Typical.
The name on the mailbox, written in messy black paint, was SUMMERS, but there was nothing in the box itself when Shane snapped it open. He shrugged and closed it, then unshipped the flexible hose of the flamethrower from behind him.
Claire mouthed, It’s a wooden house! She had to try three times before comprehension dawned on him. He looked disappointed, but he put the flammable fun away and got out his silver-loaded shotgun instead. Claire had hers hanging heavy in the crook of her arm, pointed so that if anything happened it would fire into the ground (and probably her foot, but that was better than the alternatives). Hunters would be so disappointed in me, she thought. She didn’t even really know how to carry the thing safely.
The front door—plain wood, warped from wind and weather—was tightly closed. Naomi studied it for a moment, then kicked, and the entire door and the frame slammed inside to lie flat on the narrow hallway floor.
Even Shane looked respectfully impressed … until she stopped at the threshold. She made a sign shooing them inside, and Claire finally understood that there was still some kind of barrier in place on the house itself. Someone—someone human—was still in residence here, and without an invitation Naomi was barred from entry. The rules of ownership were complicated in Morganville—ancestral houses and bloodlines, current occupants, whether vampires lived inside, all factored in, but clearly this was a human house, with a human barrier that kept vampires out, period.
Great. Well, at least she’d opened the door.
Shane must have figured it out, too, because he nodded to Claire, winked, and stepped through the doorway, walking on the unsteady fallen door itself. There was a faint dust of plaster in the air, and Claire sneezed, but she didn’t figure they were being particularly stealthy, what with the door blowing in and all. Shane was holding his shotgun easily, pointed at an angle toward the floor, so she imitated him. The wisdom of that became apparent when she tripped; she realized, with a cold start, that if she’d had the shotgun pointed up, near her face, she might have killed herself if she’d hit the trigger.
Shane checked the open room on the left, and she took the room on the right. Whoever had lived here, they hadn’t been more concerned with the inside of the house than the outside; it needed work, badly. The ceiling was sagging as if there’d been a bad leak that was dissolving the plaster. In fact, she could see water drops running down the wall from the light fixture, which wouldn’t have been safe if the power had been on. Even on its best days, though, this house would have earned a failing score on any of those how-clean-is-your-home reality shows; it smelled of mold and rotten food, and it felt icy cold. The furniture had the off-kilter look of a nightmare, and where there were children’s toys, they too had the look of something a serial-killing tot would drag around.
This did not look like a place where one would find Theo Goldman. Not at all.
She and Shane searched the whole house, even the attic, which revealed a bucket-sized hole in the roof through which water continued to drip. No wonder the place was falling apart. But no sign of anyone, human or vampire.
“This place needs housekeeping,” Shane said. “With my flamethrower.” It was a sign of just how bad things were that Shane thought that.
She looked up to smile at him, and although she heard nothing, she saw the sudden dawning of shock and alarm in his face, and had just enough time to gasp and try to turn around before a heavy, sweaty, muscular arm went around her neck and jerked her off balance. Shane instantly put the shotgun up to a firing position, but then realized what he was doing and put it down again. He set it carefully on the table and held up both hands in an I surrender kind of position.
Claire squeaked for air, went up on her toes, and tried to ease the strain on her throat. She was having a terrifying, white-out flashback of the moment that Magnus had seized her, had twisted until she’d felt and heard the crackle-snap of bones. Her heart was as loud as a jackhammer in her chest, and her pulse was roaring so loudly it sounded like a hurricane in her ears. She couldn’t see who held her, but it was a man’s body, a man’s hairy arm. She clawed at it, but her blunt nails weren’t going to do much. Think, Claire. Shane had taught her some basic things to do. Everyone is going to be bigger and stronger than you, he’d said, without being critical about it. You have to learn how to hit them in the weak spots.
The first thing he’d taught her to do was not to do what she was doing now … standing on her tiptoes, cooperating with her captor. It was terrifying, but it was Shane’s calm voice in her head now, telling her exactly what to do. Turn your head toward his elbow. Tuck in your chin. Grab his left wrist in your right hand. Punch down and behind you with your left as you turn and pull. Then don’t stop when he lets go, move in, go for his eyes and punch his throat. Never run. Never let him get his momentum again.
She did it, calmly, turning and tucking and punching, and suddenly she was free, and she was facing her attacker. She registered him only as a foot taller than she was, and only for geometry’s sake; faces and names didn’t matter right now. Her right fist blurred as she went for a fast, hard punch to his exposed throat …
But she stopped, because Theo Goldman stepped in like a shadow and grabbed her fist before it landed.
Her attacker stumbled back, white-faced with shock; he clearly hadn’t expected the little girl to come at him like that, and Claire felt a savage sense of victory before sanity kicked in again.
“Theo? What the hell?” He really hadn’t changed, but then, vampires didn’t, did they? He just looked … kind, with warm dark eyes and hair dusted with gray, and lines on his face that most vampires didn’t have. Smile lines.
He did, however, look tired.
Shane hadn’t moved, except to pick up the shotgun. His eyes were steady and cold on the man with Theo who’d grabbed her, and Claire sensed that he was waiting for the guy to make a second attempt.
The guy didn’t move, though Claire, still trembling and adrenaline fueled, was almost sorry.
Theo shook his head, then walked to the table and picked up a curling piece of paper. He turned the sheet over and wrote swiftly, then held it up so they both could see through the dim light of the kitchen window. HAROLD IS A FRIEND. HE WAS TRYING TO PROTECT ME. APOLOGIES.
“Great,” Claire muttered, but her fury was rapidly fading as she looked at Harold. He looked … wrong, a little. He seemed awkward, and fidgeted uncomfortably like a schoolkid caught cheating on a test. He also seemed scared.
In fact, despite his large size, he was acting exactly like a kid. Even down to the body language. There was something developmentally off about him, and he looked at Theo with miserable distress, as if he knew he’d done wrong but didn’t know why.
Claire backed up next to Shane and pushed down on the barrel of his shotgun. He was getting the same impression, she saw, and he nodded and dropped his guard. Slightly.