Shane looked up. “How?” His voice was hollow and empty. “A plaque?”
“How would you prefer he be honored?” Amelie asked. “If it’s within my power, I’ll grant it to you.”
Shane didn’t hesitate, not even for a second. It was, Claire thought, like he’d already figured out what he was going to say. “Let Kyle out of the cage in Founder’s Square,” he said. “Put him on probation. But don’t kill him.”
Silence fell, long and heavy, and for a few dreadful seconds Claire thought that Amelie was angry. But she was just . . . pensive. She finally said, “All right.”
Oliver made a frustrated, furious noise in the back of his throat, picked up a glass beaker that had somehow survived all the destruction, and smashed it to smithereens against the far wall. “Enough!” he barked. “Will you continue to bend to every breather who—”
Amelie grabbed him by the arm, pulled him to face her, and said, “Stop.” Her tone was chilly, and quiet, and deadly serious. “We will stoptearing at each other, Oliver. It does neither of us good. It solves nothing. It breeds mistrust and paranoia and ill feelings, and we are not so numerous in this town that we can afford our ambitions. I told you we will rule as equals, but mark me: unless we change, unless we learn how to risk our safety and compromise, the humans willrise up. They willdestroy us. I don’t grant this because the boy is innocent. I grant it because mercy is more to our cause than justice.”
Oliver stared at her without speaking or moving. There was something odd about his expression, something . . . vulnerable? Claire wasn’t sure. She’d never really seen anything like it. “And what if I decide I want to rule alone after all?”
“I won’t fight you for it,” she said. “But your arrogance would destroy Morganville, and all of us.”
“I’ve ruled men before,” he said.
“Not to any lasting effect. You tried to change those you ruled. You couldn’t.” Amelie let go of him, and put her hand on his chest, lightly. “Your ideals didn’t survive you. Mine must, or we will all perish together. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“No,” Oliver said, oddly quiet. “No, that’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
He hesitated, and then he inclined his head. “I’ll let you know,” he said. “But for now . . . for now, a truce.”
Amelie let another second tick away, and then stepped away from him. “I’ll dispatch police to monitor the roads out of town. We’ll have to hope that we can maintain order with more conventional means until—”
“Until what?” Myrnin asked bitterly. “Until I create another miracle? Another brilliant feat that turns fatal because you won’t allow me to build it as it mustbe built? No. No, I’ll create nothing else, Amelie. This cannot be done properly unless you stop telling me how to do my job!”
“Ah,” Oliver said. “I think I have thought of what it is I want. To never have to listen to him complain again.”
Amelie raised her pale eyebrows, staring at Myrnin, and then turned to Claire.
“It’s no longer Myrnin’s job,” she said. “And I suppose you’d best begin thinking how you’ll solve our problems, Claire.”
“What?”
“It was going to be your responsibility in a few years. This merely moves up our plans, I believe. Myrnin can assist you, but I will expect results within the week.”
Claire realized, with a sinking sensation, that she’d just become . . . the new Myrnin? How was that even possible?
Things could not possibly be worse than that—until she failed. She supposed then things would take a turn for the extra bad.
At least she had a week.
Myrnin shook his head. “Amelie. Don’t be ridiculous. The girl isn’t—”
“Enough,” Amelie said, and the iron snap of command in her voice made him fall silent. “You’ve done enough. People are dead, Myrnin.”
Claire couldn’t even say she was wrong. Not about that.
Shane cleared his throat. “Uh, about Kyle—”
Amelie turned to Oliver. “Make the call,” she said. “Unless you’re planning to take my place.”
He let a few seconds go by, then pulled out his cell phone and ordered the prisoner in Founder’s Square released.
Well, Claire thought. At least somebodywould be happy.
She didn’t see how it was going to be her.
Back home that evening, the four of them sat down to dinner. It was a quiet kind of thing, a little awkward, as if none of them knew where to start. They were all bruised, cut, and exhausted, for one thing; for another, nobody really wanted to say what they were all thinking. Or to bring up Shane’s dad at all.
Eve, of course, decided to go at it from the opposite direction completely. “I can’t believe I went home to my parents’,” she said, a little too brightly. “Ugh. Revolting. My mom made my room into a hoarder’s paradise, you know, full of boxes of crap. She ought to be in some freaky reality show. The weirdest part about it? I didn’t really expect anything else, somehow. I just figured she’d pitched out my stuff and was pretending I’d never even been there. I pretended that often enough.” Eve played with her plate of spaghetti, but she wasn’t really eating it. “I kept asking her where my dad was. She kept saying he was on his way home.” Eve’s father, Claire remembered, had been dead a year. No wonder she was playing with her food instead of eating. Eve swallowed a gulp of water. “I wonder if maybe I should call her, see if she’s okay.”
“We can go over there if you want,” Michael offered. “I know you don’t like going by yourself.”
Eve gave him a grateful little smile. “You’re awesome,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
Shane wasn’t talking at all. He was eating, though; he’d already cleaned one plate of spaghetti and was working on his second one. She wanted to talk to him, but she knew he wouldn’t want her bringing it up, not in front of the others. Shane didn’t like to be vulnerable, not even with his friends. He knew they’d understand, but that wasn’t the point. He just needed to be . . . stronger than everybody else.
Eve said, “At least you’ve got an appetite, Shane.”
That fell into an awkward silence, because Shane didn’t come back at her at all. He just kept eating. Claire twirled some noodles on her fork and said, “My mom called. Dad’s getting surgery this weekend in Dallas. They said he needed some kind of valve transplant, but it all looks like it’s going to be okay, really okay. I’m going to ask for permission to go up on Friday.”
“You don’t have to ask permission,” Shane said then. “You can just go. The machine’s dead. Just go.” His voice sounded flat, and wrong.
They all looked at one another, the rest of them. “There’ll be roadblocks,” Michael finally said. “It’s not that easy.”
“Yeah, it never is, is it?” Shane threw down his fork, pushed back from the table, and took his stuff into the kitchen. Claire went after him, but as soon as she came in the door, he dumped his food in the trash and his plate in the sink and turned to go.
“Shane—”
He held up both hands, pushing her off without touching her. “Give me some room, okay? I need room.” He left. She stood there, looking at his plate sitting in the sink, and felt her heart breaking again. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? What had she done? It hurt; it really did. She felt like . . . like she was losing him again.
She was tired of losing him.
Claire walked back out to the table. Shane had already disappeared upstairs, and his door shut with a slam. Michael and Eve were looking down at their plates.
“Awkward,” Eve finally said, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Michael shook his head. “He lost his dad. It hurts.”
“I know,” Eve said sharply. “Remember? Not like I don’t have the T-shirt for that one.”