“We are so screwed,” Eve said. “What about Amelie? What’s she doing?”
That opened up a whole can of worms that wriggled unpleasantly in the pit of Claire’s stomach. She was absolutely sure that Amelie and Oliver wouldn’t want her telling anybody about what she’d seen earlier, not even—or maybe especially—Eve and Michael. She decided to hedge. “I don’t know. Oliver told me to take care of it, but . . .” Claire was forced to shrug again. “Maybe by now they’ve both got it, too.”
“Well, that would be bad. Epically bad.”
It would, Claire thought. “I should check in with them and see what they want to do. It’s weird nobody’s called me back,” she said. “Michael, could you stay and wait for Shane—”
It turned out, as the curtain whipped aside, that there was no need to wait. Shane joined them, moving slowly. The stitches were in, but he had a white bandage taped over them. Claire took his hand, and he smiled. He looked a little pale. “I’m good to go. What are we doing?”
“Taking you home,” Claire said.
“Not if you guys are going somewhere else.”
“You’re walking wounded,” Michael said. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t optional.”
“Oh, yeah? You want to try to stop me, tough guy?” Shane said, and grinned. “I know you better. You wouldn’t hit a guy who’s down.”
Eve held up a hand for a high five with him. “Give it up for Shane Collins, master manipulator!”
He smacked it, and winced a little again. “Yeah, well, you don’t grow up with my dad without knowing a few things. So where are we going?”
“To Amelie,” Claire said. “She can go with us to the lab and keep Myrnin pinned down while we pull the plug, if he’s not . . . you know, better.”
“Define betterwith that guy.”
“Not all fangs and raaaaar.”
“Oh. Okay. Quick stop at the house. I want to load up on the good stuff.”
If Shane expected an argument, he didn’t get one. Claire was thinking the same thing.
When you were going into a war zone, you didn’t go unarmed.
ELEVEN
Eve had ordered something special off the Internet, which had arrived by mail, Claire discovered. She’d gotten three of them, and Claire put hers on with a whoop of delight.
Getting two-inch silver chain chokers around the neck of a guy, especially Shane, proved to be more of a problem.
Shane held the jewelry at arm’s length, dangling it like a dead rat. “No way in hellam I caught dead or alive wearing that.”
“Oh, come on, just this once,” Eve said. “Protects your neck. As in your arteries and veins? That’s kind of crucial, right?”
“Thanks for the thought, but it doesn’t go with my shoes.”
“You’re seriously going to worry about what people think right now?”
“No, I’m worrying about people taking pictures and putting them on Facebook. That crap never dies. Kind of like you, Mikey.”
Michael, straight-faced, said, “He’s got a point, because I would definitely take pictures. So would you.”
Eve had to grin. “Yeah, I would. Okay, then. But you’d look glam. I could fix you up with silver eye shadow to match.”
“Tell you what: you can be Glammera the vampire hunter. I’ll stick with being manly and heavily armed.”
Michael snorted and picked up some wooden—i.e., mostly nonlethal—stakes, which he stuffed in his jacket. “You guys ready?”
“Guess so.” Shane gave his small crossbow another once-over, then put it in the carry bag. Eve had packed a (for her) huge purse full of stuff. The purse, of course, had a shiny yellow happy face on it—with fangs. Claire stuck with her unfashionable but useful backpack. She’d emptied out all of her books and left them stacked on the table. She had no idea when she’d actually get back to school, but it certainly wouldn’t be today.
Shane dropped the silver choker to the table, shuddered, and led the way out of the Glass House to the car. Michael locked up behind them, and Claire thought about how natural it was for them now to watch one another’s backs. There wasn’t even any discussion. Shane went first, keys to Eve’s hearse in hand; Eve had, of course, called shotgun, so she was heading straight for the passenger side. Claire was checking shadows and heading for the back of the long black coach, and Michael zipped down fast and joined her as she opened the back. He was the last one in, and smacked the roof to signal Shane as he and Claire sat down on the long bench seats in the back.
Eve had added some kind of color-changing strips along the inside of the roof. “What’s with the disco lights?” Michael said, rolling down the window between the driver’s compartment and the back.
Eve turned around, and her face brightened. “You like it? I thought it looked really cool. I saw it in a movie, you know, in a limo.”
“It’s cool,” Michael said, and smiled at her. She smiled back. “Can’t wait to lie here and watch it with you.”
Claire said, “You don’t have to wait; it’s working now. Look—Oh. Never mind.” She blushed, feeling stupid that she hadn’t gotten that one in the first second. Eve winked at her.
“Shouldn’t you be calling Amelie and getting us some kind of parking permit?” Eve asked. Claire nodded, glad to be off the hook, and made the call. It rang to voice mail, and Claire left her a message. She was just hanging up when she spotted a parked police car out of the window.
Hannah Moses was standing alongside it. Just . . . standing. Looking around.
“Wait,” Claire said, and leaned over to grab Shane’s shoulder. “Stop. She can get us in; she’s got permission to go to Founder’s Square anytime she wants.”
Shane pulled in behind Hannah’s cruiser, and Claire got out to talk to her. She moved fast, because this wasn’t a well-lit area, and everything seemed really dark tonight anyway. Even with the hearse’s headlights shining, it felt shadowed.
“Hannah!” she said. “We need some help. Can you get us in to see Amelie?”
Hannah turned to look at her, and there was something odd in her body language. She seemed tense and ready to react. She kept her hand near the gun in her holster. “Who are you?” she asked. “Name.”
“Oh, crap,” Claire said. “You’ve got it, too.”
“Name!” Hannah snapped. “Now!”
“Uh, okay, I’m Claire. Claire Danvers. You know me.”
Hannah shook her head. “This is Morganville,” she said. “I can’t be in Morganville. I was in . . . I was in Kandahar. I was just there.” She looked down at her police uniform and shook her head again. “I wasn’t wearing this. I’m not a cop. I’m a marine. This can’t be happening.”
“Hannah, you’re having a . . . a flashback, that’s all. You’re not a marine; you’re not in Afghanistan. You’re here, in Morganville. You’re the chief of police, remember?”
Hannah just looked at her as if Claire were crazy.
“Look at what you’re wearing,” Claire said. “Police uniform. Why would somebody kidnap you, bring you here, and change your clothes? What sense does that make?”
“It doesn’t,” Hannah admitted. “None of this makes any sense. I need to call in.”
“Call in where?”
“To my commanding officer.”
“Hannah, you’re not inthe marines now! You don’t havea commanding officer!”
Hannah didn’t seem to hear her this time. “They’ll think I’m AWOL. I need to tell them what happened.” Then she looked around again, and the look in her face was a little desperate. “Except I don’t know what happened.”
“I just told you! Flashback!”
“This isn’t a combat flashback!”
“No, it’s . . .” Lying, Claire figured, was now the only way to go. “You’ve been drugged. You have to believe me. You live here, in Morganville. You’re the chief of police.”
Hannah was shaking her head—not as if she didn’t believe it, but as if she didn’t wantto believe it. “I’m not going back to Morganville. No way in hellam I signing up for that.”