She nodded hesitantly, more afraid to disagree with him than convinced. Myrnin grinned at her and slapped her back with stinging force.

"That's my girl," he said. "Now. What do you know of this theory of Schrödinger's? The one about the cat?"

###

Myrnin didn't go weird until the very end of her time with him, when he was — she thought — getting tired. She had to admit, there was something fun about working in his lab; he had so much passion, so much enthusiasm for everything. Even for scaring her silly. He was like a little kid, all nervous energy and fiddling hands, quick to laugh, quick to cut her down if she made a mistake. He liked to mock, not correct. He thought if she had to figure it out for herself, she'd learn it properly.

She checked her watch and found it was almost eight o'clock — late. She was supposed to be home by now. Myrnin was ignoring her, temporarily, as she copied out tables of incomprehensible symbols from a book he said was so rare his was the only copy left. She yawned, stretched, and said, "I need to be going."

He had his eye fixed to what looked like a clunky, ancient microscope. "Already?"

"It's late. I should go home."

Myrnin straightened, stared at her, and she saw the storm forming in his expression. "You are dictating to me now?" he snapped. "Who is the master? Who is the student?"

"I — sorry, but I can't stay here all night!"

Myrnin walked toward her, and she couldn't even recognize him. No more manic energy, no more humor, no more sharp, brilliant anger. He looked troubled and clouded.

"Home," he repeated. "Home is where the heart is. Why don't you leave yours here? I'll take very good care of it."

"M-my — heart?" She dropped the pen and backed up, putting a big lab table full of chemical equipment between them. Myrnin bared his teeth and put down his fangs. Discovery Channel. King Cobra. Oh God, can he spit venom or something? His eyes flared bright, fueled with something that looked to her like ... fear.

"Don't run," he said, and sounded annoyed. "I hate it when they run. Now, tell me what you're doing here!" he demanded. "Why do you keep following me? Who are you?"

"It's Claire, Myrnin. I'm your apprentice. I'm supposed to be here, remember?"

That was the wrong thing to say, and she had no idea why. Myrnin stopped, and the light in his eyes intensified to insanity. Ugly, and very scary. When he moved, it was a smooth, sinuous glide. "My apprentice," he said. "So I own you, then. I can do as I wish."

King cobra.

"Sam!" Claire yelled, and bolted for the stairs.

She didn't get more than two steps. Myrnin came over the table, scattering glass instruments to shatter in glittering sprays on the floor, and she felt his cold, impossibly strong hands close on her ankles and jerk backwards. She flailed for something to grab onto, but it was only a tower of books, and it collapsed as she fell.

She hit the floor hard enough to put the world on a sparkling, unsteady hold for a few seconds, and when she blinked away the stars Myrnin had taken hold of her shoulders and was staring down at her, inches away.

"Don't," she said. "Myrnin, don't. I'm your friend! I won't hurt you!"

She didn't know why she said it, but it must have been the right thing to do. His eyes widened, white showing all around, and then the glitter of crazy was replaced by a flood of tears. He patted her cheek, soft and confused, and the fangs folded up in his mouth. "Dear child," he said. "What are you doing here? Is Amelie making you come here? She shouldn't. You're far too young and kind. You should tell her you won't come back. I don't want to hurt you, but I will." He tapped his forehead. "This is betraying me. This stupid, stupid flesh." The tapping became violent slaps to his forehead, and tears broke free to run down his cheeks. "I need to teach someone, but not you. Not you, Claire. Too young. Too small. You bring out the beast."

He stood up and wandered away, tsking over the broken glass, righting the fallen books. As if she'd ceased to exist. Claire sat up and rolled to her feet, shaky and scared.

Sam was standing just a few feet away. She hadn't seen or heard him approach, and he hadn't acted to save her. His face was tense, his eyes uneasy.

"He's sick," Claire said.

"Sick, sick, sick, yes, I am," Myrnin said. He had his head in his hands now, as if it hurt him. "We're all sick."

"What's he talking about?" Claire turned to Sam. "Nothing." He shook his head. "Don't listen to him."

Myrnin looked up and bared his teeth. His eyes were fierce, but they were sane. Mostly sane, anyway. "They won't tell you the truth, little morsel, but I will. We're dying. Seventy years ago — "

Sam moved Claire out of his way, and for the first time since she'd met him, Sam actually looked threatening. "Myrnin, shut up!"

"No," Myrnin sighed. "It's time for talking. I've been shut up enough." He looked up, and his eyes were red-rimmed and full of tears. "Oh, little girl, do you understand? My race is dying. My race is dying and I don't know how to stop it."

Claire's mouth opened and closed, but she couldn't find anything to say. Sam turned toward her, fury still radiating off him like heat. "Ignore him," he said. "He doesn't know what he's saying. We should go, before he remembers what he was about to do. Or forgets what he shouldn't."

Claire cast a look back over her shoulder at Myrnin, who was holding a broken glass pipe in his hands, trying to fit the two pieces back together. When it wouldn't go, he dropped it and covered his face with both hands. She could see his shoulders shaking. "Can't — shouldn't somebody help him?"

"There's no help," Sam said in a voice flat with anger. "There's no cure. And you're not coming back here again if I can do anything about it."

Claire kept her silence for about half the ride home, and Sam didn't offer anything either. The pressure of questions finally was too much for her. "He was telling the truth, wasn't he?" she asked. "There's some kind of disease. Amelie tried to make me think that not making more vampires was her choice, but that's not really true, is it? You can't. She's the only one who isn't sick."

Sam's face went tight and still in the glow of the dashboard lights. Sitting in the car was like traveling through space; the dark-tinted windows refused even starlight, so it was just the two of them in their own pocket universe. He had the radio on, and it was playing classical music, something light and sweet.

"No," he said. "She's sick, too. We all are. Myrnin's been searching for the cause — and the cure — for seventy years now, but it's too late now. He's too far gone, and the chance that anyone else could help him through it is too small. I can't let her sacrifice you like this, Claire. I told you that he's had five assistants. I don't want you to become another statistic."

"What if he doesn't find the cure?" Claire asked. "How long —?"

"Claire, you need to forget you ever heard any of this. I mean it. There are a lot of secrets in Morganville, but this one could kill you. Say nothing, understand? Not to your friends, and not to Amelie. Do you understand?"

His intensity was even more terrifying than Myrnin's, because it was so controlled. She nodded.

It didn't stop the questions from swirling in her brain.