Ghost Town

here were dim, dirty fluorescents, and flickering like mad, but somehow Claire saw what happened next with high- definition, slow-motion clarity.

A male vampire—young-looking, with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail, wearing a black leather jacket— grabbed hold of one of the frat boys (who was, she realized, wearing an EEK T-shirt) and dragged him away from the others. The boy was football-big, but the slender vamp lifted him right off the ground by the neck, glaring up at him as he struggled and tried to scream.

Then the vampire said, “You think you can defy us and live? Who do you think you are, meat? This is our town. It’s always been ours. You have to pay for your disrespect.”

And then he closed his fist and crushed the boy’s big, muscular throat like crunching up a sheet of paper.

Shane brought the crossbow up almost as fast and fired. The bolt hit the vamp in the back, on the left side, just about dead center in the heart.

The two bodies hit the floor together.

And then all the vampires turned on Shane and Claire. Shane loaded the second bolt and dropped the bag between the two of them. Claire didn’t need any instructions; she crouched down and groped around inside the bag. No extra crossbow, unfortunately, but plenty more bolts, which she took out, and two vials of silvery liquid—silver nitrate. Claire handed Shane another bolt to put between his teeth and popped the cap on one of the vials.

The vampires didn’t look familiar to her, but then, she didn’t keep up with every bloodsucker in Morganville; she thought these were probably some of the ones Amelie had been concerned about, who weren’t taking the new human-rights decrees of the town quite so well. Well, vampires liked to be in charge, no doubt about that. And they didn’t like being challenged.

I just saw that boy die, she thought, but then shut that thought off, walled it away, because it wouldn’t help to think about it. Not at all. “Eve!” she yelled. “Eve Rosser! ”

From somewhere near the far edge of the human crowd, she saw a very white face turn toward them under a sleek cap of black hair. Eve didn’t say anything, but there wasn’t any time, because the vampires were coming for them.

Shane fired once, taking down one of the five, and as he reloaded, Claire threw the contents of the vial in an arc across the other four. Where the silver nitrate hit vampire skin, it hissed and bubbled like acid. That stopped at least one, and slowed down the others long enough for Shane to get off another shot. It went wide as the vampire batted the bolt aside in midair and lunged for them. Claire dived one way, and Shane the other; he hit the floor and rolled, came up on his knees, and reloaded another bolt in time to get the vamp square in the chest as it rushed him. It still reached him, and Claire uncapped the other vial of silver nitrate, heart pounding, but Shane rolled again, out of reach, and the vamp collapsed on the floor before it could claw him.

The other two still in the fight were women—one about her mom’s physical age, with gray streaks in her long hair, and a lean, mean face. The other looked barely older than Claire herself, with short red hair and a round face that might have been sweet-looking, if it weren’t for the glowing eyes and pointy teeth. Both had gotten burned by the silver nitrate, and they weren’t in a hurry to get another dose, but Claire realized that Shane was out of crossbow bolts, and she’d dropped the rest by the bag, ten feet away.

She made a dash for them. The red-haired vamp cut her off, laughing, and kicked the bolts into the far corner, along with the black canvas bag.

Claire yanked her silver stake out of the waistband of her pants. She was terrified, but she was also angry— angry that Eve had been penned up in the corner with all those people, like so many cattle. Angry about all the dead people. Angry for the probably-stupid boy who’d just gotten killed right in front of her. Angry that this was all happening because some vamp’s pride had gotten hurt.

“Hey!” Shane yelled, and tossed his empty crossbow to the ground as he jumped to his feet. “You going to let her have all the fun? Come on, Vampirella! Let’s go!”

The older vamp turned on him with a snarl, and in one leap was all over him like some horrible jumping spider. Shane hit the ground hard, on his back, and tried to roll, but the vamp was too strong. She snarled again, jaws gaping wide, and Claire desperately threw the silver nitrate at her. It hit, but the vampire ignored the burns.

A blur flashed out of the hallway and hit the vamp in a full tackle, taking her completely off of Shane as she tried to bite him. Both Shane’s attacker and the newcomer hit the far wall with a hollow boom, and then jumped apart. Both snarling.

Both vampires.

Michael. He looked tremendously scary when he was like this, all eyes and teeth, and he looked strong. Claire swallowed hard and focused on the vamp in front of her, the redhead, who had been as surprised as Claire at Michael’s furious arrival . . . but was getting over it fast.

The vamp lunged for her, but came up short with a kind of funny squawking sound as her head was yanked backward, hard.

Behind her stood Eve, both hands in the vamp’s hair. “That’s my friend, you bitch!” Eve said, and—when she was sure Claire was ready—shoved the vamp at her, off balance.

Onto the point of Claire’s silver-coated, blinged-out stake.

The vamp cried out, and for a second her eyes met Claire’s, and Claire felt something terrible: guilt. There was terror in those alien eyes, and hurt, and surprise . . . and then the vamp went down at her feet, taking the stake with her.

The vamp girl had been somebody’s daughter once. Somebody’s sister. Maybe even somebody’s girlfriend. Maybe she hadn’t asked to be what she was now.

Claire felt sick and she wanted to cry, but there wasn’t time, because Shane was at her side now, pulling her into his arms.

“Eve?” he asked. “You okay?”

Claire turned her head to look at her friend. Eve didn’t look okay. Her Goth makeup was a mess, mascara smeared and running in thick, uneven streams down her face; her dress was torn at the shoulder, and she had long, red scratches down one arm that were still bleeding.

But it was her eyes that really told Claire how not-okay she was. They were wide and full of misery. Without even knowing why, Claire let go of Shane and hugged Eve, who hugged her back so hard it hurt. Eve was trying not to cry, from her hiccuping little gasps for breath.

“You’re okay now,” Claire whispered in her ear. “We came as fast as we could.”

Eve nodded and tried to smile. “Guess I can’t say you’re losers for at least a week, then.” Her voice sounded odd and muffled, but she blinked back the tears. “Thank you.” She kissed Claire’s cheek, then Shane’s. Shane stepped away, clearing his throat. “Oh, don’t go all boy on me.”

“Mikey!” Shane yelled. “You’d better finish it up! Your girlfriend’s trying to kiss—”

He didn’t finish, because all of a sudden the fight was over . . .

. . . and Michael lost.

It happened so fast Claire hardly had time to comprehend it, but one second, the two vamps were a blur of movement, and the next, Michael was down on the ground, crumpled like a broken toy.

The other vamp grinned with her sharp, sharp teeth gleaming in the light, and licked blood from her lips. Her eyes looked brilliant and insane, and redder than the blood. She kicked Michael’s limp body out of the way and came for the three of them, doing that creepy jumping-spider thing again.

Suddenly, there was a cold, still presence standing in front of them, and a white hand reaching up, grabbing the vamp in midair and slamming her down to the floor.

Amelie.

The Founder of Morganville had arrived, and she’d done it in force; as Claire looked behind her, she saw at least a dozen vampires, all looking very seriously dangerous, including Oliver and a number of others she knew by sight. They were all dressed in long black leather coats, like a kind of uniform, with the symbol of the Founder stamped into the leather on every one of them.

Amelie was wearing white. Pure ice white, almost shimmering in the dim light. Her hair was up in a woven crown, nearly as pale as her elegant silk suit.

“Do be quiet,” she told the fallen vampire. “You’re a worthless idiot, but I don’t want more blood tonight. Don’t make me kill you for what you’ve done.” Amelie’s voice was so cold that it seemed to drop the temperature in