Lord of Misrule Page 0,6

remained with her and Amelie--she knew the two vampires slightly. They were Amelie's personal bodyguards, and one of them, at least, had treated her kind of decently before.

The remaining human was a toughlooking African American woman with a scar across her face, from her left temple across her nose, and down her right cheek. She saw Claire watching her, and gave her a smile. "Hey," she said, and stuck out a big hand. "Hannah Moses. Moses Garage."

"Hey," Claire said, and shook hands awkwardly. The woman had muscles--not quite Shanequality biceps, but definitely bigger than most women would have found useful. "You're a mechanic?"

"I'm an everything," Hannah said. "Mechanic included. But I used to be a marine."

"Oh." Claire blinked.

"The garage was my dad's before he passed. I just got back from a couple of tours in Afghanistan--thought I'd take up the quiet life for a while." She shrugged. "Guess trouble's in my blood. Look, if this comes to a fight, stay with me, okay? I'll watch your back."

That was so much of a relief that Claire felt weak enough to melt. "Thanks."

"No problem. You're what, about fifteen?"

"Almost seventeen." Claire thought she needed a Tshirt that said it for her; it would be a great timesaver--that, or some kind of button.

"Huh. So you're about my kid brother's age. His name's Leo. I'll have to introduce you sometime."

Hannah, Claire realized, was talking without really thinking about what she was saying; her eyes were focused on Amelie, who had made her way around piles of books to the doorway on the far wall.

Hannah didn't seem to miss anything.

"Claire," Amelie said. Claire dodged piles of books and came to her side. "Did you lock this door when you left before?"

"No. I thought I'd be coming back this way."

"Interesting. Because someone has locked it."

"Myrnin?"

Amelie shook her head. "Bishop has him. He has not returned this way."

Claire decided not to ask how she knew that. "Who else--" And then she knew. "Jason." Eve's brother had known about the doorways that led to different destinations in town--maybe not about how they worked (and Claire wasn't sure she did, either), but he definitely had figured out how to use them. Apart from Claire, Myrnin, and Amelie, only Oliver had the knowledge, and she knew where he'd been since her encounter with Mr. Bishop.

"Yes," Amelie agreed. "The boy is becoming a problem."

"Kind of an understatement, considering he, you know . . ." Claire mimed stabbing with the stake, but not in Amelie's direction--that would be like pointing a loaded gun at Superman. Somebody would get hurt, and it wouldn't be Superman. "Um--I meant to ask, are you--?"

Amelie looked away from her, toward the door. "Am I what?"

"Okay?" Because she'd had a stake in her chest not all that long ago, and besides that, all the vampires in Morganville had a disadvantage, whether they knew it or not: they were sick--really sick--with something Claire could only think of as vampire Alzheimer's.

And it was ultimately fatal.

Most of the town didn't have a clue about that, because Amelie was rightly afraid of what might happen if they did-- vampires and humans alike. Amelie had symptoms, but so far they were mild. It took years to progress, so they were safe for a while.

At least, Claire hoped it took years.

"No, I doubt I am all right. Still, this is hardly the time to be coddling myself." Amelie focused on the door. "We will need the key to open it."

That was a problem, because the key wasn't where it was supposed to be. The key ring was gone from where Claire kept it, in a battered, sagging drawer, and the more Claire pawed through debris looking for it, the more alarmed she became. Myrnin kept the weirdest stuff. . . . Books, sure, she loved books; small, deformed dead things in alcohol, not so much. He also kept jars of dirt--at least, she hoped it was dirt. Some of it looked red and flaky, and she was really afraid it might be blood.

The keys were missing. So were a few other things--significant things.

With a sinking feeling, Claire pulled open the halfbroken drawer where she'd kept the bag with all the tranquilizer stuff, and Myrnin's drug supplies.

Gone. Only a scrape in the dust to indicate where it had been.

That meant that if--when--Myrnin turned violent, she wouldn't have her trusty dart gun to help her. Nor would she have even her trusty injectable pen, so cool, that she'd loaded up for emergencies, because it had been in