The two guards at the door, for instance. The taller, thinner one with the light hazel eyes and close-cut blond hair ... he was wearing a chunky black leather jacket with spikes and buckles, and skinny jeans. Very eighties. His friend with the sharply drawn cheekbones and narrow eyes had on the tightest polyester pants Claire had ever seen, and a square-cut jacket to match, with a tight buttoned shirt in a loud earth-toned pattern.
"It's like disco inferno up in here," Shane muttered, and she smothered a laugh. Not that it mattered; vampires could hear that, and if they wanted to take offense, they would. But the seventies addict just smiled a little, showing the tips of his fangs, and the eighties dude couldn't be bothered with that much response. There were more guards standing around the walls, still as statues. Most had chosen clothing that wasn't so ... retro, but one was wearing what looked like a gangster suit from the Prohibition era. Claire half expected him to be toting a violin case with a machine gun in it, just like in the movies.
"No one goes into the armory," Disco Inferno said. He was apparently the spokesman for the door. "Go back, please."
"Order from Oliver," Claire said. "We're to find Theo Goldman."
"Yesterday," Shane put in helpfully. "And we'd like to not die. So. Armory it is."
"No one goes into the armory," the vampire repeated, sounding bored now and staring over the top of Shane's head, which was quite a trick even for a tall guy. "Not without authorization."
"Which they have," said a voice from behind the two of them. Claire turned quickly, which she tended to do now, when vampires talked behind her, and found that Amelie's pretty blond vampire "sister"-not by family but by vampire blood, although she didn't exactly get all of that relationship detail-Naomi was standing three feet behind them, having arrived in eerie silence. She smiled and bowed her head, just a little. She was still very formal, used to the manners beaten into her hundreds of years ago, but she at least was trying; it wasn't a full curtsy or anything, not that such would have been practical with the khaki cargo pants and work shirt she was wearing. "I myself have spoken with Oliver. I am to accompany these two and help them locate Dr. Goldman."
That held some weight. Disco Inferno and his eighties counterpart-Billy Idol?-did some heavy lifting on what looked like solid steel bars, plus a complicated lock, and finally swung the doors open for them. Naomi passed the two of them and looked over her shoulder with that same charming, though slightly awkward smile. "I hope that you do not mind me accompanying you," she said. She had a bit of an accent, antique and French, and Claire could see that it had an effect on men in general, even Shane, who was more than a little anti-vampire in any form.
"Nah," he said, "I'm good. Claire?"
"Fine," she said. She liked Naomi. She liked that the ancient vampire was trying so hard to be ... modern. And she liked that Naomi wasn't, after all, attracted to Michael, as they'd all thought at first. "Uh, Naomi, do you know how to actually ... fight?"
"But of course," she said, and led the way inside. They entered a big square room, which was-and this, Claire thought, was no real surprise-stacked floor to ceiling with racks of boxes. Vampire paranoia really did have no limits. Naomi stopped at the first one and opened the hinged top of it. There were shotguns inside. She removed one, broke it open, and snapped it shut again with a practiced flick of her wrist as she smiled. "All vampires can fight," she said. "I am less familiar with modern weapons, but blades do not work so well on the draug, as we found to our horror long ago."
"What else did you use, the last time you fought them?" Claire asked. Naomi was opening another box. This one contained swords, and she shook her head sadly and let the lid fall shut.
"Courage," she said. "Desperation. And a good deal of luck. Silver is the best charm we have, but it burns us as well. We've found nothing else that will hurt them but fire, which is dangerous enough for us, too .... Ah." She flipped back the lid on yet another box and lifted out something that looked big, clumsy, and complicated, with tanks and a hose. Definitely a Myrnin invention, judging by the brass ornamentation on it, but beneath that it looked sleek and industrial. "As you see."
"What is it?" Claire asked, frowning. It looked a little like one of those rocket jet packs that the science fiction movies loved so much.
"That," Shane said, taking it from Naomi's delicate hands, "is freaking awesome."
"Yeah, but what is it exactly?" Claire asked.
"Flamethrower," he said, and huffed with effort as he lifted it to his shoulders like a giant backpack. It had quick-release buckles that he did up around his chest and over his shoulders. "So this will work on the draug?"
"Yes," Naomi said. "But be very careful. The draug are not only hiding in water, they are liquid-and when you touch liquid with fire it becomes steam. They can survive in the steam, for a short time. If you breathe it in, they will kill you very quickly from within. Even the touch of them on skin in any form is dangerous, to humans or vampires."
Shane's enthusiasm for the flamethrower dimmed, but he didn't take it off. That, Claire thought, was because there was something incredibly macho about walking around with flammable weapons that she would never quite understand. If she'd tried it, it would have just made her totally aware of how non-flame-retardant she was. "Right," Shane said. "Keep it at a distance."
"And watch where you aim it, please," Naomi responded coolly. "I believe I speak also for young Claire in that. Fire is no great friend to humans in battle, either."
Claire rejected the crossbows that she found in the next container-silver-tipped, but they wouldn't do nearly enough damage. They'd just punch right through the draug, which had a body consistency somewhere between Jell-O and mud, except for the master draug, Magnus. He was plenty strong. Strong enough to snap necks, say-something Claire was horribly familiar with and tried hard not to think about. At all.
"What about fire arrows?" Claire asked. "Would they work?"
"Not very well. The draug's nature will douse small fires. Only something on the order of what Shane is carrying will truly damage them. Even, say, bottles of gasoline and fire-"
"We call those Molotov cocktails," Shane said helpfully. Mr. Mayhem.
Naomi gave him a blank look and continued. "These would not do much to slow them down. It would be as if you threw the bottle into water; most likely the flame would simply be extinguished. Perhaps there might be some effect, but I doubt this is a time when you would prefer to experiment. There's going to be little time to refine your techniques and tools in the heat of battle."
"Well, I liked Myrnin's shotgun shells," Claire offered. "Has he made-"
"More? Yeah. Found it," Shane called, leaning over another open crate. He fished out a handful of shells and held them up.
"Are you sure those aren't just regular ..."
Shane silently flipped one to her. On the casing was drawn, in black marker, the alchemical symbol for silver. Definitely Myrnin, because only he would think to write a warning that nobody but the two of them could possibly read. "How do you know what this means?"
Shane looked faintly injured. "I make it my business to know everything about silver. And I saw your notes. I study up on everything when it comes to your boss, anyway." There was a flicker of jealousy about that, but she didn't have time, or energy, to consider it very much. Not even whether she liked it.
"There must be hundreds of shells in there," Claire said wonderingly, as she leaned over the crate. Her hair, growing longer now, brushed over her face, and she impatiently pushed it back. It needed a wash, and that made her yearn for a shower, but cold bottled-water rinses were all she could look forward to for a while. "I thought he used everything he had during the battle last night."
"He's worked straight through," Naomi said. "Shut away in a room down the hall. He summoned guards to bring these here only an hour ago. I understand he has commandeered others to make these cartridges as well."
When Myrnin worked that feverishly, it meant one of two things: he was desperately afraid, or he was in a severely manic phase. Or both. Neither was good. When he was afraid, Myrnin was very unpredictable. When he was manic, he was inevitably going to crash, hard, and there was no time for that now.