As she walked out, she felt him watching her, but when she glanced back, he was concentrating on his folder again.
"Hey, Claire? Happy birthday."
She would not cry.
"Thanks," she whispered, and choked on the word as she opened the door and escaped from whatever awful thing she'd just brought to his desk.
It was nearly one o'clock when she made it back to Bishop's office - not so much because it was a long trip as because she had to stop, sit, and cry out her distress in private, then make sure she'd scrubbed away any traces before she headed back. Ysandre would be all over it if she didn't.
And Bishop.
Claire thought she did a good job of looking calm as Ysandre waved her back to the office. Bishop was just where he'd been, although the third vampire, the stranger, was gone.
Michael was still there.
Myrnin was trying to build an elaborate abstract structure out of paper clips and binder clips, which was one of his less crazy ways to pass the time.
"The prodigal child returns," Bishop said. "And how did Detective Hess take the news?"
"Fine." Claire wasn't going to give him anything, but even that seemed to amuse him. He leaned on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms, staring at her with a faint, weird smile.
"He didn't tell you, did he?"
"I didn't ask."
"What a civilized place Morganville is." Bishop made that into an insult. "Very well, you've done your duty. I suppose I'll have to keep my half of the bargain." He glanced at Myrnin. "She's your pet. Clean up after her."
Myrnin gave Bishop a lazy salute. "As my master commands." He stood with that unconscious vampire grace that made Claire feel heavy, stupid, and slow, and his bright black eyes locked with hers for a long moment. If he was trying to tell her something, she had no idea what it was. "Out, girl. Master Bishop has important work to do here."
What? she wondered. Working on his evil laugh? Interviewing backup minions?
Myrnin crossed the room and closed ice-cold fingers around her arm. She pulled in a breath for a gasp, but he didn't give her time to react; she was yanked along with him down the hall, moving at a stumbling run.
She looked back at Michael mutely, but he couldn't help her. He was just as trapped as she was.
Myrnin stopped only when there were two closed doors, and about a mile of hallway, between them and Mr. Bishop.
"Let go of me!" Claire spat, and tried to yank free. Myrnin looked down at her arm, where his pale fingers were still wrapped around it, and raised his eyebrows as if he couldn't quite figure out what his hand was doing. Claire yanked again. "Myrnin, let go!"
He did, and stepped back. She thought he looked disappointed for a flicker of a second, and then his loony smile was firmly in place. "Will you be a good little girl, then?" She glared at him. "Ah. Probably not. All right, then, on your head be it, Claire, and let's do our best to keep your head attached to the rest of you. Come. I'll take you to your boy, since evidently our mutual benefactor is in a giving sort of mood."
He turned, and the skirts of his frock coat flared. He was wearing flip-flops again, and his feet were dirty, though he didn't smell too bad in general. The layers of cheap metallic beads clicked and rattled as he walked, and the slap of his shoes made him just about the noisiest vampire Claire had ever heard.
"Are you taking your medicine?" she asked. Myrnin sent her a glance over his shoulder, and once again, she didn't know what that look meant at all. "Is that a no?"
"I thought you hated me," he said. "If you do, you shouldn't really care, should you?"
He had a point. Claire shut up and hurried along as he walked down a long, curved hallway to a big wooden door. There was a vampire guard on the door, a man who'd probably been Asian in his regular life, but was now the color of old ivory. He wore his hair long, braided in the back, and he wasn't much taller than Claire.
Myrnin exchanged some Chinese-sounding words with the other vampire - who, like Michael, sported Bishop's fang marks in his neck - and the vampire unlocked the door and swung it open.
This was as far as Claire had ever been able to get before. She felt a wave of heat race through her, and then she shivered. Now that she was here, actually walking through the door, she felt faintly sick with anticipation. If they've hurt him . . . And it had been so long. What if he didn't even want to see her at all?
Another locked door, another guard, and then they were inside a plain stone hallway with barred cells on the left side. No windows. No light except for blazing fluorescent fixtures far overhead. The first cell was empty. The second held two humans, but neither one was Shane. Claire tried not to look too closely. She was afraid she might know them.
The third cell had two small cots, one on each side of the tiny room, and a toilet and sink in the middle. Nothing else. It was almost painfully neat. There was an old man with straggly gray hair asleep on one of the beds, and it took Claire a few seconds to realize that he was Frank Collins, Shane's dad. She was used to seeing him awake, and it surprised her to see him so . . . fragile. So helpless and old.
Shane was sitting cross-legged on the other bed. He looked up from the book he was reading, and jerked his head to get the hair out of his eyes. The guarded, closed look on his face reminded Claire of his father, but it shattered when Shane saw her.