Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(21)

“Maybe I will leave! And what are you going to do then? Because I don’t think Myrnin really likes any of your new ideas, and you can’t control him, can you? But anyway, they’re not really your ideas.” Claire transferred her stare to Oliver. “Are they?”

Oliver went from standing still as a statue—if statues could smirk—to rushing at her full speed, a blur she instinctively flinched away from.

Michael got in the way, and shoved Oliver violently off course, into a side table, destroying a probably priceless antique vase. Oliver rolled to his feet, hardly slowed at all by the fall, and came at him.

“Enough,” Amelie said, and Oliver just…froze. So did Michael. Claire felt a crushing sense of pressure in the room and realized that Amelie had just made them stop. It must have hurt, because even Oliver’s face contorted in pain for a second. “I’ve had quite enough peasant-style brawling in my presence. Michael, your loyalty is misguided, and I’ve had enough of your thinking that your personal choices outweigh your duty to me. You owe me your life. If a choice is to be made, be very careful how you make it. A vampire alone is vulnerable to many things.”

“I know,” Michael said. “You can quit trying to threaten me. I’m not giving up the people I love, no matter what you do. And in the words of my best friend, bite me. Come on, Claire. We’re not getting any favors from her.”

She reached out to him, but in the next instant, his blue eyes went wide and desperately blank, and he went straight to his knees—driven there by the force of Amelie’s fury. It felt like a storm, lashing over Claire as an afterthought, and she found herself on her knees next to him, reaching for his hand and holding it with shaking strength. He was trying not to crush hers, but it still hurt.

Amelie rose from behind her desk, took an elegant silver-coated letter opener from her desk, and walked to look down on Michael. As she turned the knife in her hand, thin wisps of smoke escaped; she wasn’t invulnerable to the silver, just stronger than most.

“Don’t test me,” she whispered. “I have survived my father. Survived the draug. I will survive you. Learn your place, or die where you kneel, right now.”

Michael somehow managed to laugh and turn his face up toward her. For the first time, Claire thought, he really looked like one of them.

Like a vampire.

“I know who I am, and I’m not one of you,” he said. “Screw you.”

She drove the letter opener down, and Claire had time to gasp in horror; she had a terrible, vivid flashback to the time she’d seen someone else stab Michael—in the earliest days of their friendship. He’d survived that. Not this. Not with silver. No, I can’t tell Eve this. No, please…

Amelie drove the silver knife into the floor, to the hilt, an inch from Michael’s knee. She rose gracefully, turned her back, and walked away, dismissing them both with a flip of her hand.

Oliver, after a long look at her that Claire couldn’t read, said, “Count yourself lucky. Both of you, get out. Now.”

Claire stumbled to her feet, still holding Michael’s hand, and managed to get him up. He leaned heavily on her. He looked dazed, but his eyes were as crimson as the blood dripping from his nose and ears. He was, Claire thought, ready to go for Oliver’s throat, so it was lucky he was too weak to try it. “Come on,” she whispered to him. “Michael! Come on! You’re supposed to be the calm one, remember?”

He closed his eyes, which was about all she sensed she was going to get from him in terms of agreement, so she half carried him to the door.

Which remained closed.

Behind her, Oliver said, “If you come here, you come as supplicants. Anything else, and next time, the knife won’t miss.”

Claire was smart enough to keep her Screw you to herself.





THREE





CLAIRE




Getting out of Founder’s Square wasn’t quite as bad as getting in, but with Michael staggering and only really able to stand halfway through, Claire was worried that Henrik, or someone else with similar feelings, would step out to finish the job Amelie and Oliver had started. He was hurt…maybe not in terms of the obvious wounds, but she was convinced that the blood that still stained his face near his nose and ears was a sign of some kind of internal hemorrhage. She had no idea what to do for him, but vampires could heal from most things without help.

Still, he probably was going to need blood, and she didn’t want to be the only source standing nearby if a sudden craving came down hard. She’d seen that happen, and the aftermath. It might not ruin their friendship, unless he actually killed her, but it would make things very awkward around the dinner table.

“Can you drive?” she asked him anxiously as they arrived at the garage level. She kept a hand on his arm, though he was moving under his own power now; he hadn’t said much at all, but now he nodded. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he’d been screaming. “Not yet. Will be.”

“You probably need a drink.” She said it the matter-of-fact way she’d heard Eve phrase it, and he seemed relieved that he didn’t have to bring it up. “I don’t mind waiting in the car if you want to stop at the blood bank. Michael…I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would go so…” Wrong. Violent. Crazy. But Shane somehow had intuited that, or he wouldn’t have insisted on someone else going with her. Someone strong enough to fight off Oliver and Amelie…or who’d be willing to try.