That made zero sense, because Myrnin was fully capable of going out in the daylight when he wanted to, vampire or not. He was old, older than Morganville’s resident vampire queen, Amelie; that gave him a certain invulnerability to sunlight that younger undead didn’t have. Besides, a coat and hat usually did fine for protection.
“Where are we going, exactly?”
“The Morganville Traveler’s Rest,” he said. “Come along, then. Bring everything.”
Claire rolled her eyes and texted her husband—husband; she loved thinking that so much—Shane, to let him know where she was going. It was an established thing, when Myrnin was in his crazycakes moods. Just insurance. Not so much that she thought he’d hurt her; they were long past that kind of fear. More that he’d forget and abandon her someplace. That happened way too much.
Shane texted back that he wished she were coming home. She wished she were, too. But sending Myrnin off unescorted seemed like a bad plan. He was in a manic phase, and that almost never went well . . . but she could keep him from doing something really crazy.
Hopefully.
Take everything. Right.
Claire grabbed what she thought she might need, bundled it into a bag older than she was, and followed Myrnin out into the night.
? ? ?
She had no idea where the Morganville Traveler’s Rest might be; she’d never heard of it, and Morganville, Texas, wasn’t that big of a town. So she wasn’t too surprised to find that it was one of the many dilapidated, shuttered buildings around town . . . the crumbling ruins of places that weren’t worth keeping up or renovating. Home of rats, cockroaches, and vampires too derelict or damaged to play by Amelie’s rules of good behavior. Or those who just enjoyed a good scary place to haunt.
It was definitely scary. Definitely. Morganville’s nights were clear and cold, and though she’d wrapped up in a thick jacket and a scarf and gloves, her breath fogged white as she struggled to keep up with Myrnin. He wasn’t vampire-speeding away from her, at least; he was clearly impatient, but keeping more or less to a human pace.
A fast human pace.
“Slow down!” she finally gasped. He didn’t slow; he stopped, and then he turned and looked back at her, sighed, and came to take the heavy bag from her.
“Better?” he asked.
“Not if you keep acting like it’s a race!”
“Well, it is, a bit,” he said. “I would have asked you to drive me, but you seem to have such trouble with the windshield.”
“It’s a vampire tinted windshield, Myrnin.”
“Just as I said. Ah, good. This way.”
They were at the corner of Oh-Hell-No and You’re-Gonna-Die, as Eve would have put it, and this way looked like it was definitely worse. The silver wash of moonlight on sagging wood and leaning buildings turned it all into a Gothic nightmare, and except for the occasional streetlight, there wasn’t any sign of life here. Old, old buildings, mostly built of brick with concrete ornaments on them. There was one across the street that looked like it had once been a hotel, six or seven generations back; above the boarded-up door, a gruesome-looking gargoyle leaned down. Up near the top, letters in the concrete read EST. 1895.
Definitely not the place Claire wanted to be urban exploring at this time of night. Or, actually, at all, ever, the end, but what was worse than urban exploring at this time of night was that Myrnin might actually leave her alone doing it.
She hurried after him when he darted for the EST. 1895 building. The front door was boarded over, but the plywood hadn’t weathered the tough Morganville sunshine and heat too well, and besides, vampire strength was enough to rip even sturdy plywood like tissue paper. All Claire needed to do was stand back—well back, because sometimes Myrnin forgot where he was throwing stuff, and that didn’t end well. The shredded board skidded past her, out into the street, where she doubted anyone would be running over it for a couple of days, at least. Still, she trudged over, grabbed the wood (it was surprisingly heavy), and towed it back onto the sidewalk.
Myrnin had already shoved open the door, which leaned on rusty hinges like a drunk. Beyond, it looked scary-black, but Claire sighed and turned on her very bright little LED flashlight. She never left home without it, for precisely this kind of reason. It lit up an ancient hallway, a ceiling that looked bulging and precarious from some leak long ago, and wallpaper that she couldn’t imagine had ever been pretty. There was a front desk up ahead, which had survived fairly well, and a honeycomb of wooden boxes behind it, most with dusty keys still in them. Lots of vacancies, she thought, and shuddered. She imagined most of them weren’t vacant at all. It was every horror movie Eve had ever forced her to watch, come to life.
Myrnin leaned over the dusty counter and grabbed a key from a box, then hurried up the sagging, none-too-safe-looking stairs. Claire tried to see which key he’d grabbed, in case he (inevitably) left her behind.