She came to again with her head in Eve’s lap.
They were sitting in their makeshift bedroom, the big ballroom with their cast-off clothes and sleeping bags littering the floor, cups of drying coffee sitting on antique tables that had been pushed to the wall. Claire’s head hurt, her throat hurt, and her eyes felt swollen, and for a moment she couldn’t remember why. Eve was silently stroking her hair. Upside down, Eve looked strange. Her eyes were red, and she looked very shaken and sad.
She pulled in a deep breath as she realized Claire was awake. “Michael!”
He was there in a flash beside her, kneeling next to Claire. He took hold of her hands and pulled her up into a hug.
He didn’t say anything. Not a thing.
She didn’t want to remember. Her hands fisted behind his back, her whole body shook with the need not to know. Michael was shaking, too. After a moment, he let go and sat back, avoiding her eyes as he wiped his face with an impatient gesture, but not before she saw the tears.
“He’s not dead,” she said. “He’s not. They took him. I saw them take him.”
“Claire—” Michael slowly shook his head. He looked tired, angry, and … just broken. “Myrnin said he was dead.”
“He’s not.”
It was Eve’s turn to put her arms around her. Unlike Michael, she wasn’t crying now. She’d finished, Claire supposed, and how was that fair, that anybody could ever finish crying? Ever?
“If I believed there was a chance, any chance, I’d already be going,” Eve said. “But, sweetheart, he’s gone.”
Claire shoved her back with a burst of white rage. She jumped to her feet. “Myrnin knocked me out,” she spat. “How long?” They didn’t answer her until she kicked at the limp sleeping bag and yelled it again. “How long?”
“Five minutes, maybe,” Eve whispered. “Claire, don’t. We’re not your enemies—don’t do this …. We love him, too.”
“Not fucking enough, you don’t!” she snapped, and left them there. She was walking first, then running. Nobody tried to stop her. She flew through confusing hallways, reversed course, her heart hammering, and tried three different routes before she saw the room at the end with the vampire guards standing sentry.
They stepped out in front of her, right palms outstretched in a clear no way signal. Claire slowed, but she kept coming. “I need to see Oliver,” she said. “Right now.”
“He’s not available.”
“I need to see him!”
“Stop.”
She didn’t. She wasn’t sure what her plan was, because right now there was nothing inside her but the burning, ripping need to do something … probably fifteen minutes had passed since she’d last seen Shane, and he was still alive, she was sure he was. Something had to be done. Someone had to listen. She locked gazes with the vampire on the right—she knew him, he was one of Amelie’s regular crew, and sometimes she caught him looking, well, not human but approachable.
Not now. His expression had set like concrete, and his light brown eyes were cold. “Turn around,” he said. “Now.”
She couldn’t. She couldn’t give up, because Shane wouldn’t have given up on her. He’d have fought like a wildcat, made them put him in a cage or let him go, and she couldn’t do any less for him, could she?
It took about one second for the vampire to reach out, grab her, and carry her back down the hallway. She kicked and screamed but it didn’t do any good, and the fast motion made her dizzy and sick, disoriented, so that when he dumped her off and slammed and locked the door on her she was still too woozy to stand and fight.
Claire screamed and kicked and battered the heavy wooden door with pure adrenalized fury until she collapsed in a gasping, shaking heap next to it.
Then a voice said, “You finished?”
She looked around, surprised, and found she wasn’t the only occupant of this makeshift cell. It had a couple of camp beds in it, some bottled water, and half a box of energy bars sitting on the floor nearby … and a boy she recognized. He was skinny, and he had a mass of greasy dark hair that flopped over his face.
“Jason!” she blurted, and felt an immediate surge of fear. Eve’s brother wasn’t someone she could trust, not even at the best of times, and being locked in a room with him was definitely not the best of times.
He was sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, chewing an energy bar. “I hate being locked up, too,” Jason said, “but screaming at the door won’t get you anywhere, and you’re giving me a headache. So, you got on the wrong side of the vamps, finally. Good for you.”
“What are you doing here?”
He laughed dryly and held out his hands. They were cuffed. “Prison labor,” he said. “They’ve got me loading up shotgun shells. It’s my rest period, which you’re screwing up with all your screaming.”
Claire knelt down to examine the lock on the door (new, and good) and then the hinges (located on the outside of the door, not the inside). Then she started looking around the room. No windows, like most of the rooms in this vampire shrine. Nothing but four walls, carpet, paneling, and the few things provided for comfort.
Her gaze fixed on Jason. “What do you have?” she asked him. Myrnin, or someone, had searched her and there was nothing left now in her own jeans pockets but lint.
“Not a damn thing,” Jason said. “Why, you gonna search me?” He laughed. “Shane’s gonna get a real kink in his tail over that.”
“Shane’s in trouble,” Claire said, “and I swear to God that if you don’t help me, I’ll break your finger off and use the bone to pick the lock.”
Jason stopped laughing and gave her a long, odd look. “You’re kind of serious,” he said. “Huh. That’s dark, for you.”
“Shut up and help.”
“Can’t. I got my own ass to save here. I do anything off-limits, like touching that door, and I end up bags of blood in a refrigerator, if I’m lucky. Sentence of death, remember?” He rattled his handcuffs for effect. “I’m working out my appeal.”
Claire ignored him. Think. Think! She tried, but there wasn’t much to work with. Water. Plastic bottles. A box of energy bars that came in crinkly metallic wrappers …
She lunged for those, stripped the wrapper loose from a bar, and began folding it in careful, precise movements.
“I’m all for hobbies, but you think this is the time for origami? Whatcha making, a crane?”
Claire made a thin metallic probe. It was too flexible to serve as a lock pick, but she searched the baseboards. One good thing about modern life—you were never far from an electrical outlet.
She shoved one end of her probe into one of the flat sides of the plug, then bent it and jammed the other end of the U into the plug’s other side, completing the circuit. Getting shocked was inevitable, and she gritted her teeth and took the pain; it wouldn’t kill her. She’d been shocked plenty of times on things in Myrnin’s lab.
She tore a piece from the cardboard box the energy bars had come in, and held it to the metallic strip. It started to smolder, then smoke, and then a thin edge of flame licked at the paper. Claire grinned without amusement and held the burning cardboard up to the rest of the box. Once that was burning, she dropped it on the carpet, which—flame-retardant or not—rapidly began smoking and melting.
The fire alarm went off.
“Holy shit,” Jason said. “You are crazy.”
Vampires took fire seriously; it was something that would kill them, quickly, and every building in Founder’s Square was equipped with massive fire detection systems.
The smoke was rising, and acrid, and Claire coughed involuntarily, then coughed again. The stench was bad. The plug sparked and a thin thread of fire ran up the wall.