The van was still going, taking her farther and farther away from safety.
“You,” Monica said, leaning over her, “really pissed me off, fish. I don’t forget things like that. Neither does my boyfriend.”
“Brandon?” Claire wheezed. “Jeez, at least get one with a pulse!”
For that, she got punched again, and this time it hurt bad enough she started to cry, furious and helpless. Gina put a hand around her neck and began to squeeze. Not enough to kill her, just enough to hurt and make it even harder to gasp for precious little air.
They could keep this up for hours if they wanted. But Claire thought they probably had a lot more in store.
Sure enough, Monica reached in her pocket and brought out a lighter, one of those butane ones with a long, bright flame. She brought it close to Claire’s face. “We’re going to have a barbecue,” she said. “Roast freak. If you live, you’re going to be hideous. But you shouldn’t worry about that, because you probably won’t live, anyway.”
Claire screamed with whatever she had, which wasn’t much; it startled Monica, and it positively scared Jennifer, who was driving; she twisted to look back, turning the wheel while she did.
Mistake.
The van careened to the right, and smashed into something solid. Claire flew through the air, with Gina riding her like a magic carpet, crashed into the padded back of the seats, and Monica and Gina rolled in confusion as the van skidded to a stop.
Claire shook off her panic and lunged for the van door. She bailed out. The van had plowed into the rear of another car, parked along the side, and car alarms were going off. She felt dizzy and almost fell, then heard Monica yelling furiously behind her. That pulled her together, fast. She began running.
This part of downtown was mostly deserted—shops closed, only a few pedestrians on the street.
None of them would look at her at all.
“Help!” she yelled, and waved her arms. “Help me! Please—”
They all just kept walking, as if she were invisible. She sobbed for a second in horror, and then pelted around the corner and skidded to a stop.
A church! She hadn’t seen a single one the entire time she’d been in Morganville, and there one was. It wasn’t a big one—a modest white building, with a small-sized steeple. No cross on it, but it was unmistakably a church.
She darted across the street, up the steps, and hit the doors at a run.
And bounced off.
They were locked.
“No!” she yelled, and rattled the doors. “No, come on, please!”
The sign on the door said that the church was open from sundown to midnight. What the hell…?
She didn’t dare think too much. She jumped off the steps and ran around the side, then the back. Next to the Dumpster there was a back door with a glass window in it. It was locked, too. She searched around and found a broken piece of wood, and swung it like a baseball bat.
Crash!
She scraped her arm reaching through the broken window for the lock, but she made it, and slammed the door behind her. She locked it, frantically looked around, and found a piece of black poster board to prop against the blank space where the window had been. Hopefully, it would pass a quick glance.
She backed away, sweating, aching now from the crash and the run, and turned to go into the chapel. It was unmistakably a chapel, with abstract stained-glass windows and long rows of gleaming wood pews, but there was no cross, no crucifix, no symbol of any kind. The ultimate Unitarian church, she guessed.
At least it was empty.
Claire sank down on a pew midway back through the sanctuary and then stretched full length on the red velvet padding. Her heart was beating fast, so fast, and she was still so very scared.
Nobody knew where she was. And if she tried to leave, Monica might…
They were going to burn me alive.
She shivered and wiped tears from her cheeks and tried to think, think of something she could do to get out of this. Maybe there was a phone. She could call Eve or Shane? Both of them, she decided. Eve for the car, Shane for the bodyguard duty. Poor Shane. He was right—she really ought to stop calling him every time she needed brute strength. Didn’t seem fair, somehow.
Claire froze, unable to breathe, as she heard a soft noise in the chapel. Like fabric moving. A bare whisper, maybe just a curtain moving in the air-conditioning breeze, right? Or…
“Hello,” said the very pale woman leaning over the pew and looking down on her. “You would be Claire, I believe.”
Once the paralyzing terror receded just a little, Claire finally placed her. She knew she’d seen her; it had been just a split-second glance, but this was the woman—the vampire—who’d been brought to Common Grounds in a limousine after closing time.
What was she doing in a church?
Claire slowly sat up, unable to take her eyes off of the woman, who was smiling slightly. Light filtered in softly from the stained-glass windows and gave her a golden glow.
“I followed you,” the woman said. “Although in truth, I do like this church quite a bit. Very peaceful, don’t you think? A sacred place. And one that grants those within it a certain…immunity from danger.”
Claire licked her lips and tasted salt from sweat and tears. “You mean you won’t kill me here.”
The smile stayed intact. If anything, it widened a little. “I mean exactly that, my dear. The same goes for my guards, of course. I assure you, they’re present. I am never left alone. It is part of the curse of the position I hold.” She smiled and tilted her head an elegant fraction. Everything about her was elegant, from the shining golden crown of her hair to the clothes she was wearing. Claire wasn’t much for noticing fashion, unless it was worn by girls kicking the crap out of her, but this outfit looked like something out of old formal photographs from her mother’s time. Or grandmother’s.
“My name is Amelie,” the woman continued. “You are, in a sense, already acquainted with me, although you might not be aware of it. Please, child, don’t look so frightened. I absolutely assure you that no harm will come to you with me. I always give very clear warning before I do anything violent.”
Claire had no idea how to look any less frightened, but she clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. Amelie sighed.
“You are very new to our town,” she said, “but I have rarely seen anyone disturb quite so many hornets in such a short time. First Monica, then Brandon, and then I hear you turn to my dear Oliver for advice…and now I see you running for your life through my streets…. Well, I find you interesting. I find myself wondering about you, Claire. About who you are. Why you are.”
“I’m—nobody,” Claire said. “And I’m leaving town. My parents are taking me out of school.” It suddenly seemed like a really good idea. Not so much running away as retreating.
“Are they? Well, we’ll see.” Amelie made a shrug seem like a foreign gesture. “Do you know who I am?”
“Somebody important.”
“Yes. Someone very important.” Amelie’s eyes were steady in the dim light, of no real color—gray, maybe? Or blue? It wasn’t color that made them powerful. “I am the oldest vampire in the world, my dear. In a certain sense, I am the only vampire who matters.” She said it without any particular sense of pride. “Although others may have differing opinions, of course. But they would be sadly, and fatally, wrong.”
“I–I don’t understand.”
“No, I do not expect you to.” Amelie leaned forward and put lean, elegant, white hands on the wooden pew in front of her, then rested her pointed chin on top of them. “Somehow you have become mixed up in our search for the book. I believe you know the one I mean.”
“I—uh—yes.” No way was she going to confess what she had sitting at home. She’d made that mistake once already. “I mean, I know about all the—”