He did exactly what any boy—no, man—his age would do: he showed her a mouthful of mashed croissant, which was gross, then drank more coffee and showed her again. Gone.
“That is disgusting, and I will never kiss you again.”
“Yes, you will,” he said, and proved it by pressing his lips to hers. She wanted to squirm away, just to prove the point, but God, she loved kissing him, loved that his mouth was so warm and sweet and bitter with coffee … loved being so close to him now, teetering on the edge of the end of … everything. “See?”
“It wasn’t bad,” she said, and kissed him again. “But you really need to work on your technique.”
“Liar. My technique is awesome. Want me to prove it?” Before she could protest, his lips touched hers, and he was right about the proof. She slipped her hands under the loose hem of his shirt, fingers gliding lightly over the tensing muscles of his stomach, up to the hard, flat planes of his chest. His skin was like warm velvet, but underneath, he was iron, and it took her breath away.
Or so she thought. But when he skinned her Train T-shirt up and fitted his strong hands around her waist, pulling her to him even closer, she gasped against his mouth, moaned a little, and just … melted.
The hot, golden moment was sliced cleanly by a cold voice saying, “I can bear a great many things, but this is not one of them. Not now.”
Claire jumped back from Shane, guilty as a shoplifter. It was, unmistakably, Oliver’s voice, and it was coming from behind her. She hated round rooms. Too many ways people could come at you, especially sneaky, cranky vampires. She turned and faced him as he stalked toward them—no, toward the coffee, since he brushed them aside and filled a cup. She’d never seen him drinking it, but of course, he would; he owned the local coffee shop, Common Grounds. Or at least he had when there was still a Morganville that was alive and kicking.
Common Grounds, like everything else in town, was closed.
Oliver had always taken pains to present himself as human … maybe because he, of all the vampires, seemed the furthest from it. He was cold, unfeeling, acerbic, and sarcastic, and that was on a good day. It clashed with his friendly-aging-hippie vibe of tie-dyed shirts and jeans that he wore at the coffee shop, but he’d dispensed with all that now. He’d donned clothing that suited him, in a sinister and scary way—black pants, a black coat that must have been about a hundred years old, and a white shirt with a ruby pin where a tie would usually have gone. Except for a top hat, he could have stepped out of the turn of the last century. These, Claire felt, were his own clothes. No hand-me-downs for Oliver.
“I guess it’s pretty useless to say good morning,” Shane said.
“Especially as it’s neither morning nor good, yes,” Oliver replied, just shy of a snap. “Don’t try to banter with me, Collins. I am far from in the mood.” Claire could make out the red mottling on his pale skin, like Michael’s, a souvenir of his time spent in that drowning pool. She wondered how he’d slept, if he’d slept. “As to plans, yes, I have one, and yes, it is under way.”
“Mind if we ask—?”
“Yes, of course I mind,” Oliver said, and this time it was a snap. There was a gleam of red in his eyes. He looked tired, Claire thought, and there was a flicker of something almost human in him. “If you wish to be of use, go find Theo Goldman and bring him to me. Now.”
“Theo?” Claire was startled, because she’d heard that Theo had gone missing, like many other vampires in Morganville … and she’d assumed he’d been in the pool. A casualty, when Amelie had resorted to throwing silver into it to kill the draug and their trapped victims with them. “Is he here?”
“If he was here, I wouldn’t ask you to find him, would I?”
Shane was doing that thing now, his posture getting stiff with challenge; he didn’t like it when Oliver treated her—or any of them—like idiots. But especially her. The last thing any of them needed today was to fight each other. They were working together—more or less—and that was how it had to be to survive this. So Claire put a hand on Shane’s arm to hold him back and said, in a very reasonable tone, “Do you have any idea where to look for him?”
Oliver’s hand trembled, just slightly, but enough to make the cup rattle lightly on the saucer. He, like Michael, still felt weak. That should have made Claire feel reassured, because he was usually so intimidating, but instead it made her feel extra vulnerable. “No,” he said. “I do not. But I require his presence, so you will find him.” He let a second pass and then added, without looking at either of them, “For the sake of the Founder.”
For Amelie. And there was a very slight change in his tone when he said it, something that almost seemed … softer.
“She’s worse,” Claire said. Oliver turned and walked away without responding, so she looked at Shane. “She’s getting worse, right?”
“Probably. Who knows with him?” But Shane had the same thought she did; she knew it. If Amelie died, they were at Oliver’s mercy. Not a good thing at all. He was a general, and when he fought wars, he liked them bloody—on both sides. “Maybe we should have left town when we had the chance. Just picked up and run for it.”
“And left Michael behind? And Eve? She wouldn’t have left him. You know that.”
He didn’t answer. She knew that Shane wasn’t someone who ran away, but he couldn’t help thinking about it—Morganville’s version of living a rich fantasy life. After a moment, he shrugged and said, “Too late now anyway. Where do you think we should start, if we’re supposed to track down Goldman?”
“No use looking at the hospital. It’s closed,” Claire said. “They moved all the patients out in ambulances and buses. And there are way too many places he could be. It’s not that big a town, but big enough to hide one vampire. He sent his family away, you know.” Theo, unlike most vamps Claire knew, actually had a family, and cared about them; it was very like him to be sure they were clear of the trouble, then stay behind himself.
“Can’t go close to the hospital anyway,” Shane said. “The whole area’s a no-go zone; the singing starts when you come anywhere close.”
The singing of the draug was not just eerie; it was deeply dangerous. It got hold of you, made you forget … and made you vulnerable to them. Claire nodded. “We’d better stay away from any water, too.”
“Toilets? Please say you don’t mean toilets, because this is rapidly turning into no fun at all. I mean, I like peeing on a wall as much as the next drunken redneck, but—”
“Chemical toilets,” she said. “Amelie had them brought over from some construction company. And please tell me you don’t pee on walls.”
“Moi?” He put his hand over his heart and did his best wounded-innocent look. “You must be thinking of some other uncouth jackass. Which makes me jealous, by the way.”
She would have played along with that, but the idea of the tap water made her suddenly realize that she was drinking the coffee in the cup in her hand, and she resisted a sudden violent urge to gag. “Uh, the coffee …?”
“Made with the finest bottled water,” Eve said. She was back, and she’d brought cookies this time. “And these are sliced off a roll, so don’t think I’ve gone all Martha Stewart, Shane. The vamps stocked up on bottled water some time ago. I’m guessing it’s their version of survivalist training, if they’ve been worried about the draug for so long. All those plastic containers may be bad for the environment, but they’re really good for us right now. So … you’re looking for Theo?”
“So says Oliver,” Shane said, and stuffed a whole cookie in his mouth.
“Trust me, I work for Mr. Scary Guy in Charge, and you do not want to disappoint the man, even if you’re just pulling espresso shots. Especially not now. Besides, having Theo here would be a nice antidote to all this”—Eve gestured at the marble, carpet, dim lighting—“gloom. Theo’s cheerful, at least.”