Bite Club

Claire raised her chin and stared at the back of his curly blond head, because that hadn’t sounded quite right, either. Not the words; the tone. Something just a shade off. “Michael? You’re not going to run off and do anything dumb tonight, are you?”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t the one running full speed in the dark in Vampireville.”

That checked her for long enough until they pulled up at the curb at their house on Lot Street, and by the time Eve and Michael were out of the car, Claire had forgotten the original question.

It was only later, when she woke up in the middle of the night, wondering if she’d heard Shane’s door open and close, that she realized that Michael hadn’t actually answered her at all.

TWELVE

Claire got up early, mostly because she just couldn’t sleep, and checked Shane’s room. Empty, and just as messy as it had been the last time she’d seen it. The pillow was even in the exact same position, half off the bed, with the sheets twisted over the side next to it. She noticed things like where his head had been the last time he’d slept there. She walked over, like a sleepwalker, and in the gray predawn light put her hand in the hollow where his hair had been pressed not so long ago. It was cold, of course.

She picked up the pillow and hugged it, burying her face in it, and the smell of him flooded into her, overwhelmed her, and she sank down on the narrow bed and just…collapsed. Her eyelids felt raw from lack of sleep and crying, and she felt empty. Exhausted. When her eyes were closed, all she could see was that cold, set expression on Shane’s face as he’d punched that vampire over and over. It wasn’t the same Shane who’d been here with her, who’d been right here in this bed, holding her, who’d critiqued new songs with her until she’d lost her breath laughing, and tickled her and kissed her and whispered how much he loved her. That Shane wasn’t here, and she didn’t know if he was anywhere or if he was coming back.

No. He’s coming back. I’m going to get him back.

Somehow.

She wasn’t thinking of anything specific, nothing on the order of a plan, but all of a sudden she had a vision of the Web site. Immortal Battles. Someone knew something, and it wasn’t just Vassily and Bishop and Gloriana. Vampires weren’t generally computer savvy. A few, maybe, but it was much more likely that a human was doing their Web work for them.

Maybe even someone inside Morganville, since they’d specially coded it to be invisible to Morganville’s monitoring sensors.

She sat straight up in Shane’s cold bed, pillow still held in her arms, and stared at the mirror on the wall. She looked awful—dark circles around her eyes, hair a mess, skin sallow. But she felt better.

Because she had a good idea of what to do next.

Was it safe? No, definitely not. But waiting to see if Shane might change his mind was worse than torture. It was like being eaten an atom at a time.

Claire raced back to her room, grabbed clothes, showered in record time, tied her shoulder-length hair back in a sloppy knot, and was down the stairs and out the back door without even stopping for coffee, although she did take her book bag, mainly because it contained her wallet and some potentially useful vampire-repelling equipment.

Because she was going to see the wizard. Not Myrnin…the real wizard.

“Excuse me?” Amelie said. “You barge in on me without an appointment, in my office, and you expect me to grant your request without an adequate explanation? Not like you, Claire. Not like you at all.”

Amelie, regardless of the hour, looked cool and fresh and unnaturally beautiful. She was wearing pale blue today, in a straight, subdued style, although she’d condescended to put on pants. She even had on pearls. At six in the morning.

Claire stood, because she hadn’t been invited to take one of the thick leather armchairs next to the desk, and, besides, she wasn’t in a sitting kind of mood. Amelie’s office in Founder’s Square had been a little tricky to access; she didn’t want to use portals, and popping in uninvited on the Big Vampire Boss (much less popping in with a bag full of antivampire equipment) probably wasn’t a fabulous survival tactic, anyway. But getting through the levels of guards and social secretaries also hadn’t been easy. Amelie had hired someone to sit at a desk in front of her office, and that vampire—the nameplate on her desk said her name was Bizzie O’Meara, and she’d looked deadly serious about her job—hadn’t been at all understanding about the concept of emergencies.

Amelie herself had opened the door, looking cross at all the noise, and waved Claire inside. That didn’t mean, however, that Claire was welcome. Just stuck.

“Well?” Amelie said. That tone was about as close as the Founder of Morganville ever came to showing temper, at least with humans. There was an icy, cutting edge to it that left the unmistakable impression of a threat, even if the details weren’t exactly specified. “Explain yourself.”

“I can’t,” Claire said, and readjusted the book bag on her shoulder. “Not yet, anyway. I’m investigating. When I’m sure about what I know, I’ll tell you. But in order to get proof, I need access to someone who’s being held for crimes against Morganville.”

Amelie raised her eyebrows about a millimeter. “Really. Of course, the answer to that would be no.”

“But I need—”

“Prisoners who are held on that particular charge don’t get visitors, Claire. Nor do they get furloughs. They are mine, for life, to do with as I wish. And this…individual…may not even be alive, for all you know.”

That was scarily true. Claire hesitated, then said, “Kim.”

“Kim,” Amelie repeated, as if she had no idea who Claire was talking about. “Oh. Her. Well, yes, she is alive—I’d hardly execute someone so young, even if she is unpleasant and unmanageable. She remains in custody, as she will at my pleasure until she proves to me that she deserves to see daylight once again.”

“She’s good at doing things online that even you and Myrnin couldn’t find, and that’s pretty rare. I need her expertise.” Claire was in danger of giving things away and she knew it; she had no idea if Frank would lie to the Founder, or even if he could. Part of what drove him was machinery and programming; his human brain might want to lie for his son, but what about the rest of him? She couldn’t be sure about anything. “I need her help to find someone.”

“Does this have to do with my father?”

That was an extremely dangerous question, because it did, in a small and indirect way, but to answer yes meant spilling everything. It was ninety percent no, anyway. “Not directly,” Claire said. “But it might help.”

“Hmmm. And do you think she’d actually help you?” Amelie sat down at her desk, looking every inch the woman in charge. “I think you don’t know this Kim very well. She loathes you, in particular, more than anyone else. Even more than me, I believe.”

“Because of Shane. Yeah, I know. She likes him.”

Amelie just shrugged, completely uninterested in mere mortal feelings.

“I think she’ll help me on this. Please. Just let me talk to her. I do need her help.”

Amelie drummed her pale-pink-painted fingernails on the desk in a slow rhythm, staring at Claire with those unsettling gray eyes. Her phone gave a low buzz for attention. She ignored it. “I don’t like you assuming that you have the run of my office, Claire. Are we understood?”

“Yes.”

More drumming. Claire couldn’t stop glancing at those long, shapely, pale fingers, with their razor-sharp (and perfectly manicured) nails. As Amelie probably intended.

“All right,” Amelie said. “I’ll give you access for five minutes. If you can get that person to agree, I will let her help you on this…project. But she cannot leave her confinement. Are we understood?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Amelie said. “You’re not going alone.” She pressed a button on the phone, which had