Claire dropped her backpack, crossed to him, and got in his face. “Stop,” she hissed. “We don’t have time for this, and I don’t need you in jail right now, okay?”
He stared right into her eyes, for so long that she was afraid he was going to tell her to mind her own business—but then he sighed and nodded. She stepped away as he stood and held out his wrists to Richard Morrell.
“Guess you’ve got me, Officer,” he said. “Be gentle.”
“Shut up, Shane. Don’t make this harder than it is.”
Claire trailed along behind, uncertain what she ought to be doing; Richard didn’t seem interested in her at all. He used the radio clipped to his shoulder to make some kind of police call on the way down the hall, in code. She wasn’t sure she liked that. Morganville wasn’t big enough to need codes, unless it was something really nasty.
As she stopped to lock the front door behind them, a big, shiny black RV rounded the corner—so sleek it looked almost predatory. It had a red cross painted on the nose, and on the side, below its blind, dark-tinted windows, red letters spelled out MORGANVILLE BLOODMOBILE. In cursive script below that, it said, No appointment necessary.
Shane stopped moving. “No,” he said. “I’m not doing that.”
Richard used leverage to get him going again at a stumble down the steps. “It’s this or the DonationCenter. Those are your choices, you know that. I was trying to make it easier.”
Claire swallowed hard and hurried down the steps. She got in front of Shane, blocking his path, and met his eyes. He was furious, and scared, and something else, something she couldn’t really understand.
“What’s wrong?”
“People get in that damn thing and don’t come out,” he said flatly. “I’m not doing it. They strap you down, Claire. They strap you down and nobody can see inside.”
She felt a little ill herself at the mental image. Richard Morrell’s face was carefully blank. “Sir?”
He didn’t much care for her asking him; she could tell. “I can’t give you an opinion, but one way or another, he has to do this.”
“What if you drive us both to the DonationCenter instead?”
Richard thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded. He unhooked the radio from his shoulder again, muttered some quiet words, and the engine on the Bloodmobile started up with a smooth hum.
It glided away like a shark, looking for prey. All of them watched it go.
“Crap, I hate that thing,” Shane said. His voice trembled a little.
“Me, too,” said Richard, to Claire’s surprise. “Now get in the car.”
Chapter 6
The DonationCenter was still open, even though it was getting dark. As Richard pulled his police cruiser to the curb, two people Claire vaguely recognized came out, waved to each other, and set off in separate directions. “Does everybody come here?” she asked.
“Everybody who doesn’t use the Bloodmobile,” Richard answered. “Every human who’s Protected has to donate a certain number of pints per year. Donations go to their Patron first. The rest goes to whoever needs it. Vampires who don’t have anyone to donate for them.”
“Like Michael,” Claire said.
“Yeah, he’s our most recent charity project.” Richard got out and opened the back door for her and Shane. She slid out. Shane, after a hesitation long enough to make her worry, followed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared up at the glowing red cross sign above the door. The DonationCenter didn’t look exactly inviting, but it was far less terrifying than the Bloodmobile. For one thing, there were bright windows that offered a clear view of a clean, big room. Framed posters on the wall—the same kind you could find in any town, Claire thought—listed the virtues of giving blood.
“Does any of it get to other humans?” she asked as Richard held the door open for Shane. He shrugged.
“Ask your boyfriend,” he said. “They used quite a few units on him after his stabbing, as I remember. Of course it gets used for humans. It’s our town, too.”
“You’re dreaming if you really think that,” Shane said, and stepped inside. As Claire followed, she felt a definite change of atmosphere—not just the air, which was cool and dry, but something else. A feeling, barely contained, of desperation. It reminded her of the way hospital waiting areas felt—industrial, impersonal, soaked with large and small fears. But it was still clean, well lit, and full of comfortable chairs.
Nothing at all scary about the place. Not even the motherly-looking older lady sitting behind the wooden desk at the front, who gave them all the same bright, welcoming smile.
“Well, Officer Morrell, it’s nice to see you!”
He nodded to the lady. “Rose. Got a truant for you here.”
“So I see. Shane Collins, isn’t it? Oh, dear, I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. Tragedy has come to your door too often.” She was still smiling, but it was muted. Respectful. “Can I put you down for two pints today? To make up some of what you’re behind?”
Shane nodded. His jaw was clenched, his eyes brilliant and narrowed. He was fighting for control, Claire thought. She slipped her fingers in his where they were handcuffed behind his back.
“You remember me, don’t you?” Rose continued. “I knew your mother. We used to play bridge together.”
“I remember,” Shane choked out. Nothing else. Richard raised his eyebrows, got a mirrored look from Rose, and tugged on Shane’s elbow to lead him away to one of the empty chairs. They were all empty, Claire noticed. She’d seen a couple of people leaving the building, but nobody coming inside.
One thing about the DonationCenter, they were better than most medical places about keeping their magazines up-to-date. Claire found a brand-new edition of Seventeen and began reading. Shane sat stiffly, in silence, and watched the single wooden door at the end of the room. Richard Morrell chatted with Rose at the desk, looking relaxed and friendly. Claire wondered if he came here to donate his blood, or if he used the Bloodmobile. She supposed that whatever he chose, the vampires wouldn’t be crazy enough to hurt him—son of the mayor, respected police officer. No, Richard Morrell was probably safer than just about anybody in Morganville, Protected or not.
Easy for him to be relaxed.
The door at the end of the room opened, and a nurse stepped through it. She was dressed in bright floral surgical scrubs, complete to the cap over her hair, and like Rose, she had a nice, unthreatening smile. “Shane Collins?”
Shane took in a deep breath and struggled up out of his chair. Richard turned him around and unfastened the handcuffs. “Good behavior, Shane,” he said. “Trust me, you don’t want to start trouble here.”
Shane nodded stiffly. He glanced at Claire, then fixed his attention on the nurse who was waiting. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate calm.
“Can I go with him?” Claire asked, and Richard looked at her in surprise.
“Claire, they’re not going to hurt him. It’s just like blood donation anywhere else. They stick a needle in your arm and give you a squeezy ball. Orange juice and cookies at the end.”
“So I can donate?”
He looked to Rose for help.
“How old are you, child?”
“I’m not a child. I’m almost seventeen.”
“There’s no legal requirement for anyone under the age of eighteen to donate blood,” Rose said.
“But is there a law against it?”
She blinked, started to answer, and stopped herself. She pulled open a drawer and retrieved a small book that was titled Morganville Blood Donations: Regulations and Requirements. After flipping a few pages, she shrugged and looked at Richard. “I don’t think there is,” she said. “I’ve just never had anyone donate voluntarily at the DonationCenter. Oh, we take the Bloodmobile to the university from time to time, but—”
“Great,” Claire interrupted. “I’d like to donate a pint, please.”
Rose immediately became all business.
“Forms,” she said, and thumped down a clipboard and pen.