Kiss of Death Page 0,37

out. Or maybe it's those guys again," Claire said. "Shhh." She went to the curtains and peeked out, carefully. The light was dim in front of the door, but she saw someone slumped against the wall. Alone. "Just one guy--I can't really see him."

"So the serial killer option's still on the table? New rule. The door doesn't open." They both jumped as a fist thudded once on the door. "Let me in," Oliver's voice commanded. "Now."

"Oh," Eve said. "In that case, new rule. Also, technically, he is a serial killer, right?" Claire didn't really want to think too much about that one, because she was afraid Eve might have a point on that. She slipped back the locks and opened the door, and Oliver came into the room. He made it two steps before his knees gave out on him, and he fell. "Don't touch him!" Claire said as Eve slipped off the bed to approach him. She could see cuts and blood on him. "Get Michael. Hurry." That wasn't a problem; Michael and Shane were already opening their own door, and the four of them were standing together when Oliver rolled over on his side, then to his back, staring upward. He looked bad--pale, with open wounds on his face and hands. His clothes were cut, too, and there was blood soaked into them. He didn't speak. Michael dashed back into his room and came back with the cooler. He knelt next to Oliver and looked over his shoulder at the three of them. "You guys need to leave. Go next door. Now. Hurry." Shane grabbed the two girls and steered them out, closing the door behind him and leaving Michael alone with Oliver. Claire tried to turn around. "No, you don't," Shane said, and shepherded them into his room. "You know better. If he needs blood, let him get it from the cooler. Not from the tap."

"What happened to him?" Eve asked the logical, scary question, which Claire had been at some level trying not to face. "That's Oliver. Badass walking. And somebody did that to him. How? Why?"

"I think that's what we have to ask him," Shane said. "Providing he's not having a serious craving for midnight snacks."

"Damn," Eve said. "Speaking of that, I left the cookies. I could use another cookie right now. How screwed are we, anyway?"

"Given the car and whatever trouble Oliver stirred up? Pretty well screwed. But hey. That's normal, right?"

"Right now, I wish it really, really wasn't." They sat around playing poker until Michael came back, with Oliver behind him. He was upright and walking, though he looked as if he'd put his clothes through a shredder. He didn't look happy. Not that Oliver ever really looked happy when he wasn't playing the hippie role, but this seemed unhappy, plus. "We need to leave," he said. "Quickly."

"Well, that's a problem," Shane said, "seeing how our transpo out there is not exactly lightproof anymore, even if we didn't mind sitting on half-burned seats." Not even the trunk, anymore, thanks to the sledgehammer's work. "Plus, we've got t-minus two hours to sunrise. Not happening, anyway." Michael said, "Oliver, it's time to tell us why we came here in the first place. And what happened to you."

"It's none of your business," Oliver said. "Excuse me, but since you dragged us into it with you, I'd say it is our business now."

"Did my business destroy your car? No, that was your own idiocy. I say again, you don't need to know, and I don't need to tell you. Leave it." He sounded almost himself, but subdued, and he sat down on the edge of the bed as if standing tired him--not like Oliver. "Are you okay?" Claire asked. He looked up and met her eyes, and for a second she saw something terrible in him: fear--overwhelming, tired, ancient fear. It shocked her. She hadn't thought Oliver could really be afraid of anything, ever. "Yes," he said, "I'm all right. Wounds heal. What won't is what will happen if we remain trapped here. We can't wait for rescue from Morganville. We must get on our way before the next nightfall."

"Or?" Claire asked. "Or worse will happen. To all of us." He looked... haunted. And very tired. "I need to rest. Find a car."

"Ah--we're not exactly rolling in cash." Without a word, Oliver took out a wallet from his pants, grimaced at the scratches and tears in the leather, and opened it to reveal a bunch of crisp