The Dead Girls' Dance (8 page)

No power on earth was going to make her do that.

The residential areas of Morganville were old, mostly run-down, parched and beaten by summer. It was bound to get cooler soon, but for now, Indian summer was broiling the Texas landscape. Cicadas sang in dull dental-drill whines in the grass and trees, and there was a smell of dust and hot metal in the wind. Of all the places to find vampires, this was pretty much the last she would have expected. Just not…Goth enough. Too run-down. Too…American.

The next street was her turn, according to the map. She made it, stopped in the shade of a live oak tree, and took a couple of drinks from her water bottle as she considered how much longer a walk it would be. Not long, she thought. Which was good, because she was
not
going to miss another class. Ever.

The street dead-ended. Claire came to a stop, frowning, and checked; nope, according to the map, it went all the way through. Claire sighed in frustration and started to turn back to retrace her path, then hesitated when she saw a narrow passage between two fences. It looked like it went through to the next street.

Lose ten minutes or take a chance.
She'd always been the lose-ten-minutes kind of girl, the prudent one, but maybe living in the Glass House had corrupted her. Besides, it was hot as hell out here.

She headed for the gap between the fences.

“I wouldn't do that, child,'” said a voice. It was coming from the deep shadow of a porch, on a house to her right. It looked better cared for than most houses in Morganville—freshly painted in a light sea blue, some brick trim, a neatly kept yard. Claire squinted and shaded her eyes, and finally saw a tiny birdlike old lady seated on a porch swing. She was as brown as a twig, with drifting pale hair like dandelion fuzz, and since she was dressed in a soft green sundress that hung on her like a bag, she looked like nothing so much as a wood spirit, something out of the old, old storybooks.

The voice, though, was pure warm Southern honey.

Claire backed up hastily from the entrance to the passageway. “I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to trespass.'”

The tiny little thing cackled. “Oh, no, child, you're not trespassin'. You're bein' a fool. You ever heard of ant lions? Or trapdoor spiders? Well, you walk down that path, you won't be comin' out the other side. Not this world.'”

Claire felt a pure cold bolt of panic, followed by a triumphant crow from the prudent side of her brain:
I knew that!
“But—it's daytime!'”

“So it is,'” the old woman said, and rocked gently back and forth on her swing. “So it is. Day don't always protect round Morganville. You should know that, too. Now, go back the way you came like a good child, and don't come here again.'”

“Yes, ma'am,'” Claire said, and started to back away.

“Gramma, what are you—oh, hello!'” The screen door to the house opened, and a younger version of the Stick Lady stepped out—young enough to be a granddaughter. She was tall and pretty, and her skin was more cocoa than wood brown. She wore her hair in braids, lots of them, and she smiled at Claire as she came to lay a hand on the old lady's shoulder. “My gramma likes to sit out here and talk to people. I'm sorry if she bothered you.'”

“No, not at all,'” Claire said, and nervously fiddled with one of the loose adjustment straps of her backpack. “She, um, warned me about the alley.'”

The woman's eyes moved rapidly, from Claire to the old lady and back again. “Did she?'” she said. She didn't sound warm anymore. “Gramma, you know better than that. You need to quit scaring people with your stories.'”

“Don't be a damn fool, Lisa. They ain't just stories, and you know it.'”

“Gramma, there hasn't been any—trouble around here for twenty years!'”

“Doesn't mean it wouldn't happen,'” Gramma said stubbornly, and pointed a stick-thin shaking finger at Claire. “You don't go down that alley, now. I meant what I said.'”

“Yes, ma'am,'” she said faintly, and nodded to both women. “Um, thanks.'”

Claire turned to go, and as she did, she noticed something mounted on the wall next to the old woman's porch swing. A plaque, with a symbol.

The same symbol as was on the Glass House. The Founder's symbol.

And now that she was looking at the house, really looking, it had some of the same lines to it, and it was about the same age.

Claire turned back, smiled apologetically, and said, “I'm sorry, but could I use your restroom? I've been chugging water out here—'”

She thought for a second that Lisa was going to say no, but then the younger woman frowned and said, “I suppose,'” and came down the steps to open the white picket gate for Claire to enter. “Go on inside. It's the second door off the hall.'”

“Offer the child some lemonade, Lisa.'”

“She's not staying, Gramma!'”

“How you know if you don't ask?'”

Claire let them argue it out, and stepped inside. She didn't feel anything—no tingle of a force field or anything—but then, she didn't going in and out of the Glass House, either.

Still, she recognized it immediately…. There was something about this house. It had the same quality of stillness, of
weight,
that she always felt at home. Not the same at all inside from a decorating point of view—Gramma and Lisa seemed to like furniture, lots of it, all in fussy floral patterns and chintz, with rugs everywhere and a smothering amount of curtains and lace. Claire walked slowly down the hardwood hallway, trailing her fingers lightly over the paneling. The wood felt warm, but all wood did, right?

“Freaky,'” she muttered, and opened the bathroom door.

It wasn't a bathroom.

It was a study, a large one, and it couldn't have been more different from the overblown frilly living room…severe polished wood floors, a massive dark desk, a few glowering portraits on the walls. Dark red velvet curtains blocking out the sun. The walls were lined with books, old books mostly, and in the cabinet there was something that looked like a wine rack, only it held…scrolls?

Amelie was seated at the desk, signing sheets of paper with a gold pen. One of her assistants, also a vampire, was standing attentively next to her, taking each sheet out of the way as she wrote her name.

Neither of them looked up at Claire.

“Close the door,'” Amelie said in a gentle voice accented with an almost-French sort of pronunciation. “I dislike the draft.'”

Claire thought about running, but she wasn't stupid enough to believe she could run far enough, or fast enough, and even though the idea of shrieking and slamming the door from the
other
side was pretty tempting, she swallowed her fear and stepped all the way in before she shut it with a quiet
click
.

“Is this your house?'” Claire asked. It was the only thing she could think of to ask, frankly; every other question had been shaken right out of her head because
this couldn't be happening
.

Amelie glanced up, and her eyes were just as cool and intimidating as Claire remembered. It felt a little like being frostbitten. “My house?'” she echoed. “Yes, of course. They are all my house. Oh, I see what you ask. You ask if the particular house you entered is my home. No, little Claire, it is not where I hide myself from my enemies, although it would certainly be a useful choice. Very…'” Amelie smiled slowly. “Unexpected.'”

“Then…how…?'”

“You'll find that when I need you, Claire, you will be called.'” Amelie signed the last paper, then handed it to her assistant—a tall, dark young man in a black suit and tie—and he bowed slightly and left the room through another door. Amelie sat back in her massive carved chair, looking more like a queen than ever, including the golden coronet of hair on top of her head. Her long fingers tapped lightly on the lion-head arms of the chair. “You are not in the house where you were, my dear. Do you understand that?'”

“Teleportation,'” Claire said. “But that's not possible.'”

“Yet you are here.'”

“That's
science fiction
!'”

Amelie waved her graceful hand. “I fail to understand your conventions of literature these days. One impossible thing such as vampires, this is acceptable, but two impossible things becomes science fiction? Ah well, no matter. I cannot explain the workings of it; that is a subject for philosophers and artisans, and I am neither. Not for many years.'” Her frost-colored eyes warmed just a fraction. “Put down your pack. I've seen tinkers carrying lighter loads.'”

What's a tinker?
Claire wondered. She started to ask, but didn't want to sound stupid. “Thank you,'” she said, and carefully lowered her backpack to the wooden floor, then slid into one of the two chairs facing the desk. “Ma'am.'”

“So polite,'” Amelie said. “And in a time when manners are forgotten…you do understand what manners are, don't you, Claire? Behaviors that allow humans to live closely together without killing each other. Most of the time.'”

“Yes, ma'am.'”

Silence. Somewhere behind Claire, a big clock ticked away minutes; she felt a drop of sweat glide down her neck and splash into the fabric of her black knit shirt. Amelie was staring at her without blinking or moving, and that was weird.
Wrong.
People just didn't
do
that.

But then, Amelie wasn't people. In fact, of all the vampires, in many ways she was the most not-people.

“Sam asked about you,'” Claire blurted, just because it popped into her head and she wanted Amelie to stop staring at her. It worked. Amelie blinked, shifted her weight, and leaned forward to rest her pointed chin on her folded hands, elbows still braced on the arms of the chair.

“Sam,'” she said slowly, and her gaze wandered up and to her right, fixed on nothing. Trying to remember, Claire thought; she'd noticed how people—even vampires, apparently—did that with their eyes when remembering things. “Ah yes. Samuel.'” Her gaze snapped back to Claire with unnerving speed. “And how did you come to chat with dear young Samuel?'”

Claire shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me.'”

“About?'”

“He asked about you. I—think he's lonely.'”

Amelie smiled. She wasn't trying to impress Claire with her vampiness—no need for that!—so her teeth looked white and even, perfectly normal. “Of course he's lonely,'” she said. “Samuel is the youngest. No one older trusts him; no one younger exists. He has no ties to the vampire community, save me, and no ties left to the human world. He is more alone than anyone you will ever meet, Claire.'”

“You say that like you…want him that way. Alone, I mean.'”

“I do,'” Amelie said calmly. “My reasons are my own. However, it is an interesting experiment, to see how someone so alone will react. Samuel has been intriguing; most vampires would have simply turned brutal and un-caring, but he continues to seek comfort. Friendship. He is unusual, I think.'”

“You're
experimenting
on him!'” Claire said.

Amelie's platinum eyebrows slowly rose to form perfect arches over her cold, amused eyes. “Clever of you to think such a thing, but attend: a rat who knows it is running a maze is no longer a useful subject. So you will keep your counsel, and you will keep your distance from dear sweet Samuel. Now. Why did you come to me today?'”

“Why did I…?'” Claire cleared her throat. “I think maybe there's been a mistake. I was, you know, looking for a bathroom.'”

Amelie stared at her for a frozen second, and then she threw back her head and laughed. It was a full,
living
sound, warm and full of unexpected joy, and when it passed, Claire could see the traces of it still on her face and in her eyes. Making her look almost…human. “A bathroom,'” she repeated, and shook her head. “Child, I have been told many things, but that may yet prove the most amusing. If you wish a bathroom, please, go through that door. You will find all that you require.'” Her smile faded. “But I think you came to ask me something more.'”

“I didn't come here at all! I was going to the Morganville Historical Society….'”

“I
am
the Morganville Historical Society,'” Amelie said. “What do you wish to know?'”

Claire liked books. Books didn't talk back. They didn't sit there in their fancy throne chairs and look all queeny and imposing and
terrifying,
and they didn't have fangs and bodyguards. Books were
fine
. “Um…I just wanted to look something up…?'”

Amelie was already losing patience. “Just tell me, girl. Quickly. I am not without duties.'”

Claire cleared her throat nervously, coughed, and said, “I wanted to find out about Eve's brother, Jason. Jason Rosser.'”

“Done,'” Amelie said, and although she didn't seem to do anything, not even lift a finger, the side door opened and her cute but deathly pale assistant leaned in. “The Rosser family file,'” she told him. He nodded and was gone. “You would have wasted your time,'” Amelie said to Claire. “There are no personnel files of any kind in the Historical Society building. It is purely for show, and the information there is inaccurate, at best. If you want to know the true history of things, little one, come to someone who has lived it.'”

“But that's just perspective,'” Claire said. “Not fact.'”

“All fact is perspective. Ah, thank you, Henry.'” Amelie accepted a folder from her assistant, who silently left again. She flipped it open, studied what was inside, and then handed it over to Claire. “An unexceptional family. Curious that it produced young Eve and her brother.'”