical men, all gray and indistinguishable and yet so very wrong, rippling and boneless.



There must have been twenty of them coming their way.



"Get behind me," Shane said.



"I'm not done!" She threw herself into moving the valve again, the last one, and more rust flaked as the metal screamed and turned, inch by grudging inch. Her hands slipped, slick with sweat, and then Shane was shouldering her aside and grabbing the makeshift lever of the shotgun and applying his own strength to it. It turned another half circle, and jammed tight.



"That's it, we're boned," he said, and pulled the shotgun out to hand it to her. She almost dropped it, but got it under control and pointed it at the approaching draug. Tight into her shoulder. She was already badly bruised there, but a few more hematomas were a small price to pay. She looked silently at Shane, and he stepped forward, gripping the nozzle of the flamethrower. He pressed the ignition button, and when the blue flame leaped into life, he grinned fiercely.



"I love this job," he said, and he probably would have added something else to that, something witty and funny, but before he could, the draug closest to him flung out its hand, which stretched impossibly far and turned into water, clear and formless, and hit the nozzle with a wet, sizzling slap.



It drowned out the ignition flame.



Shane looked down, shocked, and hit the button again. Then again. He got a clicking sound, but no pilot light.



"Fuck," he whispered, but he didn't waste time on regrets; he just holstered the nozzle and grabbed the shotgun from the rig on his back. "Claire, stairs. Now."



She was already on it. Over her shoulder was the dim light of an exit sign, with the reassuring figure of a little stick man walking down steps. She backed up toward it and it looked clear ... but the hallway had looked clear when they'd come that way, too. The draug were more than nasty-they were clever. Really clever.



She kicked the door open, and saw nothing. Again. No choice, really; the draug were steadily advancing toward them now, and Shane was saving his shotgun blasts to make them count. Between the two of them they could take out maybe half of the draug that were facing them. Retreat was the only option.



"Come on!" she shouted, and plunged down the first six steps. At the halfway point, where the stairs turned, she looked back. Shane had backed through the door, and now he unloaded one ear-shattering blast from his shotgun, jumped in, and slammed the door. Then he hit the quick-release button on the flamethrower. Its heavy weight clanged to the metal floor, and he grabbed the loose nozzle and jammed it through the door handle to hold it shut. It wouldn't stop the draug for long, if it stopped them at all, but he'd done what he could.



He was coming down toward her when she heard the sound ... like water through pipes, but different this time. Closer. Echoing.



And she saw the wave flood down the steps from the next floor up, thick and murky.



It hit Shane in the back and knocked him off his feet. Then, instead of continuing to fall down the steps as gravity demanded, it just ... stopped, formed a thick, trembling bubble, and consumed him.



He floated in the liquid, as if it had more density than real water. He was thrashing, but he couldn't get leverage.



"No!" Claire screamed, and lifted her shotgun, but there was nothing she could do; firing at it was firing at him, and she couldn't, couldn't.



More fluid rushed down the steps toward her, and she saw his face through the distorted lens of the liquid drowning him, saw the fear and the rage and the horror, and she saw him say something. Maybe it was her name.



Maybe it was just run.



She ran.



The liquid snaked after her, more like tentacles than a wave now, grabbing and reaching for her as she flung herself forward and around the corner of the stairwell. Shane wasn't in the way now, and she fired wildly up at the thing. The noise slammed her like a physical blow, and the hammer of the shotgun hit her shoulder with brutal force. She hardly felt it, because the real pain was inside, where she was screaming Shane's name.



I left him. I left him.



The force of the shotgun blast pushed her backward, off balance, and she fell the last few steps. The silver spread hit the draug's shape with awesome force, ripping it apart, but it only flowed up the stairs in retreat. It made a sound, a horrible, shrieking chorus.



She couldn't see Shane.



I left him.



The door opened behind her, and a hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her backward. She fought it blindly, tried to get the shotgun turned around, but a cool, pale hand grabbed the barrel and held it away, and then she realized that it was Myrnin. He looked past her and saw the draug flowing down the steps toward them, and without a word, grabbed her around the waist, lifted her, and ran.



"No!" she screamed, and struggled to get free. She lost the shotgun in the process, but it didn't matter now; the only thing that mattered was she had to make him understand that they had to go back. She kept screaming as the walls flashed by at nightmare speed, and there was a sound around them that drowned out even her own anguished cries, something brutal and triumphant and terrible. There were draug, too. She could see them coming for them, but Myrnin fired his shotgun one-handed to clear the way and never stopped, never faltered. "No, go back!"



Then they were outside, and Michael and Eve were in the truck's driver and passenger seats. Claire saw them in a tear-streaked blur as Myrnin passed them, opened the back door, and flung her bodily inside. He entered, slammed the door shut, and shouted, "Go! Now!"



"Where's Shane?" Eve asked. She'd turned, staring, and the dawning horror in her eyes was nothing to the blackened fury and terror inside Claire. She grabbed for the door, but Myrnin held her still.



"He's gone," Myrnin said, never taking those dark eyes away from Claire's face. "Shane is gone."



Michael's face was grim and ashen. "We can't just-"



"He's dead," Myrnin said, and it was as cold and cutting a thing as she'd ever heard him say. "He's dead and you will kill us all if you don't get us out, now. Do you want to see what your pretty Eve will look like in their pools as they strip her down to the bones? Because I promise you, Magnus will make you watch."



Michael flinched, and hesitated, and then ...



Then he put the truck in reverse and no matter how Claire tried to scream, fight, stop him, he drove away.



And left Shane behind.