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It came again, a thumping knock on the front door. She yawned and pushed back the blanket that Michael had draped over her, and padded to the door still trying to rub the sleep out of her eyes.
She had to stand on tiptoes at the peephole to see out. Some guy, nobody that clicked any immediate recognition -- not Jason, at least. That was good. Claire looked over her shoulder, but there was no sign Michael had heard. She had no idea where he'd gone.
She opened the door. The guy standing outside looked up and held out a padded mailer with stickers on it; she took it and read her own name on it. "Oh," she said, preoccupied. "Thanks."
"No problem, Claire," he said. "Be seeing you."
There was something way too familiar about the way he said it. She jerked her head up, staring at him, but she still didn't know him. He was just ... normal. Average height, average weight, average everything. There was a silver bracelet on his wrist, so he was human, not vampire.
"Do I know you?" she asked. He tilted his head a little, but didn't answer. He just turned and walked away down the sidewalk, toward the street. "Hey, wait! Who are you?"
He waved and kept walking. She went a couple of steps outside into the early afternoon heat, frowning, but she'd left her shoes off and the concrete was blazing hot. No way could she run after him in bare feet, she'd fry like bacon.
She retreated back into the cool darkness of the house, and sighed in relief at the feeling of cool wood under her soles. She looked down at the envelope in her hand and suddenly wanted to drop it and step away. She didn't know who this guy was, and it was really strange that he wouldn't answer her. And strange, in Morganville, was rarely going to be a good thing.
She closed and locked the door, took a deep breath, and tore open the top of the envelope. No smell of blood or disgusting rotting things, which was a plus. She carefully squeezed the sides to open it up, and saw nothing in it but a note. She shook it out into her hand, and recognized the paper immediately -- heavy, expensive paper, cream-colored, embossed with the same logo that was on her gold bracelet.
It was a note from Amelie. Which meant the guy who'd dropped it off had to be somebody she trusted, at least that far.
"Everything okay?" Michael's voice from the end of the hall. Claire gasped, stuffed the paper back into the envelope, and turned to face him.
"Sure," she said. "Just mail."
"Good stuff?"
"Don't know yet, I haven't read it. Probably junk."
"Enjoy the fact that you don't have electricity, water, cable, internet and garbage to pay for," he said. "Look, I'm going upstairs. Yell if you need anything. There's stuff in the fridge if you're hungry." A brief pause. "Don't open the pitcher in the back on the top shelf."
"Michael, tell me you're not putting blood in our refrigerator."
"I told you not to open it. So you'll never know."
"You suck!" Of course he did, he was a vampire. "I mean, not in a good way, either!"
"Eat something! I'm sleeping." And she heard his door shut, so she was effectively alone.
Claire fumbled out the letter and unfolded it. A smell of faint, dusty roses came from the paper, like it had been stored in a trunk with dried flowers. She wondered how old it was.
It was a short, simple note, but it made her whole body turn cold.
It read, I am displeased with your progress in your advanced studies. I suggest you spend additional time learning all you can. Time is growing short. I do not care how you arrange this, but you will be expected to demonstrate at least a journeyman understanding of what you are being taught within the next two days. You cannot involve Michael. He is not to be risked.
Nothing else. Claire stared at the perfect handwriting for a few seconds, then folded the note up and put it back in the envelope. She still felt tired and hungry, but more than anything else, now she felt scared.
Amelie wasn't happy.
That wasn't good.
Two days. And Michael could only go with her in the evenings ...
She couldn't wait.
Claire checked in her backpack. The red crystal shaker was still inside, safely zipped into a pocket.
If she took Michael's car -- no, she couldn't. She'd never be able to see through the tinting, even if she felt confident in her ability to drive it. And Detective Lowe wasn't going to give her a ride. She could try Detective Hess, but Lowe's attitude had made her gun-shy.
Still, she couldn't just go out alone.
With a sigh, she called Eddie, the taxi driver.
"What?" he snapped. "Don't I get a day off? What is it with you?"
"Eddie, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I need a favor." Claire hastily checked her wallet. "Um, it's a short trip, I'll pay you double, okay? Please?"
"Double? I don't take checks."
"I know that. Cash."
"I don't wait. I pick up, I drop off, I leave."
"Eddie! Double! Do you want it or not?"
"Keep your panties on. What's the address?"
"Michael Glass's house."
Eddie heaved a sigh so heavy it sounded like a temporary hurricane. "You again. Okay, I come. But I swear, last time. No more Saturdays, yes?"
"Yes! Yes, okay. Just this time."
Eddie hung up on her. Claire bit her lip, slipped the note from Amelie into her bag, and hoped Michael had been serious about going to bed. Because if he'd eavesdropped on her, even by accident, she was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
It took five minutes for Eddie to arrive. She waited on the sidewalk, and jumped in the back of the battered old cab -- barely yellow, after so much sun exposure -- and handed Eddie all the cash she had. He counted it. Twice.
Then he grunted and flipped the handle on the taxi meter. "Address?"
"Katherine Day's house." One thing Claire had learned about riding with Eddie -- you didn't need numbers, only names. He knew everybody, and he knew where everybody lived. All the natives, anyway. The students, he just dropped on campus and forgot.
Eddie threw an arm over the back of his seat and frowned at her. He was a big guy, with a lot of wild dark hair, including a beard. She could barely see his eyes when he frowned, which was pretty much always. "The Day House. You're sure."
"I'm sure."
"Told you I'm not staying, right?"
"Eddie, please!"
"Your funeral," he said, and hit the gas hard enough to press her back into the cushions.
Chapter Twelve
Myrnin's shack was easy enough to get into -- the trick, after all, wasn't getting in. It was getting out. Light slashed in thin ribbons through the darkness where the boards didn't quite meet, but it wasn't exactly easy to see, and she didn't much like roaming around in Myrnin's lair in the dark. Or even half-dark. She found a flashlight on the shelf near the door and thumbed it on; a pure white circle of light brushed across the dusty floor, and showed her the narrow steps at the back that led down.
