“You go home,” he said. “You tell my son his father says good-bye. Wish I’d gotten to see him one more time, but you’re right. It’s probably not a good idea.”
He turned away toward the darkness, with the stakes in his hand.
“I guess you should know that he loves you, too. He can’t help it.” Her voice echoed from the stone. She didn’t know why she said it, except that she knew, with sad certainty, that she wouldn’t see him again.
She thought Shane’s dad hesitated, but then he shuffled on, until he was out of sight.
The instant he was gone, Claire grabbed the duffel bags, and lunged to her feet, heading for the open portal.
She stumbled out on the other side, tripped over Dr. Mills’s motionless body, and fell into Oliver’s arms.
He looked at her with an absolutely disgusted expression, and dropped her on her butt on the plushly carpeted floor of Amelie’s study.
“It’s gone,” Claire said for the four hundredth time, as Oliver turned her arm this way and that, holding it under a light so bright it felt like a laser cutting into her skin. “Hey! I said it’s gone!”
Oliver held her in place with a grip so hard she knew it would leave its own kind of tattooing. In blue, purple, and black. “And I said that Bishop would very much like us to think that it’s gone,” he snapped. “You were told to stay where you were. As usual, you ignored that instruction, and now you’ve placed us all at extreme risk of—”
“Let her go, Oliver,” Amelie said from the other side of the vast, polished desk. She drummed her perfect fingernails on the surface, making a light, dry tapping sound like bones dropped on marble. “The girl could have betrayed us a dozen times or more by now. She hasn’t. I believe we can give her the benefit of the doubt, for now.”
He let Claire go and stalked away, arms folded. This, Claire thought, was Amelie’s war council—Sam Glass sat next to her in a side chair, looking more like Michael all the time as his red hair grew out into a mess of waves and curls. Oliver paced. Richard Morrell stood nearby, looking as if he wantedto pace, but was too tired to make the attempt.
Michael moved up next to Claire, put his hand on her shoulder, and led her off to the side, near where Hannah Moses leaned against the wall, looking fascinated and worried. Claire knew just how she felt. Being plunged into the deep end—and this was it—meant swimming for your life, with sharks. Even the supposedly friendly ones could turn and take your leg off when they felt like it.
“Where’s Myrnin?” Claire whispered. Michael shook his head. “Isn’t he here? Somewhere?”
“No idea,” Michael whispered back. “Amelie stashed him someplace; I just don’t know where. He’s not—”
“Michael,” Amelie said, “I said I would give her the benefit of the doubt, not the full story. Please be quiet.” She stood up, and Claire saw that she’d changed clothes again, this time to a flawless pale pink suit, something that looked like it belonged on a runway in Paris. Not what Claire would have thought you’d wear to a show-down. “Claire. Thank you for bringing the supplies that I requested from Dr. Mills. Thank you also for retrieving the good doctor. I am told that he will recover from his wound.” Her light-colored, cool eyes focused on Claire, and shot right through her. “May I also see your arm?”
Always polite. That was when Amelie was the most dangerous, Claire knew. She slowly extended her arm, still holding Michael’s hand on the other side for comfort. Amelie’s touch was cold and light. She didn’t study the skin, like Oliver had; she ran her fingertips over the surface, and then lowered Claire’s arm back to her side.
“Michael,” she said,“please take Claire to your friends. I am sure you would both prefer to be with them now.”
“But . . .” Claire licked her lips. “Don’t you want me here? To help?”
“You’ll help when it’s needed,” Amelie said. “For now, you should be elsewhere. We will be bringing in some of my people to remove them from Bishop’s influence. The process can be somewhat unsettling to witness.”
Oliver made a rude noise as he continued his relentless pacing. “It’s far worse when it fails,” he said. “I hope you’re not fond of this carpet.”
Amelie ignored that. “Myrnin and Dr. Mills had told me that the work could not continue on the serum without more of Bishop’s blood. Is that correct?” Claire nodded. “Difficult to achieve, I’m afraid, but I will include that in our calculations.”
“We talked about drugging him.”
“So Myrnin said.” Amelie wasn’t going to tell her anything. “It’s no longer your concern. I will rely on you and your friends to be in attendance this evening. You should come prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” Claire asked.
Amelie’s eyebrows rose. “Anything. We are no longer following a plan. We are facing the final moves on the chessboard, and who wins will very much depend on nerve, skill, and the ability to do the unexpected. You may count on my father being ready to do his worst. We must be just as ruthless.”
Claire thought about that moment in the tunnels, with Frank Collins. She hadn’t felt ruthless at the end. She’d felt sad.
She didn’t suppose Amelie, Oliver, or any of the rest of them would have hesitated for a second. Frank Collins was a bad guy. He’d been a bad guy as a human, right? But still . . . there was just that one moment when she’d seen him as a man who loved his son.
Maybe everybody had those moments. Even the worst people.
Maybe it didn’t matter, except to her.
The door opened at the far end of the room, and two of Amelie’s favorite vamp bodyguards came in, dragging a beat-up human. At least, Claire thought he was human; it was hard to tell, under all the dirt and bruises.
Oh. She knew him. It was Jason Rosser, Eve’s crazy-ass brother. He looked like he’d been living in a garbage dump for months—for all Claire knew, he had been. Eve had said he’d been coming by the house, maybe even acting less insane, but right now, Claire couldn’t see it. He looked like a rabid sewer rat, and as he scanned the room, he was all gleaming, crazy eyes and bared teeth.
When the guards let him go, at a nod from Amelie, Jason lunged for the Founder of Morganville. She didn’t raise a hand to defend herself. She didn’t have to.
Oliver met him halfway, grabbed Jason by the throat, and slammed him down onto the carpet flat on his back.
“You see?” Oliver said, and gave Amelie a freakishly calm smile. “You really should have thought about the carpet; you’ll never get the smell of him out of it. Really, Amelie, you do insist on bringing home strays.”
“I also put them down when necessary,” she said. “This one happens to be yours, Oliver, yes? So I leave him to you for proper judgment.”
Nobody said a word in protest to that. Not even Claire. Jason was nobody’s friend; Claire would never, ever forget the night he’d almost killed Shane, for nothing.She wasn’t about to speak up on his behalf.
Oliver stared deep into Jason’s eyes and said, “You deserve to die, you know. Not only for the fact that you reek of guilt; I’m partial to a bit of mayhem now and then. No, you deserve to die because you broke the laws of Morganville without my permission.” Oliver’s smile widened into something out of a bad-clown nightmare. “So what then am I to do with you? You broke your word to Brandon. You broke your word to me. You had the bad taste to betray Amelie, in full public view. You took the side of that ancient reptile Bishop.”
Jason laughed.It sounded like breaking ice. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “Vamps are getting a break for doing the same thing. I get to die. Perfect. Nothing ever changes around here, does it? If a vampire does it, they can’t help it. If a human does it, they’re lunch meat.”
Amelie said, “Is there anyone who will speak for him?” Claire knew it was a pro forma kind of question, like, Speak now or forever hold your peace,but she was thinking about Eve. About how she was ever going to tell her that she’d watched her brother die, and hadn’t said a word . . .