Midnight Alley

Amelie looked down. Just for an instant, and then she met Claire's eyes and smiled. "You have not met," she said. "Not formally, at any rate. His name is Myrnin. He is one of my oldest friends and allies. Understand, Claire, that your actions since you came to Morganville, including your agreement with me, has won my trust. I would not grant this honor to any but those I found worthy."

Flattery. Claire recognized it, and knew the slight warmth in Amelie's voice was probably calculated, but it still worked. "Myrnin," she repeated.

"It is an old name," Amelie agreed, in response to the question in Claire's tone. "Old and forgotten, now. But once he was a great scholar, known and revered. His works should not be forgotten as well."

There was something strange in that, but Claire was too nervous to figure out what Amelie could be trying to say. Or not say. She was working hard to swallow a lump in her throat, but it was about the size of a poisoned apple and seemed to be growing larger. She could only nod.

Amelie smiled. It looked kind of artificial, like an expression she'd practiced in a mirror rather than learned as a child. Smiling was something her face just didn't naturally do, Claire decided. And sure enough, the smile was gone in seconds, without a trace.

"If you're ready ...?"

Claire cast an involuntary, helpless look at the blank wall behind her. There wasn't a door, and that meant there was no way to retreat. So she didn't really have a choice.

Amelie wasn't waiting for her answer, anyway. The ice queen stood up and walked — oh so very undead Grace Kelly — to another small, low doorway with the key in the lock. She turned the key, withdrew it, and looked down at it for a moment before holding it out to Claire. "Keep it," she said. "Leave your book bag here, please. I shouldn't want you to forget it. You will leave through the same door that brought you."

Claire's fingers closed around the key, registering rough, cold, heavy metal. She shoved it in the pocket of her blue jeans as Amelie swung open the door, and leaned her backpack against a convenient bookcase.

"Myrnin?" Amelie's voice was low and gentle. "Myrnin, I've brought the girl I told you about. Her name is Claire."

Claire knew that tone of voice. You used it with old, sick people, people who didn't really understand what was happening anymore. People you didn't think were really going to be around for long. Coming from Amelie, it was really odd, because she could hear the love in that low voice. Could vampires love? Well, sure, she guessed; Michael could, right? So why not Amelie, too?

Claire stepped out from behind Amelie at the vampire's imperative gesture, and anxiously sca

... and a man.

Claire blinked, because she was expecting an old, sick person; expecting it so much she looked around again, trying to find him. But the only man in the room sat in a chair, peacefully reading a book. He marked the spot with a finger, closed it, and looked up at Amelie.

He was young, or at least he looked it. Shoulder-length curling brown hair, big dark puppy-dog eyes, flawless, faintly golden skin. Frozen at the age of maybe twenty-five, just enough for creases to be forming at the corners of his eyes. Also, he was really really ... pretty.

And he didn't look sick. Not at all.

"I've been waiting for you," he said. He spoke English, but with some kind of accent, nothing that Claire could identify. It sounded a little bit like Irish, a little bit like Scottish, but more ... liquid, somehow. Welsh? "Claire, is it? Well, come forward, girl, I won't bite." He smiled, and unlike Amelie's cool attempt it was a warm, genuine expression, full of merriment. Claire took a couple of steps toward him. She sensed Amelie tensing behind her, and wondered why. Myrnin seemed okay. Seemed more okay than any vampire she'd seen so far, except maybe Sam, Michael's grandfather — next to Michael, the youngest vampire in Morganville.

"Hello," she said, and got an even wider smile.

"She speaks! Excellent. I have no use for someone without a backbone. Tell me, young Claire, do you like the sciences?"

That was an antique way of saying it ... the sciences. People usually said science or mentioned a specific thing, like biology or nuclear studies or chemistry. Still, she knew the right answer. "Yes sir. I love the sciences."

His dark eyes glittered, full of slightly wicked humor. "So very polite, you are. And philosophy?"

"I — I don't know. We didn't study it in high school. I just got to college."

"Science without philosophy is nonsense," he said, very seriously. "And alchemy? Do you know anything of it?"

She just shook her head to that one. She knew what it meant, but wasn't it all about turning lead into gold or something like that? Sort of con man science?

Myrnin looked tragically disappointed. She almost wanted to lie to him and tell him that she'd gotten an A in Alchemy 101.

"Don't be difficult, Myrnin," Amelie said. "I told you, this age doesn't regard the subject with much respect. You won't find anyone with a working knowledge of the Hermetic arts, so you'll have to use what's available. From all accounts, this girl is quite gifted. She should be able to understand what you have to teach, if you are patient."

Myrnin nodded soberly and put the book aside. He stood up — and up — and up. He was tall, gawky, with long legs and arms — like a human stick bug. He was wearing a weird mixture of clothes, too — not homeless-guy weird, but definitely funky. A vertically striped knit shirt under what looked like some kind of frock coat, and blue jeans, old ones, with holes in the knees. And flip-flops. Claire stared at his exposed toes. Somehow, with that outfit, flip-flops looked almost indecent.

But he had pretty feet.

He extended his hand to Claire, bending over to do it. She carefully took it and shook. Myrnin looked surprised, then delighted. He pumped the handshake enthusiastically enough to make her shoulder ache. "A handshake, is that the correct way to greet these days?" he asked. "Even for such a lovely young woman? I know it's common among men, but among women it seems quite a violent gesture — "

"Yes," Claire said quickly. "It's fine. Everybody does it." God, he wasn't going to try to kiss her hand or anything, was he? No, he was letting go and crossing his arms. Studying her.

"Quickly," he said. "What's the elemental designation for rubidium?"

"Um ... Rb."

"Atomic number?"

Claire frantically called to mind the periodic table. She'd used it the same way other kids used puzzles, back when she was young; she'd known everything. "Thirty-seven."

"Group number?"

She could see the square on the table now, as real as if it was a card in her hand. "Group one," she said confidently. "Alkali metal. The period number is five."

"And what are the dangers of working with rubidium, young Claire?"

"It spontaneously burns when exposed to air. It also reacts violently to water."

"Solid, liquid, gas, plasma?"

"Solid to forty degrees centigrade. That's the melting point." She waited for the next question, but Myrnin only cocked his head and watched her. "How did I do?"