Kiss of Death tmv-8 Read online

  “Oh no,” Eve whispered.

  Michael was standing in a wash of moonlight, facing not just one vampire, but three. Morley—a ragged, rough vampire who rocked the homeless look, although Claire knew he actually did have a home—was standing there, with two of his crew. He had quite a number of them, disaffected vampire youth, although youth was a relative term when you talked about vampires. It was mostly a matter of status, not just age; the have-nots, or the ones feeling squeezed by those who had power over them.

  They also had a human with them.

  Jason.

  And he wasn’t there voluntarily, as far as Claire could tell. One of the vampires had a hand around his arm in what looked like a friendly grip but was probably bone-crushing hard.

  “Jase,” Eve whispered. “Oh God. I told you to be careful! ”

  Shane left the door, came into the living room, and dragged a black canvas bag out from under a chair. He unzipped it and took out a small crossbow, cranked it back, and loaded it with an arrow. He tossed silver-coated stakes to Claire and Eve, then joined them at the window. “So,” he said, “your brother’s already said he was a vampire wannabe. Does he need rescuing, or is this his idea of a really great date?”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Eve said, and gripped the stake so hard her whole hand turned paler than normal. “They wouldn’t turn him, anyway. They’ll just drain him.” It was a lot of work for a vampire to turn a human, and from what Claire had seen, they didn’t seem all that eager to go through it themselves. It hurt. And it took something out of them. The only one she’d ever seen take any real pleasure out if had been Mr. Bishop, Amelie’s vile, old vampire father. She’d seen him turn Shane’s father, and that had been—horrible. Really horrible.

  This was why Shane, however he felt about Jason Rosser, was loading up a crossbow, and was more than prepared to use it.

  “What’s Michael doing?”

  “Talking sense,” Shane said. “It’s always his A game. For him, it usually works. Me, I’m usually Plan B, all the time.”

  “B for brute force?” Eve said. “Yep, that’s you.”

  Shane slotted the arrow in place and raised the window sash. He kicked out the screen on the other side and aimed the crossbow right at Morley.

  Morley, who was dressed in clothes that seemed pieced together out of rags, except for one brand-new Hawaiian shirt in disgustingly bright shades of neon, looked straight at the window, smiled, and tipped his head just a little in acknowledgment.

  “Just so we’re clear, bloodsucker,” Shane said.

  “Can he hear you?”

  “He hears every word. Hey, Morley? I will put this right between your ribs, you got me?”

  Once again, Morley nodded, and the smile stayed in place.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Eve whispered. “Threatening him, I mean?”

  “Why not? Morley speaks fluent threat.”

  It went on for a while, all the talking; Shane never took his eyes off Morley. Claire kept her hand on him, somehow feeling as if that were helping—helping them both—and finally Morley made some polite little bow to Michael, then waved at the other vampire, who was holding Jason.

  The vampire let go. Jason stumbled backward, then took off at top speed, running flat out down the street. The vampires watched him. Nobody followed.

  Eve breathed a slow sigh of relief and leaned against the wall.

  Shane didn’t move. He still had the crossbow aimed at Morley’s chest.

  “Emergency’s over,” Eve said. “Stand down, soldier.”

  “Go open the door. I stand down when Michael’s back inside.” Shane smiled, all teeth. Not quite as menacing as a vampire smile, but it got the point across. Eve nodded and ran to the door. Once it was open, Michael—still looking cool and calm—backed in, said good night, and shut the door. Claire heard him shooting the locks, and still Shane kept his aim steady until Morley, touching a finger to his brow, turned and walked off into the dark with his two followers.

  Claire slammed down the window, locked it, and Shane let out his breath in a slow sigh, removing the arrow from the bow. “Nothing like a little after-dinner terrification,” he said, and gave Claire a quick kiss. “Mmmm, you still taste like brisket tacos.”

  She would have called him a jerk, but she was shaking, and she was too short of breath, anyway. He was already down the hall by the time she pulled in enough air, and she used it to follow him. Michael was standing beside Eve, an arm tight around her waist.

  “So?” Shane asked. “What’s Morley hanging around for? Waiting for us to get ripe?”

  “You know what he was here for,” Michael said. “We haven’t gotten his people passes to leave town yet, which is what you promised him in return for not killing you three when he had the chance. He’s getting impatient, and since you three are on the hook as his own personal blood donors, I think we need to get serious about making that happen.”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “No? Can’t say that I agree with you. Morley isn’t afraid of much that I can tell, including Amelie, Oliver, or a wooden arrow in the heart.” Michael nodded at Shane. “Still. Thanks. Nice.”

  “Brute force. It’s what I do.”

  “Just keep it aimed the right way.”

  Shane looked as innocent as Shane ever could and put his hand over his heart. “I would never. Unless you flash fang at me again, or ever tell me to stay with the girls. Except for that.”

  “Cool. Let’s go shoot some undead things on the TV, then.”

  “Loser.”

  “Not if I win.”

  “Like that ever happens.”

  2

  The next day, Claire had classes at Texas Prairie University, which was always a mixture of fascinating and annoying; fascinating, because she’d managed to finagle her way into a lot of advanced classes she really didn’t have the prerequisites for, and annoying because those not in the know about Morganville in general—which was most of the students at the school—treated her like a kid. Those who didn’t, and knew the score about the vampires and the town of Morganville itself, mostly avoided her. It occurred to her, the second time somebody tried to buy coffee for her but not make eye contact, that some people in town still looked at her as important—as in Monica Morrell-level important.

  This seriously pissed off Monica, Queen Bee of the Morganville Under-Thirty set. Still, Claire had come a long way from the clueless early-admission freshman she’d been last year. When Monica tried to bully her—which was virtually certain to happen at least a couple of times every week—the outcome wasn’t usually in Monica’s favor, or always in Claire’s, either. But still, a draw was better than a beat-down, in Claire’s view. Everybody was left standing.

  Claire’s first stop was at the campus student store, where she bought a new backpack—sturdy, not too flashy, with lots of pockets inside and out. She ducked into the next bathroom she found to transfer the contents of her taped-together book bag to the new one, and almost threw the old one away ... but it had a lot of sentimental value, somehow. Ripped, scuffed, stained with all kinds of things she didn’t want to remember, but it had come with her to Morganville, and somehow she felt that throwing it away would be throwing away her chance of ever getting out of here.

  Crazy, but she couldn’t help it.

  In the end, she stuffed the rolled-up old backpack into a pocket of the new one, hefted the weight, and jogged across campus to make her first class of the day.

  Three uneventful (and mostly boring) hours later, she ran into Monica Morrell, who was sitting on the steps of the Language Arts building, sunglasses on, leaning back on her elbows and watching people go by. One of her lipstick mafia girls was with her—Jennifer—but there was no sign of the other one, Gina. As always, Monica looked expensive and perfect—Daddy’s estate must be holding up well no matter what the economy dudes were saying on TV—and Jennifer looked as though she shopped the cheap knockoffs of what Monica bought for full price. But
they both looked good, and about every thirty seconds some college boy stopped to talk to them, and almost always got shot down in flames. Some of them took it okay. Some of them looked as if they were one more rejection from ending up on a twenty-four-hour channel as breaking news.

  Claire was heading up the steps, ignoring them, when Jennifer called out brightly, “Hey, Claire! Good morning! ”

  That was creepy enough to stop Claire right in her tracks. She looked over, and Jennifer was waving.

  So was Monica.

  This, from the two girls who’d punched and kicked her, thrown her down a flight of stairs, abducted her at least twice, threatened her with knives, tried to set her house on fire ... yeah. Claire didn’t really feel like redefining the relationship on their new buddy-buddy terms.

  She just gave the two of them a long look, and kept on up the stairs, trying to focus on what it was she was supposed to remember today about early American literature. Nathaniel Hawthorne? So last week ...

  “Hey!” Monica grabbed her two steps from the top, yanking on the strap of her new book bag to drag her to a halt. “Talking to you, bitch!”

  That was more like it. Claire glanced down at Monica’s hand and raised her eyebrows. Monica let go.

  “I figured it couldn’t be me,” she said. “Since you were acting so nice and all. Had to be some other Claire.”

  “I just thought since the two of us are more or less stuck with each other, we might as well try to be friendly, that’s all. You didn’t have to act as if I stole your boyfriend or something.” Monica smiled slowly and pulled her sunglasses down to stare over the top. Her big, lovely blue eyes were full of shallow glee. “Speaking of that, how is Shane? Getting bored with the after-school special yet?”

  “Wow, that’s one of your better insults. You’re almost up to junior high level. Keep working on it,” Claire said. “Ask Shane yourself if you want to know how he’s doing. I’m sure he’d be glad to tell you.” Colorfully. “What do you want?”

  “Who says I want something?”

  “Because you’re like a lion. You don’t bother to get up unless you’re getting something out of it.”

  Monica smiled even wider. “Hmmm, harsh, but accurate. Why work harder than you have to? Anyway, I hear you and your friends made a deal that’s getting you into trouble. Something with that skanky homeless Brit vamp—what’s his name? Mordred?”

  “Mordred is from the King Arthur stories. It’s Morley.”

  “Whatever. I just wanted to tell you that I can take care of it for you.” Her smile revealed teeth, even and white. “For a price.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see that coming,” Claire said with a sigh. “How are you going to take care of it, exactly?”

  “I can get him the passes out of town he wants. From my brother.”

  Claire rolled her eyes and adjusted her book bag a little more comfortably on her shoulder. “Meaning what? You’re going to forge his signature on a bunch of photocopies that will get everybody thrown in jail except you? No thanks. Not interested.” Claire had no doubt that whatever Monica was offering, it wasn’t real; she’d already talked to Monica’s brother, Mayor Richard Morrell, several times about this and gotten nowhere. But Monica liked to pretend she had “access”—with full air quotes. “If that’s all, I’ve got class.”

  “Not quite,” Monica said, and the smile vanished. “I want the answers to the final exam in Lit 220. Get them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding? Get them, or—well, you know what kind of or there is, right?” Monica pushed the sunglasses back up. “Get them to me by Friday or you’re fried, special needs.”

  Claire shook her head and took the last two steps, walked to her class, dumped her bag at her lecture hall seat, and sat down to think things over.

  By the time class began, she had a plan—a warm, fuzzy plan.

  Some days, it was absolutely worth getting out of bed.

  When Claire got home, the sun was slipping fast toward the horizon. It was too early for most vampires to be out—not that they burst into flames that easily; most of the older ones were sort of flame-retardant-but she kept a sharp lookout, anyway. Instead of going straight to the Glass House, she turned at the cross street and went a few more blocks. It was like déjà vu because her parents’ house looked almost exactly like the Glass House; a little less faded, maybe. The trim had been painted a nice dark green, and there were fewer bushes around the windows, different porch furniture, and a couple of wind chimes; Claire’s mom loved wind chimes, especially the big, long ones that rang those deep bell sounds.

  As Claire climbed the steps to the porch, a gust blew by her, sounding the bells in a chorus. She glanced up at the sky and saw clouds scudding by fast. The weather was changing. Rain, maybe. It already felt cooler.

  She didn’t knock, just used her key and went right in, dumping her backpack in the entry hall. “Hey, I’m home!” she yelled, and locked the door behind her. “Mom?”

  “Kitchen,” came the faint yell back. Claire went down the hall—same as in the Glass House, but Mom had covered this version with photos, framed ones of their family. Claire winced at her junior high and high school photos; they were unspeakably geeky, but she couldn’t convince Mom to take them down. Someday, you’ll be glad I have them, Mom always said. Claire couldn’t imagine that would ever be true.

  The living room was, again, disorientingly familiar; instead of the mismatched, comfortable furniture of the Glass House, the stuff from Claire’s childhood occupied the same space, from the old sofa to her dad’s favorite leather chair. The smells coming from the kitchen were familiar, too: Mom was making stuffed bell peppers. Claire fortified herself, because she couldn’t stand stuffed bell peppers, but she almost always ate the filling out of them, just to be nice.

  “Why couldn’t it be tacos?” She sighed, just to herself, and then pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Hi, Mom, I’m—”

  She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, because Myrnin was sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. Myrnin the vampire. Myrnin her boss. Crazy mad scientist Myrnin. He had a mug of something that had better not be blood in front of him, and he was almost dressed like a sane person—he had on frayed blue jeans, a blue silk shirt, and some kind of elaborate tapestry vest over it. He wore flip-flops for shoes, of course, because he seemed to really love those. His hair was long around his shoulders, black and glossy and full of waves, and his big, dark eyes followed Claire’s mother as she busied herself at the stove.

  Mom was dressed the way Mom usually dressed, which was way more formal than people Claire’s era would ever think was appropriate for lounging around the house. A nice pair of dress pants, a boring shirt, mid-heeled shoes. She was even wearing jewelry—bracelet and earrings, at least.

  “Good evening, Claire,” Myrnin said, and transferred his attention over to her. “Your mother’s been very kind to me while I waited for you to get home.”

  Mom turned, and there was a false brightness to her smile. Myrnin made her nervous, although Myrnin was obviously making a real effort to be normal. “Honey, how was school?” She kissed Claire on the cheek, and Claire tried not to squirm as her mom rubbed at the lipstick mark left on her skin. At least she didn’t use spit.

  “School was great,” Claire said, which completed the obligatory school conversation. She got a Coke from the fridge, popped the top, and settled in across the table from Myrnin, who calmly sipped from his coffee cup. “What are you doing here?”

  “Claire!” her mother said, sounding a little scandalized. “He’s a guest!”

  “No, he’s my boss, and bosses don’t drop in on my parents without an invitation. What are you doing here?”

  “Dropping in on your parents without an invitation,” Myrnin said. “I thought it would be good to get to know them better. I’ve been telling them how satisfied I am with the work you’ve been doing. Your research is some of the best I’ve ever seen.”


  He really was on his best behavior. That didn’t even sound a little crazy; overdone, maybe, but not crazy.

  “I’m off today,” Claire pointed out. Myrnin nodded and rested his chin on his hand. He had a nice smile, when he chose to use it, as he did now, mostly directed at Claire’s mother, who brought over a coffeepot and refilled his cup.

  Oh, good. Not anything red being served, then.

  “Absolutely. I know you had a full class schedule today,” he said. “This is a purely social call. I wanted to reassure your parents that all was going well for you.” He looked down into his coffee. “And that what happened before would never happen again.”

  What happened before was code for the bite marks on her neck. The wounds were healed, but there was a scar, and as she thought about it, her hand went up and covered the scar, on its own. She forced it back down. Her parents didn’t have any idea that Myrnin was responsible for that; they’d been told that it had been some other random vamp, and that Myrnin had helped save her. It was partly true, anyway. Myrnin had helped save her. He’d just also been the one to bite her.

  Not that it had really been his fault. He’d been hurt, and desperate, and she’d just been there. At least he’d stopped himself in time.

  She certainly hadn’t been able to stop him.

  “Thanks,” she said. She couldn’t really be mad at him, not for any of it. It would have been easier if she could have. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Me? Delicious as it smells, I fear I’m not one for bell peppers,” he said, and stood up with one of those graceful moves vampires seemed so good at pulling off. They moved like humans, but better. “I’d better take my leave, Mrs. Danvers. Thank you so much for your hospitality, and the delicious coffee. Please tell your husband I thank him as well.”

  “That’s it?” Claire asked, mystified. “You came to talk to my parents, and now you’re leaving?”