Rachel Caine: Kiss of Death

The engineer’s mouth was open. He closed it, cleared his throat, and said, “What’s that called, kid?”

“‘Sam’s Song,”’ Michael said. “It’s for my grandfather.”

The engineer closed the microphone, looked at the other two, and said, “We’ve got a live one.”

How darkly hilarious, Claire thought. If only he knew.

“He’s great,” Shane said softly, as if he’d never actually realized it before. “Seriously. He’s great. I’m not crazy, right?”

“You’re not crazy,” the engineer said. “Your buddy has insane skills. They’re going to love him out there.”

Out there. In the world.

In the real world.

Where Michael couldn’t really go for long.

The booth door opened, and Oliver walked in. He was in a normal human mode, looking fatherly and inoffensive. The aging hippie, complete with tie-dyed T-shirt and faded jeans and sandals. Claire bet that if she’d told the engineer Oliver was a vampire, he’d have laughed and told her to lay off the crack.

Oliver perched on the arm of the sofa, listening. They all scooted over, because even Claire didn’t really want to lean against him, no matter how nice he was apparently being. He said nothing at all. After a while, they all relaxed a little, as Michael continued to pour out the amazing rivers of music on the other side of the studio glass. Fast, slow, hard rocking—he could do it all.

When the last song was over, two hours later, the engineer hit the microphone into the studio and said, “Perfect. That was perfect; that’s a keeper. Okay, I think we’re done. Congratulations. You are officially on your way, my man.”

Michael stood up, smiling, holding his guitar in one hand, and caught sight of Oliver watching him.

His smile almost faded, but then he moved his gaze over to Eve, who was on her feet, blowing him kisses. That made him laugh.

“Rock star!” Eve yelled, and clapped. Claire and Shane stood up and clapped, too.

Oliver sat quietly, no expression at all on his face, as they celebrated Michael’s success.

It was their last night in Dallas.

Oliver had allowed them to have a nice dinner out, at a fantastically expensive restaurant where all the waiters were better dressed than Claire ever had been. He didn’t go, of course, but somehow Claire could feel his presence, feel him watching.

It was still an amazing meal. She tried everything on her plate, on Shane’s, even off Michael’s and Eve’s. They laughed and flirted, and after the dinner—which went on Oliver’s credit card—they went to a dance club across the street, full of beautiful people and spinning lights. No liquor allowed for them, thanks to the glowing wristbands they didn’t get, but they danced. Even Shane, although he mainly held on to Claire as she danced—which was fantastic. Hot, sweaty, exhausted, happy, the four of them piled into a cab and headed back to the hotel.

It was on the elevator ride up when Shane asked, “Are we really going back?”

It was a long ride; their rooms were on the very top floor of a very tall building. Nobody spoke, not even Michael. He rested his chin on top of Eve’s head and held her close, and she put her arms around him.

Shane looked at Claire, the question plain in his eyes. She felt the heavy weight of it, the absolute vital importance of it.

The claddagh ring on her right hand felt cold, suddenly.

“Seriously,” Shane said. “Can you leave all this? Just go back to that? Michael, you’ve got a future out here. You really do.”

“Do I?” Michael asked. He sounded tired and defeated. “How long do you think I could last before something went wrong, man? Morganville’s safety. This is—beautiful, but it’s temporary. It has to be temporary.”

“It doesn’t,” Shane insisted. “We can figure it out. We can. ”

Before Michael could answer, the floor dinged arrival, and they had to get out.

Oliver was standing in the hallway, wearing his leather coat and serious expression. No more Mr. Nice Hippie, obviously. He was standing as if he’d been waiting for them for a while.

Creepy.

All four of them came to a sudden halt, staring at him; Claire felt Shane’s arm tighten around her waist, as if he was considering moving in front of her. To protect her from what?

There was something odd about the way Oliver was looking at them—because he wasn’t looking at them, exactly. It was not his normal direct stare at all.

Instead, he silently dialed a number on the cell phone in his hand and put it on speaker, right there, standing in the middle of the hotel hallway. All the plush carpet and lights and normal life seemed to fade away as Claire heard a calm voice on the other end of the phone say, “Do you have them all?” Amelie. Cool, precise, perfectly in control.

“All except Jason,” Oliver said. “He’s on an errand. He’s not involved in this in any case.”

Silence for a few seconds, and then Amelie said, “I want you to know I take no pleasure in this. I have made it clear to you, Claire, that I value your service to me and to Morganville; that you are important to us. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Her throat felt dry and tight, and her skin cold.

“Michael,” Amelie continued, “I have spoken with you in private, but I will make this public: you must return to Morganville. This goes equally for Claire. You must return. There is no argument, no mitigation. Oliver understands this very well, and he is standing as my enforcer in this matter. No doubt the lights are very bright in Dallas, and Morganville seems far away. I assure you it is not. I don’t doubt you have spoken of running away, of securing your freedom, but you must understand: my reach is long, and my patience is not infinite. I would much rather your parents continue in blissful ignorance of their danger, Claire. And yours, Eve. And even yours, Michael—even though they have left Morganville, they remain under my control, and always will.”

“You bitch,” Shane muttered.

“Mr. Collins, I will tolerate much from the four of you, including your occasional rudeness. I will allow you a great deal of freedom and latitude. But make no mistake: I will not let you go free. Make your peace with it as you can. Hate me if you must. But you will come back to Morganville, or suffer the consequences. You of all people know that I am quite serious about that.”

Shane went pale, and Claire felt every muscle in his body draw tighter. “Yeah, I know,” he said hoarsely. “Found my mom floating in a bathtub full of her own blood. I know how serious you can get.”

Amelie was silent again, and then she said, “Morganville may not be paradise, and it may not be the future you believe you deserve. But in Morganville, you and your families will remain safe and alive while it is within my power to ensure it. I give you my word, as Founder, that this will be so. Is this understood?”

“You’re holding our families hostage,” Claire said. “We already knew that.”

“And I wanted you to hear it from my lips, so there would be no mistakes,” Amelie replied. “And now you have. I will expect you back tomorrow. Good night.”

Oliver shut the phone off and put it away. He said nothing to them, just moved out of the way. For a few seconds the four of them just stood there, and then Shane said, “So that’s it.”

“Yes,” Oliver said. “Tomorrow, we return. I suggest you make the most of the time you have tonight.” He turned to leave, and then looked back over his shoulder—just one, fast glance. “And I am sorry.”

Shane, without another word, took Claire’s hand and led her to his room.

In the morning, with the sunlight falling over the two of them as dawn rose on their last day of freedom, Shane rolled over to look at her, propped himself up on an elbow, and said, “You know I love you, right?”