“You’re wrong,” she said. “He’s not going to come here. Not for me.”
“Then there’s nothing risked,” Myrnin said. “And I chose you a very comfortable chair.”
This time Claire did scream, in pure frustration, and struggled so much that the chair rocked over on two legs. Hannah simply put a hand on the back of it and thumped it down to the carpet again. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Myrnin.
They just waited, hunters at the water hole, with the stupid goat tied down for the lion.
I am not the goat, Claire told herself. I am not.
All her struggling had loosened the joints on the wood of the chair enough to make it creak, just a little. She had a moment’s fantasy of somehow supercharging her strength, ripping the chair apart, whacking Myrnin over the head with a piece of it (more for satisfaction than damage), and grabbing Hannah’s gun from its holster to hold her at bay.
That wasn’t going to happen, obviously, but it was a nice fantasy.
Something sharp scraped against her wrist as she uselessly twisted it back and forth. Claire froze, and carefully moved her wrist again, pressing.
A nail. It had popped loose from the old wood when she’d twisted around. It wasn’t much, but it was something. By pulling her wrists apart, she could get the tough nylon rope in a position to scrape it over the nail, back and forth, until her shoulders were trembling with strain. Nobody spoke. Hannah and Myrnin were just going to let her struggle uselessly, she supposed, except that now it wasn’t useless. She could feel the rope fraying—slow, but steady.
Fifteen minutes passed, by the tick of the old clock in the corner. Outside, Morganville continued to be silent. No lights flared against the windows. It was like being on the moon.
And just as she felt she was really making progress, Myrnin turned his head and said, “Hannah, I believe she may be fraying her ropes. Please check them.”
No, no, no!
Claire yanked hard, frantic with frustration, and felt her right wrist slip loose as the rope gave, just a little. As Hannah bent over to check, Claire risked everything on one awkward lunge.
And grabbed Hannah’s gun.
Hannah straightened up, fast, and Claire held the pistol in a shaking hand, aimed at her. “Cut the other ropes,” she said. “Now. You can’t want this, Hannah. This isn’t you. You wouldn’t just let me die like this, tied down.”
“We’ll protect you,” Hannah said.
“You can’t protect me! At least let me try to protect myself!”
“Hannah,” Myrnin said, “stand aside.”
If she did that, Claire knew Myrnin would take the gun away. It’d be easy for him. Even if she shot him, she couldn’t stop him. He’d probably gripe about the hole in his shirt; that would be about the worst damage she could inflict on him.
Hannah didn’t move, though. She was blocking Myrnin’s path. Her dark eyes were on Claire’s, and for a moment Claire saw just a bit of doubt on her face.
“You couldn’t do this, either,” Claire said to her. “Sit helpless, waiting. Could you? Look, if you want me to play bait, I will. But not tied up.”
Hannah reached behind her back and took out a carbon-black combat knife. It must have been razor-sharp; it sliced through the ropes in three quick jerks, freeing her other hand and her ankles.
Hannah turned to Myrnin. “The kid’s right. She deserves to be on her feet, at least.”
Claire got up, rubbing her numbed hands, and glanced toward the parlor door.
And found that Magnus was standing right there.
She froze, unable to move or speak from sheer surprise. He was just as he had been the last time she’d seen him here in the Glass House—average, forgettable, a man without a face of any note until you concentrated a little, and things moved behind that shell, things that were wrong and utterly sickening. He was a bag full of grave worms, wriggling. He was rot and ruin and destruction, mouths and teeth and madness.
And Hannah glanced at him, then away, as if she couldn’t see him at all.
Myrnin didn’t even turn toward him.
“He’s here,” Claire said through a suddenly bone-dry throat. She could feel the ache in it, where his hands had grabbed and twisted and shattered. “He’s in the doorway. Right now.”
Myrnin turned and stared in that direction, but it was very clear that all he saw was an empty space. Hannah, too. Claire clutched Hannah’s handgun in both hands, raised it, and fired.
It had a kick, but not as bad as the shotgun; the noise was sharper, like a slap to the ears that left hers ringing. Her eyes stung a little, and her nose hurt with the sharp smell of burning cordite … and she hit Magnus, square in the chest.
It didn’t matter at all. The bullet passed right through him and buried itself in the far wall. Well, she thought, that wallpaper’s toast. Michael was going to be so mad.
Hannah grabbed the gun from her, holstered it, and tossed Claire a shotgun loaded with silver—but it was too late.
Because Magnus had moved, in a sickeningly liquid, boneless rush, and now he had Myrnin pressed against him as a shield.
Claire brought the shotgun up, but she couldn’t fire.
“Kill him!” Myrnin shouted at her. “Claire, I don’t matter. Kill him!”
She couldn’t. She angled around for a better shot, but Magnus turned with her, his teeth gleaming silver-sharp over Myrnin’s shoulder. If Magnus bit, he would infect Myrnin just as he had Amelie. The threat was very clear.
“I don’t want this one,” Magnus said. His voice was pale and whispery, and Claire had the eerie feeling that she was the only one who could hear him. “His blood is tainted. But I will kill him if you don’t put down your weapon.”
Hannah had backed away, into the far corner of the room, and Claire pretty much forgot her immediately. The world narrowed to the shotgun barrel, Magnus’s multiple rows of gleaming teeth, Myrnin’s pale, exposed neck and the horrified look on his face.
“Kill him,” Myrnin said again. His voice was soft and gentle and very steady. “I don’t matter so long as he is stopped, Claire. There are things that are more important than a single life.”
“Like I didn’t matter when you stuck me here as bait?” she asked. “I’m not you. And you do matter.” Claire felt the pressure of Hannah’s stare, suddenly, from the corner, as if Hannah was trying to tell her something. Something silent, yet important.
All of a sudden Claire realized what it was. This hadn’t been quite so stupid an idea after all.
If they could pull it off.
She took a step back, toward the hall. Magnus pushed Myrnin ahead of him, following her. “Drop the weapon,” he said again. “Submit. It will be quick.”
“Like last time?” Claire said. “Didn’t really enjoy that. And I’m not doing it again.” She felt giddily like she was channeling Shane now, or maybe Eve. God, she wished they were here. Wished she had people she could trust at her back. “No second dates for you.” She took another step back. Another.
Magnus followed, and showed Hannah his back.
And Hannah pulled out a plastic bag full of white powder, opened it, and flung the contents straight at him.
Magnus dived away at the last second, but part of the powder hit him. He let go of Myrnin and shrieked as the stuff settled on his shoulder and turned gray, leaching away his vital moisture. It was the same scream his spawn had given, but deeper, longer, and louder. Claire yelled herself and tried not to drop the shotgun; the urge to stop up her ears was almost overwhelming. Myrnin lunged away, toward Claire, grabbed the shotgun from her hands as he spun gracefully around her.