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"Great," Shane said. "Look, I'd rather not be on janitorial duty. I have allergies to cleaners."
"And to cleaning," Michael said.
"Look who's talking. Didn't they do one of those Animal Planet documentaries about the roaches in your room?"
Myrnin gave a frustrated growl and crossed to the other side of the room, next to the industrial shelving that held bleach, gloves, scrub brushes, and other things that Claire didn't think were going to be of much use against the draug. There was one uncluttered wall, and he faced it, took a shallow breath, and closed his eyes.
The wall wavered, as if a heat wave had passed over it, but then it solidified again into just ... a wall, plain white, with the usual scuffs and dings any wall got over time. Claire poked it experimentally. Paint over drywall over boards. "I don't think that's working," she said. "Isn't Frank still, you know, on duty?"
"On and off," Myrnin said. He tried again, with the same results-a flicker that might have signaled the establishment of a portal to another location, but too brief and unstable to step through. If it went where it was supposed to go, which might not have been the case. "Frank has been unreliable of late, to be perfectly honest."
Frank was the town's computer nerve center-literally. He was a brain wired into Myrnin's computer in his lab, a sinister mixture of steampunkish brilliance and vampiric blood. Frank had started out a Morganville native, then left town, then came back at the head of a motorcycle gang to try to take it over. That hadn't gone well, and he'd ended up a vampire himself ... the last thing he'd ever wanted to be. From there, he'd become a brain in a jar, mainly because Myrnin had needed one and Frank's had been not quite dead enough.
Oh, and Frank Collins was-had been? still was?-Shane's father, a fact that had haunted Claire for a long time since she'd discovered what Myrnin had done, since Shane had thought his father was completely dead and gone. The discovery hadn't gone over well, and even now, at the mention of his dad's name, Shane's face went stiff and blank, as if he'd reached for a mask. Self-defense. Frank hadn't exactly been Father of the Year even before he'd taken up running with bikers and hunting vampires, much less become one.
"What's wrong with Frank?" Shane asked. "Too much vodka in his blood smoothies? Or is he just being his usual bastard self?"
"Shane," Claire murmured, half in reproof and half in sympathy. There really had never been all that much about his dad that she could find to like, and she tried to find something good in everyone. Frank had been drunk, abusive, and angry when he was a human; as a vampire, he'd been mostly suicidal from rage over his conversion. He'd hurt Shane, a lot, but a son never stopped loving a father, she supposed. Even if he didn't want to.
"He's been having trouble adapting," Myrnin said. "I fear Frank won't be able to bear the strain of disembodiment for too much longer. I'll have to disconnect him and look for a new subject unless he stabilizes soon." He must have thought about that for a second, because he said, not as if he really meant it, "Sorry."
Even though he wasn't glancing her way, Claire felt a kind of pressure settle on her; Myrnin's original plan, which she very well knew, was that she would be the one to end up in the center of his machine, the eyes and ears and nervous system of Morganville. It wasn't a role she ever wanted to play, and he knew that.
It didn't mean he'd really given up his dream, though.
Though he might have been halfheartedly apologizing to Shane, too. Who knew?
After another try, Myrnin sighed and shook his head. "The portals aren't working," he said. "We will have to go in vehicles. It's not my preference, but it's the best option we have. Going on foot is a ridiculous risk. We will certainly need a fast escape route."
"Lucky for you I have a bitchin' pickup downstairs," Shane said. "Which provides an excellent fire platform for a flamethrower, by the way."
"I was thinking more along the lines of a tank," Myrnin said. "Pity we don't have one."
"Actually," Michael said slowly, his forehead creased in thought, "we just might. Follow me."
Anything was better, Claire thought, than the smelly, chemical-heavy cleaner's closet, and she sucked down a deep, clean breath of air once they were back in the hall. It made her cough. She could almost imagine her breath puffing out the sickly gold color of Pine-Sol. Her clothes reeked of the stuff. She didn't know if it was bothering any of the others, but it definitely wasn't her favorite smell in the world, especially in that intense burst.
Michael led them down to the elevators and pressed the button for the parking garage. He looked ... well, smug. Definitely smug.
"Spill it," Shane said. "You look like you won a year's shopping spree at the blood bank or something."
"You'll see," he said, and then the elevator doors dinged and rolled open ...
... And Eve was standing there. She was wet and muddy, and there were four other vampires with her. She actually took a surprised step back when she saw Michael.
And he took the same step back when he saw her.
Oh, so not good. Claire's heart practically ripped in half at the expression on Eve's face-a fast-changing mixture of longing, anger, fear, love, and finally, sadness. She reached up and pulled her earplugs out and said, "Sorry-I was just surprised."
Michael didn't answer. He was looking ... well, sick was probably the only word for it. Myrnin ignored the whole thing and pushed past him, out of the elevator. Shane, after a hesitation, followed, with Claire. Michael stepped out last, and only because the doors started to shut on him.
In the sudden and uncomfortable silence, the brown-haired vamp standing next to Eve took his headphones off and said, "Is there some problem?" He was talking to Michael, but he was looking at Eve.
"No," she said, and smiled brightly. "Thanks, Stephen. It's all good. You guys go on."
"Good work," said the tall, dark-haired vampire woman, and opened the elevator doors again for the four of them to step inside while Eve lingered behind. "Call on us anytime, Eve."
She nodded without taking her gaze off Michael, her dark eyes large and unreadable now.
"Making new friends?" he asked her. No mistaking the jealousy in that tone. "Stephen? I thought you were off vampires."
"Lighten up," Eve said. "I saved his life. It's not like we're going out."
Even Shane winced at that one. Michael didn't. He remained stone-faced, staring at his girl, and then he shrugged and said, "Well, you can go with your new friends or come with us. Your choice, I guess."
"Where are we going?" Eve asked, like it wasn't even a real question. Which it probably wasn't.
"The water treatment plant," Myrnin said. "I'll catch you up if you'd like."
"That's-okay," Eve said, and held up a hand when he would have kept talking. "I'm so not in the mood, Chatty Batty. Just hand me something to do."
"Oh," he said, and rubbed his hands together, "I think I can do that. Yes, absolutely. Michael? If you would lead on, please?"
Michael was no longer smug, but he led them toward the far end of the garage. It felt oppressive and damp down here, and smelled of wet concrete and mold-smells that reminded Claire vividly of the draug, the pool, the horrific fight to survive.
The fear.
She took hold of Shane's hand, which was strategically stupid but emotionally smart; his warm, steady grip anchored her and made her feel less out of control. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he didn't let go.
A boxy gray shape loomed up in the dark, and Myrnin said, "Ahhhhh," in the way people do when they finally understand something. Claire squinted, but couldn't see much until Eve flicked on her flashlight and cast a harsh white glare over the gunmetal gray surface.
It was an armored cash truck, with some logo on it that was too sun-faded to read. It had a thick metal hide and a very intimidating door on the back.
"Nice. Gun ports," Shane said, flicking a fingernail at a round metal covering on the side of the truck. "Heavy steel. Run-flat tires. Bullet-resistant glass. Me likey, Mikey."
"It's a tank," Michael said. "Or at least as close as we're likely to get around here."
"Pop quiz," Eve said, and held up her black-fingernailed hand like a kid in school. "Does this thing actually, y'know, run?"
