“Hey, those are classic! And collectible.”
Mrs. Grant sighed. “Let’s get everyone loaded. Remember: Fal- lon may be in Morganville, but the Daylight Foundation has branches all over the world. They wil come for us if we don’t come for them first. We might not be able to take them out, but we can at least remove the man who turned a search for a cure into a cru- sade. Let’s ensure he doesn’t do any more damage.”
As battle speeches went, it wasn’t great, but obviously the folks from Blacke— mostly everyday folks, the kind of people you’d see in a bigger town at a Walmart or eating at the Dairy Queen— were already on board. Blacke wasn’t Morganville; by the time Morley and the rest of his vampire refugees from Amelie’s rule had arrived here, the town had already been ripped in half by an uncontrollable infection that had taken half the residents and reduced them to mindless, blood- craving monsters. Amelie’s father, Bishop, had done that, and then moved on, probably amused by all the may- hem he’d left behind him. That was why Blacke wouldn’t go with the Daylighters’ agenda; it meant subjecting their own families to a cure that was bound to kill most of them. In Morganville, the lines between humans and vampires were generally pretty well drawn.
In Blacke, there were no lines. Only heartaches.
In a fine display of symmetry, the townspeople piled into the same battered bus that Morley had commandeered from Morgan- ville; it still had most of the body damage, but it was at least running, and it was relatively light- proofed. Amelie, Oliver, and Morley were loaded in last, lying stretched across seats. Amelie maintained her calm illusion of death— maybe it was easier for her that way. But Morley complained bitterly, and Oliver seemed uncomfortable even though he didn’t do more than glare at those around him.
“Hey, man, don’t look at me,” Shane told him. “I’m back in handcuffs. Do you have any idea how many times this makes?”
“Do you have a stake in your heart?” Oliver said. His voice sounded strained and faint, as if he was using all his willpower to suppress a scream. “At least if it was wooden, I’d be unconscious.
This is hideous.”
“I’m sure you can cope just fine,” Mrs. Grant said. She didn’t seem sympathetic. “Is everyone in?” She looked around at the rows of people— men and women, a few teens, even some elderly citi- zens. They all looked hard, tough, and ready for action. “Let’s go, then.”
The driver looked as if he might have actually once driven a school bus, back in the dark ages; he was ancient, and Claire was a little afraid that he was so old he might nod off at the wheel. But his arthritic old hands seemed competent enough as he steered them away from the curb and picked up speed. They made the turn and went past the shuttered courthouse. The smug statue of Hiram Blacke stared after them.
There were vampires in Blacke standing in the shadows, or in the windows, watching them go. This time Claire didn’t feel so creeped out by that. It was more as if they were wishing them luck.
She really hoped it worked.
It was a long, bumpy ride, worse by far for the three staked vam- pires, but they bore it in relative silence— even Morley, after a while, when he realized nobody was going to respond to his out- bursts. Claire decided not to complain about the chafing of the bands around her wrists. Seemed like the least she could do was bear it with the same stoic silence as the others.
When the bus finally started to slow down and the brakes en- gaged, Claire looked up through the front window to see that they were approaching the Morganville billboard. It brought a flood of emotions— relief that the ride was nearly over, and the very real fear that what they were doing would go wrong. Badly. But she didn’t know what else they could do, except walk away . . . turn their backs on Morganville and just let it all happen without them.
But how would that make them any different from the other Mor- ganville residents who were willing to let horrible things happen to the vampires so long as it happened out of their particular view? The feeling came back again, sick and dark. I’m bringing trouble to Morganvil e. They’ve final y got their peace, what they always wanted, and I’m coming back to rip it apart.
I’m the vil ain.
All she knew was that she couldn’t run, not from this. She knew Shane wouldn’t do that, or Michael, or Eve. They’d grown up here. They had roots. And she had to confess it: she did, too.
Her parents might live somewhere else, might not remember any- thing about Morganville except a vague sense of unease, but if her family history came from here, she didn’t think she could have run, either.
Face it, the sensible part of her said. You can’t run because you don’t run. You’re stubborn. That’s always be n your biggest problem. If you weren’t so stubborn, you’d have run away from this town the day Monica Morrell and her Monicket es pushed you down the stairs at the dorm.
And if she’d done the reasonable thing and run home to Mommy and Daddy, what would she have missed?
Everything. Including Shane.
Mrs. Grant stood up and stepped into the aisle, facing back toward the rest of the people in the bus. “All right,” she said. “Remember: we’re not fighting for Morganville, we’re fighting for our own families. No matter what happens, you keep them in mind.
Things are going to get ugly.”
There were solemn nods from everyone from Blacke. From where he lay on the front seat, Morley said, “And if you lack for motivation, remember that you hate vampires for what they’ve done to you.”
“Well,” Mrs. Grant said, very reasonably, “we do, so that isn’t much of a stretch, Morley.”
“You wound me, sweet lady.”
“You annoy me, troublemaker.”
It had the well- worn feel of familiarity, and Claire wondered just how close Mrs. Grant (a widow, she remembered) and Morley had actually gotten. Not that it was any of her business, but it was more fun to speculate on that than on what Fallon was going to do next.
“Speak of the devil,” Mrs. Grant said, turning to look out the windshield. The billboard of Morganville was looming, but so were the flashing lights of two police cars. There were also three solid black SUVs— new- looking SUVs (unusual for Morganville)— with the rising sun logo on the doors. At least ten armed men and women were braced for a fight out there.
“Showtime,” Morley said.
“Shut up,” she told him. “You’re dead, remember?”
“Will you miss me when I’m gone?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Morley’s dry chuckle faded into silence, and the driver of the bus brought them to a rolling stop several feet from the roadblock.
Claire heard an amplified voice— Hannah Moses’s voice, she was sure— ring even through the closed windows of the bus. “Out of the bus,” she said. “Do it slowly, hands raised, one at a time.
When you come out, form a line and get down on your knees, hands on top of your head. You have ten seconds to comply.”
Mrs. Grant nodded to the driver, who turned off the engine and opened the bus’s doors. “One at a time,” she told the rest of them. “The vampires and the prisoners stay in here. Michael, Eve, you’re getting off with me.” She was the first off the bus, and demonstrated the perfect technique of moving away, kneeling down, and putting her hands on top of her head.
Michael and Eve got up from the seat in front of Claire and Shane. Eve looked anguished. Michael was hiding it, but he was feeling terrible about it, too.
“Go.” Shane nodded to them. “You’re our aces in the hole.
Don’t let us down.”
“Never,” Eve said, and leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Then she gave Claire one, too. “Love you guys.”
“Love you, too,” Claire said, and managed a smile. “Both of you. Be careful.”
Michael nodded and ruffled Claire’s hair, like a big brother, then led his wife off the bus.
The rest followed in a slow, methodical procession, disembark- ing and kneeling. Claire heard Mrs. Grant explaining things to Hannah. Hannah was no fool; she would probably get the sub- texts. She knew the history of Blacke well, and she wasn’t going to believe the story as much as newcomers to town like the Daylighters would.