all. “You’re always asking for promises, Claire. Sometimes that seems charming, as if you simply expect me to be honorable enough to keep them.”
“How about today?” Amelie inclined her head. That wasn’t a yes, though; Claire could see it in the cold glitter of her eyes. “It’s just that if Shane…if Shane’s got anything to do with this, it’s because he’s been glamoured. By Gloriana. It’s not his choice. And he’d never, ever help Bishop. You know that.” It came out in a rush, and even to her ears, it sounded incoherent.
Amelie straightened, settled back in her seat, and said, “From the beginning.”
Claire tried. She thought about holding some things back, but the truth was that it was all going to come out sooner rather than later, and lying to Amelie’s face…well, that wasn’t a good strategy. Amelie was understanding sometimes. Still, Claire cringed when she had to mention Shane. All she could think about was how bad it had been when he’d been accused of the murder of one of Amelie’s own, when he’d been trapped and condemned and she’d felt so useless to save him.
Here it was again—that black, swelling, suffocating sense of utter helplessness.
Amelie made no comments and had no physical reactions to what Claire said. She looked not at Claire, but at the scenery beyond the tinted window—visible to her eyes, presumably, though Claire felt like she was confined in a crowded black box—while she listened. When Claire finally paused, feeling short of breath, Amelie inclined her head slightly.
“Thank you,” she said. “A very honest accounting. I had wondered how much you’d try to conceal from me. I’m pleased you didn’t attempt it.”
Claire squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds. “You knew.”
“Of course I knew,” Amelie said. “Most things, at least. The Web site is new, and therefore of great interest; I have operatives tracing its origins now, though you are entirely correct that a more expert approach will be needed. But the role of Gloriana and Vassily—these things were already known to me and to Oliver.”
Oliver. Of course. “He was keeping an eye on her for you,” Claire realized. “That’s why he was hanging around her.”
“Gloriana believes it is due to her own charm, of course, but Oliver is not so easily manipulated as that. He knows her too well, and has good reason to be wary of her and her motives.” Amelie finally looked at her, unsmiling. “How my father is involved in all this is somewhat of a mystery, but it will be solved.”
“Do you know where he is? Bishop?”
“No.” Amelie looked away again. “One thing he’s very good at is hiding when he feels threatened. He’s within the town’s borders. Alerts would have gone off if he’d crossed the boundaries. We’ll find him, even should he be buried in the dirt like some hunting spider.” She sounded bitter and cold at the end, and Claire shivered a little. “When he’s found, I will ensure that this particular danger to us doesn’t return. You have my word on that.”
The car slowed, and Amelie nodded to one of her guards, the one sitting on her left side. He nodded back, and as the limousine drifted to a smooth stop, he immediately opened the door and exited. Claire couldn’t have tried to get out even if she’d wanted to; there were two guards between her and the outside.
And Amelie didn’t move. She sat, composed and erect, until the first man looked back into the car and said, “Clear, Founder.” Then there was a sudden scramble from the guards on both sides, and Claire and Amelie were left sitting across from each other, temporarily alone. Amelie began to slide toward the exit.
“Wait,” Claire said. “Shane.”
Apart from a very small hesitation, Amelie didn’t respond to that at all. She simply continued on her way. A guard offered her a hand, and she left the car in a graceful stride.
Claire gulped air and scrambled out to follow.
There was a moving wall of black-suited vampires around Amelie, escorting her away from the idling limousine and up a covered walkway leading to……
Claire blinked. She knew this building. She’d been in it at least five or six times, mostly to add or drop classes, pay fees—that kind of thing. It was the Admin Building of Texas Prairie University—closed, of course. Nobody around.
Amelie’s guards had keys.
Inside, they didn’t proceed the way Claire had always been, toward the main processing area; instead, Amelie turned left, down a paneled hallway filled with the fading photographs of university presidents, donors, and not-very-famous alumni. It ended in what looked like a blank wall, except for an ornate brass lock plate.
This one Amelie herself unlocked, with a key she kept in the small clutch purse she carried. She didn’t bother to open it; she had people to do that for her. She merely handed it over. Claire trailed her into the next room and was surprised when only two of the guards came in behind her. One of them shut the door, which sounded like it locked with a snap.
They were in a plain concrete room with a white table that was, as far as Claire could tell, bolted to the floor, as were the two chairs on either side of it. There was a big steel ring locked onto the table on one side. Apart from that, it couldn’t have been more blank and boring.
Only two chairs. Claire wondered if she was supposed to sit across from Amelie, but no, that didn’t make any sense unless
It was a guilty relief to hear the sound of metal grinding and doors opening and closing somewhere else. Finally, a thick silver door on the far wall slid open and a guard came in, wearing not a black suit, but a black knit sports shirt and blue jeans. There was a hard-to-see emblem embroidered in the same color on the shirt. Amelie’s Founder symbol.
He was a vampire—that much was obvious from the unnatural shade of his skin—but other than that, he looked boringly mundane. An all-American kind of guy, no different from half the boys Claire went to college with daily. Neatly cut brown hair, a friendly and professional smile, a confident set to his expression. He looked more like a personal trainer than a prison guard.
He stepped aside, and Kim shuffled in.
Claire drew in a sharp breath. She remembered Kim way too well; she’d been a lying, traitorous bitch, but she’d started out okay enough. She’d always had a kind of bizarre charm, but there was no trace of that now. Her face was pale, set, and expressionless; Claire saw faces like that in the hospital when she’d visited her dad after his last heart attack. People who looked like that were focused on just getting through the minute, the hour, the day. They had no future and no hope of one.
Kim’s hair had grown out long around her shoulders, and part of it was still dyed Goth black, but the rest was dirty blond. Her visible piercings were no longer so visible, even in her ears, because she wore no jewelry at all. She was wearing a knit shirt like Mr. All-American, only hers was in bright yellow. The embroidery on the front read prisoner in giant black letters, with Amelie’s symbol up in the corner. Claire guessed it was the same on the back. She wore stretchy, yoga-style pants and sandals.
Her fingernails were short, and two were bleeding from where she’d bitten too deep. No funky nail polish now. Kim looked sad and alone and more than a little frightened, especially when she saw Claire and Amelie.
She fixed on Claire, though, and took a step forward. Her guard tapped her on the shoulder gently, and Kim looked away and went still. He guided her to the chair. Without a word, she sat and put her hands on the table.
He pulled out a set of handcuffs and hooked one to her right wrist and one to the steel ring on the table. Then he stepped back and turned into a parade-rest statue near the metal door.
Kim kept staring down. Where was all that bad attitude she’d displayed from the beginning? Or the bitterness? Or the crazy—that was what Claire remembered her best for at the end. Now she was just… empty.
Amelie said, “Claire, sit down. You wanted five minutes. You have them. I suggest you use them well.”
She hadn’t wanted it like this, with the two of them surrounded by staring, listening witnesses. Claire was suddenly very glad she’d spilled the beans to Amelie in the limo, because having this conversation while trying to hold all that inside would have been very difficult. Probably impossible.
Kim didn’t look up even when Claire sat down. She looked cold. “Kim?” No response. “Kim, you remember me, right?”
Kim looked up then, and her eyes were hot and angry. “Of course I do. Who forgets
