I risked another look at Amelie. She was as still as a statue now, hands folded across her chest. But as I watched, I felt her attention … shift. Toward me.
And I heard her, in my head. There was a clear, silvery sound to it, like bells and singing, sweet singing.
Go, Eve. Go and don’t come back.
I didn’t wait. My nerve just … broke, and I ran into the other room. Theo must have known where the alarm button was, because a few seconds later I heard the thumping of violent but muffled blows on the door, and it crashed open to admit Amelie’s two guards. I held up my hands. They disregarded me and ran into the other room.
And I got the hell out before anybody could ask me any questions. I didn’t know what Theo was going to say, but if I hung around, there was no way I wouldn’t end up somehow coming out of it badly.
I wished I’d never seen Amelie like that, because it was awful, and terrifying. If she was fighting, I couldn’t see any sign of it; she looked like she was slowly drowning in that slime, and the awful gray color of her skin and eyes made her look like something washed up on a beach.
We were losing the Founder of Morganville, and once we lost her …
… We lost everything.
I dashed down the hallway, blind with tears and anguish, and ran headlong into Michael. I stopped, trembling, and stared at him for a few long, horrible seconds. What I’d just seen … what I’d just escaped …
He didn’t ask. He just opened his arms, and I fell into them, sobbing my heart out as he stroked my hair.
“It’s okay,” he whispered to me.
But it wasn’t. It really, really wasn’t.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SHANE
Michael had his arms around Eve, and that was going well for a change; Myrnin had already taken his goodies off to the lab, leaving the three of us behind. Hannah had ditched us, too, locked in her eerie calm. None of us had dared say anything to her.
Claire was looking at me with dull, tragic need, and I just couldn’t … I couldn’t give her what she needed. Not yet. I couldn’t feel it. But there was something I could feel, after all.
I said, “I need to tell Monica about her brother.”
I heard Claire suck in a deep breath, as if she hadn’t even thought that far ahead. “Oh,” she said in a choked voice. “Should I go—?”
“No. Better if I do it alone.” Because if I could feel anything real, it would be now, looking into Monica’s eyes. It was karma. She deserved to hear about her brother from me; while my sister died, caught in our burning house, Monica had stood there and smiled and flicked a lighter. Mocking me. Mocking how helpless I was.
I’d always believed she’d set the fire, from that moment on; Richard had always insisted she hadn’t, that she’d just been a troll and hadn’t even known Alyssa was trapped inside. I didn’t really believe him. Maybe he didn’t even believe it himself.
I found Monica in what I guessed was some kind of vampire entertainment room. There was a TV, tuned now silently to static, and a leather couch. She was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and she was asleep.
I didn’t think I’d ever seen Monica asleep, and the surprise was that when she wasn’t actively being herself, she seemed … normal. She looked tired, too; her hair was mussed, and she’d taken her makeup off. Without it, she looked her actual age, which was Michael’s—no, she was still human. She was older than Michael now.
All of a sudden, real or not, the pain I was about to inflict didn’t seem right—but she needed to know, and I’d volunteered.
Isn’t it perfect, how you get to tell her about her brother? More wish fulfillment, Shane. You really think all this is the truth?
That damn stupid voice in my head wouldn’t shut up. It was a constant, grinding monologue, a headache that wouldn’t go away. And the worst thing was, I wasn’t sure it was imagination. Wake up, Shane.
But I was awake. Wasn’t I?
I crossed the room toward the couch. The lights had been turned down low, but on the coffee table there was a remote to turn them up, so I pressed the button. As the artificial sun came up, Monica moaned a little, mumbled, and tried to bury her face in the pillow.
Then, as I sat down on the edge of the table, staring at her, she suddenly sat bolt upright, and the fear that raced over her expression surprised me. I hadn’t thought she was capable of that kind of vulnerability … but then, she’d been born here, just as I’d been, and having strangers walk in on you asleep was rarely good.
Monica stared at me blankly, without recognition, for about two seconds, and then awareness overtook alarm, and she just looked annoyed. And angry. “Collins,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair, as if getting it settled was her first priority. “God, there’s a new thing called knocking—look into it. If you’re going to get all stalkery over me saving your life today, please don’t. It wasn’t my idea in the first place. Though if you want to dump your Playskool girlfriend, I might be persuaded to throw you a boner.” She smiled at me, suddenly all inappropriate hormones and insanity.
I didn’t know how to do this. The responsibility felt heavy and harsh, because I was about to totally destroy her world. I knew how it felt, and yeah, there was a certain justice to it, not denying that, but I found that I couldn’t take any real joy, either. I just waited her out, until she was silent, frowning at me, clearly made uneasy by my lack of reaction.
And then I said, very quietly, “Monica, I have to tell you something. It’s bad.”
She wasn’t stupid, and about one second after I said it, I saw the awful light start to dawn. “What happened?” she asked, and folded her arms together over her stomach. I remembered how that felt, the drop off the edge of the earth. “Is—is it my mom?” Because, I realized, news that her mother was dead, even a mother who no longer even spoke to or recognized her own kids, was the best-case scenario she could think of now.
“No,” I said. Maybe I should have been taunting her, I don’t know; maybe I’d have been fully within my rights to do it. But suddenly all I wanted out of this was to be kind, and to be quick, and to be out. I wanted to hold Claire, and forget how fragile we all were, just for a moment. “No, it’s not your mom. I’m sorry. It’s Richard.”
“He’s hurt,” she said, and threw the blanket back. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, like a normal girl, and she reached for a pair of flat shoes. Her hands were trembling. “Is he here? Can I see him? He’s going to be okay, right? God, these shoes don’t even match, but I couldn’t bring everything ….”
“No,” I said, “he’s not going to be okay.” She stopped in the act of sliding one shoe on, but she didn’t look up. After that hesitation, she finished, and donned the other shoe, and stood up. I stood too, not sure what to do now.
“What do you know, dumbass?” she said, and shoved past me, heading for the door. “When did you go to med school? You couldn’t even pass bio, for God’s sake. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Monica,” I said. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t insult her back, or raise my voice, or grab her; maybe it was just that she already knew. I don’t have any idea what happened inside her head. But she stopped as if she’d run into an invisible wall, and waited. “I saw it. I’m sorry. Hannah was with him. They’re going to bring him in soon. I thought you ought to know before—” Before you saw his body.
She whirled on me then, and the rage in her face took me by surprise. “You lying son of a bitch!” she screamed, and picked up the first thing she could reach—the TV’s remote control—and flung it at me as hard as she could, which was pretty hard, actually. I batted it out of the way and didn’t respond. She went for something heavier, a big marble bust of somebody I supposed I should have recognized, but she couldn’t throw that nearly as well. It hit the carpet three feet from me and rolled.