He didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his chest. Eve frantically punched in the code. “It’s ringing, ” she said—and then, like Shane, she went still.
She sank down in a chair.
“Should’ve left it alone,” Shane said.
Eve closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I’m here,” she said tightly. “What is it, Jason?”
Claire caught Shane’s look, and she must have seemed suspiciously in the know, because he frowned at her. “Have you seen him?” Shane asked.
Truth, or lie? “Yes,” Claire said, even though that definitely wasn’t the path of least resistance. “I saw him yesterday morning on the way to school. He said he wanted to talk to Eve.”
Oh, that look. It could have melted steel. “And you forgot about chatting with the local serial killer? Sweet, Claire. Very smart.”
“I didn’t forget. I—never mind.” There was no explaining the vibe she had gotten from Jason, not to Shane, whose most vivid memories of the little creep had to do with Jason sinking a knife into his guts. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
Eve made a shushing motion at them and hunched over the phone, listening hard. “He said what? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.”
Apparently, he was. Eve listened another few seconds, and then said, “Okay, then. No, I don’t know. Maybe. Bye.”
She put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it. Her face looked frozen.
“Eve?” Claire asked. “What is it?”
“My dad,” Eve said. “He’s—he’s sick. He’s in the hospital. They don’t think—they don’t think he’s going to make it. It’s his liver.”
“Oh,” Claire whispered, and leaned across the table to take Eve’s right hand. “I’m sorry.”
Eve’s fingers were cool and limp. “Yeah, well—he asked for it, you know? My dad was an ugly drunk, and he—me and Jason didn’t exactly have the greatest childhood.” She locked gazes with Shane. “You know.”
He nodded. He took her left hand and stared at the table. “Our dads were drinking buddies sometimes,” he said. “But Eve’s was worse. Lots worse.”
Claire, having met Shane’s dad, couldn’t really imagine that. “How long—?”
“Jason said a couple of days, maybe. Not long.” Eve’s eyes filled with tears that didn’t fall. “Son of a bitch. What does he expect from me, anyway? To come running and sit there and watch him die?”
Shane didn’t answer. He didn’t lift his head. He just . . . sat. Claire had no idea what to do, how to act, so she followed his example. Eve’s hands suddenly closed on theirs, hard.
“He threw me out,” she said. “He told me that if I didn’t let Brandon fang me, I couldn’t be his daughter. Well, so he’s dying, boohoo. I don’t care.”
Yes, you do, Claire wanted to say, but she couldn’t. Eve was trying to convince herself, that was all, and in about thirty seconds she shook her head, and the tears broke free to run in dirty streaks down her pale face.
“I’ll take you,” Shane said quietly. “That way, you don’t have to stay unless you want to.”
Eve nodded. She couldn’t seem to get her breath. “I wish—Michael—”
Claire remembered, with a shock, that they were still waiting for Sam’s call. “I’ll stay,” she said. “I’ll call you when I hear from Sam. I’ll get Michael to come there, okay?”
“Okay,” Eve said weakly. “I—need my purse, I guess.”
She swiped at her eyes and walked into the other room. Shane looked at Claire, and she wondered what all this was bringing up for him—memories of his father, of his dead mother and sister, of a family he didn’t really even have anymore.
You’re a deep, dark mystery, she’d said to him, and now, more than ever, that was true.
“Take care of her,” Claire said. “Call me if you need anything.”
He kissed her on the lips, and in a few minutes she heard the front door bang shut. Locks clicked. Claire sat by the phone and waited.
She’d rarely felt so alone.
The phone rang after ten minutes. “He’s coming home,” Sam said, and hung up. No explanation.
Claire gritted her teeth and settled in to wait.
It took another twenty minutes for Michael’s car to pull into the driveway. He crossed the short distance from garage to back door in a few fast strides, covering his head with a black umbrella he left by the steps. Even then, when he entered the kitchen, Claire smelled a faint burned reek coming from him, and he was shivering.
His eyes looked hollow and exhausted.
“Michael? You okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “I need to rest, that’s all.”
“I—where were you? What happened?”
“I was with Amelie.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Look, there’s a lot going on. I should have left a note for you guys. I’m sorry. I’ll try to keep you in the loop next time—”
“Eve’s at the hospital,” Claire blurted. “Her dad’s dying.”
Michael slowly straightened. “What?”
“Something about his liver, I guess because of his drinking. Anyway, they say he’s dying. She and Shane went to see him.” Claire studied him for a few seconds. “I told her I’d call when you got home. If you don’t want to go—”
“No. No, I’ll go. She needs—” He shrugged. “She needs people who love her. It’s going to be hard, facing her parents.”
“Yeah,” Claire agreed. “She seemed upset.” Of course she was upset. What a stupid thing to say. “I think she’d like it if you were there for her.”
“I will be.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “What about you? You okay to stay here?”
Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. “Could you drop me off somewhere?”
“Where?”
“I need to see Myrnin. Sorry, but I promised.”
Not that visiting her crazy vampire mentor was going to be any more pleasant than going to the hospital.
Chapter 5
Someone had done a makeover on Myrnin’s cell, and it wasn’t Claire; she’d thought about it, but she hadn’t been sure about what Amelie would allow him to have.
So when she stepped through the doorway from the laboratory to the cells, where the sickest and most disturbed vampires of Morganville were warehoused, she was surprised to see the glow of electric light coming from the end . . . from Myrnin’s cell. As she got closer, she noted other things. Music. Something classical was playing softly, from a stereo set up outside the bars. There was a television, as well, currently turned off.
Myrnin’s cell, which had been as bare as a monk’s in the beginning, was floored with a plush, expensive-looking Turkish rug. His narrow cot had been replaced with a much more comfortable bed. There were books stacked waist-high in the corners of the cell.
Myrnin was lying on the bed, hands folded across his stomach. He looked young—as young as Michael, really—but there was something indefinably old about him, too. Long, curling black hair, a sense of style far out-of-date. He was dressed in a blue silk dressing gown with dragons on it—neat and clean.
Someone had been here before her to take care of him. She felt guilty.
His eyes didn’t open, but he said, “Hello, Claire.”
“Hi.” She hung back, watching him. He seemed calm enough, but Myrnin wasn’t all that predictable. “How are you?”
“Bored,” he said, and laughed. “Bored, bored, bored. I had no idea a cell could be such a prison.”
His eyes opened, and his pupils were huge. There was a fey look in his eyes that made the skin along her backbone shiver and tighten.
“Did you bring me anything to eat?” he asked. “Someone juicy?”
He was definitely not right. She hated it when he got this way—cruel and lazy, willing to say or do anything. It was as if the Myrnin she liked had just . . . disappeared, leaving behind nothing but the dark shell.
Myrnin slithered off his bed, boneless and silent as a reptile. He took hold of the bars in his white, strong fingers and fixed his black-hole eyes on her face.
“Sweet, sweet Claire,” he murmured. “So brave, to come here. Come on, Claire. Come closer. You’ll have to if you want to help.”