And I didn’t, because in the next instant he coughed, spraying water, and rolled up to his feet. He almost went down again, so I steadied him. “What the hell was that?” He vomited, and way too much water came out of him. It was as if he’d been drowning, which he couldn’t have been, could he? No way.
“I don’t know what that was,” I said. “But I like it like cancer. Come on, we have to get out of here!”
Shane definitely didn’t argue. I dragged the skin-heap over to the side, well away from us, using only the point of my épée. That was more sickening than your average vomit-inducing event. Seriously, I would rather kiss Monica, or lick a toilet bowl, than ever, ever do that again.
Shane tightened the fifth bolt and got the sixth in and tightened in less than a minute, hit the release on the jack, and thumped the car back to the pavement, fast. He grabbed all the tools and tossed them in the back, yelled, “Go!” and I didn’t wait for a second opinion. I was in and starting up the hearse before his door was closed.
And now I could hear something. It sounded like—singing? Confused, I fiddled with the stereo, but it was off. Nothing coming out of it.
I realized, as I accelerated, that Shane was trying to get out of the car. Holy floating Moses, that was—insane. I grabbed him by the hair and pulled, hard, and he yelped and slammed his door again and turned to glare at me. “What?”
“You were leaving!” I shouted back. He looked utterly lost for a second, then nodded, as if he’d just realized something. “God, what is going on? Because even for Morganville, this is totally whacked!”
Shane, ever practical, reached in the glove compartment, pulled out some tissues, and tore them into strips. “Can you hear it? The music?”
I nodded. I could, and it was making me sweat. Hard to keep my hands on the wheel, my foot on the gas. I was feeling more and more—relaxed. Distracted.
“Here,” Shane said. He was jamming rolled-up pieces of tissue in his ears, and handing me some. I didn’t really want it, but I took one and stuffed it in on the left.
I instantly felt better. Sharper. And much, much more scared. I grabbed the other piece and got it in my right ear, pressed the accelerator, and ripped through the red light at top speed. Bill me for the ticket, Morganville, because I knew that stopping right now was an insane idea.
Shane was breathing easier now, too, but he looked pale and wild-eyed. We didn’t talk—well, considering we’d just jammed up our ears, it probably wouldn’t have been productive, either. I drove too fast for the heavy rain, but the streets seemed deserted, and anyway, I was way too freaked-out to slow down.
Lot Street showed up suddenly, and I swerved into a left turn, tossing Shane into the passenger’s door (but not, thankfully, out of it). When I slithered the hearse to a stop in front of the house, we looked at each other, and Shane pointed from me to the bag in the back, then from his chest to the items scattered on the backseat. I nodded and did a silent three count.
I hit the back, grabbed the weapons bag, threw the stake inside, and raced through the gate and up the walk. I fished for my keys as I ran, and had them out and ready. The door swung open right on cue as Shane pounded up the steps behind me carrying his load, and we rushed inside, slammed the door, and locked it, hard.
We stood there breathing hard for a few seconds; then Shane yanked tissue out of his ears and turned away. When I got mine out, I heard him yelling for Michael as he carried his items toward the living room.
There was a black doctor’s bag and two bottles of liquid sitting there, and damp footprints on the carpet—but no Michael. “Michael!” I yelled up the stairs, adding to Shane’s voice as he checked the kitchen. “Michael, we’re back—”
No answer. I tried not to look directly at Claire’s still form as I headed to the kitchen. I met Shane as he came out.
“Nothing,” he said. “He’s not here.”
“He went out after us.”
“Yeah.”
“Well—we should—”
“Nothing,” Shane said. “We should do nothing but wait. Eve, it’s really freaking nuts out there. He’ll have to get back on his own. Look, he’ll be fine; you know Michael. He’s tough.”
I nodded, but I felt short of breath. We were more than thirty minutes late. Even if he’d gone out, surely he should be back soon.
But he wasn’t. The minutes slid by, greasy and way too fast, and with each one, my panic got a little stronger. I kept wanting to fiddle with my cell phone, but there was no point; the lines were still out. The TV stations were dark. What I could pick up on the radio were ghostly out-of-town signals, nothing local.
It had been an hour when Shane said, very quietly, “I think we have to assume something happened.”
I was trying very hard not to lose it. “Then what are we going to do?” I asked him. “Please. Tell me. We can’t call for help. It’s too dangerous to go out there. What the hell do we do? Jesus, Claire is—Claire is right there on the couch. What are we doing, Shane?” That last tipped over from distress into real terror, and Shane grabbed me and held on for both our lives. He was scared, too. Really scared.
There was a knock at the back door.
We sprang apart like we’d been caught doing something totally illegal, and I felt a surge of relief so intense it was like being soaked in a hot bath. “Michael,” I said, and raced to let him in.
Rationality caught up one step later, as did Shane, who said, “Michael has keys.”
I hit the reality wall face-first, and skidded to a stop.
Shane eased the curtain aside. I saw his shoulders stiffen, then slump. He unlocked the door and stepped aside.
And Myrnin swept in, all giant leather swirling coat and dramatic swooping hat. Rain fell off both in a miniature fountain as he shook himself, then took it all off. Despite all that cover, he still looked half-drowned. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “They’re looking for me. Did you get everything?”
“I don’t know,” Shane said. “It’s in here.”
He led the way back and indicated the stuff piled on the dining table. Myrnin pushed him out of the way and, with quick, able gestures, opened the doctor’s bag and pulled out all kinds of tubing, needles, some kind of pump . . . and made a little aha! sound as he grabbed a gear-studded machine covered with brass. He plugged the end of one tube into it, and the other into the pump.
I watched as he set up a complicated, inexplicable device there on our dining room table, mixed chemicals together into a test tube, and poured the result into a funnel on the brass machine.
It started up with a barely perceptive hum.
“Where is Michael?” Myrnin asked, as he fitted a needle on the end of one of the tubes. “He should be here. I will need his help.”
“He—” Shane cleared his throat, and didn’t look at me. “He didn’t make it back. We don’t know where he is.”
Myrnin’s hands stilled for a second, and then he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I have a blood connection to Claire, but none to the house; this will be trickier without that. You two are residents, so you have some standing. I’ll need vials of your blood.” He grabbed syringes and those rubbery tie things, which he pitched to each of us. “It’s best if you draw it yourself.”
I held the capped needle—at least he was using a modern syringe—and the tourniquet and glared at him. “I’m sorry? What?”
“Apparently I have not made myself clear,” he said, speaking the way vampires did when they thought you were drunk, stupid, or just deeply worthy of a smack. “If I do not have the blood of someone attuned to this house, then all this is busywork and window dressing. So please, stop following your usual extremely useless agenda of jabbering questions and put the needle in your arm!”