Morganville (Justin Bieber)

Chapter 116

I hated Ysandre for Justin's sake. I was glad the vamp was here, and not attacking Justin's Bloodmobile-- one, because I wasn't so sure Justin could resist the evil witch, and two, I wanted to stake Ysandre myself.

Personally.

"No," Hannah said, when I took a step out from behind her. "Are you crazy? Get back!"

Hannah fired over my shoulder. It was at the outer extreme of the paintball gun's range, but the pellet hit one of the vampires--not Ysandre, I was disappointed to see--right in the chest. Silver dust puffed up in a lethal mist, and the close formation scattered. Ysandre might have had a few burns, but nothing that wouldn't heal.

The vampire Hannah had shot in the chest toppled over and hit the marble stairs, smoking and flailing.

Amelie slammed her palm flat against the door and closed her eyes, and deep inside the barrier something groaned and shifted with a scrape of metal. "Inside," Amelie murmured, still wicked controlled, and I spun and followed the three vampires across the threshold. Hannah backed in after, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.

"No locks," she said.

Amelie reached over and pushed Hannah's gun hand into an atrest position at her side. "None necessary. They won't get in." She sounded sure of it, but from the look Hannah continued to give the door--as if she wished she could weld it shut with the force of her stare--I wasn't so certain. "This way. We'll take the stairs."

It was a library, full of books. Some--on this floor--were new, or at least newish, with colorful spines and crisp titles that I could read even in the low light. I slowed down a little, blinking. "You guys have vampire stories in here?" None of the vampires answered. Amelie veered to the right, through the twostorytall shelves, and headed for a set of sweeping marble steps at the end. The books got older, the paper more yellow. I caught sight of a sign that read FOLKLORE, CA. 18701945, ENGLISH, and then another that identified a German section. Then French. Then script that might have been Chinese.

So many books, and from what I could tell, every single one of them had to do in some way with vampires. Was it history or fiction to them?

I didn't really have time to work it out. We were taking the stairs, moving around the curve up to the second level. My legs burned all along the calf muscles, and my breathing was getting raspy from the constant movement and adrenaline. Hannah flashed me a quick, sympathetic smile. "Yeah," she said. "Consider it basic training. Can you keep up?"

I gave her a gasping nod.

More books here, old and crumbling, and the air tasted like dry leather and ancient paper. Toward the back of the room, there were things that looked like wine racks, the fancy Xshaped kind people put in cellars, only these held rolls of paper, each neatly tied with ribbon. They were scrolls, probably very old ones. I hoped we'd go that direction, but no, Amelie was turning us down another book aisle, toward a blank white wall.

No, not quite blank. It had a small painting on the wall, in a fussy gilt frame. Some blandlooking nature scene . . . and then, as Amelie stared at it, the painting changed.

It grew darker, as though clouds had come across the meadow and the drowsy sheep in the picture.

And then it was dark, just a dark canvas, then some pinpricks of light, like candle flames through smoke. . . .

And then I saw Myrnin.

He was in chains, silvercolored chains, kneeling on the floor, and his head was down. He was still wearing the blousy white pantaloons of his Pierrot costume, but no shirt. The wet points of his damp hair clung to his face and his marblepale shoulders.