“Oh . . . I think she was due to get a visit from the Bloodmobile this week. Should I reschedule that, or—”
“She’s in a coma,” Hannah cut in flatly. “So I don’t think rescheduling would be such a great idea right now. I’ll let her family know you were concerned.”
Leanna looked stricken, then bitterly offended. “Why, I had no idea she was so badly hurt—don’t you go saying something like that! Why, they’ll think I’m some kind of monster.”
“Yeah, Leanna, it’s all about you,” Hannah said. “Thanks for this.”
“I’m telling Director Rose about this!” Leanna called after her as she left.
Not for the first time, Hannah thought it was a damn shame that as the law, she no longer got to flip people off.
? ? ?
The next stop, after a fast lunch at Marjo’s Diner, was the Glass House on Lot Street. The old Victorian was ramshackle, but sturdy; the paint was fresh, and the kids were doing a decent job of keeping the place looking nice. Eve had put up a wind chime made of black, shiny skulls that clattered in the hot breeze, and someone had shoved a threadbare old armchair out on the porch, but other than that, it was just the same as always. A mirror of her grandma’s old Day House.
Hannah knocked on the door and stepped back to wait. It didn’t take long before she heard footsteps, and knew she was being checked out through the security peephole. Locks snapped back, and Claire Danvers offered her a quiet, calm smile only a little nervous around the edges. “Hannah,” she said. “Hi. What’s up?”
“I’d like to get your opinion on something technical,” Hannah said. “If you’ve got the time.”
“Sure.” Claire stepped aside, and Hannah followed her in and closed the door behind her. By common Morganville courtesy, there was no invitation given, and Hannah made sure the lock was fastened. Second nature to folks here in Vampire Town. “What is it?”
“Got some blood analysis that I’d like you to see. I figure you’ve seen enough working with your crazy vampire boss to be able to spot anything interesting in it.”
Claire led the way back through the living room. Shane Collins was sprawled on the couch, asleep, with a comic book covering his face. Wolverine. That seemed appropriate. Neither of them commented on him, and Claire led the way into the kitchen, to the table.
“Can I get you something? Coffee?”
“Sure,” Hannah said. Her Common Grounds fix had worn off, and she had the feeling it might be a long night ahead. Claire pulled the pot off the burner and filled two cups, then carried them over. Hannah slid the folder over in exchange for the coffee, and Claire sipped as she opened it up to read.
“Lindsay Ramson?” Claire glanced up at her, startled. “She was attacked, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “Word travels fast, I see.”
“If Monica’s involved, it does. Do you think she—”
“No,” Hannah said. “I don’t. She’d never have stuck around to claim credit for finding her if she’d done it in the first place. And she’s easily bored. That girl was attacked a whole lot earlier.”
Claire nodded and went back to the blood tests. A small frown grooved itself between her brows as she shuffled papers. After a few minutes, she began laying the papers out in a specific order, turned toward Hannah.
“Something’s happening to her,” Claire said. “See this result, right here?” She put her finger on a particular value. It had an impenetrable chemical code for a name, so Hannah just shrugged. “It means that something was happening to her blood. Just this last entry, though; the rest look pretty normal. I’m not a doctor, though. You’d need to have someone else look at it. She stopped giving blood, though, so I can’t tell if it got better, or worse.”
“What effect would these changes have had on her blood?” Hannah asked. “What you’re pointing to?”
“I’m not . . . really sure. But I think it would have made her anemic. Fewer red blood cells. Maybe it’s something like leukemia.”
“Maybe,” Hannah said thoughtfully, and drank her coffee as she stared at the printed pages. “Maybe.”
But in that case, why try to kill someone who was already so ill?
She was so immersed in the thought that she almost failed to hear Shane coming into the kitchen, but her peripheral vision caught the motion and yanked her vividly to attention. She looked in his direction, and it must have been too quickly, because Shane came to a sudden stop, holding up both hands in surrender. One of them still held the rolled-up Wolverine comic. “Don’t shoot, Officer,” he said. “I’m not armed.”
“And not dangerous,” she said, at which he looked preciously wounded. “Good morning.”
“We keep night-owl hours around here. Best to stay awake when the creatures of the night prowl.” He advanced on Claire, who was still absorbed in the paperwork, and did a B-movie loom with clawed fingers.