Kiss of Death

“Let me be Eve for a minute,” she said, and flipped him off. He laughed and kissed her.

“Not even close,” he said. “Come on, we’ve got some cranky old vampire to rescue.”

13

It was still dark outside, but it felt ... different, as if the world was still dreaming, but dreaming about waking up. The air felt cool and light, and the darkness was just a tiny bit lighter than before.

“Not long until dawn,” Michael said. “Which is good news and bad news.”

“Good news for us,” Shane said. “Present company excepted.”

“You’re such a bro.”

“You start smoking, I’ll roll you into the shade,” Shane said. “Can’t ask for more than my being willing to save your bloodsucking ass.” They stood outside of the doors of the library for a few seconds, getting their bearings. Mrs. Grant had equipped them with sturdy LED lanterns, but it didn’t feel like the light fell very far. There could be anything lurking ten feet away, Claire thought. And there probably was.

Michael shut down his lantern and just ... disappeared. It was startling, but they knew he was going to do it, at least; the plan was that he’d get out ahead of the light and look for trouble. Kind of a cross between a scout and bait. Claire’s walkie-talkie clicked a moment later—no voice message, just the quiet electronic signal. “Go,” she said. “We’re okay.”

The three of them went at a jog, watching their steps as best they could in the confusing jumble of shadows and harsh, flickering light. Blacke looked like a nightmare, or Hollywood’s idea of a disaster movie—cars abandoned, buildings closed and dark, windows shattered. The big, Gothic Civic Hall loomed over everything, but there weren’t any lights showing inside. The statue of Hiram what’s-his-face remained facedown in the thigh-high weeds, which Claire thought really might have been the best place for it. At least it wasn’t leaning over and threatening to fall on people. Especially on her, because that would have been the worst Darwin Award-qualifying death ever.

They made it to the sidewalk beside the Civic Hall. Shane pointed. “That way,” he said. “Should be on that corner, facing the hall.”

Michael suddenly zipped into view at the edge of the light. “They’re coming,” he said. “Behind us and to the left. Back of the Civic Hall.”

“Run! ”Shane said, and they took off, lanterns throwing crazy, bouncing light off broken glass and metal, turning shadows into ink-filled blots. The iron fence around the Civic Hall was leaning outward, into the sidewalk, and Shane had to flinch and duck to avoid a sharp, rusty arrow-point bent low enough to scrape his face. Claire almost tripped over one of the metal bars that had fallen loose from the fence. She kicked it out of the way, then paused and grabbed it, juggling the lantern.

“Don’t stop!” Eve hissed, and pulled her on. The iron bar, with its sharp arrowhead top, was heavy, but straight, like a spear. Claire managed to hang on to it as they ran, but at the next curb she missed her footing and had to scramble. Her lantern broke free of her fingers and smashed on the ground. It flickered, brightened, then faded and died.

Out of nowhere, Michael was next to her, handing her his own switched-off lantern and grabbing the iron bar from her. “Keep going! ” he said, and turned with the iron bar to guard their backs. Eve looked back, her face pale in the white LED lights, and her dark eyes looked huge and terrified.

“Michael?”

“Don’t stop!”

He fell behind in the dark after only three or four steps, lost to them. Claire heard something like a snarl behind them, and what sounded like a body hitting the ground.

Then came a scream, high and wild.

Up ahead, she saw a flash of what looked like faded pink. There was a leaning metal sign flapping and creaking in the predawn wind, and Claire wasn’t sure, but she thought the rusty letters might have said GARAGE.

It was a square adobe building with some old-fashioned gas pumps off to the side that looked as if they hadn’t worked since Claire’s mom was a kid. The windows were broken and dark, but they were blocked up with something, so there was no way to see inside.

Shane arrived at the door of the building—abigwooden thing, scarred and faded, with massive iron hinges—and banged on it. “Oliver!” he yelled. “Cavalry!”

Fu

The door opened into darkness, and a hand reached out and grabbed Shane by the shirt front, and yanked him inside.

“No!” Claire charged forward, lantern blazing now and held high, and saw Shane being dragged, off balance, out of the way. Not having time or room for the bow, she dropped it, grabbed an arrow out of the bag, and lunged for the vampire who was taking Shane away.

Oliver turned, snarling, and knocked the arrow out of her grip so hard her entire hand went numb. She gasped and drew back, shocked, because Oliver looked ... not like Oliver, much. He was dirty, ragged, and he had blood all down his arm and the front of his shirt.

There was a raw wound in his throat that was slowly trying to heal.

That was his own blood on his clothes, she realized. Something—someone—had bitten him, nearly killing him, it looked like.

“Inside,” he ordered hoarsely, as Eve hovered in the doorway, peering in. “Michael?”

Michael appeared out of the darkness, racing fast. He stopped to grab up Claire’s fallen bow, and then practically shoved Eve inside the building as he slammed the door and turned to lock it. There were big, old-fashioned iron bolts, which he slid shut. There was also a thick old board that Oliver pointed toward; Michael tossed Claire her bow and slotted the bar in place, into the racks on either side of the door.

As he did, something hit the door hard enough to bend the metal bolts and even the thick wooden bar. But the door held.

Outside, something screamed in frustration, and Claire heard claws scratching on the wood.

Michael wasn’t hurt, at least not that Claire could see; he hugged Eve and kept one arm around her as they came toward Claire, who was still in a standoff with Oliver.

And Oliver was still holding Shane with a white, clenched fist twisted in the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey,” Shane said. “Off! Let go!”

Oliver seemed to have forgotten he was even holding him, but as he turned to look at Shane, Claire saw his eyes turn muddy red, then glow hotter when Shane tried to pull away.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “He’s lost a lot of blood; he’s not himself. Stay still, Shane.”

Shane took a deep breath and managed to hold himself steady, but Claire could tell it really cost him. Everything in him must have been screaming to fight, rip free, run away from that glowing red hunger in Oliver’s eyes.

He didn’t. And Oliver, after a few eternal seconds, let go of him and stepped back, then suddenly turned and stalked away.

Shane looked over at Claire, and she saw the real fear in his eyes, just for a second. Then he pushed it away, and smiled, and held up his thumb and index finger, pushed about an inch apart. “Close,” he said.

“Maybe you’re not his type,” Michael said.

“Oh, now you’re just being insulting.” Shane reached out for Claire’s hand, and squeezed it, hard. He didn’t mind letting her feel the nerves that still trembled in him, but he wasn’t going to let Michael see it, obviously. “So what the hell is going on in here?”

A vague shape loomed up behind him out of the shadows. Then another one. Then another. Shane and Claire quickly moved to stand back to back. So did Eve and Michael. Among the four of them, they were covering every angle.