Oliver took in the outfit, and raised a brow. “You look like you escaped from a Victorian brothel,” he said. “One that . . . specialized.”
In answer, Myrnin skinned up the sleeves of the coat. The wound in his back might have healed—or might be healing, anyway—but the burns on his wrists and hands were still livid red, with an unhealthy silver tint to them. “Not the sort of brothel I’d normally frequent, by choice,” he said, “though of course you might be more adventurous, Oliver.” Their gazes locked, and Claire resisted the urge to take a step back. She thought, just for a second, that they were going to bare fangs at each other . . . and then Myrnin smiled. “I suppose I should say thank you.”
“It would be customary,” Oliver agreed.
Myrnin turned to Claire. “Thank you.”
Somehow, she guessed that wasn’t what Oliver had expected; she certainly hadn’t. It was the kind of snub that got most people hurt in Morganville, but then again, she guessed Myrnin wasn’t most people, even to Oliver.
Oliver didn’t react. If there was a small red glow in the depths of his eyes, it could have been a reflection from the lights.
“Um—for what?” Claire asked.
“I remember what you did.” Myrnin shrugged. “It was the right choice at the moment. I couldn’t control myself. The pain . . . the pain was extremely difficult to contain.”
She cast a nervous glance at his wrists. “How is it now?”
“Tolerable.” His tone dismissed any further discussion. “We need to get to a portal and locate Amelie. The closest is at the university. We will need a car, I suppose, and a driver. Some sturdy escorts wouldn’t go amiss.” Myrnin sounded casual, but utterly certain that his slightest wish would be obeyed, and again, she felt that flare of tension between him and Oliver.
“Perhaps you’ve missed the announcement,” Oliver said. “You’re no longer a king, or a prince, or whatever you were before you disappeared into your filthy hole. You’re Amelie’s exotic pet alchemist, and you don’t give me orders. Not in my town.”
“Your town,” Myrnin repeated, staring at him intently. His face had set into pleasant, rigid lines, but those eyes—not pleasant at all. Claire moved herself prudently out of the way. “What a surprise! I thought it was the Founder’s town.”
Oliver looked around. “Oddly, she seems unavailable, and that makes it my town, little man. So go and sit down. You’re not going anywhere. If she’s in trouble—which I do not yet believe—and if there’s rescuing to be done, we will consider all the risks.”
“And the benefits of not acting at all?” Myrnin asked. His voice was wound as tight as a clock spring. “Tell me, Old Ironsides, how you plan to win this campaign. I do hope you don’t plan to reenact Drogheda.”
Claire had no idea what that meant, but it meant something to Oliver, something bitter and deep, and his whole face twisted for a moment.
“We’re not fighting the Irish campaigns, and whatever errors I made once, I’ll not be making them again,” Oliver said. “And I don’t need advice from a blue-faced hedge witch.”
“There’s the old Puritan spirit!”
Eve slapped the bar hard. “Hey! Whatever musty old prejudices the two of you have rattling around in your heads, stop. We’re here, twenty-first century, USA, and we’ve got problems that don’t include your ancient history!”
Myrnin blinked, looked at Eve, and smiled. It was his seductive smile, and it came with a lowering of his thick eyelashes. “Sweet lady,” he said, “could you get me one of those delicious drinks you prepared for my friend, here?” He gracefully indicated Oliver, who remembered the cup of blood still sitting in front of him, and angrily choked it down. “Perhaps warm the bag a bit in hot water first? It’s a bit disgusting, cold.”
“Yeah, sure,” Eve sighed. “Want a shot of espresso with that?”
Myrnin seemed to be honestly considering it. Claire urgently shook her head no. The last thing she—any of them—needed just now was Myrnin on caffeine.
As Eve walked away to prepare Myrnin’s drink, Oliver shook himself out of his anger with a physical twitch, took a deep breath, and said, “It’s less than two hours to dawn. Even if something has happened to Amelie—which again, I dispute—it’s too risky to launch a search just now. If Bishop has Amelie, he’ll have her some place that’ll hold against an assault in any case. Two hours isn’t enough time, and I won’t risk our people in the dawn.”
Myrnin flicked a glance toward Claire. “Some of those here aren’t affected by the dawn.”
“Some of them are also highly vulnerable,” Oliver said. “I wouldn’t send a human out after Bishop. I wouldn’t send a human army out after Bishop, unless you’re planning to deduce his location from the corpses he leaves behind.”
For a horrified second, Myrnin actually mulled that over, and then he shook his head. “He’d hide the bodies,” he said regretfully. “A useful suggestion, though.”
Claire couldn’t tell if he was mocking Oliver, or if he really meant it. Oliver couldn’t tell, either, from the long, considering look he gave him.
Oliver turned his attention to her. “Tell me everything.”
6
In an hour, the blush of dawn was already on the horizon, bringing an eerie blue glow to the night world. Somewhere out there, vampires all over town would be getting ready for it, finding secure places to stay the day—whatever side they were fighting on.
The ones in Common Grounds seemed content to stay on, which made sense; it was kind of a secured location anyway, from what Oliver and Amelie had said before—one of the key places in town to hold if they intended to keep control of Morganville.
But Claire wasn’t entirely happy with the way some of those vampires—strangers, mostly, though all from Morganville, according to Eve—seemed to be whispering in the corners. “How do we know they’re on our side?” she asked Eve, in a whisper she hoped would escape vampire notice.
No such luck. “You don’t,” Oliver said, from several feet away. “Nor is that your concern, but I will reassure you in any case. They are all loyal to me, and through me, to Amelie. If any of them ‘turn coats,’ you may be assured that they’ll regret it.” He said it in a normal tone of voice, to carry to all parts of the room.
The vampires stopped whispering.
“All right,” Oliver said to Claire and Eve. The light of dawn was creeping up like a warning outside the windows. “You understand what I want you to do?”
Eve nodded and gave him a sloppy, insolent kind of salute. “Sir, yes sir, General sir!”
“Eve.” His patience, what little there was, was worn to the bone. “Repeat my instructions.”
Eve didn’t like taking orders under the best of circumstances, which these weren’t. Claire quickly said, “We take these walkie-talkies to each of the Founder Houses, to the university, and to anybody else on the list. We tell them all strategic orders come through these, not through cell phone or police band.”
“Be sure to give them the code,” he said. Each one of the tiny little radios had a keypad, like a cell phone, but the difference was that you had to enter the code into it to access the emergency communication channel he’d established. Pretty high tech, but then, Oliver didn’t really seem the type to lag much behind on the latest cool stuff. “All right. I’m sending Hannah with you as your escort. I’d send one of my own, but—”
“Dawn, yeah, I know,” Eve said. She offered a high five to Hannah, who took it. “Damn, girl, love the Rambo look.”
“Rambo was a Green Beret,” Hannah said. “Please. We eat those army boys for breakfast.”
Which was maybe not such a comfortable thing to say in a room full of maybe-hungry vampires. Claire cleared her throat. “We should—”