Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(19)

He made an elaborate bow and retreated into the shadows. Claire kept her eyes on him as she edged through, but he didn’t move at all.

When Michael followed, though, there was a sudden burst of movement, a blur punctuated by a soft outcry from Michael…and then the other vamp was walking calmly away in the other direction.

“Michael?” Claire turned toward him, crying out when she saw the damage to his face. The blood was bad, but it was flowing from claw marks down the side of his face from temple to jawline. They were deep gouges—nothing that wouldn’t heal, but still…

Michael stumbled and caught himself against the wall, shut his eyes, and said, “Maybe you’d better go on without me. I’m going to need a minute.” His voice was shaking, both from pain and—she assumed—from shock. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Claire put away the silver nitrate and rummaged in her pockets, coming up with a pack of tissues, which she handed over. “Here.”

He looked at her, gave her a weak flash of a smile, and took the packet from her. One after another, the tissues soaked red, but each successive one did so more slowly. By the time he’d used most of them, the wounds were sealed over—gruesome still, but steadily better.

“This isn’t the first time, is it?” she asked. “You were expecting this. I could see how tense you were. It’s about your marrying Eve. They’re bullying you because of it.”

Michael shrugged and scrubbed the last of the damp stains off his skin. “We all knew how they felt about it. Pretty much like Captain Obvious and his crew of humans-only believers feel, too. Everybody sees us as traitors to whatever their cause is.”

“That’s stupid. You two—you’ve been together for years!”

“Not married together. They’re funny about that. In vampire circles, marrying someone is a huge deal…vampires being immortal and all. It hardly ever happens, and when it does, there’s—power involved. The lesser partner gets elevated up to the status of the greater. So now Eve’s technically got all the rights and powers and privileges that I do. And being Amelie’s direct bloodline, that’s kind of a big deal.” He stuffed all the bloody tissues in his pocket and nodded to her. “Let’s keep going. I don’t like being a sitting duck around here.”

Their escort hadn’t waited for them, but he was standing in front of Amelie’s office when they arrived, and he opened the door to shoo them inside. He didn’t follow, and Claire heard the latch click shut with a finality that made her wonder if they were, in fact, locked in.

If they were, the receptionist inside gave no sign of it. Her name was Bizzie, and she’d been with Amelie a long time. She gave Claire a cool, impartial nod, and ignored Michael almost completely, though her gaze flicked quickly to the wounds on his face. She didn’t ask what had happened. In fact, she didn’t speak at all, which in Claire’s experience was a little unusual; Bizzie had always been cordial in the past.

Things had changed.

Claire and Michael waited silently in the armchairs lining the small wood-paneled room, and Claire spent her time studying the portraits hanging high on the walls. Amelie was in one of them, looking just as she did now but with a more elaborate hairstyle that reminded Claire of movies she’d seen in high school about the French Revolution. Elegant in white satin, Amelie was shown lit by candles, and in her right hand was a mirror dangling negligently by her side. The fingers of her left hand rested on top of a skull.

Creepy and beautiful.

“The Founder will see you,” Bizzie said, though Claire hadn’t heard any phone or intercom. As Claire rose to her feet, the inner door swung open without a sound.

Deep breaths, Claire told herself. She didn’t know why she was so nervous; she’d met with Amelie dozens of times, probably nearly a hundred by now. But somehow, this felt strongly like walking into a trap. She glanced back at Michael, and their eyes met and held.

He felt it, too.

Deep breaths, Claire thought again, and took the plunge.

*


The office looked eerily the same: high bookcases, big picture windows treated with anti-UV tinting to reduce damage from the sunlight, candles burning here and there. Amelie’s desk was massive and orderly, and behind it, the Founder of Morganville sat with her hands folded on the leather blotter.

Behind her stood Oliver.

The two vampires couldn’t have been more different. Amelie was polished, silky, pale haired, every inch a born ruler. Oliver, on the other hand, had the angular toughness of a warrior, and with his graying hair and ruthless smile, he might as well have been wearing armor as a turtleneck and jacket. Amelie’s pantsuit was a pristine white silk, and it contrasted completely with his all-black—deliberately; Claire was certain of it.

Amelie was also wearing her hair down in flowing, gorgeous waves. Very not the old Founder.

Oliver had his hand on Amelie’s shoulder, a gesture of easy familiarity that would have been odd in the time before the arrival, battle, and defeat of the draug. He and Amelie had been enemies, then unwilling allies, and then, finally—something else.

Something more dangerous, obviously.

Claire looked around, but the chairs that had once been in front of Amelie’s desk, the ones for visitors, were gone. She and Michael would be expected to stand.