Morganville Vampires [01] Glass Houses (21 page)

“My name is Amelie,” the woman continued. “You are, in a sense, already acquainted with me, although you might not be aware of it. Please, child, don’t look so frightened. I absolutely assure you that no harm will come to you with me. I always give very clear warning before I do anything violent.”

Claire had no idea how to look any less frightened, but she clasped her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. Amelie sighed.

“You are very new to our town,” she said, “but I have rarely seen anyone disturb quite so many hornets in such a short time. First Monica, then Brandon, and then I hear you turn to my dear Oliver for advice…and now I see you running for your life through my streets…. Well, I find you interesting. I find myself wondering about you, Claire. About who you are.
Why
you are.”

“I’m—nobody,” Claire said. “And I’m leaving town. My parents are taking me out of school.” It suddenly seemed like a really good idea. Not so much running away as retreating.

“Are they? Well, we’ll see.” Amelie made a shrug seem like a foreign gesture. “Do you know who I am?”

“Somebody important.”

“Yes. Someone very important.” Amelie’s eyes were steady in the dim light, of no real color—gray, maybe? Or blue? It wasn’t color that made them powerful. “I am the oldest vampire in the world, my dear. In a certain sense, I am the only vampire who matters.” She said it without any particular sense of pride. “Although others may have differing opinions, of course. But they would be sadly, and fatally, wrong.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“No, I do not expect you to.” Amelie leaned forward and put lean, elegant, white hands on the wooden pew in front of her, then rested her pointed chin on top of them. “Somehow you have become mixed up in our search for the book. I believe you know the one I mean.”

“I—uh—yes.” No
way
was she going to confess what she had sitting at home. She’d made that mistake once already. “I mean, I know about all the—”

“Vampires,” Amelie supplied helpfully. “It is not a secret, my dear.”

“Vampires looking for it.”

“And you just happened to stumble into the operation at the library, in which we were combing through volumes to find it?”

Claire blinked. “Does it belong to you?”

“In a way. Let’s say that it belongs to me as much as it belongs to anyone alive today. If I am, strictly speaking, living. The old word was
undead,
you know, but aren’t all living things undead? I dislike imprecision. I think we may have that in common, young lady.” Amelie tilted her head a little to the side. Claire was reminded, with a chill, of a nature film. A praying mantis studying its food-to-be. “
Vampire
is such an old word. I believe I shall commission the university to find another term, a more—what is the new saying?—
user-friendly
term for what we are.”

“I—what do you want?” Claire blurted. And then, ridiculously, “…sorry.” Because she knew it sounded rude, and however scary this vampire, or whatever, might be, she hadn’t been
rude
.

“That’s quite all right. You’re under a great deal of stress. I shall forgive your breach of manners. What I want is just the truth, child. I want to know what you have found out about the book.”

“I—um, nothing.”

There was a long silence. In it, Claire heard distant noises—somebody tugging on the front door of the church.

“That’s unfortunate,” Amelie said quietly. “I had hoped I would be able to help you. It appears that I cannot.”

“Um—that’s it? That’s all?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Amelie sat back again, hands folded in her lap. “You may go the way you came. I wish you luck, my dear. You are going to need it. Unfortunately, mortal life is very fragile, and very short. Yours could be shorter than usual.”

“But—”

“I can’t help you if you have nothing to offer me. There are rules to life in Morganville. I can’t simply adopt strays because they seem winsome. Farewell, little Claire. Godspeed.”

Claire had no idea what
winsome
meant, but she got the message. Whatever door had been opened—whether it led to good things or bad—had slammed shut on her now. She stood up, wondering what to say, and decided that saying nothing might be the very best thing…

…and she heard the back door crash open.

“Oh, crap,” she whispered. Amelie looked at her in reproach. “Sorry.”

“We are in a house of worship,” she said severely. “Really, did no one teach your generation any sort of manners?”

Claire ducked behind a pew. She heard fast footsteps, and then Monica’s voice. “Ma’am! I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were—”

“But I am,” Amelie said coolly. “Morrell, aren’t you? I can never keep any of you straight.”

“Monica.”

“How charming.” Amelie’s voice changed from cool to ice-cold. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Miss Morrell. You do not belong here. My seal is on this place. You know the rules.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t think—”

“Often the case, I suspect. Go.”

“But—there’s this girl—did she—?”

Amelie’s voice turned to a hiss like sleet on a frozen window.
“Are you questioning me?”

“No! No, so sorry, ma’am, it won’t happen again, I’m sorry….” Monica’s voice was fading. She was backing away, down the hall. Claire stayed where she was, trembling.

She almost screamed when Amelie’s pale form rose up over the edge of the pew again and gazed down at her. She hadn’t heard her move. Not at all.

“I suggest you go straight home, little Claire,” Amelie said. “I would take you there, but that would imply more than I think I can afford just now. Run, run home. Hurry, now. And—if you have lied to me about the book, remember that many people might want such a valuable thing, and for many reasons. Be sure of why they want it before you give it over.”

Claire slowly took her hands away from her head and slid onto the seat of the pew, facing the vampire. She was still scared, but Amelie didn’t seem…well…evil exactly. Just cold. Ice-cold.

And old.

“What is it?” Claire asked. “The book?”

Amelie’s smile was as faded as old silk. “Life,” she said. “And death. I can tell you no more. It wouldn’t be prudent.” The smile vanished, leaving behind only the chill. “I believe you really should go now.”

Claire bolted up and hurried away, checking over her shoulder every other step. She saw other vampires coming out—she hadn’t spotted them, not a one of them. One of them was John, from the library. He grinned at her, not in a friendly way. One of his eyes was milky white.

She ran.

Wherever Monica and her friends had gone, it wasn’t the way Claire ran—and run she did, the whole way to Lot Street. Her lungs were burning by the time she turned the corner, and she was nearly in tears with gratitude at the sight of the big old house.

And Shane, sitting on the front steps.

He stood up, not saying a word, and she threw herself at him; he caught her and held her close for a few seconds, then pushed her back for a survey of damage.

“I know,” she said. “You told me not to go. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, looking grim. “Inside.”

Once she was in, with the door safely locked, she babbled out the whole story. Monica, the van, the lighter, the church, the vampire. He didn’t ask any questions. In fact, he didn’t even blink. She ran out of words, and he just looked at her, expressionless.

“You,” he finally said, “had better like the inside of your room, because I’m locking you in there, and I’m not letting you out until your parents come to load you in the car.”

“Shane—”

“I mean it. No more bullshit, Claire. You’re staying alive no matter what I have to do.” He sounded flatly furious. “Now. You need to tell me about Michael.”

“What?”

“I mean it, Claire. Tell me, right now. Because I can’t find him anywhere, and you know what? I can never find him during the day—damn! Did you feel that?” She did. A cold spot, sweeping across her skin. Michael, trying to tell her something. Probably
Hell no, don’t tell him
. “We can’t get through this if we’re not straight with each other.” Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Is he—you know—one of them? ’Cause I need to know that.”

“No,” she said. “No, he’s not.”

Shane closed his eyes and slumped against the wall, hands to both sides of his head. “God, thank you. I was going nuts. I thought—I mean, it’s one thing to be a night person, but Michael—I was—I thought—”

“Wait,” Claire said, and took a deep breath. Cold settled over her again—Michael, trying to stop her. She ignored it. “Quit it, Michael. He needs to know.”

Shane took his hands away from his head and looked around, then frowned at her. “Michael’s not here. I checked. I searched the damn place from top to bottom.”

“Yes, he is. Cold spot.” She held out her hand and waved it through the refrigerated air. “I figure he’s standing…right here.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be back in about two hours, when the sun goes down. You can see him then.”

“What in the
hell
are you talking about?”

“Michael. He’s a ghost.”

“Oh, come on! Bullshit! The dude sits here and eats dinner with us!”

She shrugged, threw up her hands, and walked away. “You wanted to know. Fine. Now you know. And by the way? I’m fine.”

“What do you mean, he’s a ghost?” Shane caught up with her, came around her, and blocked her path. “Oh, come on. Ghost? He’s as real as I am!”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “Ask him. Better yet, watch him at dawn. And then tell me what he is, because ghost is about all I know to call him. The thing is, he can’t leave the house, Shane. He can’t help us. He’s stuck here, and during the day, he can’t even talk to us. He just—drifts.” She batted away the cold air again. “Stop it, Michael. I know you’re pissed. But he needs to know.”

“Claire!” Shane grabbed her and shook her out of sheer frustration. “You’re talking to thin air!”

“Whatever. Let go, I’ve got things to do.”

“What things?”

“Packing!” She pulled free and went upstairs, two steps at a time. Shane always slammed his door when he was mad; she tried it out. It helped.

The cold spot followed her. “Dammit, Michael, get out of my room, you pervert!” Could you even be a pervert if you were dead? She supposed you could, if you had a working body half the time. “I swear, I’m going to start taking my clothes off!”

The cold spot stayed resolutely put until she got the hem of her T-shirt all the way up to her bra line, and then faded away. “Chicken,” she said, and paced the room, back and forth. Worried and more than a little scared.

Shane pounded on the door, but she stretched out on her bed, put a pillow over her face, and pretended not to hear him.

Dusk came, pulling a blue gauze over the sky; she watched the sun sink halfway down the horizon, then unlocked her door and stormed out. Shane was just coming out of Michael’s bedroom. Still looking for someone he wasn’t going to find. Not the way he thought, anyway.

“Michael!” Claire yelled from her end, and felt the cold settle around her like an icy blanket. Shane spun around, and she felt the mist gather, thick and heavy, and then she actually
saw
it, a faint gray shape in the air….

Eve’s door flew open. “What in the
hell
is going on around here?” she yelled. “Could you guys keep it down to aircraft-carrier noise?”

…And then Michael just…appeared. Midway between all three of them, forming right out of a thick gray heavy mist, taking on color and weight.

Eve screamed.

Michael collapsed to his hands and knees, retching. He fell on his side, then rolled over to stare up at the ceiling. “Shit!” he gasped, and just stayed there, fighting for breath. His eyes looked wet and terrified, and Claire realized that it was like this for him every day. Every night. Frightening beyond anything she could even imagine.

Claire looked down the hall at Shane. He was frozen in place, mouth open, looking like a cartoon of himself. Eve, too, from her angle.

Claire walked over, held out a hand to Michael, and said, “Well, I guess that settles things.”

He gave her a filthy, wordless look, and took her hand to pull himself up. He staggered and leaned against the wall for support, shaking his head when she tried to help. “In a minute,” he said. “Takes a lot out of you.”

Eve said, in a high, squeaky, airless voice, “The ghost! You’re the ghost Miranda was talking about! Oh my God, Michael, you’re the
ghost
! You
bastard
!”

He nodded, still concentrating on breathing.

Eve got control of her voice and squealed, “That is without a doubt the
coolest damn thing I have ever seen in my entire life
!”

Shane looked…pale. Pale and shaken and—how predictable was this?—pissed. Michael met his eyes, and the two of them looked at each other for a long, silent second before Shane said, “This is why you asked me to come back.”

“I—” Michael coughed. When he sagged this time, Eve threw his arm around her shoulders. He looked surprised, then pleased. “Not just because—”

“I get it,” Shane said. “I get it, man. I do. What the hell happened while I was gone?”

Michael just shook his head. “Later.”

No, it wasn’t that Shane was pissed after all, Claire realized. He turned away and pounded down the stairs before she could say anything, but she’d seen his eyes. She knew.

He lost Alyssa. Now he thinks he’s lost Michael, too.
She didn’t know how that felt, not really; she could imagine, but she was—she knew it—sheltered. She’d never really lost anybody, not even a grandparent. Grief was something in TV shows, in movies, in books.

She had no idea what to say to him. She’d thought that he’d just take it in stride, the way Shane seemed to take things, but…

“Claire,” Michael said. “Don’t let him leave.”

She nodded and left Eve supporting Michael in the hallway, the two of them looking surprisingly comfortable with the whole living-dead-not-dead thing. She supposed that if a ghost had to have a girlfriend, well, Eve was just about the best choice there was.