“Vampires,” Amelie supplied helpfully. “It is not a secret, my dear.”
“Vampires looking for it.”
“And you just happened to stumble into the operation at the library, in which we were combing through volumes to find it?”
Claire blinked. “Does it belong to you?”
“In a way. Let’s say that it belongs to me as much as it belongs to anyone alive today. If I am, strictly speaking, living. The old word was undead, you know, but aren’t all living things undead? I dislike imprecision. I think we may have that in common, young lady.” Amelie tilted her head a little to the side. Claire was reminded, with a chill, of a nature film. A praying mantis studying its food-to-be. “Vampire is such an old word. I believe I shall commission the university to find another term, a more—what is the new saying? — user-friendly term for what we are.”
“I—what do you want?” Claire blurted. And then, ridiculously, “…sorry.” Because she knew it sounded rude, and however scary this vampire, or whatever, might be, she hadn’t been rude.
“That’s quite all right. You’re under a great deal of stress. I shall forgive your breach of manners. What I want is just the truth, child. I want to know what you have found out about the book.”
“I—um, nothing.”
There was a long silence. In it, Claire heard distant noises—somebody tugging on the front door of the church.
“That’s unfortunate,” Amelie said quietly. “I had hoped I would be able to help you. It appears that I cannot.”
“Um—that’s it? That’s all?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Amelie sat back again, hands folded in her lap. “You may go the way you came. I wish you luck, my dear. You are going to need it. Unfortunately, mortal life is very fragile, and very short. Yours could be shorter than usual.”
“But—”
“I can’t help you if you have nothing to offer me. There are rules to life in Morganville. I can’t simply adopt strays because they seem winsome. Farewell, little Claire. Godspeed.”
Claire had no idea what winsome meant, but she got the message. Whatever door had been opened—whether it led to good things or bad—had slammed shut on her now. She stood up, wondering what to say, and decided that saying nothing might be the very best thing…
…and she heard the back door crash open.
“Oh, crap,” she whispered. Amelie looked at her in reproach. “Sorry.”
“We are in a house of worship,” she said severely. “Really, did no one teach your generation any sort of manners?”
Claire ducked behind a pew. She heard fast footsteps, and then Monica’s voice. “Ma’am! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were—”
“But I am,” Amelie said coolly. “Morrell, aren’t you? I can never keep any of you straight.”
“Monica.”
“How charming.” Amelie’s voice changed from cool to ice-cold. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Miss Morrell. You do not belong here. My seal is on this place. You know the rules.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think—”
“Often the case, I suspect. Go.”
“But—there’s this girl—did she—?”
Amelie’s voice turned to a hiss like sleet on a frozen window. “Are you questioning me?”
“No! No, so sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I’m sorry….” Monica’s voice was fading. She was backing away, down the hall. Claire stayed where she was, trembling.
She almost screamed when Amelie’s pale form rose up over the edge of the pew again and gazed down at her. She hadn’t heard her move. Not at all.
“I suggest you go straight home, little Claire,” Amelie said. “I would take you there, but that would imply more than I think I can afford just now. Run, run home. Hurry, now. And—if you have lied to me about the book, remember that many people might want such a valuable thing, and for many reasons. Be sure of why they want it before you give it over.”
Claire slowly took her hands away from her head and slid onto the seat of the pew, facing the vampire. She was still scared, but Amelie didn’t seem…well…evil exactly. Just cold. Ice-cold.
And old.
“What is it?” Claire asked. “The book?”
Amelie’s smile was as faded as old silk. “Life,” she said. “And death. I can tell you no more. It wouldn’t be prudent.” The smile vanished, leaving behind only the chill. “I believe you really should go now.”
Claire bolted up and hurried away, checking over her shoulder every other step. She saw other vampires coming out—she hadn’t spotted them, not a one of them. One of them was John, from the library. He grinned at her, not in a friendly way. One of his eyes was milky white.
She ran.
Wherever Monica and her friends had gone, it wasn’t the way Claire ran—and run she did, the whole way to Lot Street. Her lungs were burning by the time she turned the corner, and she was nearly in tears with gratitude at the sight of the big old house.
And Shane, sitting on the front steps.
He stood up, not saying a word, and she threw herself at him; he caught her and held her close for a few seconds, then pushed her back for a survey of damage.
“I know,” she said. “You told me not to go. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, looking grim. “Inside.”
Once she was in, with the door safely locked, she babbled out the whole story. Monica, the van, the lighter, the church, the vampire. He didn’t ask any questions. In fact, he didn’t even blink. She ran out of words, and he just looked at her, expressionless.
“You,” he finally said, “had better like the inside of your room, because I’m locking you in there, and I’m not letting you out until your parents come to load you in the car.”
“Shane—”
“I mean it. No more bullshit, Claire. You’re staying alive no matter what I have to do.” He sounded flatly furious. “Now. You need to tell me about Michael.”
“What?”
“I mean it, Claire. Tell me, right now. Because I can’t find him anywhere, and you know what? I can never find him during the day—damn! Did you feel that?” She did. A cold spot, sweeping across her skin. Michael, trying to tell her something. Probably Hell no, don’t tell him. “We can’t get through this if we’re not straight with each other.” Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Is he—you know—one of them? ’Cause I need to know that.”
“No,” she said. “No, he’s not.”
Shane closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, hands to both sides of his head. “God, thank you. I was going nuts. I thought—I mean, it’s one thing to be a night person, but Michael—I was—I thought—”
“Wait,” Claire said, and took a deep breath. Cold settled over her again—Michael, trying to stop her. She ignored it. “Quit it, Michael. He needs to know.”
Shane took his hands away from his head and looked around, then frowned at her. “Michael’s not here. I checked. I searched the damn place from top to bottom.”
“Yes, he is. Cold spot.” She held out her hand and waved it through the refrigerated air. “I figure he’s standing…right here.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be back in about two hours, when the sun goes down. You can see him then.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Michael. He’s a ghost.”
“Oh, come on! Bullshit! The dude sits here and eats dinner with us!”
She shrugged, threw up her hands, and walked away. “You wanted to know. Fine. Now you know. And by the way? I’m fine.”
“What do you mean, he’s a ghost?” Shane caught up with her, came around her, and blocked her path. “Oh, come on. Ghost? He’s as real as I am!”
“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Ask him. Better yet, watch him at dawn. And then tell me what he is, because ghost is about all I know to call him. The thing is, he can’t leave the house, Shane. He can’t help us. He’s stuck here, and during the day, he can’t even talk to us. He just—drifts.” She batted away the cold air again. “Stop it, Michael. I know you’re pissed. But he needs to know.”