Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(113)

Michael growled something, but he was already losing his ability to function; he went down to one knee, then pitched forward to his hands, and then slowly sank down on his side. His back arched in a silent scream.

Claire dropped the bat and tried to go to him, but Shane caught her by the waist and lifted her up to stop her. She kicked and twisted, but he held her. “You get close to him, he could finish the job,” he said. He slung her around and sent her stumbling well away from Michael, and from himself. “You came to get Myrnin. Go get him. I’ll cover you.”

There was still no hint of forgiveness in him, either for Claire or—as he looked at his fallen, suffering friend—for Michael. He was here to fulfill a duty as he saw it, and that was all.

But it was more than she’d ever expected. It was something.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Shane nodded, not meeting her eyes, and racked the second tranquilizer dart into place as he watched Michael writhe painfully on the ground.

Claire raced over the uneven graves toward the white tree; even uncovered, the silver grate, circular with bars that formed a simple cross, was almost invisible until she nearly stepped onto it. That would have probably broken her ankle. The grate was locked in place with an old, rusted lock, and Claire whaled at it frantically with the silver-tipped bat until it broke in two.

She threw back the cold, tarnished metal and tried to see into the dark. Nothing. Not even a hint of life.

“Myrnin?” She shouted it down. She had to cover her nose from the smell that rose up from the narrow little hole—rot, sewage, mold, a toxic brew of the worst things she could imagine. “Myrnin! Can you hear me?”

Something thumped down on the ground next to her, and Claire looked up to see that Shane had tossed over a coil of nylon rope he’d retrieved from the weapons bag. She nodded and unwrapped it, tied off one end around the dead tree, and dropped the other down into the hole. “If you can hear me, grab the rope, Myrnin! Climb!”

She wasn’t sure for long moments whether he was there, or even whether he could get out. Maybe it was too late. Maybe he was already gone.

But then she felt the rope suddenly pull taut, and in seconds, she saw something pale appear in the dark below, gradually becoming clearer as it moved up toward her.

Myrnin climbed as if he’d learned how from his pet spider, swarming up with frantic speed. He had burns on his face and hands and lower legs, silver burns, but that didn’t slow him down, and when he reached the top of the hole, Claire grabbed his forearms and dragged him out on the side that wasn’t blocked by the raised silver grate.

He collapsed on his back, foul water bleeding out of his soaked and ruined clothes, out of his matted black hair, and after a second of silence he whispered, “I knew you’d come, Claire. I knew you would. Dear God, you took your time.”

She took his hand, and sat down next to him.

Shane was standing fifty feet away, beside Michael, but he looked up and jerked his chin in a silent question. Is he okay? She nodded.

It wasn’t much, she thought. It wasn’t anything to build any kind of hope upon, just that he was willing to show up here, willing to fire a rifle, throw her a rope.

But she’d take it. It was horrifying to her how pitifully grateful she was just for that smallest hint of a smile he gave her, before he turned his back.

“You’re very sad,” Myrnin said. He sounded faint and distant, as if he’d been a long way off in more ways than one. “You smell like tears. Did he break your heart?”

“No,” Claire said, in a very soft whisper that she hoped Shane couldn’t hear from where he stood. “I broke his.”

“Ah,” Myrnin said. “Good for you.” He sat up, and suddenly leaned over to throw up a horrifying amount of black water. “Pardon. Well, that was distressing…. Oh no…”

He collapsed back on the ground, as if too weak to rise, and shut his eyes tight. His whole body was shaking and twitching, and it went on for a horribly long time. She didn’t know what to do for him, except put her hand on his shoulder. Beneath the slimy clothes, she could feel his muscles locked and straining as if he were having an epileptic seizure.

He finally relaxed and took in a deep, slow breath before he opened his eyes and said, “We have to go, Claire. Quickly.”

“Where?” she asked, because she was cold and scared and couldn’t think of any place, any place at all, that might be safe now.

“To safety,” he said. “Before it’s too late.”

“But you—you’re not well enough to—”

Before she could finish, he was off stalking barefoot through the weeds toward the exit. He tore the chain off the fence with one hard pull and shoved the gates open with a rusted shriek.

Then he looked back with a red glow in his eyes and said, “Bring Michael. None of this is his fault. I won’t allow him to suffer for it.”

Shane hadn’t moved during all of this, but now he bent down and pulled the tranquilizer dart out of Michael’s neck. “It’s going to be a few minutes before he’s well enough to stand up.”

“Then drag him,” Myrnin said. “Unless you’d like to enjoy the comfort of my little oubliette. I’m sure Naomi will be sending Pennyfeather in a moment to be certain all of us are dead, and I’d rather not be here to oblige her. Now, children.”