Fade Out (11 page)

“Well—economics is really game theory, only with money.”

Monica just stared at her.

“That was going to be the simple version.”

“Give me my money back.”

Actually, Claire needed it—well, she needed to have had Monica pay it to her, really—so she came up with a few kind of cool explanations, showed Monica the way to memorize the formulas and when to use them . . . and before it was done, there were at least ten other students leaning in to listen and take notes at various points. That was cool, except that Monica kept demanding five bucks from each one of them, which meant that she got a free lesson.

Still, not a bad afternoon’s work. Claire finished feeling a little happier; teaching—even teaching Monica—always made her feel better.

She felt much better when she saw that Shane had come to walk her home.

“Hey,” he said as she fell in beside him. “Good day?”

She considered exactly how to answer that, and finally said, “Not bad.” Nobody had gotten killed so far. In Morganville, that was probably a good day. “Monica paid me fifty for a private lesson.” Shane held up his hand, and she jumped up to smack it without breaking stride. “And yours?”

“There was meat. I sliced it with a big, sharp knife. Very manly.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Of course you are. So, it’s our anniversary—”

“It’s not!”

“Well, I told Kim it was, and then I promised to take you out to a nice restaurant.”

“With tablecloths,” Claire agreed. “I distinctly remember tablecloths.”

“The point is, I’m taking you out. Okay?”

“I don’t think so. My face is just starting to heal. I’ve got bruises all over my throat. The last thing I want to do is go to a nice restaurant and have everybody stare at us and wonder if you’re abusing me. I wouldn’t enjoy my food at all.”

“You think too much.”

She took his hand. “Probably.”

“Okay then. How about a sandwich offered up on a nice, clean napkin, in my room?”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“It’s in my room.”

They were about two blocks along from Common Grounds—about halfway home—when the streetlights began to go out, one after another, starting behind them and zooming past as each clicked off. It wasn’t quite full dark yet, but it was getting there fast as the last hints of red sunset faded from the horizon.

“Claire?” Shane looked around, and so did she, feeling her instincts start to howl a warning.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Something’s here.”

A bloody form lurched out of the darkness toward them, and Shane shoved Claire behind him. It was a vampire—red eyes, fangs down, blood splashed on the pale face and hands.

Claire knew him, she realized after a second of pure adrenaline and shock. He was wearing the same ragged, greasy clothes from the last time she’d seen him: Morley, the graveyard vampire who’d tried to ambush Amelie.

He saw Claire and gasped out, “Fair lady, tell your mistress—tell her—”

He lunged for Claire, off balance, and Shane stiff-armed him away. Morley went sprawling on the pavement, and rolled up into a ball.

Afraid.

“It’s okay,” Claire said, and put a hand on Shane’s arm. She carefully crouched down near Morley’s bloodstained body. “Mr. Morley? What happened?”

“Ruffians,” he whispered. “Tormentors. Hellhounds.” Something made him flinch, and he listened for a second, then rolled painfully to his feet. Claire jumped backward, just in case, but Morley didn’t even look at her. “They’re coming. Run.”

Something was coming, all right. Morley stumbled away, moving at a fraction of normal vampire speed, and Claire heard the distant sound of running feet, voices calling to one another, and excited whoops.

In a few more seconds, she saw them—six young men, most no older than Shane. Two wore TPU jackets. They were all drunk, mean, and looking for trouble, and they all were armed—baseball bats, tire irons, stakes. They slowed when they caught sight of Claire and Shane, and changed course to come toward them.

“Hey!” one of them yelled. “You seen an old dude running through here?”

“Why? What did he do, steal your purse?” Shane shot back. Claire dug her fingernails into his arm in warning, but he wasn’t paying attention. “Jesus, you idiots, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Cleaning up the streets,” another one said, and twirled his bat as if he really knew how to use it. “Somebody’s gotta. The cops don’t do it.”

“We heard that one killed a kid,” said the first man—the least drunk, as far as Claire could tell, and, also, maybe the meanest. She didn’t like the way he was watching Shane, and her. “Drained her dry, right on the playground. We don’t let that pass, man. He has to pay.”

“You have any proof?”

“Screw your proof. These monsters have been running around killing for a hundred years. We catch them, we teach them a lesson they don’t forget.” He laughed, dug in his pocket, and pulled out something. He tossed it on the ground in front of Shane’s feet. Claire couldn’t tell what the scattered pieces were at first, and then she knew.

Teeth: vampire fangs, pulled out at the root.

Shane said, “Knock yourself out, man. He went that way.” He nodded in a direction Morley hadn’t gone. “Keep up the good work.”

“It’s Collins, right? Your dad was one hell of a guy. He stood up for us.”

Shane’s father had been an abusive asshole who didn’t care about anyone, as far as Claire had been able to tell; he certainly hadn’t cared about Shane. The idea that Frank Collins was becoming the underground hero of Morganville made Claire want to puke.

“Thanks,” Shane said. His voice was neutral, and very steady. “I’m taking my girl home.”

“Her? She’s one of them. One of the Renfields. Works for the vamps.”

“No better than the vamps,” another put in.

“I heard she worked for Bishop,” said a third, who had a tire iron resting on his shoulder. “Carrying around his death warrants. Like one of those Nazi collaborators.”

“You heard wrong,” Shane said. “She’s my girl. Now back off.”

“Let’s hear from her,” said the leader of the pack, and locked stares with Claire. “So? You working for the vamps?”

Shane sent her a quick, warning glance. Claire took in a deep breath and said, “Absolutely.”

“Ah hell,” Shane breathed. “Okay, then. Run.”

They took off, catching the minimob by surprise; alcohol slowed them down, Claire thought, and an argument broke out behind them over whom they should be chasing, humans or vampires. Shane grabbed Claire’s hand and pulled her along, running as if their lives depended on it. The streetlights were all out, and Claire had trouble seeing curbs and cracks in the pavement in the dim starlight.

They made it almost a block before she heard a howl behind them. The pack was following.

“Come on,” Shane gasped, and pushed her faster. It was harder for Claire; she was a bookworm, not a runner, and besides, her legs were about six inches shorter than his. “Come on, Claire! Don’t slow down!”

Her lungs were already on fire. Need to exercise more, she thought crazily. Note to self: practice wind sprints.

Something hit her in the back, and Claire lost her balance and hit the pavement hard. Shane yelled, stopped, and turned to cover her. In seconds, the pack of guys was on them, and Claire saw Shane taking a bat away from one guy and using it to smack the tire iron away from another attacker.

A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up to see a guy who looked about ten feet tall raise a baseball bat over his head, aiming straight for hers.

Claire grabbed him around the knees and yanked, hard. He yelled in surprise as his legs folded, and he fell backward. The bat hit the ground with a clatter, and Claire picked it up as she climbed to her feet. Shane was swinging with precision, taking out weapons and maybe breaking an arm here and there if he had to. All she had to do was stand there and look threatening.

It was over in a few seconds. Something turned for the pack, and they’d had enough. Claire stood there shaking, bat still cocked in the ready position, as the last guy scrambled up off the pavement and lurched away.

Shane dropped his bat and put both hands on her shoulders. “Claire? Look at me. Are you all right? Anybody hit you?”

“No.” She felt shaky, and she had some skinned knees and palms from her fall, but that was all. “My God. They were going to kill us. Humans were going to kill us. Because of me.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Shane told her, and kissed her forehead with burning hot lips. “They were going to go after anybody they came across. The vampire thing is just an excuse. God, Claire. Good job.”

“All I did was hold the bat.”

“You held it like you meant it.” He put his arm around her and picked up both bats, slinging them over his left shoulder. “Let’s get home.”

When they got home, after getting the third degree from Michael, then Eve, they had to answer to the Founder. Not by choice; Claire was all for making a quick phone call to the police and letting it go through channels, but Michael thought Amelie might want to ask more questions.

He must have been right, because as soon as he hung up the phone, a wave of sensation swept through the house—like a gust of wind, only psychic. Claire actually felt the locks she’d put on the portals snap, and the connection open.

Amelie was coming in person.

Michael realized it, too—he and Claire seemed to be more connected to the house than Shane and Eve, generally. “That was fast,” he said. “I guess we’d better go up.”

“Up where?” Shane asked, frowning.

“Amelie,” Claire sighed. “I was hoping for a hot bath, too.”

The four of them, in the spirit of solidarity, trudged upstairs to the hidden room. The Tiffany lamps—minus that one pole lamp casualty—were blazing, filling the walls with color and light, but somehow none of it fell on Amelie, who looked pale as bone and just as hard. She was wearing pure, cold white, and her lips seemed almost blue. Her eyes looked more silver than gray, but maybe that was because of the metallic shine of her shirt under the tailored jacket.

Claire wondered why she bothered with the meticulous dressing, when Amelie rarely seemed to leave her home these days; she supposed that growing up as royalty in the distant past had made looking perfect a habit she couldn’t seem to shake.

Amelie received the news of the gangs beating up on her vampires without much shock, Claire thought; she sat there looking cool and calm, hands folded, and listened to Shane and Claire’s experience without any flicker of expression. There was something in her face when Claire described the handful of pulled vampire fangs that she’d seen, but what it was, Claire couldn’t guess. Disgust, maybe, or pain. “Is that all?” Amelie asked. She sounded way too distant. “What of Morley? Did you see where he went?”

“We don’t know,” Claire said. “He looked—hurt. A lot hurt, maybe.”

“I was afraid of this,” Amelie said, and got up to pace the floor.

“Afraid of what?” Michael asked. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking very serious. “Losing control?”

Amelie stopped to frown at the broken pole lamp, trailing pale fingers over the neat slice through the metal. “Afraid that humans might lose their fear of reprisals if I offered too much leniency,” she said. “The rules of Morganville existed for a reason. They were meant to protect the strong few from the fragile many. Even a giant may be destroyed by the stings of insects, if there are enough of them.”

“That’s not what your rules did,” Shane said. “They just made it easier for vampires to kill us without letting humans hit them back.”

Amelie sent him a cool glance, but didn’t otherwise react. “I’ve received reports of other incidents, less serious than this. It seems these gangs of thugs are growing bolder, and that must be stopped.”

“They said something about Morley killing a kid,” Shane said. “Anything to that?”

“I doubt it.” Amelie met his eyes for a few seconds, then continued to pace. “I’ve had no reports of children being victimized. As you know, that is strictly against all our laws, human or vampire. I can’t say it never happens, but it happens in human society, as well. Yes?”

“Maybe, but why did they take it out on Morley?” She shrugged. “Morley is an easy target, like all the vampires who choose not to declare an allegiance. They are powerful in themselves, but vulnerable. Morley’s lived rough and alone for some time. It’s not surprising that humans are taking vengeance on those easiest to hunt. In other towns, they target the homeless, as well, do they not?”

“Aren’t you going to do anything about it?” Claire asked.

“There are laws. I assume they will be enforced. Until these thugs are caught and punished, I will caution all vampires to be careful.” Amelie smiled slowly. “And I will allow them latitude in matters of self-defense, of course. That should put a stop to things quickly.”

Claire wasn’t so sure of that. First, Morley and his vamps had gotten all pushy with Amelie, and then Oliver had seemed about to bolt from her camp and set up as a pretender to the throne. Now, there were humans roaming around looking for trouble, too. And Amelie just seemed . . . disconnected.

It seemed that, as much as they’d tried to pull Morganville together, it was unraveling all around them.

“I believe I have heard enough,” Amelie said. “You may go. All of you.”

She kept on pacing, as if she didn’t intend to leave. Claire hung back, watching her, as the others descended the stairs, and finally said, “Are you okay?”

Amelie stopped, but didn’t look at her. “Of course,” she said. “I am—troubled, but otherwise fine. Why do you ask?”

Because you tried to kill yourself two nights ago? Claire didn’t think it would be smart to bring that up. “Just—if you need anything . . .”

Amelie did look at her this time, and there was something warm and almost human in her expression. “Thank you.” Amelie’s personal winter closed in again, leaving her face still and cold. “There’s nothing you can do, Claire. Nothing any of you can do. Now go.”

That last thing wasn’t a request, and Claire took it for dismissal. Shane was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, looking up with a worried not-quite-frown that smoothed away in relief when he saw her coming to join him. “Don’t do that,” he said.