"Do I know you?" she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn't answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. "Hey, wait! Who are you?"
He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early afternoon heat, frowning, but she'd left her shoes off and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet, she'd fry like bacon.
She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house, and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn't know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn't answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.
She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately — heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.
It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who'd dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.
"Everything okay?" Michael's voice from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.
"Sure," she said. "Just mail."
"Good stuff?"
"Don't know yet, I haven't read it. Probably junk."
"Enjoy the fact that you don't have electricity, water, cable, internet and garbage to pay for," he said. "Look, I'm going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There's stuff in the fridge if you're hungry." A brief pause. "Don't open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf."
"Michael, tell me you're not putting blood in our refrigerator."
"I told you not to open it. So you'll never know."
"You suck!" Of course he did, he was a vampire. "I mean, not in a good way, either!"
"Eat something! I'm sleeping." And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.
Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, like it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.
It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.
It read, I am displeased with your progress in your advanced studies. I suggest you spend additional time learning all you can. Time is growing short. I do not care how you arrange this, but you will be expected to demonstrate at least a journeyman understanding of what you are being taught within the next two days. You cannot involve Michael. He is not to be risked.
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.
Amelie wasn't happy.
That wasn't good.
Two days. And Michael could only go with her in the evenings ...
She couldn't wait.
Claire checked in her backpack. The red crystal shaker was still inside, safely zipped into a pocket.
If she took Michael's car — no, she couldn't. She'd never be able to see through the tinting, even if she felt confident in her ability to drive it. And Detective Lowe wasn't going to give her a ride. She could try Detective Hess, but Lowe's attitude had made her gun-shy.
Still, she couldn't just go out alone.
With a sigh, she called Eddie, the taxi driver.
"What?" he snapped. "Don't I get a day off? What is it with you?"
"Eddie, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I need a favor." Claire hastily checked her wallet. "Um, it's a short trip, I'll pay you double, okay? Please?"
"Double? I don't take checks."
"I know that. Cash."
"I don't wait. I pick up, I drop off, I leave."
"Eddie! Double! Do you want it or not?"
"Keep your panties on. What's the address?"
"Michael Glass's house."
Eddie heaved a sigh so heavy it sounded like a temporary hurricane. "You again. Okay, I come. But I swear, last time. No more Saturdays, yes?"
"Yes! Yes, okay. Just this time."
Eddie hung up on her. Claire bit her lip, slipped the note from Amelie into her bag, and hoped Michael had been serious about going to bed. Because if he'd eavesdropped on her, even by accident, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
It took five minutes for Eddie to arrive. She waited on the sidewalk, and jumped in the back of the battered old cab — barely yellow, after so much sun exposure — and handed Eddie all the cash she had. He counted it. Twice.
Then he grunted and flipped the handle on the taxi meter. "Address?"
"Katherine Day's house." One thing Claire had learned about riding with Eddie — you didn't need numbers, only names. He knew everybody, and he knew where everybody lived. All the natives, anyway. The students, he just dropped on campus and forgot.
Eddie threw an arm over the back of his seat and frowned at her. He was a big guy, with a lot of wild dark hair, including a beard. She could barely see his eyes when he frowned, which was pretty much always. "The Day House. You're sure."
"I'm sure."
"Told you I'm not staying, right?"
"Eddie, please!"
"Your funeral," he said, and hit the gas hard enough to press her back into the cushions.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Myrnin's shack was easy enough to get into — the trick, after all, wasn't getting in. It was getting out. Light slashed in thin ribbons through the darkness where the boards didn't quite meet, but it wasn't exactly easy to see, and she didn't much like roaming around in Myrnin's lair in the dark. Or even half-dark. She found a flashlight on the shelf near the door and thumbed it on; a pure white circle of light brushed across the dusty floor, and showed her the narrow steps at the back that led down.
She went very slowly. Very carefully. "Myrnin?" She asked it quietly, because he'd hear her; he'd told her that his ears were sensitive because of the silence, and his lack of company.
He didn't answer.
"Myrnin?" Claire could see the hard edge of light at the bottom of the steps. He had everything on, it looked like — the light had a funny color, a mixture of fluorescent bulbs and oil lamps, candles and incandescents. "Myrnin, it's Claire. Where are you?"
She almost missed him, because he was so still. Myrnin was usually in motion of some kind — moving fast, like a hummingbird, from one bright attraction to the next. But what was standing in the center of the room looked like Myrnin — only completely still. Vampires did breathe, a little; the blood they took from humans needed oxygen, Claire had figured out, although a lot less than in a normal person. But his chest was still, his eyes were open and staring, and he wasn't moving at all. Not even to look at her. His attention was focused somewhere off to the side.
"Myrnin?" She put her bag down slowly. "It's Claire. Can you hear me?"
His chest rose just a fraction, and he whispered, "Get out. Go."
And tears slid out of his wide, staring eyes to run down his pale cheeks.
"What is it? What's wrong?" She forgot about caution, and moved toward him. "Myrnin, please tell me what's wrong!"
"You," he said. "This is wrong."
And then he just — collapsed. Dropped like his knees had given out, and the rest of him followed. It wasn't a graceful fall, and it would have hurt a normal human, maybe badly. Myrnin's head hit the floor with a solid crack, and Claire crouched down next to him and put her hand on his chest — not sure what she was doing, what she was supposed to be feeling for. Not his pulse, vampires didn't have one, at least not that humans could detect. She knew that from leaning against Michael.