Bitter Blood (The Morganville Vampires #13)(60)

Now he looked up at her, and although his face was human, softened by loose, curling gray hair, the expression and the focus were purely those of a predator. He didn’t say anything.

Claire plunged ahead. “Amelie trusted you. She let you get close. And now you’re playing her to get what you always wanted. Well…it’s not going to work. She may like you, but she’s not stupid, and when she wakes up—and she will—you’re going to be sorry you tried it.”

“I don’t see that my relationship with the Founder is any of your business.”

“You can influence other vampires,” she said. “You told me so before. And you’re subtle about it. Whatever you’re doing to her, stop it before this all goes bad. The humans won’t stand for being cattle, and Amelie won’t let you go as far as you think. Just…back off. Oliver—maybe I’m crazy for saying this, but you’re not like this. Not anymore. I don’t think you really want all this deep down.”

He stared at her with empty, oddly bright eyes, and then went back to his paperwork.

“You may leave now,” he said. “And count yourself lucky you are allowed to do so.”

“Why did you fire Eve?” she asked. It was probably a mistake, but she couldn’t help but ask it. And surprisingly, he answered.

“She accused me of trying to have her killed,” he said. “Just as you did. Unfortunately, I’m unable to fire you. And my patience is now at an end. Begone.”

“Not until you tell me—”

She never even saw him move, but suddenly he was around the desk and slamming the pen into the wood of the door behind her. It was just a simple ballpoint, but it sank an inch deep, vibrating an inch from her head. Claire flinched and came up hard against the barrier at her back. Oliver didn’t move away. This close, he looked like bone and iron, and he smelled—ironically—like coffee. She was forcefully reminded that he’d been a warrior when he was alive, and he wasn’t any less a killer now.

“Go,” he said, very softly. “If you’re wise, you will go very, very far from here, Claire. But in any case, go from my presence, now.”

She opened the door.

And as she did so, she had the blurred impression of someone standing a few feet away on the other side, of people scrambling and exclaiming, of Counter Guy yelling “Hey!” Then she zeroed in not on the figure standing before her, but on what the tall, dark figure was holding.

It was a crossbow with a silver bolt.

And before Claire could take a breath or react, the crossbow was raised and fired.

Claire felt a burning brush against her cheek as the bolt zipped past, and she clapped a hand to the bleeding scrape as she turned to see what had happened.

The arrow had slammed home in Oliver’s chest, but it was up and to the right of his heart. Claire stared at it with a feeling of unreality; the silver glint, the slowly spreading crimson circle around the shaft, the bright red feather fletching, and Oliver, pinned in place with surprise as much as pain.

Then he staggered back against his desk. Claire didn’t think; she just acted, reaching out for the crossbow bolt.

He swatted her hand away with impatient fury, hard enough that he could have broken bones, and said through gritted teeth, “You can’t pull it out from the front, fool. Take it through my back!”

He said it as if he had no doubt at all that she’d obey, and for a fraction of a second, Claire was tempted to obey him; that might have been her natural tendency to want to help, or it could have been Oliver exerting his will.

She paused, though, and looked through the still-open doorway.

The attacker was calmly loading up another bolt in the bow. She didn’t—and couldn’t—recognize the person; it was just a blank figure in some kind of black opaque mask, a zipped-up black hooded jacket, and plain, well-worn blue jeans. Black boots. Gloves. Nothing to betray any personal identification at all, not even gender.

The figure looked up and saw her standing there, and she felt a chill, unmistakable and indefinable. Then it pointed to her and jerked a thumb at the door. You. Out.

“Claire!” Oliver snapped. His voice sounded ragged now, and full of fury. “Pull the bolt out!”

“Did you have Pennyfeather try to kill Eve?”

The wound around the silver was starting to smoke and blacken, and it must have hurt a whole lot, even if not immediately fatal, because he tried to snarl at her, but it came out as more of a moan. He collapsed down to a sitting position on the floor, leaning one shoulder against the desk. She almost caved in, almost, because he really looked bad just then…vulnerable and damaged.

But then his eyes flickered bright red in fury, and he said in a poisonous hiss, “I’ll have him kill you if you don’t do as I say, girl. You’re a pet, not a person.”

“Funny,” she said, “seeing as I’m the only thing standing between you and a guy with a crossbow.” Literally. The masked figure was still standing behind her, ready to fire. She was just in the way. “Did you?”

“No!” he roared, and convulsed over on his side. The poison was working on him, and working fast.

Claire turned to face the would-be assassin, who was pointing the crossbow now at her. Directly.

Move, the figure gestured once again, impatiently. Claire shook her head.