Bitter Blood (8 page)

“Yeah,” Michael agreed. “I’m sorry. It was.” He seemed to be almost apologizing for the two women, or maybe for vampires in general. “This might not have been such a great idea, coming out here. It’s not like it was before.”

“I have to try.”

“Keep this short, then. I don’t want you out here once the sun sets. Not even if I’m with you.”

That was very unusual to hear from him, and unsettling, too. Claire looked straight ahead—at nothing, because the view was
pretty much pitch-darkness. Michael’s pale face and golden hair were tinged a little with blue from the dashboard light, and he glowed like a ghost in the corner of her eye. “What’s happening to us?” she asked. She didn’t mean to; it just came out, and it revealed way too much of the growing dread she was feeling. “They looked at me like meat in a supermarket. I know there have always been a few vampires like that, but…they were
police.
That means they’re supposed to be the best at holding back their instincts.”

Michael didn’t answer her. Maybe he didn’t know how. The dig they’d thrown about Sam Glass, his grandfather, had hit home, and she knew it. Michael’s grandfather had physically looked about like Michael did now, only with more reddish hair. He’d been a sweet man, probably the most human of all of the vamps Claire had ever met. Sam had been a force for good in Morganville, and he’d paid for it with his life. Michael hadn’t forgotten that. Claire wondered whether he thought about what might happen to his own life, if he kept trying to stay in the middle, squarely between humans and vampires, and whether he thought about being killed.

Of course he did. Especially now that he’d married Eve, against the wishes of both sides. They both had everything to lose.

Michael eased the car down, following the curve of the ramp as it led below Founder’s Square. The vampires had excellent parking, all covered. When he’d pulled to a stop and turned off the engine, he finally said, “It’s going to get bad, Claire. I know it. I feel it. We’ve got to do everything we can to stop it.”

“I know,” she said, and held out her hand. He took it and held it lightly—a good thing, because he could have easily shattered bones. “Glass House gang forever.”

“Forever,” he said. “If we’re going to be a gang, we need a good sign to flash. Something intimidating.”

They tried a few silly, strange attempts at flashing signs, but the efforts looked awkward. “We,” Claire said, “are the worst gang
ever
.”

“Bad idea,” Michael agreed, straight-faced. “Shane’s the only one of us with real street cred anyway.”

They got out of the car, and Claire was watchful of the shadows; so was Michael, but he must not have spotted anything out of the ordinary, because he nodded and escorted her to the elevator. While they waited for it to descend, Claire kept looking behind them, just to ensure that nobody had decided to stalk them.

Nobody did.

Someone had decided the elevator music had needed a change, so this time up, Claire was treated to an orchestral version of “Thriller,” an oddly appropriate choice. Even vampires had a sense of humor, though it was mostly atrophied. Either Michael didn’t think it was funny, or he was too focused to notice—probably the latter, because he seemed very self-contained just now. He must have been gearing up for whatever would be waiting for them.

The doors opened on a dead-white vampire, bald as a cue ball and dressed in formal black. Claire didn’t know if he was security or just a very intimidating greeter, but she took a step back, and Michael tensed beside her.

The man looked them both over in silence, then abruptly turned his back on them and walked away. As he did, one hand snapped up to give them a follow-me gesture.

“Do you know him?” Claire asked as they trailed their black-suited guide into the paneled hallways. Vampires seemed to deliberately design all their buildings to confuse people, but the two of them didn’t really need a personal escort; they’d spent a lot of time here, over the past couple of years. “And is he always this friendly?”

“Yes, and yes.” Michael put his finger to his lips, asking her for silence, and she complied. They were passing closed, unmarked doors and watchful portraits of people she recognized as still walking the streets of Morganville, even though they’d been painted in ancient styles of clothes. Their escort moved fast, and Claire realized that even though it was tough for her to keep up, it was probably just standard vampire walking speed. It was oddly telling that the vamps no longer felt they needed to slow down to accommodate mere mortals.

She saved her breath and hurried, while Michael strode along beside her, matching her speed but not pushing her. He was watching the doorways, she realized. She’d never seen him quite this alert before, at least not here, in what should have been a safe place for them both.

It all became clear when a vampire slid out of the shadows ahead, lowered his chin, and bared his teeth. Claire knew him slightly, but he’d never looked quite so…inhuman. He was bone white, and his eyes were flaring crimson, and he gave off waves of menace that made her slow down and look at Michael in alarm.

Because that menace wasn’t (for a change) aimed at her.

It was directed purely at her friend.

“You’re not welcome here,” the vampire said in a low, silky voice that was somehow worse than a growl. “Those who consort with humans use the servants’ entrance.”

“Ignore him,” Michael said to her, and kept going. “Henrik’s not going to hurt you.”

“What’s this one? Another little wife-pet you’re planning to marry when you tire of the one you have?” Henrik’s grin was full of cruel amusement. “Or won’t you bother with the church’s blessing next time? It’s perfectly fine to eat them, you know. You don’t need to sanctify them first. They still taste delicious.”

Michael’s eyes fixed on the other vampire, and his own eyes started turning red. Claire saw his hands flexing, trying to knot into fists. “Shut up,” he said. “Claire, keep walking. He’ll move.”

This time there was something like a growl, or a rattling hiss, and Henrik’s eyes turned even darker red. “Will I? Not for you, boy. Certainly not for your pet.”

Claire kept walking, but she also reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. It had an easy-open pop-top, and she flicked it with her thumbnail, never taking her eyes off Henrik. “I’m not a pet,” she said. “And I bite.” She held up the vial. “Silver nitrate. Unless you want to spend a couple of hours nursing your burns, back off. We’re here to see Amelie, not you.”

His eyes fixed on her for the first time, and she felt a shock of fear; there was something really violent inside him, something she could only barely understand. It was a blind, unreasoning instinct to hurt—to kill.

But his teeth folded up into his mouth, like a snake’s, and his smile took on more human proportions…though it remained intimidating. Serial-killer intimidating. “By all means,” he said. “Pass. I’m sure we’ll meet again, flower.”

He made an elaborate bow and retreated into the shadows. Claire kept her eyes on him as she edged through, but he didn’t move at all.

When Michael followed, though, there was a sudden burst of movement, a blur punctuated by a soft outcry from Michael…and then the other vamp was walking calmly away in the other direction.

“Michael?” Claire turned toward him, crying out when she saw the damage to his face. The blood was bad, but it was flowing from claw marks down the side of his face from temple to jawline. They were deep gouges—nothing that wouldn’t heal, but still…

Michael stumbled and caught himself against the wall, shut his eyes, and said, “Maybe you’d better go on without me. I’m going to need a minute.” His voice was shaking, both from pain and—she assumed—from shock. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Claire put away the silver nitrate and rummaged in her pockets, coming up with a pack of tissues, which she handed over. “Here.”

He looked at her, gave her a weak flash of a smile, and took the packet from her. One after another, the tissues soaked red, but each successive one did so more slowly. By the time he’d used most of them, the wounds were sealed over—gruesome still, but steadily better.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” she asked. “You were expecting this. I could see how tense you were. It’s about your marrying Eve. They’re bullying you because of it.”

Michael shrugged and scrubbed the last of the damp stains off his skin. “We all knew how they felt about it. Pretty much like Captain Obvious and his crew of humans-only believers feel, too. Everybody sees us as traitors to whatever their cause is.”

“That’s stupid. You two—you’ve been together for years!”

“Not
married
together. They’re funny about that. In vampire circles, marrying someone is a huge deal…vampires being immortal and all. It hardly ever happens, and when it does, there’s—power involved. The lesser partner gets elevated up to the status of the greater. So now Eve’s technically got all the rights and powers and privileges that I do. And being Amelie’s direct bloodline, that’s kind of a big deal.” He stuffed all the bloody tissues in his pocket and nodded to her. “Let’s keep going. I don’t like being a sitting duck around here.”

Their escort hadn’t waited for them, but he was standing in front of Amelie’s office when they arrived, and he opened the door
to shoo them inside. He didn’t follow, and Claire heard the latch click shut with a finality that made her wonder if they were, in fact, locked in.

If they were, the receptionist inside gave no sign of it. Her name was Bizzie, and she’d been with Amelie a long time. She gave Claire a cool, impartial nod, and ignored Michael almost completely, though her gaze flicked quickly to the wounds on his face. She didn’t ask what had happened. In fact, she didn’t speak at all, which in Claire’s experience was a little unusual; Bizzie had always been cordial in the past.

Things had changed.

Claire and Michael waited silently in the armchairs lining the small wood-paneled room, and Claire spent her time studying the portraits hanging high on the walls. Amelie was in one of them, looking just as she did now but with a more elaborate hairstyle that reminded Claire of movies she’d seen in high school about the French Revolution. Elegant in white satin, Amelie was shown lit by candles, and in her right hand was a mirror dangling negligently by her side. The fingers of her left hand rested on top of a skull.

Creepy and beautiful.

“The Founder will see you,” Bizzie said, though Claire hadn’t heard any phone or intercom. As Claire rose to her feet, the inner door swung open without a sound.

Deep breaths,
Claire told herself. She didn’t know why she was so nervous; she’d met with Amelie dozens of times, probably nearly a hundred by now. But somehow, this felt strongly like walking into a trap. She glanced back at Michael, and their eyes met and held.

He felt it, too.

Deep breaths,
Claire thought again, and took the plunge.

*      *      *

The office looked eerily the same: high bookcases, big picture windows treated with anti-UV tinting to reduce damage from the sunlight, candles burning here and there. Amelie’s desk was massive and orderly, and behind it, the Founder of Morganville sat with her hands folded on the leather blotter.

Behind her stood Oliver.

The two vampires couldn’t have been more different. Amelie was polished, silky, pale haired, every inch a born ruler. Oliver, on the other hand, had the angular toughness of a warrior, and with his graying hair and ruthless smile, he might as well have been wearing armor as a turtleneck and jacket. Amelie’s pantsuit was a pristine white silk, and it contrasted completely with his all-black—deliberately; Claire was certain of it.

Amelie was also wearing her hair down in flowing, gorgeous waves. Very
not
the old Founder.

Oliver had his hand on Amelie’s shoulder, a gesture of easy familiarity that would have been odd in the time before the arrival, battle, and defeat of the draug. He and Amelie had been enemies, then unwilling allies, and then, finally—something else.

Something more dangerous, obviously.

Claire looked around, but the chairs that had once been in front of Amelie’s desk, the ones for visitors, were gone. She and Michael would be expected to stand.

But first, apparently, they were expected to do something else, because Oliver watched the two of them for a moment, then frowned and said, “Pay proper respect, if you wish to speak with the Founder.”

Amelie said nothing. She’d always been a bit of an ice queen, but now she was unreadable, all pale, perfect skin and cool, assessing eyes. There was no telling what she felt, if she felt anything at all.

Michael inclined his head. “Founder.”

“I see you’ve been recently injured,” she said. “How?”

“It’s nothing.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

Amelie sat back in her chair and cast a glance upward at Oliver. “See to it that Henrik understands I do not condone this kind of behavior within these walls. Michael, you’d do well to answer my questions when I ask them next time.”

“Since you already knew the answer, I don’t see the point.” He was almost as good at hiding emotions as Amelie. “If you really cared about stopping him and the others like him, you’d publicly acknowledge our marriage and put a stop to it.”

“You didn’t obtain permission from me, and it’s my right as your blood sire to give or withhold it,” she said. “I don’t have to acknowledge anything you do without my blessing. And we’ve traveled this road before, to no good purpose. What brings you here, then?”

Claire cleared her throat and took a step forward. “I—”

Oliver interrupted her. “Greet the Founder properly, or you’ll not utter another word.”

Amelie could have quelled that; she could have just waved it away as she normally would have…but she didn’t. She waited, her gaze on Claire’s face, until Claire swallowed hard and bent her head forward just a little. “Founder,” she said.

“You may speak, Claire.”

Gee, thanks,
Claire wanted to say with a liberal dose of sarcasm, but she managed to choke it back. Shane would have said it, which was why she hadn’t let him come along on this little venture. “Thank you,” she said, and tried to make herself sound truly grateful. “I came to talk to you about the identification cards.”