"Because you put on the apron."
"Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you?"
"Guys," Claire said, drawing both of their stares. "Myrnin. Where are we going to put him?"
Before Oliver could answer, Myrnin pushed through the crowd in the tableandchairs area of Common Grounds and walked toward them. He seemed normal again, or as normal as Myrnin ever got, anyway. He'd begged, borrowed, or outright stolen a long, black velvet coat, and under it he was still wearing the poofy white Pierrot pants from his costume, dark boots, and no shirt. Long, black, glossy hair and decadently shining eyes.
Oliver took in the outfit, and raised a brow. "You look like you escaped from a Victorian brothel," he said. "One that . . . specialized."
In answer, Myrnin skinned up the sleeves of the coat. The wound in his back might have healed--or might be healing, anyway--but the burns on his wrists and hands were still livid red, with an unhealthy silver tint to them. "Not the sort of brothel I'd normally frequent, by choice," he said, "though of course you might be more adventurous, Oliver." Their gazes locked, and Claire resisted the urge to take a step back. She thought, just for a second, that they were going to bare fangs at each other . . . and then Myrnin smiled. "I suppose I should say thank you."
"It would be customary," Oliver agreed.
Myrnin turned to Claire. "Thank you."
Somehow, she guessed that wasn't what Oliver had expected; she certainly hadn't. It was the kind of snub that got most people hurt in Morganville, but then again, she guessed Myrnin wasn't most people, even to Oliver.
Oliver didn't react. If there was a small red glow in the depths of his eyes, it could have been a reflection from the lights.
"Um--for what?" Claire asked.
"I remember what you did." Myrnin shrugged. "It was the right choice at the moment. I couldn't control myself. The pain . . . the pain was extremely difficult to contain."
She cast a nervous glance at his wrists. "How is it now?"
"Tolerable." His tone dismissed any further discussion. "We need to get to a portal and locate Amelie. The closest is at the university. We will need a car, I suppose, and a driver. Some sturdy escorts wouldn't go amiss." Myrnin sounded casual, but utterly certain that his slightest wish would be obeyed, and again, she felt that flare of tension between him and Oliver.
"Perhaps you've missed the announcement," Oliver said. "You're no longer a king, or a prince, or whatever you were before you disappeared into your filthy hole. You're Amelie's exotic pet alchemist, and you don't give me orders. Not in my town."
"Your town," Myrnin repeated, staring at him intently. His face had set into pleasant, rigid lines, but those eyes--not pleasant at all. Claire moved herself prudently out of the way. "What a surprise! I thought it was the Founder's town."
Oliver looked around. "Oddly, she seems unavailable, and that makes it my town, little man. So go and sit down. You're not going anywhere. If she's in trouble--which I do not yet believe--and if there's rescuing to be done, we will consider all the risks."
"And the benefits of not acting at all?" Myrnin asked. His voice was wound as tight as a clock spring. "Tell me, Old Ironsides, how you plan to win this campaign. I do hope you don't plan to reenact Drogheda."
Claire had no idea what that meant, but it meant something to Oliver, something bitter and deep, and his whole face twisted for a moment.
"We're not fighting the Irish campaigns, and whatever errors I made once, I'll not be making them again," Oliver said. "And I don't need advice from a bluefaced hedge witch."
"There's the old Puritan spirit!"
Chapter Six
In an hour, the blush of dawn was already on the horizon, bringing an eerie blue glow to the night world. Somewhere out there, vampires all over town would be getting ready for it, finding secure places to stay the day--whatever side they were fighting on.
The ones in Common Grounds seemed content to stay on, which made sense; it was kind of a secured location anyway, from what Oliver and Amelie had said before--one of the key places in town to hold if they intended to keep control of Morganville.
But Claire wasn't entirely happy with the way some of those vampires--strangers, mostly, though all from Morganville, according to Eve--seemed to be whispering in the corners. "How do we know they're on our side?" she asked Eve, in a whisper she hoped would escape vampire notice.
No such luck. "You don't," Oliver said, from several feet away. "Nor is that your concern, but I will reassure you in any case. They are all loyal to me, and through me, to Amelie. If any of them `turn coats,' you may be assured that they'll regret it." He said it in a normal tone of voice, to carry to all parts of the room.
The vampires stopped whispering.
"All right," Oliver said to Claire and Eve. The light of dawn was creeping up like a warning outside the windows. "You understand what I want you to do?"
Eve nodded and gave him a sloppy, insolent kind of salute. "Sir, yes sir, General sir!"
"Eve." His patience, what little there was, was worn to the bone. "Repeat my instructions."