One or two of the former deans, Claire was just now realizing, might have been vampires, from the pallor of their skins. Or maybe they were just old white guys. Hard to say.
At the end of the hallway they found not a guard, but a secretary—just as tough as any of the armed men outside, though. She sat behind an expensive-looking antique desk that had not a speck of dust on it, and nothing else except a piece of paper centered exactly in the middle, a pen at right angles to it, and a fancy, black multiline telephone. No computer that Claire could spot—no, there it was, hidden away in a roll-out credenza to the side.
The room was lushly carpeted, so much so that Claire’s feet sank into the depth at least an inch; it was like walking on foam. Solid, dark wood paneling. Paintings and dim lights. The windows were covered with fancy velvet curtains, and there was music playing—classical, of course. Claire couldn’t imagine anybody would ever switch the station to rock. Not here.
“I’m Ms. Nance,” the woman said, and stood to offer her hand to each of them in turn; she didn’t even hesitate with Eve, who intimidated most people. She was a tall, thin, gray woman dressed in a tailored gray suit with a lighter gray blouse under the jacket. Gray hair curled into exact waves. Claire couldn’t see her shoes, but she bet they were fashionable, gray, and yet somehow sensible. “I’m the secretary to Dean Wallace. Do you have an appointment?”
Eve said, “I need to see Michael.”
“I’m sorry? I don’t think I know that person.”
Eve’s expression froze, and Claire could see the horrible dread in her eyes.
Hannah, seeing it too, said, “Let’s cut the crap, Ms. Nance. Where’s Michael Glass?”
Ms. Nance’s eyes narrowed. They were pale blue, not as pale as Amelie’s, but kind of faded, like jeans left in the sun. “Mr. Glass is in conference with the dean,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to—”
The door at the far end of her office opened, and Michael came out. Claire’s heart practically melted with relief. He’s okay. Michael’s okay.
Except that he closed the door and walked straight past them, a man on a mission.
He walked right past Eve, who stood there flat-footed, mouth open, fear dawning in her expression.
“Michael!” Claire yelped. He didn’t even pause. “We have to stop him!”
“Great,” Hannah said, and the three of them took off in pursuit.
It helped that Michael wasn’t actually running, just moving with a purpose. Claire and Eve edged by him in the hall and blocked his path.
His blue eyes were wide-open, but he just didn’t see them. He sensed an obstacle, at least, and paused.
“Michael,” Claire said. Dammit, why couldn’t I have tranquilizers? Why? “Michael, you can’t go out there. It’s already morning. You’ll die.”
“He’s not listening,” Hannah said. And she was right; he wasn’t. He tried to push between them, but Eve put a hand in the center of his chest and held him back.
“Michael? It’s me. You know me, don’t you? Please?”
He stared at her with utterly blank eyes, and then shoved her out of his way. Hard.
Hannah sent Claire a quick, commanding look. “Get help. Now. I’ll try to hold him.”
Claire hesitated, but Hannah was without any doubt better equipped to handle a potentially hostile Michael than she was. She turned and ran, past startled desk jockeys and coffee-bearing civil servants, and slid to a stop in front of one of the black-uniformed soldiers. “Richard Morrell,” she blurted. “I need him. Right now.”
The soldier didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the radio clipped to his shoulder and said, “Admin to Morrell.”
“Morrell, go.”
The soldier unclipped the radio and silently offered it to Claire. She took it—it was heavier than the walkie-talkies—and pressed the button to talk. “Richard? It’s Claire. We have a big problem. We need to stop Michael and anybody else . . .” How could she say vampire without actually saying it? “Anybody else with a sun allergy from going outside.”
“Why the hell would they be—”
“I don’t know! They just are!” The image of Officer O’Malley on fire leaped into her mind, and she caught her breath on a sob. “Help us. They’re going out in the sun.”
“Give the radio back,” he ordered. She handed it to the black-uniformed man. “I need you to go with this girl and help her. No questions.”
“Yes sir.” He clicked off the radio and looked down at Claire. “After you.”
She led the way back toward the hallway. As they reached it, there was a crash of glass, and Hannah came flying out to land flat on her back, blinking.
Michael walked over her. Eve was hauling on his arm, trying to hold him back, but he shook her off.
“We can’t let him get outside!” Claire said. She tried to grab him, but it was like grabbing a freight train. She’d forgotten how strong he was now.
“Out of the way,” the soldier said, and pulled a handgun from a holster at his side.
“No, don’t—”
The bureaucrats scattered, hiding under their desks, dropping their coffee to hug the carpet.
The soldier sighted on Michael’s chest, and fired three times in quick succession. Instead of the loud bangs Claire had been expecting, there were soft compressed-air coughs.
And three darts feathered Michael’s chest, clustered above his heart.
He still took three steps toward the soldier before collapsing in slow motion to his knees, and then onto his face.
“All clear,” the soldier said. He took hold of Michael, turned him over, and yanked out the darts. “He’ll be under for about an hour, probably no longer than that. Let’s get him to the dean’s office.”
Hannah wiped a trickle of blood from her mouth, coughed, and rolled to her feet. She and Eve helped Claire grab Michael’s shoulders and feet, and they carried him down the hallway, past paintings that were going to need some major repair and reframing, past splintered panels and broken glass, into Ms. Nance’s office.
Ms. Nance took one look at them and moved smartly to the door marked with a discreet brass plaque that said DEAN WALLACE. She rapped and opened the door for them to carry Michael through.
Dean Wallace was a woman, which was kind of a surprise to Claire. She’d been expecting a pudgy, middle-aged man; this Dean Wallace was tall, graceful, thin, and a whole lot younger than Claire would have imagined. She had straight brown hair worn long around her shoulders, and a simple black suit that was almost the negative image of Ms. Nance’s, only somehow less formal. It looked . . . lived in.
Dean Wallace’s lips parted, but she didn’t ask a question. She checked herself, then nodded at the leather couch on the far side of the room, across from her massive desk. “Right, put him there.” She had a British accent, too. Definitely not a Texas girl. “What happened?”
“Whatever it is, it’s happening all over,” Hannah said as they arranged Michael’s unconscious body on the sofa. “They’re just taking off. It’s like they don’t even know or care the sun’s up. Some kind of homing signal just gets switched on.”
Dean Wallace thought for a second, then pressed a button on her desk. “Ms. Nance? I need a bulletin to go out through the emergency communication system. All vampires on campus should be immediately restrained or tranquilized. No exceptions. This is priority one.” She frowned as she got the acknowledgment, and looked up at their little group. “Michael seemed very rational, and there was no warning this would happen. I just thought he had somewhere to go. He didn’t seem odd, at least at first.”
“How many other vampires on campus?” Hannah asked.
“Some professors of course, but they’re mostly not here at the moment, since they teach at night. No students, obviously. Apart from the ones Michael and Richard brought in, we have perhaps five in total on the grounds. More were here earlier, but they headed for shelter before sunrise, off campus.” Dean Wallace seemed calm, even in the face of all this. “You’re Claire Danvers?”