Midnight Alley

"Well?" Myrnin demanded.

"This is wrong," she said, and flipped back to the first third of the notebook. "Right here. See? The formula's wrong. The variable doesn't match up with the prior version, and the error gets replicated going forward — "

Myrnin gave out a fierce, sharp cry, like a hunting hawk, and snatched the book away from her. "Yes! Yes, I see it! That fool. No wonder he only sustained me for a few days. But you, Claire, oh, you are different."

She knew she ought to be afraid of the slow, predatory smile he gave her, but she couldn't help it.

She smiled back.

"Give me the next one," she said. "And let's start making crystals."

###

When it wore off, it hit Myrnin first. He took more, but she could see it wasn't really working this time. Diminishing returns. That was why he'd only taken a few crystals last time, to prolong the effects even if the change hadn't been as dramatic.

This crash was like hitting a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

It started when he lost his balance, caught himself, and knocked a tray off of the lab table; he tried to catch it in midair, a feat he'd been more than capable of an hour before, and missed it completely. He stared at his hands in frustration, and viciously kicked the tray. It sailed across the room and hit the far wall with a spectacular clatter.

Claire straightened up from spreading the crystals out on the drying tray. She could feel the effects, too — her brain was slowing down, her body aching. It had to be worse for Myrnin, because of the disease. It was wrong to do this, she thought. Wrong, because his manic phase always led to dementia, and he'd wanted so badly to be himself again.

But the crystals drying on the tray could change that, or at least, she hoped they could. It wasn't that Myrnin had been wrong, only that his last assistant had made mistakes, whether deliberate or not Claire couldn't tell. But the crystals in the tray would be more effective, and longer lasting.

Myrnin could stabilize again.

"It isn't a cure," Myrnin said, as if he was reading her thoughts.

"No, but it buys you time," Claire said. "Look, I can come tomorrow. Promise me you'll leave these here, all right? Don't try to take them yet, they're not ready. And they're more powerful, so you'll have to start with a small dose and work up."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Myrnin barked. "Who is the master here? Who is the student?"

This was familiar, and dangerous. She lowered her head. "You're the master," she said. "I have to go now. I'm sorry. I'll come back tomorrow, okay?"

He didn't answer. His dark eyes were fixed on her, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Or even if he was thinking. He was right on the edge.

Claire took the shaker of the less effective crystals and stuffed it in her backpack — there wasn't that much left, but enough for one more dose for them both, and if he did something to the crystals during his manic phase, they might need it. She needed to ask Amelie for some kind of strongbox where she could store things ...

"Why?" Myrnin asked. She looked up at him, frowning. "Why are you helping us? Isn't it better for humans if we waste away and die? By helping me, you help all vampires."

Claire knew what Shane would have done. He'd have walked away, considered it a win all around. Eve might have done the same thing, except for Michael.

And she ... she was helping. Helping. She couldn't even really explain why, except that it seemed wrong to turn away. They weren't all bad, and she couldn't sacrifice Michael for the greater good. If it was the greater good.

"I know," Claire said. "Believe me, I'm not happy about it."

"You do it because you're afraid," he said.

"No. I do it because you need it."

He just stared at her, as if he couldn't figure out what she was saying. Time to go. She shivered, shouldered her backpack, and hurried for the stairs. She kept looking behind, but she never saw Myrnin move ... even so, he was in a different place, closer, every time she looked. It was like a child's game, only deadly serious. He wouldn't move while she was looking at him.

Claire turned and walked backwards, staring at him. Myrnin chuckled, and the sound echoed through the room like the rustle of bat wings.

When her heels hit the steps, she turned and ran.

He could have caught her, but he didn't. She burst through the doors of the shack into the alley, breathing hard, sweating, shaking.

He didn't follow. She didn't think he could, past the steps. She wasn't sure why — maybe the same way that Morganville itself kept people in town, or wiped their memories, kept Myrnin confined in his bottle.

She felt the hair on the back of her neck stir, and then she heard a voice. Whispering and indistinct. Shane? What was Shane doing here?

He was inside. He was inside and he was in trouble, she had to go to him ...

Claire found herself reaching for the door to the shack before she knew what she was doing.

"Myrnin, stop it!" she gasped and pulled away. She turned and ran down the alley toward the relative safety of the street.

It was only when she got there that she saw it was already nightfall.

Eddie wouldn't come for her after dark, and she was a long way from home. Too far to walk.

Claire was about to dial Michael at home when she spotted a police car cruising slowly down the cul-de-sac. Not a vampire squad car — this one had only light tinting on the front windows, although the back was blacked out. Claire squinted against the harsh brightness and waved. The effects of the crystals were ebbing fast, and she felt clumsy, strange, and exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep. She'd have taken a ride with Satan in his big red handbasket if it had helped her get off of her feet for a few minutes.

The cruiser pulled to a stop, and the passenger side window rolled down. Claire bent over to look inside.

Officer Fenton. "You shouldn't be out by yourself," he said. "You know better. Everybody's looking for you. Your friends called you in as missing."

"Oh," she said. That hadn't even occurred to her. She hadn't realized how long she'd been away. "I just — can I get a ride home? Please?"

He shrugged. "Hop in." She did, gratefully, and buckled herself in. Everything ached now — her head, her eyes, every muscle in her body. And she had the feeling it was going to get worse before it got better. "Speaking of your friends, how are they? Heard about that thing with Shane. Damn shame."

"He'll be okay," she said.

"And the other one? Michael?"

"Yeah, he's fine," she said. "Why?"

"Just checking. Probably good to keep an eye on him, since he was the target of the hit in the first place," Fenton said. He turned the patrol car in a slow, crunching circle and headed back out, away from the alley. "Since the guy was looking for him, specifically."

Claire's head hurt too much for conversation. "I guess," she agreed faintly. And then some last flash of cognitive clarity put together strings of chemicals, and she felt her heartbeat jump and hammer harder. "How did you know that?"

"What?"

"I mean, about Sam not being the real target? He was unconscious when you found him. He couldn't have said anything."

"Unconscious, crap. He was dead."

"But anyway, he couldn't have said — " Things clicked into place, and the pattern looked bad. Very bad. "You were there before the sirens."