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He looked away. He knew, and I knew, that vampires didn't go easy from starvation; they lived a long, long time. And suffered. "Maybe he deserves it."
"Maybe," I agreed. "But if he does, he damn sure deserves the knife, too. And I don't want to wake up thinking of him down here screaming, do you?"
Pennyfeather took the decision out of our hands, because he opened his eyes, and snarled, and lunged up, claws outstretched.
And Michael acted completely out of reflex, defending himself and Eve. Quick and smooth and deadly accurate.
Pennyfeather hit the floor hard, and the silver began eating through his skin. His eyes stayed open. I didn't know if he was still alive, but I hoped not; either way, it didn't take long.
Frank's voice came back, weaker this time. "Time to leave," he said. "You need to go, now."
Michael left the knife in Pennyfeather's chest, took Eve in his arms, and led her to the portal. It rippled as they passed through without pausing.
That left just Claire and me staring at each other.
"Hey, Dad," I said to Frank. My voice sounded unexpectedly husky, and I cleared it. "Maybe this is wrong, but I think you tried to help me when the draug had me in their tanks. They were kil ing me and making me dream while they did it, only someone-someone kept trying to make me wake up. Was that you?"
Nothing. Silence. I listened to the distant drip of water for a while.
"Wel , if it was, thanks, I guess. It made me fight."
That summed up me and my dad perfectly. He made me fight, whether I wanted to or not, and whether it was for a cause I believed in or not.
He'd made me tough, and strong, and a survivor, and yeah, that was worthwhile, especially now that I had things to really fight for. Claire had quoted a writer named Hemingway to me, not so long ago: The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some people are strong at the broken places. I
don't think my dad ever read Hemingway, but he'd have liked him.
I spent another couple of seconds waiting for-I don't know, something-and then I turned to go.
And a grainy, shadowy, two-dimensional figure formed in front of me.
My father had chosen a younger version of himself than the age he'd been when he'd died, but it was still him-him from the last of the good times of my childhood. Relatively speaking. We stared at each other for a moment, and then his lips moved. I could just barely hear the scratchy words hissing out of an ancient speaker on the side of the machine across the room.
"I knew this day would come, Shane. That's why I sent you back here. To be here when everything went bad."
"The vampires," I said. It was always about the vampires with him. He blamed them for everything-for my sister's probably accidental death, for my mom's probable suicide, for his own drinking and bitterness and anger. And yeah, okay, maybe he was right, because Morganville was a toxic place. "They're out of control."
"Always were," he whispered. "Always wil be. Stop it. No matter what it costs. Burn the town around them if you've got to."
That was my dad. Always kil -'em-al -let-God-sort-'em-out. If a few innocents got caught in the inferno, well , col ateral damage.
"Claire, go," I said. She was crying, I realized, silent tears that ran in silver drops down her cheeks. I couldn't sometimes fathom allof the goodness inside of her, because who cried for my dad, for a brain in a jar who'd hardly ever been good for anybody?
Claire did. She was probably crying for Pennyfeather, too.
"Go," I said again, gently, and kissed her on the lips. "I'm right behind you."
She picked up her bow and arrow and-after a hesitation, grabbed the bulky machine thing that had affected Michael so strongly. Before I could wonder about that, she headed for the portal, but she paused there, looking back. "Come on," she said. "We go together."
I headed for the exit, walking right through Frank's image. It felt like a curtain of pins and needles, but I was used to pain, especially where it came to my dad.
He re-formed ahead of me, blocking the way to Claire. I kept walking, and he kept backing up, traveling smoothly as the ghost he was. "Son," he said, "I want to tellyou one thing. Just one."
"So do it."
"I'm proud of you," he said.
I came to a sudden and complete halt, staring at him-at the man I'd never really known, because he'd never let me know him; he'd treated me like a useful tool and potential enemy my whole life.
"You're different," he said. "You're better than I ever was. And I'm proud of you for being so strong. That's all. I just needed to tellyou, before the end."
He dissolved in electronic smoke. Gone.
"Dad?" I turned on my heel, my voice echoing through the cool, silent lab. "Dad?"
Nothing. Just...silence. That told me he had no further energy to spare, and we were out of time. The lights flickered, warning me of the same thing.
Claire suddenly said, "Oh no-Bob!"
"Bob?" I stared at her blankly, and she pointed across the lab.
Oh. The spider. I shook my head and jogged over to pick up the tank-which, except for the glass content, was light-and made damn sure the lid was on it tightly before carrying it to the portal. Claire waited anxiously as the lights continued to flicker, faster and faster.
I paused on the edge of the portal as she stepped through. I wanted to say something profound, but I'm not that guy, so I just said, awkwardly, "Okay, Dad. See you."
"See you." His voice sighed, and there was something wistful in his electronic voice.
I stepped through the portal into the cool, familiar air of the Glass House, and felt the thing snap shut-utterly shut-behind me. There was an almost physical sensation of disconnection, of the whole system just...dying.
I put my hand on the blank wal and concentrated, for a moment, on just breathing. You've lost him before, I told myself. He wasn't really there anyway.
But it had felt real to me when he'd said he was proud. Maybe I'd always craved that, needed it. Maybe he'd known it.
But despite the surge of sadness, there was something good about leaving him this time-something that felt final, and complete.
Maybe this was what allthose TV psych doctors meant when they talked about closure.
I put Bob's tank down on the dining room table, to Eve's muttered distress, and Claire quickly dumped the heavy, clunky machine on the coffee table, along with her bow and arrow. I noticed vaguely that it was pointed in my direction, but at the moment, that didn't mean anything-and neither did the prickly feeling that raced through me.
"You're all right?" Claire said, and stepped closer with an expression of pure concern. She looked...I can't explain it, exactly, but allof a sudden I felt a bolt of heat go through me like fire out of heaven, and, man, did I want her in allkinds of ways-right and wrong. She'd grown over the past year-filled out in curves that begged to be held and stroked, and this definitely wasn't the time, but allof a sudden I was considering not minding what was appropriate behavior.
"Fine," I said through a suddenly dry throat. "I mean, I wil be, anyway."
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I wish we could've done something."
"That's why I love you," I said, and reached over to brush her hair back from her face. "Because you care so much." Her gaze came up and hit mine, and more heat exploded through me like a bomb. I saw the shock wave of it in her eyes. Oh.
I really could not explain what was going on in my head and ricocheting around my body, but it was...good. Great, in fact. I fitted my hand around Claire's cheek and bent to kiss her. Her lips tasted like cherries and salt, sweet and tart together, and I growled somewhere deep and leaned in, pul ing her close. She was mine, mine, and that was allthat mattered. Myrnin had gone, vanished, and he wasn't any threat now. Some traitorous little whisper told me I could have asked Frank about him, about what had happened, but I hadn't wanted to know. He was gone.
And I had Claire, body and soul, and man, did I want her, right now. In so many ways.
"Hey," Michael said from somewhere behind me. "That's really sweet and all, but we just kil ed a guy and your dad-are you sure you want to be doing this now?"
He was dead right about that, but I couldn't take my hands away from her-or my lips. I'd somehow worked my thumbs under the tight knit of her shirt and found skin beneath, and I didn't want to let that go. The sensation of her fine, soft flesh, even that much of it, made me feel as if my head were on fire.
