Eve already had her keys in her hand, and she was jingling them impatiently. "I'll do my best," Eve said. "Hey. This came special delivery for you." She tossed Claire a package with her name neatly lettered on it. Same handwriting, Claire thought, as the package that had held her bracelet.
This one held a sleek new cell phone, complete with MP3 player and a tiny little flip-open keypad for texting. It was on, and it was fully charged.
The note said, simply, for safety. The signature, of course, was Amelie's. Eve saw it, and raised her eyebrows. Claire quickly crumpled it up.
"Do I even want to know what that is?" Shane asked.
"Probably not," Eve said. "Claire, little girls who take candy from strangers in Morganville get hurt. Or worse."
"She's not a stranger," Claire said. "And I really need a phone."
###
The classes were nothing like Claire had experienced before. It was as if she'd finally come to school ... from the first moment of the first class, the professors seemed bright, engaged, they seemed to see her. Even better, they challenged her. She fumbled her way nervously through Advanced Biochem, made notes of the books she needed, and did the same in Philosophy. There was a lot of talking in Philosophy, and she didn't understand half of it, but it sounded a lot more interesting than the droning voices of her core class instructors.
She felt exhilarated by the time her late lunch break rolled around ... she felt, in fact, alive. She was happy as she hunted for used copies of the textbooks she needed, and even happier when she discovered that, mysteriously, she had a scholarship account set up to cover the costs. It even came with its own cash card.
She bought a new long-sleeve tee shirt, too. And some disposable razors. And some shampoo.
Scary, how good it felt having money in her pocket.
By the time three p.m. rolled around, she was starting to wonder if she was expected to head out for Myrnin's house on her own, but she decided to wait. Nobody had told her of a change of plan, so she headed over to the U.C. to get in some study time while she waited. The big main study room was packed, and somebody was playing guitar in the corner of the room — quite a big crowd over there, clapping between songs. Whoever it was played well — something complicated and classical, then a pop song right after. Claire was spreading out her books on the table when she heard a song that sounded familiar, and stood up on her chair to get a better look over the heads of the people gathered in the corner.
As she'd suspected, it was Michael. He was sitting down to play, but she could see his head and shoulders. He looked up and met her eyes, nodded, then went back to focus on the music. Claire jumped down, wiped her dusty footprints off of the wooden chair, and sat. Her brain was racing. Michael was here. Why? Was it just a coincidence? Or was it something else?
She sat down and tried to concentrate on the properties of low frequency wave modes in magnetized plasma, which was frankly pretty cool. The physics of stars. She couldn't wait for the lab demonstrations ... the reading was slow going, but interesting. It linked to another thing about plasma physics that had caught her attention: confinement and transport. It might have been coincidence, but somehow she felt like there was something there she ought to understand. Something that related to what Myrnin had been telling her about Recomposition, which was a key element in Alchemy. Was it possible there really was a link between the two?
Plasma is charged particles. It can be controlled and influenced by shaped magnetic fields. Plasma was the raw state between matter and energy ... between one form and another.
Reconstitution.
It hit her, suddenly, what Myrnin had discovered. The doorways. They were shaped magnetic fields, holding a tiny, pliable field of plasma held in a steady state. But how did he make them into portable wormholes? Because that was what they had to be, to bend space like that ... and the plasma couldn't be regular plasma, could it? Low-heat plasma? Was that even possible?
Claire was so absorbed that she didn't even hear the chair scrape back across from her, didn't know someone had sat down, until a hand grabbed the book propped in front of her and pushed it down.
"Hey, Claire," said Jason, Eve's nutty brother. He looked weaselly and pale — not Goth-pale, sick-pale. Anemic. There were crusty sores on his neck, and his eyes were wide and red-veined, and he looked high. Really, crazy high. He also hadn't had a bath or been near a Laundromat in a few days or weeks; he smelled filthy and rotten. Ugh. "How you doing?"
She couldn't quite think what the right move would be. Scream? She closed the book and held on to it — it was pretty heavy, and would make a decent blunt object — and darted a look around. The U.C. was filled with people. Granted, Michael's playing was the center of attention at the moment, but there were plenty of others walking around, talking, studying. From where she sat, Claire could see Eve at the coffee bar, smiling and pulling espresso shots.
It was like Jason was invisible or something. Nobody was paying him the slightest bit of attention.
"Hi," she said. "What do you want?"
"World peace," he said. "You're pretty."
You're really not. She didn't, and couldn't, say it. She just waited. I'm perfectly safe here. There are a lot of people, Michael's right over there, and Eve ...
"Did you hear me?" Jason asked. "I said, you're pretty."
"Thank you." Her mouth felt dry. She was scared, and she couldn't even think why, really, except what Eve had told her about Jason. He did look dangerous. Those scabs on his throat — had he been bitten? "I have to go."
"I'll walk you to class," Jason said. Somehow, he made that sound filthy, like some porn movie come-on. "I always wanted to carry some hot college girl's books."
"No," she said. "I can't. I mean — I'm not going to class. But I have to go." And why couldn't she just tell him to leave her alone? Why?
Jason blew her a kiss. "Go on. But don't blame me when the next dead girl shows up in the trash because you wouldn't do me a simple favor."
She was in the act of standing up when he said it, and she just ... stopped. Stopped moving, and stared. "What?" she asked, stupidly. Her brain, which had been moving at light speed while skipping from one physics problem to the next, felt sluggish now. "What did you say?"
"Not that I did anything. But if I had, I'd be planning another one. Unless somebody talked to me and convinced me to stop, for instance. Or I made a deal."
Claire felt cold. Worse, she felt alone. Jason wasn't doing anything — he was just sitting there, talking. But she felt violated, and horribly exposed. Michael's right over there. You can hear him playing. He's right there. You're safe.
"All right," she said, and swallowed a mouthful of what felt like dust and tacks. She sank slowly back into her chair. "I'm listening."
Jason leaned forward, rested his arms on the table, and lowered his voice. "See, it's like this, Claire. I want my big sister to understand what she did to me when she sent me to that place. You know what a jail is like in Morganville? It's like some third-world country threw it out for prisoner abuse. Eve put me there. And she didn't even try to save me."
Claire's fingers felt numb, she was holding her book so tightly. She forced herself to relax. "I'm sorry," she said. "That must have been bad."
"Bad? Bitch, are you even listening?" He kept on staring at her, and it was like he was dead or something, he never blinked. "I was supposed to be his, you know. Brandon's. He was going to make me a vampire someday, but now he's dead, and I'm screwed. Now I'm just waiting around for somebody to put me back in jail, and guess what, Claire? I'm not going. Not without a little fun first."
He grabbed her wrist, and she opened her mouth to scream ...