and left a feverish anger in their place. She took a long shower to burn it off, and when she came out of the bathroom, wreathed in steam, she looked small and vulnerable, stripped of all her Goth armor.
Claire hugged her and gave her a cookie. Eve munched it and hugged her black silk kimono around herself as she climbed onto the bed. “Boys gone?” she asked.
“Yeah, they’re gone,” Claire said. “Mind if I—?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll just sit here and watch my car smoke.” Eve stared moodily at the curtains, which were closed, thankfully.
Claire shook her head, grabbed her stuff, and went in to take her own bath. She did it at light speed, half convinced that Eve would find some way to get herself in trouble while she was gone, but when she emerged pink and damp and glowing from the hot water, Eve was exactly where she’d left her, flipping channels on the TV.
“This is the worst road trip
“Jigsaw always wins. You know that.”
There was a soft sound at the motel room door. Something like a scratching sound; then a thud. Eve came bolt upright in bed. “What the hell was that? Because I’m thinking serial killer! ”
“It’s Shane, trying to freak you out. Or maybe it’s those guys again,” Claire said. “Shhh.” She went to the curtains and peeked out, carefully. The light was dim in front of the door, but she saw someone slumped against the wall. Alone. “Just one guy—I can’t really see him.”
“So the serial killer option’s still on the table? New rule. The door doesn’t open.”
They both jumped as a fist thudded once on the door. “Let me in,” Oliver’s voice commanded. “Now.”
“Oh,” Eve said. “In that case, new rule. Also, technically, he is a serial killer, right?”
Claire didn’t really want to think too much about that one, because she was afraid Eve might have a point on that.
She slipped back the locks and opened the door, and Oliver came into the room. He made it two steps before his knees gave out on him, and he fell.
“Don’t touch him!” Claire said as Eve slipped off the bed to approach him. She could see cuts and blood on him. “Get Michael. Hurry.”
That wasn’t a problem; Michael and Shane were already opening their own door, and the four of them were standing together when Oliver rolled over on his side, then to his back, staring upward.
He looked bad—pale, with open wounds on his face and hands. His clothes were cut, too, and there was blood soaked into them. He didn’t speak. Michael dashed back into his room and came back with the cooler. He knelt next to Oliver and looked over his shoulder at the three of them. “You guys need to leave. Go next door. Now. Hurry.”
Shane grabbed the two girls and steered them out, closing the door behind him and leaving Michael alone with Oliver.
Claire tried to turn around.
“No, you don’t,” Shane said, and shepherded them into his room. “You know better. If he needs blood, let him get it from the cooler. Not from the tap.”
“What happened to him?” Eve asked the logical, scary question, which Claire had been at some level trying not to face. “That’s
“I think that’s what we have to ask him,” Shane said. “Providing he’s not having a serious craving for midnight snacks.”
“Damn,” Eve said. “Speaking of that, I left the cookies. I could use another cookie right now. How screwed are we, anyway?”
“Given the car and whatever trouble Oliver stirred up? Pretty well screwed. But hey. That’s normal, right?”
“Right now, I wish it really, really wasn’t.”
They sat around playing poker until Michael came back, with Oliver behind him. He was upright and walking, though he looked as if he’d put his clothes through a shredder.
He didn’t look happy. Not that Oliver ever really looked happy when he wasn’t playing the hippie role, but this seemed unhappy, plus.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Quickly.”
“Well, that’s a problem,” Shane said, “seeing how our transpo out there is not exactly lightproof anymore, even if we didn’t mind sitting on half-burned seats.” Not even the trunk, anymore, thanks to the sledgehammer’s work. “Plus, we’ve got t-minus two hours to sunrise. Not happening, anyway.”
Michael said, “Oliver, it’s time to tell us why we came here in the first place. And what happened to you.”
“It’s none of your business,” Oliver said.
“Excuse me, but since you dragged us into it with you, I’d say it is our business now.”
“Did my business destroy your car? No, that was your own idiocy. I say again, you don’t need to know, and I don’t need to tell you. Leave it.” He sounded almost himself, but subdued, and he sat down on the edge of the bed as if standing tired him—not like Oliver.
“Are you okay?” Claire asked. He looked up and met her eyes, and for a second she saw something terrible in him: fear—overwhelming, tired, ancient fear. It shocked her. She hadn’t thought Oliver could really be afraid of anything, ever.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m all right. Wounds heal. What won’t is what will happen if we remain trapped here. We can’t wait for rescue from Morganville. We must get on our way before the next nightfall.”
“Or?” Claire asked.
“Or worse will happen. To all of us.” He looked... haunted. And very tired. “I need to rest. Find a car.”
“Ah—we’re not exactly rolling in cash.”
Without a word, Oliver took out a wallet from his pants, grimaced at the scratches and tears in the leather, and opened it to reveal a bunch of crisp green bills.
Hundreds.
He handed over the entire stack. “I have more,” he said. “Take that. It should be enough to buy something serviceable. Make sure it’s got sufficient trunk space.”
After a second’s hesitation, Eve’s fingers closed around the money. “Oliver? Seriously, are you okay?”
“I will be,” he said. “Michael, do you suppose there is another room in this motel I can occupy until we are ready to leave?”
“I’ll get one,” Michael said. He slipped out the door and was gone in seconds, heading for the office. Oliver closed his eyes and leaned back against the headboard. He looked so utterly miserable that Claire, without thinking, reached out and, just being kind, put her hand on his arm.
“Claire,” Oliver said softly, without opening his eyes, “did I give you permission to touch me?”
She removed her hand—quickly.
“Just—leave me alone. I’m not myself at the moment.”
Actually, he was pretty much like he always was, as far as Claire could tell, but she let it go.
Eve was fanning out the money, counting it. Her eyes were getting wider the higher she went. “Jeez,” she whispered. “I could buy a genuine pimped-out land yacht with this. Wow. I had no idea running a coffee shop was this good a job.”
“It’s not,” Shane said. “He probably has piles of gold sitting under his couch cushions. He’s had a long time to get rich, Eve.”
“And time enough to lose everything, once or twice,” Oliver said. “If you want to be technical. I have been rich. I am currently ... not as poor as I once was. But not as wealthy, either. The curse of human wars and politics. It’s difficult to keep what you have, especially if you are always an outsider.”
Claire had never really thought about how vampires got the money they had; she supposed it wouldn’t have been easy, really. She remembered all the TV news shows she’d seen, with people running for their lives from war zones, carrying whatever they could.
Oliver would have been one of those people, once upon a time. Amelie, too. And Myrnin. Probably more than once. But they’d come through it.
