Ghost Town

truce.”

Amelie let another second tick away, and then stepped away from him. “I’ll dispatch police to monitor the roads out of town. We’ll have to hope that we can maintain order with more conventional means until—”

“Until what?” Myrnin asked bitterly. “Until I create another miracle? Another brilliant feat that turns fatal because you won’t allow me to build it as it must be built? No. No, I’ll create nothing else, Amelie. This cannot be done properly unless you stop telling me how to do my job!”

“Ah,” Oliver said. “I think I have thought of what it is I want. To never have to listen to him complain again.”

Amelie raised her pale eyebrows, staring at Myrnin, and then turned to Claire.

“It’s no longer Myrnin’s job,” she said. “And I suppose you’d best begin thinking how you’ll solve our problems, Claire.”

“What?”

“It was going to be your responsibility in a few years. This merely moves up our plans, I believe. Myrnin can assist you, but I will expect results within the week.”

Claire realized, with a sinking sensation, that she’d just become . . . the new Myrnin? How was that even possible?

Things could not possibly be worse than that—until she failed. She supposed then things would take a turn for the extra bad.

At least she had a week.

Myrnin shook his head. “Amelie. Don’t be ridiculous. The girl isn’t—”

“Enough,” Amelie said, and the iron snap of command in her voice made him fall silent. “You’ve done enough. People are dead, Myrnin.”

Claire couldn’t even say she was wrong. Not about that.

Shane cleared his throat. “Uh, about Kyle—”

Amelie turned to Oliver. “Make the call,” she said. “Unless you’re planning to take my place.”

He let a few seconds go by, then pulled out his cell phone and ordered the prisoner in Founder’s Square released.

Well, Claire thought. At least somebody would be happy.

She didn’t see how it was going to be her.

* * *

Back home that evening, the four of them sat down to dinner. It was a quiet kind of thing, a little awkward, as if none of them knew where to start. They were all bruised, cut, and exhausted, for one thing; for another, nobody really wanted to say what they were all thinking. Or to bring up Shane’s dad at all.

Eve, of course, decided to go at it from the opposite direction completely. “I can’t believe I went home to my parents’,” she said, a little too brightly. “Ugh. Revolting. My mom made my room into a hoarder’s paradise, you know, full of boxes of crap. She ought to be in some freaky reality show. The weirdest part about it? I didn’t really expect anything else, somehow. I just figured she’d pitched out my stuff and was pretending I’d never even been there. I pretended that often enough.” Eve played with her plate of spaghetti, but she wasn’t really eating it. “I kept asking her where my dad was. She kept saying he was on his way home.” Eve’s father, Claire remembered, had been dead a year. No wonder she was playing with her food instead of eating. Eve swallowed a gulp of water. “I wonder if maybe I should call her, see if she’s okay.”

“We can go over there if you want,” Michael offered. “I know you don’t like going by yourself.”

Eve gave him a grateful little smile. “You’re awesome,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Shane wasn’t talking at all. He was eating, though; he’d already cleaned one plate of spaghetti and was working on his second one. She wanted to talk to him, but she knew he wouldn’t want her bringing it up, not in front of the others. Shane didn’t like to be vulnerable, not even with his friends. He knew they’d understand, but that wasn’t the point. He just needed to be . . . stronger than everybody else.

Eve said, “At least you’ve got an appetite, Shane.”

That fell into an awkward silence, because Shane didn’t come back at her at all. He just kept eating. Claire twirled some noodles on her fork and said, “My mom called. Dad’s getting surgery this weekend in Dallas. They said he needed some kind of valve transplant, but it all looks like it’s going to be okay, really okay. I’m going to ask for permission to go up on Friday.”

“You don’t have to ask permission,” Shane said then. “You can just go. The machine’s dead. Just go.” His voice sounded flat, and wrong.

They all looked at one another, the rest of them. “There’ll be roadblocks,” Michael finally said. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yeah, it never is, is it?” Shane threw down his fork, pushed back from the table, and took his stuff into the kitchen. Claire went after him, but as soon as she came in the door, he dumped his food in the trash and his plate in the sink and turned to go.

“Shane—”

He held up both hands, pushing her off without touching her. “Give me some room, okay? I need room.” He left. She stood there, looking at his plate sitting in the sink, and felt her heart breaking again. Why wouldn’t he talk to her? What had she done? It hurt; it really did. She felt like . . . like she was losing him again.

She was tired of losing him.

Claire walked back out to the table. Shane had already disappeared upstairs, and his door shut with a slam. Michael and Eve were looking down at their plates.

“Awkward,” Eve finally said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Michael shook his head. “He lost his dad. It hurts.”

“I know,” Eve said sharply. “Remember? Not like I don’t have the T-shirt for that one.”

“Sorry. I just meant—”

“I know.” Eve sighed, and took his hand. “I know. Sorry. I’m just a little . . . weird. I guess we all are.”

“The truth is, he lost his dad a long time ago. Maybe when his sister died. Maybe when Frank . . . uh . . .” Claire didn’t quite know how to say it.

Michael did. “Got turned.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think he ever really faced it, though. Now it’s right in his face. He can’t really avoid it anymore. His dad’s just . . . gone.”

“That’s not it,” Shane said from the stairs. They all jumped, even Michael, whom Claire guessed hadn’t heard him coming, either. Shane could be quiet when he wanted to. “It isn’t that he’s gone. My problem is that I knew my dad. I was afraid of him, and then I wanted to please him, and then I hated him because I thought he was just a hundred percent evil, especially after he turned vamp. But he wasn’t. I was wrong about him. He came to help. And when he had to, he died so we could make it through this.”

They all looked at him silently. Shane sat down on the steps.

“The point is,” he said, “it’s too late for me to really love him now. That’s what hurts.”

Claire got up, holding her plate, but Eve took it away from her. “Go,” she said. “I’ve got this. But you owe me laundry duty.”

Claire nodded and went up the steps. Shane raised his head, and their eyes met. She held out her hand.

After a long moment, he took it and stood up. “You know, even when I didn’t know you, I wanted to know you,” he said. “So I guess you’re stuck with me. Sorry.”

“I’m not,” Claire said, and led him upstairs.

* * *

Her cell phone rang at about four in the morning, vibrating around on the nightstand and sending her fumbling for it in a bleary haze. Claire pulled herself carefully out from under Shane’s heavy arm and slipped out of bed, grabbed a robe, and walked out into the hall to answer the call.

The screen said Myrnin. Claire closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then flipped the phone open and said, “It’s four in the morning. And it wasn’t exactly an easy day.”

Myrnin said, “I can put up the boundaries.”

The way he said it gave her pause, because it wasn’t manic; it wasn’t crazy; it was just . . . a simple