It took Claire a second to realize that she was walking into a funeral parlor. When she did, she stopped, and stumbled as Gretchen continued to drag her relentlessly onward, past the rows of empty folding chairs, all the way to the front, where Oliver was standing near another velvet curtain.
“Sir,’” Joe Hess said, coming out from behind Claire and Eve. “I’m Detective Hess.’”
Oliver nodded. “I know you.’”
“Shouldn’t there be others present here for this?’” The tension in Hess’s voice, and his body, warned Claire that Oliver’s interrogating them on his own was a very bad thing.
“There are others present, Detective Hess,’” said a light, cool voice from the far corner of the room, which Claire could have sworn was empty one second before. She gasped and looked, and there was Amelie, standing there as if she’d been carved in stone before the building came up around her. And her bodyguards—or servants—were standing in a group near her. She’d brought four of them. Claire wondered if that was a signal of how much trouble she and Eve were in.
“There is a third coming,’” Amelie said, and settled herself in a chair as if it were a golden throne. She was wearing black, like Oliver, but her attire was a long elegant suede skirt suit, with a severe white shirt under the tailored jacket. She crossed her legs, which were pale and perfect, and folded her hands in her lap.
Oliver wasn’t looking happy. “Who are we waiting for?’” he asked.
“You know the laws, Oliver, even if you choose to find ways to cheat them,’” Amelie said. “We are waiting for Mr. Morrell.’”
They didn’t have to wait long; in a matter of less than a minute, Claire heard voices coming from the anteroom outside, and a jingle of keys. She’d never seen the man who walked in, flanked by two uniformed cops, but she knew one of the cops: Richard Morrell, Monica’s brother. So the portly, balding man with the smug expression was probably her dad.
The mayor of Morganville.
He was dressed in a suit, too—blue, pin-striped, with wide lapels. Kind of pimpish, really, and the pants were a little too long. He had too many rings on his fingers, all in gold, and he was smiling.
“Oliver,’” he said cheerfully. The smile vanished fast when he spotted Amelie sitting so quietly off to the side, with her entourage. His face composed itself into something a whole lot more…respectful. “Founder.’”
“Mayor.’” She nodded to him. “Good. We can begin.’”
Gretchen let go of Claire’s arm. She winced at the returning flow of blood to her tingling hand, and rubbed at the place where Gretchen had been gripping her. Yeah, that was going to be a bruise. Definitely. She risked a look at Eve, who was doing the same thing. Eve looked dead scared.
Oliver reached over and pulled a hidden cord, and the burgundy velvet curtain behind him opened.
There was a body lying on the marble slab, surrounded by rich red roses, bunches of them in floor vases. The corpse looked blue white, rubbery, and utterly, horribly dead. Claire felt a cloud creep over her, heard a buzzing in her ears, and nearly collapsed, but somehow she managed not to faint.
“Oh my God,’” Eve whispered, and brought both hands to her mouth.
“It’s Brandon,’” Claire said, and looked at Oliver. “It’s Brandon, right?’” Because that cold, white face didn’t look human anymore, and she couldn’t match it up to the living person—vampire—she’d feared. The one who’d threatened her, chased her home, nearly killed her and Eve…
Oliver nodded. He pulled back the velvet covering Brandon from the neck down, revealing black open wounds. Some of them still smoked. Claire caught the smell of cooking meat, and this time, her knees buckled. Detective Hess caught her arm and steadied her.
“He was tortured,’” Oliver said. He sounded neutral—disinterested, even. “It took a long time. Someone very much enjoyed this. Almost as if there was a…personal agenda at work.’”
Mayor Morrell motioned his son forward. Richard wasn’t nearly the psycho his sister was. In fact, Claire kind of liked him, as much as she could like anybody from his family who worked for vampires. He seemed almost fair.
Richard examined the wounds in Brandon’s body. He actually touched them, which made Claire throw up in her head, if not actually through her mouth. “Looks like some kind of weapon straight to the heart. Probably a stake,’” Richard said, and looked up at his father. “Whoever did this was serious. This wasn’t just random; this was done slowly. I don’t know what they wanted out of him, but whatever it was, they probably got it. I can see shadows of wounds that closed over before he died. That’s hours, at least.’”
Silence. Deep, dark silence. Richard straightened up and glanced at Claire and Eve. If he recognized them, he gave no sign. “These two girls have something to do with it?’”
“Perhaps,’” Oliver said. Claire didn’t see him move, but all of a sudden he was right in front of her, looking down. “Perhaps they know something. You didn’t like Brandon very much, did you, Claire?’”
“I—’” She didn’t know what to say. Don’t lie, Hess had said. Did the vamps have some kind of lie detector power? Maybe even mind-reading? “No, I didn’t like him. But I wouldn’t want to see this happen to anybody.’” Not even you. She said that to herself, though.
He had such kind eyes. That was the horrible thing about him, this warm feeling that she could trust him, should trust him, that somehow she was letting him down by not…
“Don’t,’” Eve said sharply, and pinched her arm. Claire yelped and looked at her. “Don’t look him in the eye.’”
“Eve,’” Oliver sighed. “I’m very disappointed in you. Don’t you understand that it’s my responsibility, as Brandon’s Patron, to get to the bottom of this? To find the ones responsible? You’re not the innocent Claire may be; you know the penalties for killing one of us. And you know the lengths to which we’ll go to find out the truth. If I can get it from her without pain, don’t you want me to do that?’”
Eve didn’t answer. She kept her eyes focused somewhere around the middle of his chest. “I think you’ll do whatever you want,’” she said grimly. “Just like vamps always do. You didn’t ask me, but I’m glad Brandon’s dead. And I’m glad he suffered, too. However much it was, it wasn’t enough.’”
That was when Nice Oliver vanished. Just…gone. Claire saw a flicker of movement, nothing more, and then he had hold of Eve’s black-dyed hair and he was yanking her head back at a painful angle.
And there was nothing human in his eyes. Unless pure, flaming rage was human.
“Oh,’” he breathed into Eve’s ear. “Thank you for saying that. Now I don’t have to be so careful anymore.’”
Detective Hess stepped forward, fists clenched; Richard Morrell got in his way. “Easy, Joe,’” he said. “It’s under control.’”
Didn’t look that way to Claire. She was breathing too fast, feeling faint again, and she could see Eve’s knees buckling. The menace in the room—the body on the table—it was all just…terrifying.
Shane’s dad did that. Claire felt sick and even more terrified once she had the thought, because now somehow she had to keep it to herself.
And she knew they were going to ask.
Oliver sniffed at Eve’s exposed neck. “You’ve been working at a coffee shop,’” he said. “On campus, I suppose. Funny. I wasn’t asked for any references.’”
“Let go,’” Eve said faintly.
“Oh, I can’t do that. It makes it harder to hurt you.’” Oliver smiled, then opened his mouth, and his fangs—snake fangs, deadly sharp—snapped down into place. They weren’t like teeth, really; they were more like polished bone, and they looked strong.
He licked Eve’s neck, right over the pulse.
“Oh God,’” she whispered. “Please don’t do that. Please don’t let him do that.’”
“Ask the girl a question, Oliver. We don’t have time for your hobbies.’” Mayor Morrell said it in a bored tone, like all of this was keeping him from something more important. He inspected his manicure and buffed his fingernails against his suit jacket. “Let’s move this train down the track.’”