Bite Club Page 0,88

you're wrong," Amelie said. "Let's call it...motivation."

Claire felt an unexpected sense of sympathy for Kim's stricken expression.... She'd been there not long ago. She'd been under threat of death, or having her friends and family suffer, if she wasn't able to live up

to Amelie's expectations. It wasn't a comfortable place, especially if you weren't sure you could get it done.

But she just couldn't sympathize much in the end. Kim was a cold-blooded sociopath, at least as far as Claire was concerned, and she'd never shown any sign of remorse. No point in empathizing with someone who'd turn around and stick a knife in your back, with a smile.

Claire felt the minutes ticking away as the details were dealt with...the computer located, the Internet access enabled and hooked up, the security protocols negotiated. Then, finally, Mr. Martin moved out of the way and Kim sat down in front of the keyboard.

She drew in a breath, put her fingers on the keys, and said, "Okay, what's the URL?"

"ImmortalBattles-dot-com."

Kim typed it in, then flipped to a view of the code, then started up a new coding window.

"What are you doing?" Amelie asked.

"Running a trace route."

"And that is how you will find them."

Kim laughed. "No way in hell. A six-year-old could figure out a way around that. But it'll give me a starting point, and I can work from that."

Amelie settled back in her chair. Mr. Martin leaned over Kim's shoulder, watching the screen intently. If he didn't know what he was looking at, he gave a good imitation of it. Kim cast him doubting looks from time to time, and once he asked her to stop and explain what she was doing. She did it in quiet, calm tones, apparently creeped out by having him hovering so closely.

Claire sipped a cold drink that had been delivered by one of Amelie's guards and waited. She checked her watch from time to time, feeling useless and increasingly worried; every minute they sat here was another minute that something bad might be happening to Shane or to Michael.

She was also aware, though she didn't particularly want to be, that the minutes were counting down for Kim, who was looking paler with every tick of the second hand. Her fingers worked fast, blurring motion, then stopped and hovered indecisively as she leaned closer to the screen.

Thirty minutes. Forty. Forty-five. Claire drained her glass and felt the tension growing in the room. Mr. Martin, hanging over Kim's shoulder, glanced up at Amelie, who gave him some imperceptible signal Claire couldn't read. It probably wasn't good, at least for Kim.

Although Amelie never so much as glanced at a watch, it was exactly sixty minutes by Claire's timepiece when the Founder said, in precise and soft tones, "Your time is up, Kim."

Kim froze, then looked up with glittering eyes through the tangled hair that had fallen over her face. She shoved it back, and for the moment, at least, she looked defiant and unafraid. "Yeah? Well, good thing I'm done, then."

"Get up."

Kim did, and Mr. Martin moved her away from the computer and fastened handcuffs on her again, looping them through a solid ring set in the concrete wall. He studied the screen of the computer and said, "I have an address here. And a map."

"It had better be accurate," Amelie said. "I won't look kindly on misdirection."

"Do I get my day outside?" Kim said.

"Indeed, though you may not enjoy it," Amelie said. "You're coming with us. Mr. Martin, you're in charge of her. Claire, you also have responsibility. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes," Claire said. Mr. Martin nodded.

"Then put her in less...attention-getting clothing," Amelie said. "I have calls to make."

"Now, this is more like it," Kim said, once they were all inside the limousine again. It was a tight fit, with Mr. Martin and Kim added to Amelie, Claire, and the two other guards, but Amelie managed to arrange for her own personal space. It was the rest of them who were crowded. Kim was in the middle, but she didn't seem to care; she was busy running her hands over the plain black hoodie she'd been given to put on and the blue jeans. The Skechers had to be hers, from before; they looked ragged, well-worn, and had tribal patterns of black thorns and roses all over them, hand-painted. She'd tied her hair back in a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. No fancy hair things available, Claire guessed, or at least none Kim wanted to