Black Dawn

she liked that Naomi wasn’t, after all, attracted to Michael, as they’d all thought at first. “Uh, Naomi, do you know how to actually … fight?”

“But of course,” she said, and led the way inside. They entered a big square room, which was—and this, Claire thought, was no real surprise—stacked floor to ceiling with racks of boxes. Vampire paranoia really did have no limits. Naomi stopped at the first one and opened the hinged top of it. There were shotguns inside. She removed one, broke it open, and snapped it shut again with a practiced flick of her wrist as she smiled. “All vampires can fight,” she said. “I am less familiar with modern weapons, but blades do not work so well on the draug, as we found to our horror long ago.”

“What else did you use, the last time you fought them?” Claire asked. Naomi was opening another box. This one contained swords, and she shook her head sadly and let the lid fall shut.

“Courage,” she said. “Desperation. And a good deal of luck. Silver is the best charm we have, but it burns us as well. We’ve found nothing else that will hurt them but fire, which is dangerous enough for us, too …. Ah.” She flipped back the lid on yet another box and lifted out something that looked big, clumsy, and complicated, with tanks and a hose. Definitely a Myrnin invention, judging by the brass ornamentation on it, but beneath that it looked sleek and industrial. “As you see.”

“What is it?” Claire asked, frowning. It looked a little like one of those rocket jet packs that the science fiction movies loved so much.

“That,” Shane said, taking it from Naomi’s delicate hands, “is freaking awesome.”

“Yeah, but what is it exactly?” Claire asked.

“Flamethrower,” he said, and huffed with effort as he lifted it to his shoulders like a giant backpack. It had quick-release buckles that he did up around his chest and over his shoulders. “So this will work on the draug?”

“Yes,” Naomi said. “But be very careful. The draug are not only hiding in water, they are liquid—and when you touch liquid with fire it becomes steam. They can survive in the steam, for a short time. If you breathe it in, they will kill you very quickly from within. Even the touch of them on skin in any form is dangerous, to humans or vampires.”

Shane’s enthusiasm for the flamethrower dimmed, but he didn’t take it off. That, Claire thought, was because there was something incredibly macho about walking around with flammable weapons that she would never quite understand. If she’d tried it, it would have just made her totally aware of how non-flame-retardant she was. “Right,” Shane said. “Keep it at a distance.”

“And watch where you aim it, please,” Naomi responded coolly. “I believe I speak also for young Claire in that. Fire is no great friend to humans in battle, either.”

Claire rejected the crossbows that she found in the next container—silver-tipped, but they wouldn’t do nearly enough damage. They’d just punch right through the draug, which had a body consistency somewhere between Jell-O and mud, except for the master draug, Magnus. He was plenty strong. Strong enough to snap necks, say—something Claire was horribly familiar with and tried hard not to think about. At all.

“What about fire arrows?” Claire asked. “Would they work?”

“Not very well. The draug’s nature will douse small fires. Only something on the order of what Shane is carrying will truly damage them. Even, say, bottles of gasoline and fire—”

“We call those Molotov cocktails,” Shane said helpfully. Mr. Mayhem.

Naomi gave him a blank look and continued. “These would not do much to slow them down. It would be as if you threw the bottle into water; most likely the flame would simply be extinguished. Perhaps there might be some effect, but I doubt this is a time when you would prefer to experiment. There’s going to be little time to refine your techniques and tools in the heat of battle.”

“Well, I liked Myrnin’s shotgun shells,” Claire offered. “Has he made—”

“More? Yeah. Found it,” Shane called, leaning over another open crate. He fished out a handful of shells and held them up.

“Are you sure those aren’t just regular …”

Shane silently flipped one to her. On the casing was drawn, in black marker, the alchemical symbol for silver. Definitely Myrnin, because only he would think to write a warning that nobody but the two of them could possibly read. “How do you know what this means?”

Shane looked faintly injured. “I make it my business to know everything about silver. And I saw your notes. I study up on everything when it comes to your boss, anyway.” There was a flicker of jealousy about that, but she didn’t have time, or energy, to consider it very much. Not even whether she liked it.

“There must be hundreds of shells in there,” Claire said wonderingly, as she leaned over the crate. Her hair, growing longer now, brushed over her face, and she impatiently pushed it back. It needed a wash, and that made her yearn for a shower, but cold bottled-water rinses were all she could look forward to for a while. “I thought he used everything he had during the battle last night.”

“He’s worked straight through,” Naomi said. “Shut away in a room down the hall. He summoned guards to bring these here only an hour ago. I understand he has commandeered others to make these cartridges as well.”

When Myrnin worked that feverishly, it meant one of two things: he was desperately afraid, or he was in a severely manic phase. Or both. Neither was good. When he was afraid, Myrnin was very unpredictable. When he was manic, he was inevitably going to crash, hard, and there was no time for that now.

As if she’d read Claire’s thoughts, Naomi said, “He does need looking after, but it can wait until we find Theo.”

“Amelie’s that bad?” Shane asked.

“Yes. She is that bad, I’m afraid. If I still had a heart, it would ache for her, my brave and foolish sister. She should never have come after us. The law is the law. Those caught by draug are already dead. Rescuing us put all others at risk.”

Claire stopped loading shotgun shells into her messenger bag to stare. “She saved you. And Michael. And Oliver.”

“It doesn’t matter who she saved. The point is that she allowed herself, our queen, to be put at risk for others, and that is foolish, and emotional. The time of Elizabeth in armor is long over. Queens have ever ruled far from the battles.”

“News flash, lady. There are no queens anymore,” Shane said. He loaded shells in a shotgun and snapped it shut, then searched for a place to strap it on that didn’t interfere with the flamethrower. “No queens, no kings, no emperors. Not in America. Only CEOs. Same thing, but not so many crowns.”

“Vampires will always have rulers,” Naomi said. “It is the order of things.” She said it like the sky was blue, a plain and obvious fact. Shane shrugged and gave Claire a look; she shrugged back. Vamp politics were so not their business. “Come. We must find the doctor.”

Shane shook his head. “He’s the only one you have?”

“No,” Naomi said, “but he is the best, and the only one we have who has moved somewhat beyond medieval techniques of bleeding and cupping.” She handed Claire a shotgun and gave her a doubtful look. “You can shoot?”

Claire nodded as she loaded the cartridges. “Shane taught me.” Not that it was easy for someone her size; a shotgun packed a hard kick to the shoulder, and she’d always come away from practice bruised and aching. Naomi was even more frail, but Claire was willing to bet that it would be nothing for her.

Shane settled his flamethrower more comfortably on his shoulders. “Ladies? After you.”

“Rude,” Claire said.

“I was being polite!”

“Not when you have a flamethrower.”

CHAPTER TWO MICHAEL