Fall of Night (19 page)

Maybe he’d change his mind if she brought back a new, shiny, 3-D printed,
working
copy of VLAD. It might solve the weight problems, too, if they could machine it out of some very lightweight materials. Maybe, with enough imagination, they’d even be able to model a vampire brain and print an artificial one to fit inside Myrnin’s computer, eliminating the need for anyone to die for science ever again in Morganville.

Well, she could dream, anyway.

Dr Anderson was putting out a wide selection of tools for the disassembly, and pointed Claire toward a rolling 3-D scanning device; her job, as each piece was disassembled from VLAD, was to tag it with a number and description, scan it individually, and put it in a bin. Dr Anderson was very careful; when she got to the little vials of bubbling liquid – Myrnin’s addition, along with all the whirling gears – she kept the liquid as well, though she siphoned off a bit for testing. Bit by bit, the device came apart into its component pieces, and the lab began to smell like hot solder and cooling metal.

By the time it was done, Claire yawned, stretched and glanced up at the clock. It was already five o’clock. She hadn’t intended to stay so long, but there was still more to be done; the scanner had to download into the mainframe, so that Dr Anderson could begin to work with the component pieces in wireframe form.

‘You should go,’ Dr Anderson said, and yawned. ‘Sorry. I got up early, and I know it’s been another long day for you. I can handle reassembly tonight.’

‘Want me to put the parts away?’ The bin was full now, and just as heavy as the whole device had been. Dr Anderson nodded, and Claire carried it back to the concealed panel, which was still open. She slid the bin inside and, on Anderson’s instruction, pressed her hand to the panel on the side. It lit up red, and the door slid shut.

‘I programmed it for your palm print,’ Anderson said. ‘You can open and close it on your own now. But only if there’s no one else in the room but me. If someone tries to force you to open it, it’ll simply stay closed, so you just tell them you don’t have authorisation. Without authorisation, you wouldn’t be of any use to them.’

She’d thought ahead, Claire thought, and it was a little chilling that she’d thought as far as someone holding a gun to Claire’s head and forcing her to try to open the hiding place.

But that was someone from Morganville for you – always thinking of the worst-case scenario.

Claire said goodnight, and started for home.

She was walking down the street from the Mudd Building, dodging excited groups of students who were apparently headed to the Biopolymer Lab, when her phone rang – no, it hadn’t, actually, because she had a voicemail, not a call. Dodgy reception in the lab, she guessed.

The call was from Liz, as were the three text messages. All were alerting her, with cheery good humour, that Liz had invited someone to dinner, and to please come home on time, before six.

Claire checked her watch. She just had time to make it.

Elizabeth met Claire at the door, which swung open before she’d even reached for the doorknob. She was wearing a fancy dress, nice shoes, earrings, a glittering necklace, and she even had on lipstick.

Claire blinked. ‘I thought we were just having somebody over for dinner.’

Liz dragged her inside and closed the door. She leant closer to whisper, ‘We are, but put on something nice. I want to impress him, okay? It’s important!’

‘Um … okay.’ Claire wasn’t sure why
she
had to dress up to impress Elizabeth’s date, but she was willing to meet her halfway for the sake of good roommate karma. Up the stairs, and into her room. She dumped her backpack on the still-unmade bed and sorted through her limited clothing choices, settling on a fitted white shirt and some black pants. Plain, but nice. Adding one of the necklaces Eve had given her – a Day of the Dead skull, enamelled in all kinds of bright colours – jazzed it up a little. Claire fluffed her hair in the mirror and decided that she wasn’t going to resort to make-up; after all, it was Liz’s date, not hers.

When she made her way downstairs, she heard Elizabeth laughing, and she opened the door to the kitchen and saw her in an actual apron over her fancy dress, stirring a pot. A man was sitting at the small kitchen table – not a college boy at all, a man of about forty, probably, with little grey threads at his temples and sparkling blue eyes in a suntanned face. Even sitting down, he seemed tall. He was wearing a denim work shirt with the collar open, and a sports coat, and he had a little smile on his face that Claire somehow didn’t really like.

She’d rarely taken an instant dislike to anyone, but … she might have to make an exception, she decided.

‘Claire, this is Patrick,’ Elizabeth said. Which caught her by surprise. Somehow, Claire had thought that she’d introduce the man as her father, which he was certainly old enough to be. Or an uncle, or something. But just plain Patrick? ‘Dr Patrick Davis, I mean. He’s one of my professors.’

‘Really?’ Claire raised her eyebrows and carefully nodded to him. ‘Which class?’

‘Biology,’ Patrick said. ‘Elizabeth’s a very bright student. I hope you don’t mind that she invited me over for a meal.’

Claire avoided answering that by joining Liz at the stove. ‘What are you making?’

‘Chicken and stuffing, peas, and carrots,’ her housemate said. Her smile looked excited, but it trembled a bit in the corners. ‘Sound okay?’

‘Delicious. What can I do?’

‘The bread? Just put it to warm in the oven.’

Claire did that, and fetched herself a glass of Coke from the fridge. She didn’t ask Dr Davis if he wanted anything, because as she was putting ice in the glass she caught him staring at Liz in a way that was not very professorial. More predatory.

Oh, God. Seriously?
Gross
.

‘Funny,’ Claire said, ‘but I don’t think I ever invited any of my professors home for dinner. Not even the ones I liked.’

Liz gave her a pleading look. ‘Well, that’s too bad. You haven’t had the fantastic teachers I have, I guess,’ she said. ‘Patrick is great.’

‘I’m sure.’ Claire sipped her Coke for a minute, thinking about it, and then said, ‘You know what, I think I really should be studying, and—’

‘Oh, no, please, don’t let my presence drive you away,’ Patrick said. He sounded earnest and kind, and he even had a hint of a gentle Irish accent, which threw her off her wary game. ‘Liz assures me that she doesn’t cook very often; I want you to share in the bounty. I’d very much like to talk; Liz tells me you’re doing quite interesting work.’

‘I – excuse me?’ Claire paused in the act of picking up the bread tray to turn to look at him. Liz kept her gaze fixed steadily on the pot she was stirring, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘What interesting work?’

‘Well, I hear you’re enrolled in an individual study programme at MIT. I don’t think there’s been more than a handful of people who could claim that in the entire history of the university. Tell me, how did that come about?’

Claire forced herself to move – to set the stove dial, open the door, shove the tray inside on the rack. But she knew she looked awkward and nervous.
Very
awkward. Her brain was scrambling to keep up with the changing scenery. She’d pegged Dr Davis as one of
those
teachers … the ones who used their jobs to pick off the easy prey, like Liz, who craved acceptance and protection. She was sure he was on a quest to seduce her housemate, if he hadn’t already.

So this seemed like a very sharp left turn, at best. And in a worrying direction.

He was clearly waiting for her answer, so she said, ‘I’m actually just here temporarily. It’s sort of a special project. I’m working with one of the professors. They do those kinds of visiting student projects all the time. Maybe you heard about the boy from Africa who powered his village’s technology from found objects …’

‘Oh, yes, I know all about the public relations projects,’ he said. ‘But I think what you’re doing is a great deal more … interesting. Isn’t that right?’

Claire jerked and knocked a lid from the counter; it fell to the floor and rang like a bell, and it provided a nice sonic distraction from what she was sure was going to be a very telling silence. She fumbled for the pot lid, and Liz bent down at the same time, and in the confusion Claire whispered, urgently, ‘What the hell does he want?’

‘What? Nothing!’ Liz snatched the pot lid from her hands and rinsed it off in the sink before slamming it down on the pot she’d been watching. ‘If I’d known you’d be so judgemental I wouldn’t have asked you in!’

‘You didn’t
ask
,’ Claire hissed back.

‘Whatever.’

‘Everything all right, ladies?’ Dr Davis asked, and Liz turned, took a deep breath, dried her hands on the apron, and smiled like a plastic mannequin as she carried the pot over to the table and set it down.

‘Just fine, Patrick,’ she said. When Claire gave her a look, she got defensive. ‘He told me to call him that. I know it seems strange to call a professor by his first name, but—’

‘But I do like to be informal,’ he broke in. He rose from the table and took the pot holders from Liz to move the chicken breasts to the table, and then the peas. ‘Please, let me help. Be seated, ladies. May I get you another drink, Liz?’

‘Oh, just water,’ Liz said. As he busied himself at the sink with glasses and ice, Liz grabbed Claire’s shoulder in an iron-hard grip. ‘Do
not
screw this up for me. I need a good grade, and I like him!’

‘And he likes you,’ Claire whispered back. ‘Probably a little too much, don’t you think? He came to
dinner
? Who does that?’

Liz’s eyes turned furious, and she squeezed tighter. Deliberately pinching flesh. Claire bit back a wince. ‘Like I said, don’t screw this up,’ she said. ‘I deserve something good for a change. I’ve had enough bad things in my life.’

Maybe she did deserve a good time, but Claire was one hundred per cent convinced that this wasn’t it. Dr Davis was pleasant and casual, but he was also oily and manipulative, and he creeped her out. And what was that dig about her personal study programme? What did he know?

Maybe a lot. Maybe too much. Claire felt as if she was playing a deadly game without knowing the rules or the players. It made her long for the straightforward violence of home.

‘Now then,’ Patrick said, and deposited the cold glass of water in front of Liz, patted her shoulder, and walked over to his own chair in a triangle between the two of them. ‘What were we talking about? Ah, yes—’

‘The chicken looks delicious,’ Claire said. ‘How did you cook it?’ That elicited a nervous flood of cooking info from Liz; Rachael Ray would have been proud, because Liz seemed to have memorised the entire recipe, start to finish, and it had a lot of steps. Same for the stuffing. Dr Davis’s smile grew fixed and grim, but he waited out the tidal surge of information. His gaze mostly held on Liz, but Claire felt it when he shifted to her.

She didn’t like it.

The business of serving out the chicken and vegetables took most of the time, and then when Dr Davis tried to reframe his question, Claire jumped up to get the bread from the oven and passed that around, too. Liz nervously chattered on, clearly scared to death that Dr Davis would think he wasn’t wanted (and he wasn’t, on Claire’s part), which had the nice side effect of blocking his attempts at boxing Claire into conversation again.

For a while, he gave up, preferring to trade idle chatter with Elizabeth – none of it invited or required any participation from Claire, so she ate dinner with single-minded focus. The chicken really
was
good. She really needed to learn how to make that.

By the time her plate was empty, the other two at the table were only half finished, and Claire drained the rest of her Coke and rose to take her plate to the sink. ‘Thanks, Liz,’ she said. ‘I really have to go study.’

‘Oh,’ Liz said. ‘Really? Well, if you have to.’ It was the token protest, with an undercurrent of
please go away and leave us alone now
. Which was a relief, and Claire headed for the kitchen door.

She didn’t quite get there before Dr Davis said, ‘I understand that you’re studying with Dr Irene  Anderson. She has quite the reputation as – let’s say, an eccentric, even at MIT. How do you find working with her?’

It would have been rude to keep on walking, but she opened the door and stood in the threshold as she answered. ‘Fine. Look, I really have to—’

‘I’m very intrigued by Dr Anderson’s research.’

‘You know her?’

‘Quite well, actually. She has a great interest in cryptobiology – projecting the abilities and vulnerabilities of imaginary creatures. Such as, say, werewolves, zombies, vampires. We debate the subject often. It’s a lively discussion topic. What would you say the primary vulnerability is for a vampire, say?’

Claire smiled thinly back at him. ‘Sorry, I hadn’t really thought about it. I don’t have time for that kind of thing. I have way too many real-world things to worry about right now.’ She intended it as a total shutdown and dismissal, but he didn’t take the hint. Of course.

‘Well, hypothetically – you’re a very smart young lady, Claire. Hypothetically, do you think that vampires could be controlled and put to good use as, say, soldiers? Or secret agents? I suppose they’d be great at all sorts of dangerous occupations that humans would hesitate to do. Provided one could totally ensure their compliance.’

‘I suppose.’ She
really
didn’t like where this was going. ‘Liz, thanks for dinner.’

‘It was lovely to meet you,’ Dr Davis said. ‘Miss Danvers.’

‘Sure,’ she said flatly, and let the door swing shut behind her.

She went up the stairs to her room and locked the door, put on her headphones, and tried to block out the world. If he came knocking, she’d ignore him. And she’d damn sure be telling Dr Anderson about this. And maybe Amelie, too.

An hour later, she stripped off her headphones, yawned, and pressed her ear to the door to see if the coast was clear to go to the bathroom. It was. The kitchen was silent, and the bathroom was empty. After her visit, though, she heard sounds coming from Liz’s room on the second floor, and she went up the stairs, fast.