Midnight Alley (19 page)

‘‘Besides,'' Shane said, ‘‘I'm all out of condoms, and I hate confession.''

He put his arms around her and hooked her bra with an ease that showed he had plenty of practice.

She threw a pillow at him.

 
Somebody was rummaging around outside the house.

Claire woke up with a start, instantly tense, as she heard the distant rattle of metal. She rolled out of bed and peeked out of the blinds. Her bedroom window looked out on the back, a glorious corner vantage point, and she had a clear view of the fence, and the trash cans on the other side.

Somebody was definitely out there, a black shape in the moonlight. Claire could see him moving around but couldn't tell what he was doing. She reached for her cell phone and dialed 911, and told the operator she needed either Joe Hess or Travis Lowe. Detective Lowe picked up the call, sounding wide-awake even at three in the morning; Claire described what she was seeing in a whisper, as if whoever was across the yard might hear her.

‘‘It's probably Jason,'' she said. She heard the scratch of pen on paper on the other end of the phone.

‘‘Why Jason? Can you see his face?''

‘‘No,'' she admitted, ‘‘but Jason told me—he practically admitted it. About the dead girl. I think it's Jason, honest.''

‘‘Did he threaten you, Claire?''

The cut on her wrist was still throbbing. ‘‘I guess you could say so,'' she said. ‘‘I was going to tell you about it, but I—I had things to do.''

‘‘More important than keeping us in the loop? Never mind. What happened?''

‘‘Shouldn't I tell you when you get here?''

‘‘Patrol car's already en route. Where did you see him today?''

‘‘At the university,'' she said, and told the story. He didn't interrupt her, just let her talk, and she could hear him continuing to take notes.

When she paused for breath, Lowe said, ‘‘You know that was stupid, right? Look, next time you see him, you start screaming bloody murder. And put me and Hess on speed dial. Jason's nobody to play around with.''

‘‘But—we were in public. He wouldn't have—''

‘‘Ask Eve about why he ended up in jail in the first place, Claire. Next time, don't hesitate. This isn't about you being strong; this about you living through the day, all right? Trust me.''

She swallowed hard. ‘‘I do.''

‘‘Is he still there?''

‘‘I don't know. I can't see him. He might've gone.''

‘‘The patrol car ought to be there in just a couple of seconds; they're doing a silent approach. You see them yet?''

‘‘No, but my room faces the alley.'' Something moved in the yard, and she felt a lurch of pure adrenaline. ‘‘I think—I think he's in the yard now. Coming to the house. To the back.''

‘‘Go wake up Michael and Shane. Make sure Eve's okay. Go now, Claire.''

She wasn't dressed, but she supposed it didn't really matter; the oversized T-shirt she was wearing came to her knees, anyway. She unlocked her door and swung it open, and yelled in shock.

Tried to, anyway. She couldn't quite get the sound out, because Oliver's hand clapped over her mouth, spun her around, and dragged her backward over the threshold. She screamed, but it was barely a buzz in her throat. Her bare heels scraped on the wood as she tried to get her feet under her, but he had her helpless and off balance. She dropped the phone.

She could hear Lowe's voice distantly whispering her name, but it was blotted out by Oliver's soft voice in her ear as he bent close and said, ‘‘I only want to talk. Don't make me hurt you, girl. You know I will if you force me.''

She went still, breathing hard. Had
he
been out there in the yard? How had he gotten up here so fast? Didn't the protections on the house keep him out?

No. They only work against uninvited humans now, because Michael's—Michael's a vampire.
Oliver had some way in and out. Easy access.
God.

‘‘Good girl. Stay quiet,'' Oliver whispered. He looked up and down the hall, moved the painting next to the doorway, and pressed the hidden switch. The secret doorway across from Eve's room opened with a soft sigh, and he dragged her inside, then shut it. No knob on the inside. The release switch was up a flight of stairs, and he'd never let her get there if she tried to run. When he let her go, Claire stayed where she was.

He let his voice return to normal levels. Not afraid of being overheard, not here. ‘‘I thought it was time we had a talk. You signed an agreement with Amelie. That hurts me, Claire. I thought we had a special friendship, and after all, I did offer first.'' Oliver smiled at her, that cold and oddly kind smile that had suckered her in the first few times she'd met him. ‘‘You turned me down. So why, I wonder, did you decide that Amelie would be a better choice?''

He might know about Myrnin, but not what Myrnin did. Amelie had been pretty specific: he could
never
know that.

‘‘She smells better,'' Claire said. ‘‘And she made me cookies.'' Somehow, after the day she'd had, Oliver just didn't seem all that terrifying anymore.

Until he bared his fangs, and his eyes went a strange, wide black. ‘‘No games,'' he said. ‘‘The room's soundproofed. Amelie used to play with her victims here, you know. It's a killing jar, and you're inside. So perhaps you should be more polite, if you intend to see morning.''

Claire held up her left wrist. The golden bracelet glinted in the light. ‘‘Bite it, Oliver. You can't touch me. You can't touch anybody in this house. I don't know how you got in, but—''

He grabbed her right wrist and ripped away the bandage covering the cut Jason had made. It broke open, and a red trickle ran from it down the interior of her arm.

Oliver licked it off.

‘‘Okay, that's just
gross,
'' Claire said faintly. ‘‘Let go.
Let go
!''

‘‘You belong to Amelie,'' he said, and let her go. ‘‘I can taste it. Smell it on you. You're right, I can't touch you, not anymore. But the others, you're wrong about them. While they're in the house they're safe, but not out there, not in
my
town. Not for long.''

‘‘I made a deal!''

‘‘Did you? Did you see in writing that your friends would be protected from all attacks? Because I very much doubt that, little Claire. We've been writing agreements for thousands of years, and you're only sixteen years old. You have no idea what kind of deal you've made.'' Oliver actually sounded a little sorry for her, and that
was
scary. He folded his arms and leaned against the door. He was in his usual good-guy disguise tonight: a tie-dyed T-shirt, battered cargo pants, his graying, curling hair pulled back in a ponytail. He'd probably just closed up Common Grounds, she figured. He smelled like coffee. She wondered what Oliver wore on his days off, if he wasn't trying to intimidate. Pajamas? Fuzzy slippers? One thing she'd figured out about the vampires in Morganville, they were never exactly what they seemed to be, even the bad ones.

‘‘Fine,'' she said, and backed away from him until her heels hit the first step. She sat down. ‘‘You tell me what I've done.''

‘‘You've upset the balance of power in the town, and that's a terrible thing, little Claire. You see, Amelie intended to be queen of this little kingdom. She thought I was safely dead when she did so. When I came here a year ago, many people decided that they'd rather listen to me than to her. Not all, of course, and not even a majority. But she's won no real friends during her long existence, and it isn't only the humans who are trapped here, you know. It's the vampires as well.''

This was a new idea to her. ‘‘What are you talking about?''

‘‘We can't leave,'' he said. ‘‘Not without her permission. As I said, she fancies herself the cold White Queen, and most are content to let her. Not all. I was working to come to some . . . arrangements with her, to let a number of us leave Morganville and set up a community outside of her influence. Things had been static here for fifty years, you see, since she made the last vampire. Now Amelie feels the need to protect her position. She's blocked me. She won't allow me to make a move without her permission.'' He lowered his chin and stared at her, and it chilled her deep inside. ‘‘I don't like to be controlled. I tend to get . . . unhappy.''

‘‘Why are you talking to me? What can I do?''

‘‘
You,
stupid little child, are her pet. When you want something, she indulges you. I want to know why.''

Amelie hadn't exactly indulged her the last time they'd talked, although the cell phone sitting abandoned in her room might argue otherwise. ‘‘I don't
know
!''

‘‘She thinks you have something she needs, or she'd hardly bother. She's seen whole cities die without shedding a tear or lifting a finger. It's not altruism.''

Myrnin. It's about Myrnin. If I weren't learning from him . . .
She couldn't say that, didn't even dare to really think it through. Oliver was unnerving, and sometimes he seemed downright psychic. ‘‘Maybe she's lonely.''

He laughed, a harsh bark of sound with no amusement in it. ‘‘She certainly deserves to be.'' He took a step forward. ‘‘Tell me why she needs you, Claire. Tell me what she's hiding, and I'll make a deal, a perfectly straightforward one: I'll give your friends my direct Protection. No one will hurt them.''

She didn't say anything this time; she just looked back at him. She didn't dare
not
look at him; even when she was watching him she had the eerie feeling that somehow he was creeping up behind her, ready to do something awful to her when she least expected it.

Oliver made a sound of deep frustration. ‘‘You stupid, stupid girl.'' He shoved past her, going up the stairs so lightly the wood hardly even creaked. After a second, the hidden, knobless door sighed open. Claire got up, steadied herself for a second, and then stepped out into the hallway. Nobody else had heard a thing, apparently. It was quiet as the grave.

Oliver's hands closed around her shoulders, and he moved her out of his way by simply picking her up and putting her down, as if she weighed nothing. He didn't let go once he'd done it; he stepped up behind her, bent down, and whispered, ‘‘Not a sound, Claire. If you wake your friends and they come against me, I'll destroy you all. Understand?''

She nodded.

She felt the cold pressure of his hands go away, but not his presence, and she was surprised when she looked back and saw that he was gone.

As if he'd never been there at all.

She pressed the button behind the painting, and the hidden door sealed itself. Then she picked up her phone from the floor of her bedroom. The call had ended; Travis Lowe was probably on his way over, burning sirens all the way.

She sat down to wait for the panic to start.

 
There just had to be something out there in the alley, given the response. It wasn't only a couple of cops, some yellow tape, and a write-up in Captain Obvious's underground newspaper; it looked, from Claire's window, like a full-blown
CSI-
style investigation, with people in white jumpsuits collecting evidence and everything. There was a big blocky van with heavily tinted windows that she guessed housed vampire detectives or forensics people or something, with the emblem of the Morganville police on the side, and she guessed the majority of people roaming around in Michael's backyard this morning were, in fact, the undead.

Crime-solving undead. That was new.

She wasn't sure what she was feeling anymore. Light-headed, disconnected, looped. Last night had felt like a dream, and it had passed in a blur from the time she and Shane had come upstairs until she'd heard the rattle of trash cans in the alley.

Someone was ringing the doorbell downstairs. She didn't move away from the window—couldn't seem to convince herself to move at all, in fact. It was probably the cops. Travis Lowe had, as she'd thought, already come racing to the rescue, but on finding her unfanged and still alive, he'd called in the full-on police assault. So those were probably the detectives, Gretchen and Hans, or maybe Richard Morrell coming to take her statement.

Claire looked down at herself.
I should probably get dressed.
Her wrist was a mess, smeared with slow-leaking blood, and she pressed her T-shirt against it before she could think about what she was doing. Great, now she wasn't only undressed, she was undressed in bloody nightclothes.

It took ten minutes to shower, change, and bandage up her arm, and then she padded down the stairs in bare feet to face the music.

Her housemates were all standing in the living room, and they all looked at her with identical expressions, blank enough that she came to a stop on the steps. ‘‘What?'' Claire asked. ‘‘What'd I do now?''

Michael stepped aside so Claire could see who was sitting cross-legged in the chair, flipping through a bubble-gum pink edition of
Teen People.

Monica Morrell.

She was dressed in a tight-fitting pink top with diamonds that spelled out BITCH/PRINCESS, and white short-shorts that even Daisy Duke would have thrown out as too trashy. Her tan was deep and dark, and she was lazily dangling a pink flip-flop with a yellow flower on top from her perfectly manicured toes.

‘‘Hey, Claire!'' she said, and stood up. ‘‘I thought we could grab some breakfast.''

‘‘I—what?''