“Thanks,” Michael said. He looked a little tired, no longer the mighty god of guitar that he’d been onstage, and Claire thought he just wanted to get this done and get home. “I appreciate that, Mr. Sloan.”
Mr. Sloan produced a business card, which he slid across the table toward Michael’s hand. “Yeah, here’s the thing. I think you’ve got real potential, Michael. I work for a major recording company, and I want to take a demo CD back with me.”
There was a moment where they all stared at him, and then Michael said, blankly, “Demo CD?”
“You don’t have one?”
“No. I’ve been—” Michael didn’t know how to finish that sentence. “Busy.” Busy getting killed, then being made into a ghost, then turning into a vampire. Fighting wars. Et cetera.
“You really have to get in the studio, man, right now. I’ll set it up—there’s a good place in Dallas. I’ll book the time for you if you tell me dates. But I want to take your stuff into our next discovery meeting. I think we can really do some business. Think about it, will you? First thing is to get that demo CD done. Call me.”
He held out his hand again, and Michael shook it. He looked pale, and a little vacant, Claire thought. Mr. Sloan flashed them all that Hollywood smile again, slid on a very expensive pair of sunglasses, and left.
“He can’t be,” Eve said. “It’s a joke, right? Monica’s idea of a joke or something.”
Michael held up the business card. Eve examined it, blinked, and passed it to Shane, who passed it on to Claire.
“Vice president,” Claire read. “Oh. Wow.”
“It’s not a joke,” Michael said. “There was an article about this guy in Rolling Stoneabout six weeks ago.” Michael slowly got to his feet, and it really hit home. “He wants to sign me. As a musician.”
Shane held up his hand, palm out, and Michael slapped it, then grabbed Eve and spun her around in a rush of velvet and squeals. He went still, buried his face in the soft shine of her hair, and just held her. “All my life,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”
“I know,” Eve said, and kissed him. “I’m so proud of you.”
Across the gap of a hundred feet of outdated carpet, Mr. Pennywell started clapping. It had the crisp, startling sound of gunshots. The two boys Kim was chatting with discovered they had places to be, and hit the doors to flee into the night; Kim, just as Claire had feared, walked back over toward them. Pennywell finished clapping and said, “You do realize, of course, that they’ll never allow you to leave?”
Michael raised his head, and it felt to Claire like the rest of them faded out of the world. It was just Michael and Pennywell.
“They?” Michael said. “You mean Oliver and Amelie.”
“They want all vampires here, under their control. Under their care.” Pennywell’s sneer was like a slap across the face. “Two frightened little pups trying to control a pack of wolves. Are you a pack animal, Michael? I myself am not.”
“What do you want?” Michael asked.
“Of you? Nothing. You are only a dog running to heel.” His empty gaze moved away from Michael and fixed with a snap onto Claire. “I want her.” Shane, Michael, and Eve closed ranks in front of her before Claire could draw a breath. Pennywell clicked his tongue. “No, no, no, children. This is a waste of blood. I will kill you all—yes, even you, fledgling—and take what I want in any case. You, girl—do you want to see your friends dead on this rather unpleasant carpet?”
“Fat chance,” Shane said. “We already fought your punk ass once, remember? Go ask Bishop how that went for him if you’re scared to think about it.”
Pennywell sent him a scorching look of contempt. “You were not alone, boy. You had allies. Here, you have—” He turned a slow circle, and focused on Kim. “Her. Perhaps not your most persuasive argument.” His tone went eerily quiet, and very serious as he moved his gaze back toward Claire. “I have been alive seven hundred years, and I have been a killer since I was old enough to hold a sword. I have hunted witches and heretics down across Europe. I have destroyed stronger than you, in harder times. Do not mistake me when I tell you that I will not give you another chance.”
Claire swallowed and stepped out from behind Shane. He tried to grab her arm, but she twisted away, never taking her eyes off Pennywell. “Don’t hurt them,” she said. “What do you want?”
“I want you to come with me,” he said, “and I am entirely out of patience. Now.”
Claire held out her hands, palm out, to her friends—Michael, in his rock-star clothes, looking pale and focused and dangerous; Eve, dressed in a fall of black velvet, looking like a silent film star, right down to the look of fear on her face.
Shane was practically begging her not to go. His need to protect her pulled at her like gravity.
She said, “He won’t hurt me. I’ll call as soon as I can. You guys go home. Please.”
“Claire—”
“Shane, go.”
To her utter dismay, she saw Kim move over to her friends and stand next to Shane. Kim put a hand on his arm, and he looked down at her. “Let her go,” she told him. “She’ll be fine.”
Claire knew that this was notthe right time to be wanting to scream, Take your hands off my boyfriend, bitch, but it was all she could do to hold the words inside. Pennywell’s hand closed around her wrist, cold and strong as a handcuff, and as he began to pull her away, Claire met Shane’s eyes one last time.
“I’ll be back,” she said. “Don’t do anything crazy.”
He probably thought she meant fighting vampires.
What she really meant, deep down, was Don’t fall in love with Kim.
5
Pennywell marched her outside of the concert hall, into the chilly night. There was a smell of rain in the air, and thunder rumbling far off in the distance. Lightning shattered across the sky, briefly turning Pennywell almost luminous, and as Claire blinked away the glare, she saw that he was pulling her in the direction of an idling limousine parked at the curb.
“In,” he barked, and shoved her at the open back door. She stumbled, caught herself, and crawled in. It was dark, of course. And it smelled like cigar smoke. Pennywell clambered in behind her, agile as a spider, and slammed the door behind him. The big car accelerated away from the curb.
“Where are we going?” Claire asked.
“Nowhere,” said a voice out of the dark—Oliver’s voice. The lights in the back slowly came up, revealing him sitting on the bench seat opposite her. Next to him was the source of the smoke, who smirked at her as he took a long pull on his cigar. Myrnin had put on a wine red jacket for the evening, something with elaborate embroidery on it. He looked almost normal, actually. He was even wearing the right shoes.
There was nothing normal about his smile, though.
“Cohiba?” he asked, and took an unlit cigar out of his pocket to offer it to her. She shook her head, violently. “Pity. You know, daring women used to smoke.”
“Cancer isn’t sexy.”
He raised his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “You all die of something,” he said. “And we all pay for our pleasures, one way or another.”
“Myrnin, what the hellis going on? You send this freak to abduct me. . . .”
“Actually,” Oliver said, “I sent Pennywell. It seemed to me he would be the one of us you and your friends would be least likely to argue with.”
Pennywell laughed. “There you are wrong.”
“I never said it would be easy.” Oliver slammed the door on that conversation, and focused back on Claire. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and she tried not to be intimidated. “Myrnin and I wish to ask you about Amelie.”
“Amelie.” Claire stared back at him blankly, and then she felt the first tinglings of alarm. “What about her?”