Midnight Alley (17 page)

Claire reached out for the key ring and pulled it toward her, trying to do it silently. He heard, of course. He got up from the corner of the cage and came to the front, where he held on to the bars. ‘‘Ah, excellent,'' he said. ‘‘Claire, please open the door. I can't show you what you need to do if I'm locked in this cage.''

God, she couldn't look at him, she just couldn't. ‘‘I'm not supposed to do that,'' she said, and sorted out the big iron skeleton key. It felt cold and rough to her fingers, and old. Really old. ‘‘You wanted me to open this door, right?''

‘‘Claire. Look at me.'' He sounded so
sad.
She heard the soft ringing chime of his ring on the bars when he gripped them again. ‘‘Claire,
please.
''

She turned away from him and put the key into the heart-shaped lock.

‘‘Claire,
don't open that
!''

‘‘You told me to!''

‘‘
Don't!
'' Myrnin rattled the bars of his cage, and even though they were solid iron, she heard them rattle. ‘‘It's
my
door!
My
escape! Come here and release me!
Now
!''

She checked her watch. Not enough time, not nearly enough; it was still at least an hour to sunset, maybe more. Michael was still stuck in the car. ‘‘I can't,'' she said. ‘‘I'm sorry.''

The sound Myrnin made then was enough to make her glad that she was across the room. She'd never heard a lion roar, not in person, but somehow she imagined that it would sound like that, all wild animal rage. It shredded her confidence. She closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but he was talking; she couldn't understand what he was saying now, but it was a constant, vicious stream in a language she didn't know. The tone, though—you couldn't
not
get the evil undercurrents.

He'd kill her if he got hold of her now. Thank God, the cage was strong enough to . . .

He snarled something low and guttural, and she heard something metal snap with a high, vibrating sound.

Myrnin was bending the bars away from the lock.

Claire spun, key still in her hand, and saw him rip at a weak point in the cage as though it were wet paper. How could he do that? How could he be that strong? Wasn't he hurting himself?

He was. She could see blood on his hands.

It came to her with a jolt that if he got out of that cage, he could do the same thing to
her.

She needed to get out.

Claire moved around the lab table, squeezed past two towering stacks of volumes, and tripped over a broken three-legged stool. She hit the floor painfully, on top of a pile of assorted junk—pieces of old leather, some bricks, a couple of withered old plants she guessed Myrnin was saving for botanical salvage. Man, that hurt. She rolled over on her side, gasping, and climbed to her feet.

She heard a long, slow creak of metal, and stopped for a fatal second to look over her shoulder.

The cage door was open, and Myrnin was out. He was still wearing his little Ben Franklin glasses, but what was in his eyes looked like something that had crawled straight out of hell.

‘‘Oh crap,'' she whispered, and looked desperately toward the stairs.

Too far.
Way
too far, too many obstacles between her and safety, and he could move like a snake. He'd get there first.

She was closer to the door with the lock on it than the stairs, and the key was still clutched tightly in her hand. She'd have to abandon her book bag; no way to get to it now.

She didn't have time to think about it. The cut Jason had put on her wrist was still fresh; Myrnin could still smell it, and it was ringing the dinner bell loud and clear.

She kicked stacks of books out of the way, jumped over the pile of junk, and, with the key outstretched, raced for the locked door. Her hands were shaking, and it took two tries to get the oversized key into the hole; when she started to turn it there was a terrible moment of utter panic because
it wouldn't turn. . . .

And then it did, a smooth metallic slide of levers and pins, and the door swung open.

On the other side was her own living room, and Shane was sitting on the couch with his back to her, playing a video game.

Claire paused, utterly off balance. That couldn't be real, could it? She couldn't be seeing him, right there, but she could hear all of the computerized grunts and punches and wet bloody sounds from whatever fight game he had on. She could
smell
the house. Chili. He'd made chili. He still hadn't taken some of his boxes back upstairs. They were piled in the corner.

‘‘Shane,'' she whispered, and reached out, through the doorway. She could feel something there, like a slight pressure, and the hair on her arm shivered and prickled.

Shane put the game on pause, and slowly stood up. ‘‘Claire?'' He was looking in the wrong place; he was looking up, at the staircase.

But he'd heard her. And that meant she could just step right through and she'd be safe.

She never got the chance.

Myrnin's hand landed on her shoulder, dragged her back, and as Shane started to turn toward them, Myrnin slammed the door and turned the key in the lock.

She didn't dare move. He was crazy; she could see it. There was nothing in him that recognized her at all. Amelie's warnings screamed through her head, and Sam's. She'd underestimated Myrnin, and that was what had gotten all the other would-be apprentices killed.

Myrnin was shaking, and his broken hands were crunched into fists. His blood was dripping on an open copy of an old chemistry textbook that lay by his feet.

‘‘Who are you?'' he whispered. The accent she'd noted the first time she'd met him was back, and strong. Really strong. ‘‘Child, what brings you here? Do you not understand your danger? Who is your Patron? Were you sent as a gift?''

She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and looked right into his eyes and said, ‘‘You're Myrnin, and I'm Claire; I'm your friend. I'm your friend, okay? You should let me help you. You hurt yourself.''

She pointed to his injured fingers. Myrnin looked down, and he seemed surprised, as if he hadn't felt it at all. Which maybe he hadn't.

He took two steps backward, ran into a lab table, and knocked over a stand that held empty glass test tubes. They fell and shattered on the dirty stone floor.

Myrnin staggered, then sank down to sit against the wall, his face covered by bloody hands, and began to rock back and forth. ‘‘It's wrong,'' he moaned. ‘‘There was something important, something I had to do. I can't remember what it was.''

Claire watched him, still scared to death, and then sank down to a crouch across from him. ‘‘Myrnin,'' she said. ‘‘The door. The one I opened. Where does it go?''

‘‘Door? Doorways. Moments in time, just moments, none of it stays; it flows like blood, you know, just like blood. I tried to bottle it, but it doesn't stay fresh. Time, I mean. Blood turns, and so does time. What's your name?''

‘‘Claire, sir. My name's Claire.''

He let his head fall back against the wall, and there were bloody tears running down his cheeks. ‘‘Don't trust me, Claire. Don't ever trust me.'' He bounced the back of his head off the wall with enough force to make Claire wince.

‘‘I—no, sir. I won't.''

‘‘How long have I been your friend?''

‘‘Not that long.''

‘‘I don't have friends,'' he said hollowly. ‘‘You don't, you know, when you're as old as I am. You have competitors, and you have allies, but not friends, never. You're too young, far too young to understand that.'' He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, he looked mostly sane. Mostly. ‘‘Amelie wants you to learn from me, yes? So you are my student?''

This time, Claire just nodded. Whatever the fit was, it was leaving him, and he was empty and tired and sad again. He took off his glasses, folded them, and put them in the pocket of his coat.

‘‘You won't be able to do it,'' he said. ‘‘You can't possiby learn quickly enough. I nearly killed you tonight, and next time I won't be able to stop. The others—'' He stopped, looked briefly sick, and cleared his throat. ‘‘I'm not—I wasn't always like this, Claire. Please understand. Unlike many of my kind, I never wanted to be a monster. I only wanted to learn, and this was a way to learn forever.''

Claire bit her lip. ‘‘I can understand that,'' she said. ‘‘I—Amelie wants me to help you, and learn from you. Do you think I'm smart enough?''

‘‘Oh, you're smart enough. Could you master the skills, given enough time? Perhaps. And you'll have no choice in the matter; she'll keep you coming until you learn, or I destroy you.'' Myrnin slowly lifted his head and looked at her. Rational again, and very steady. ‘‘Did I remind you not to trust me?''

‘‘Yes, sir.''

‘‘It's good advice, but just this once, ignore it and allow me to help you.''

‘‘Help . . . ?''

Myrnin stood up, in that eerie boneless way that he seemed to have, and rummaged around through the glass jars and beakers and test tubes until he found something that looked like red salt. He shook the container—it was about the size of a spice jar—and opened it to extract one red crystal. He touched it to his tongue, shut his eyes for a second, and smiled.

‘‘Yes,'' he said. ‘‘I thought so.'' He recapped it and held it out to her. ‘‘Take it.''

She did. It felt surprisingly heavy. ‘‘What is it?''

‘‘I have no idea what to call it,'' he said. ‘‘But it'll work.''

‘‘What do I do with it?''

‘‘Shake a small amount into your palm, like so.'' He reached out for her hand. She pulled away, curling her fingers closed, and Myrnin looked briefly wounded. ‘‘No, you're right. You do it. I apologize.'' He handed her the shaker and made an encouraging gesture. She hesitantly turned the shaker upside down over her palm. A few red chunky crystals poured out. He wanted her to keep going, so she did, making quick jerks with the container until there was maybe half a teaspoon of the stuff piled up.

Myrnin took the shaker from her, set it back where he'd found it, and nodded at her. ‘‘Go on,'' he said. ‘‘Take it.''

‘‘Excuse me?''

He mimed popping it into his mouth. ‘‘I—um—what is it, again?''

This time, Myrnin rolled his eyes in frustration. ‘‘Take it, Claire! We don't have much time. My periods of lucidity are shorter now. I can't guarantee I won't slip again. Soon. This will help.''

‘‘I don't understand. How is this stuff supposed to help?''

He didn't tell her again; he just pleaded silently with her, his whole expression open and hopeful, and she finally put her hand to her mouth and tentatively tasted one of the crystals.

It tasted like strawberry salt, with a bitter after-flavor. She felt an instant, tiny burst of ice-cold clarity, like a strobe light going off in a darkened room full of beautiful, glittering things.

‘‘Yes,'' Myrnin breathed. ‘‘Now you see.''

This time, she licked up more of the crystals. Four or five of them. The bitterness was stronger, barely offset by the strawberries, and the reaction was even faster. It was as though she'd been asleep, and all of a sudden she was awake. Gloriously, dizzyingly awake. The world was so sharp she felt as though even the dull battered wood of the table could cut her.

Myrnin picked up a book at random and opened it. He held it up in front of her, and it was like another burst of light in the darkness, brilliant and beautiful,
oh, so pretty,
the way the words curved themselves around each other and cut into her brain. It was painful and perfect, and she read as fast as she could.

 
It all made sense to her. Total sense. Alchemy was nothing but a poet's explanation of the way matter and energy interacted, the way different surfaces vibrated at different speeds; it was physics, nothing but physics, and she could understand how to use it now.

And then . . . then it was as though the bulbs all dimmed again.

‘‘Go on, take it,'' Myrnin said. ‘‘The dose in your hand will last for an hour or so. In that time, I can teach you a great deal. Enough, perhaps, for us to understand where we should be going.''

This time, Claire didn't hesitate licking up every last bit of the red crystals.

 
Myrnin was right; the crystals lasted for a little more than an hour. He took some as well, one at a time, carefully measuring them out and making them last until finally even a red crystal couldn't drive the growing confusion out of his eyes. He was getting anxious by the end. Claire started closing the books and stacking them up on the table—the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, practically buried in volumes. Myrnin had jumped her from one book to another, pulling out a paragraph here, a chapter there, a chart from physics, and a page from something so old he had to teach her the language before she could understand.

I learned languages. I learned . . . I learned so much.
He'd shown her a diagram, and it hadn't been just a diagram—it had been three dimensional and as intricate as a snowflake. Morganville hadn't just happened; it had been planned. Planned around the vampires. Planned
by
the vampires, carried out by Myrnin and Amelie. The Founder Houses, they were part of it— thirteen bright, hard nodes of power in the web, holding together a complex pattern of energy. It could move people from one place to another, via the doorways, although Claire didn't yet understand how to control them. But the web could do more. It could change memories. It could even keep people away, if Amelie wanted it to do that.