Fall of Night The Morganville Vampires - By Rachel Caine Page 0,88
loose-limbed stride. He found a set of stairs down, and took them; at the end of the concrete landing lay an unmarked set of double doors, painted a dull beige. There wasn’t a handle, only an inset keyhole. He frowned at it for a few seconds, then – once again – took the most direct method of dealing with the problem. He punched the door. His fist went entirely through the thin metal, and he took hold of the jagged opening and yanked. Something broke, probably the lock, and the doors sagged open.
All the punching was, Claire realised, not without some cost to him; his hand was bloody, and the knuckles looked misshapen. He winced a little and pressed down on some of the knuckles until bones snapped back into place, then wiped the cuts clean on his filthy clothes. They’d already closed up. He met Claire’s wide-eyed stare for a moment, and gave her a sinister little smile. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘It’s your friend we’re after. Perhaps you should get on with it.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ Jesse said. ‘He’s always been a mean, narrow man. I really don’t know what anyone sees in him.’
‘Quiet. You were only queen for nine days. And you only survived your own execution by Amelie’s intervention, or you’d not be here berating me. Beheading is final for humans and vampires.’
That, Claire thought, was the beginning of an interesting story that didn’t seem to match with Jesse’s vibrant modern outlook, but there wasn’t time to ask questions.
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the others?’ Claire asked.
‘Do you want your friend alive?’ Oliver asked, which settled the question, pretty much. Pete, Shane and Michael would have to catch up.
The mechanical room was dark and cool, but Eve had handily brought along some small LED flashlights, which she and Claire used to good effect as the vampires went ahead through the dark. The noise from the air handlers, which had been soft outside, rose to a dull roar as they edged past rows of colour-coded pipes and metal conduits; after a brief, burning brush with the uninsulated curve of one of the pipes, Claire got a lot more careful. There were plenty of sharp edges, too. It would be a dangerous place to have a fight – too many things you could bang into, and burn flesh on. Clumsiness would be just as deadly as an opponent.
But no opponents presented themselves. It was just pipes and conduits, control panels, softly glowing indicators and lights, and not much else. It wasn’t even dusty. Claire did spot a rat staring at them in surprise (and probably outrage) from the top of one cluster of conduits; it ran off as soon as she looked at it, probably to spread the word among the Kingdom of Rats that probably existed down here … and her chattering brain was momentarily distracted by the image of a King Rat sitting on a throne, with a giant crown, surrounded by a bunch of other rats all secretly plotting to kill him and take his place. Because if she’d learnt anything from being in Morganville, it was that a ruler could never, ever relax.
Oliver suddenly paused, and so did Jesse, who’d moved up next to him; her pale, slender hand came up in a clenched fist, in a gesture that Claire knew from hanging out with Shane meant stop right now and hold. She and Eve paused and stood ready for anything, and after a moment Jesse nodded to Oliver and pointed to her own chest, then off to the right. He nodded back. She flitted away into the shadows.
Oliver turned and pointed to Claire, then gestured imperatively for her to go ahead of him.
As bait?
It didn’t seem like the moment to have an argument, since everything was being done in such silence. Claire edged out ahead of him with her LED light pointed down toward her feet; it served only to make the darkness around her seem more dense and choking. She narrowly avoided a dangerous eye-level collision with a protruding metal corner, ducked, and crept forward. The ceiling was getting lower, it seemed, and she could hear a faint squeaking sound that she assumed was more rats sounding an alarm.
Claire swept the light forward, trying to see where she was going, and … and there was Derrick.
Derrick was dead. Drained white. And there were huge, unreal puncture marks in his neck, and ragged skin around them. One single drop of red had trailed down his neck