The biker reached down and took a small pair of bolt cutters from a pouch on his belt. Claire gasped in horror as the biker grabbed Monica’s arm. Oh God, she thought, he’s going to cut off her hand….
But he just sliced through the metal bracelet, instead, yanked it off her wrist, and tossed it to Shane’s father. Monica glared at him, trembling, and slapped him. Hard.
He drew back a hand to slap her back. “Leave it,’” Shane’s father said. He was staring at the bracelet. The outside was the symbol, of course; Claire couldn’t read it, but she figured it was Brandon’s symbol, and now that Brandon was dead, she wondered who picked up his Protection duties. Maybe Oliver…
On the inside was inscribed Monica’s full name: MON
ICA ELLEN MORRELL. Shane’s dad grunted in satisfaction.
“You want a finger, too?’” the biker asked, snipping the shears. “No trouble.’”
“I think this makes the point for us,’” Shane’s dad said. “Get us underground, Kenny. Move.’”
The guy driving—Kenny, at least now Claire knew one of their names—nodded. He was a tall man, kind of thin, with long black hair and a blue bandanna. His leather vest had a naked girl on a Harley on the back, and it matched the tattoos down the arm that Claire could see. Kenny expertly navigated the confusing streets and turns of Morganville, moving fast but not dangerously fast, and then all of a sudden…darkness.
Kenny flicked on the lights. They were in a storm drain, a huge concrete tunnel big enough to fit the van—though barely—and it was heading down at a steep angle into the dark. Claire fought to get her breath. She didn’t really like closed-in places, or the dark…. She remembered how freaked-out she’d been sealed in the hidden pantry room at the Glass House, not so many days ago. No, she didn’t like this. She didn’t like it at all.
“Where are you taking us?’” she asked. She meant it to sound tough, but instead it sounded like what she was: a scared sixteen-year-old, trying to be brave. Great.
Frank Collins, hanging on to one of the leather straps, looked at her with something strange in his eyes—almost, she thought, respect. “Not taking you anywhere,’” he said. “You get to deliver the message.’” And he pitched her Monica’s severed bracelet. “Tell the mayor that if I don’t hear that my son’s been set free before tomorrow at dawn, pretty little miss here gets to find out what fire is really like. We’ve got us a nice blowtorch.’”
She didn’t like Monica. In fact, she kind of hated her, and she thought Morganville would be a much better place if Monica just…disappeared.
But nobody deserved what he was talking about.
“You can’t do that,’” she said. “You can’t.’” But she knew, looking around at the grinning, sweaty crew he’d brought with him, that he could do that, and a lot worse. Shane was right. His dad was seriously sick.
“Kenny up there’s going to pull up to a ladder soon,’” Frank continued. “And I’m going to want you to get out of the van, Claire. Go up the ladder and push open the grate. You’ll be right in front of the Morganville City Hall. You walk up to the first cop you see and you tell him you need to see the mayor about Frank Collins. And you tell him that Frank Collins has his daughter, and she’s going to pay for the life she already took, not to mention the one they’re about to. Got it?’”
Claire nodded stiffly. Monica’s bracelet felt cold and heavy in her fingers.
“One more thing,’” Frank said. “I’m going to need you to tell them just how serious I am. And you’d better be persuasive, because if I don’t hear something from the mayor before dawn, we’ll be using those bolt cutters to send him some more reminders. And she’s fresh out of bracelets.’”
The van lurched to a stop, and Frank threw open the sliding door. “Out,’” he said. “Better make it good, Claire. You want to save my son, don’t you?’”
He didn’t say anything about saving Monica, she noticed. Nothing at all.
Monica looked at her, no longer sleek and magazine glossy. She seemed small and vulnerable, alone in the van with all those men. Claire hesitated, then got up from her seat and grabbed a leather strap to steady herself. Her knees felt like water. “This is crazy,’” she said. “Hang in there. I’ll get help.’”
Tears glittered in Monica’s eyes. “Thanks,’” she said softly. “Tell my dad—’” She didn’t finish, and she sucked in a deep breath. The tears cleared away, and she gave Claire a half-crazy smile. “Tell my dad that if anything happens to me, he can hold you personally responsible.’”
The door slammed shut between them, and the van sped off into the dark. Claire was glad she had her hand on the ladder, because the lights went away fast, and she was left in a dark so close and hot and filthy that she wanted to curl up into a ball.
Instead, she climbed, feeling for the slimy rungs in the dark and waiting for something—something with teeth—to lunge onto her back at any second. Vampires lived down here, they had to. Or at least, they used these tunnels as highways; she’d always wondered how they got around during the day. These weren’t sewer tunnels, just storm drains built extra large. And since Morganville wasn’t exactly built on a floodplain, chances were, the water had never been more than ankle-high in these things since they’d been constructed.
Claire climbed, and when she squinted just right, she saw flickers of what looked like daylight. There was a grate overhead, covered with some kind of protective material to keep the sun from filtering down into the tunnel. She braced herself on the rungs, hooked her left arm through one of the iron bars, and heaved with her right to push the grate up.
Hot Texas sun washed over her in a warm, sticky flood, and Claire gasped and raised her face to it in gratitude. After taking a few fast breaths, she pushed herself up another rung and thumped the grate back on its hinges to climb out.
Just as Shane’s dad had said, she was standing in front of the Morganville City Hall—which was, unfortunately, not on Founder’s Square. It was a big Gothic castle of a building, all red sandstone in rough-cut blocks, and people were coming and going on their way to or from work, or filing paperwork—just carrying out their daily lives, whatever that meant in Morganville.
She rolled out onto the grass and flopped there, breathing hard. A couple of faces appeared overhead, blocking out the sun. One of them was wearing a policeman’s uniform cap.
“Hello,’” Claire said, and shaded her eyes. “I need to talk to the mayor. Tell him I have information about his daughter, and Frank Collins.’”
The mayor had changed out of the suit he’d worn to put Shane in a cage the night before; he was wearing a green golf shirt with black slacks and loafers. Very preppy. He was in the hallway, talking into his cell phone, looking tense and angry. Claire was escorted past him, into his office, and deposited in a big red leather chair by two members of Morganville’s finest; she didn’t recognize either of them. When she asked after Detectives Hess and Lowe, she got nothing. Nobody even admitted to knowing their names.
Claire was feeling more than a little light-headed. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d eaten, but the world was starting to take on a surreal melty edge that really wasn’t a very good sign. Between the stress, the poor sleep, and the lack of food, she was going to be loopy soon.
Keep it together, Claire. Pretend you’re cramming for a test. She’d gone without sleep for three days once, prepping for her SAT, and she hadn’t eaten much beyond Jolt cola and Cheetos. She could do this.
“Here,’” said a voice from beside her, and a red can of Coca-Cola appeared, held in a big male hand. “You look like you could use something to drink.’”
Claire looked up. It was Richard, Monica’s cop brother. The cute one. He looked tired and worried. He pulled up another chair close to hers and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Claire busied herself with the Coke, popping the top and taking a fast chug of the icy sweet contents.
“My sister got carjacked,’” he said. “You know that, right?’”