I don't own anything

Chapter 26:

Claire's POV:

Things begin to swirl in my mind, scenes mixing together that I know are mutually exclusive of one another, and yet they do it anyway. Memories of my life before Morganville mix with my friends, making me think that I've always known them, and other characters as well: Sam, Oliver, Amelie….none of them are vampires in my dreams, but I've always been aware of their existence. In this world, nothing makes sense; nothing seems to follow any sort of order other than the fact that, ultimately, Sam dies. Someone stabs him right in the middle of New York City, for the strangest of reasons I don't ever find out, and even as I cry and shout, scream and yell, nobody comes to save him. Nobody calls an ambulance or helps as I try and staunch the blood…nobody is around besides for Amelie, a woman broken and lying on the floor, unable to watch as her love dies.

And then my eyes snap open.

I'm in one of the beds in Morganville General, not too far away from where Eve's room is, I think, and everything comes flooding back. The fire…someone left the chip pan on, I think, and…and Sam was inside the house as well. I ran. I ran out and left him, assuming he'd be fine – and he was. He was fine. Everything should have been ok.

He shouldn't be dead now.

As the memory of the roof tile falling (aiming) itself right at him lodges in my mind, I find myself screaming, crying desperately for me to go back in time and to run forwards to push him out of the way: I could have done it. I could have at least tried to save his life, tried to make sure that he, the most humane vampire, survived.

I didn't.

"Hey, Claire, ssshh, it's all ok." I hear Michael's voice from beside me, his hand reaching out to cover my own, and I manage to turn my head in his direction. Tears blur my vision but I can just about make out his face, pale and drawn as it is, and I know that I haven't been dreaming up Sam's death, that my dreams haven't influenced my perception of reality. Sam is dead. Sam is gone, and he's never coming back.

"When…when was it?" I stutter out through a dry throat, realising that I don't know what day it is. "When did Sam die?"

As I lift my other hand to wipe my eyes, Michael lets out a soft sigh, his eyes clouding over so I can't read them. I never realised that they both had blue eyes – though Michael's are lighter than Sam's were, less pronounced, less good. Yet another similarity between Michael and a dead man, because someone like Sam could never be only referred to as a vampire, could he?

"Two nights ago," Michael mutters, his voice quieter than before. "You've been asleep since then – they said it was smoke inhalation that kept you unconscious. He…he was dead before the fire engines got there. You were next to him; I think you were trying to help him, but you didn't reach him. Do you remember?"

I shudder for a moment, realising that I could have done something to help him, even to just be there as he died, and nod. "I…I got that. It's all a bit blurry, but I remember trying to reach him…but then the fog overcame me before I could get to him. I tried, Michael, I really did; I'm so sorry. I…I…why did Sam have to die?" I turn away from him, suddenly ashamed that I could have probably saved Sam's life, if I hadn't been overcome by the smoke. If I had been strong enough…maybe we'd both be here right now.

He leans over my bed and grabs both my hands, forcing me to look back at him, no matter how much I don't want to. "I don't blame you, Claire; I could never…it wasn't your fault. Sam is dead because…because of me. I left that chip pan on. If that wasn't on, then there would have been no fire. Sam would still be alive. It's all my fault that my Grandad is dead."

"I believe that there is no use in arguing who is to blame for Samuel's death; he is dead all the same, and none of our discussions are going to bring him back, are they?" Amelie's voice suddenly appears, and I turn around, startled, to see her standing at the end of my bed. Her face lacks its usual composure, true regret and remorse within her features, and I realise that she's broken: Sam's death has broken her, made sure that she can never go back to her previous strength, and there's no way that she can change anything. Recalling vampires from the dead is impossible, and she's lost her only love. Sam and Amelie are over, fractured to smithereens because of us, me really, and we can't do anything about it. "Are you quite yourself now, Claire?" as she speaks now, I can hear her trying desperately to return to her usual voice of power and resolution, yet she is failing.

"Um…I don't know," I answer honestly, wiping the fresh tears from my eyes with one of the hands Michael hastily released as soon as Amelie entered. Not because it would give the wrong impression, I don't think, but more likely because someone was entering – and it was Amelie. "I…I just want to get out of here. I can't stand to be in here anymore, not after all those dreams in that sleep…I can't stand just sitting here anymore." It may be mere minutes since I woke up, and I'm sure that the doctors will argue that I'm far too weak to leave, but I can't abide staying in bed another minute. As I mention them, the memories of the dreams, of Sam dying in New York, hit me and I find myself wincing, not only because of Sam, but because of how broken Amelie was. And how similar that image is to her now…I think that she's a lot worse than she appears at the minute.

She smiles ever so slightly, yet it isn't a comforting smile; no, it's more like an expected smile, one that doesn't reach her eyes. "There is accommodation for the pair of you in one of the other Founder Houses…I presumed that you wouldn't want to go to the apartment block where…well…I believed that you would be more comfortable in a home akin to your old one."

Aka, it was either live in one of her other houses, or be mere metres from where Sam used to live. And if it was a choice between the pair of them – a carbon copy of the death trap, or the reminder of his life – I'd choose the house any day.

"Thank you," I whisper, but Michael seems incapable of words. He doesn't even look at Amelie, just continues to stare at the floor as though, somehow, Sam would appear from beneath it.

She doesn't continue the housing conversation when she speaks again, her tone more formal and distant, as though the effort of holding herself together is almost too much now. "The funeral will be held in two days time. I will have seats reserved for you in the front row. Your father is unable to make it, Michael, as is your mother, but they both send their deepest sympathies."

Or, more likely, Sam's son is rejoicing that his vampire dad is dead, because now they've no link to vampires, even though his son is a vampire.

Finally, Michael reacts; his head moves in a nodding motion, his hands curling into tiny balls – or as tiny as his hands can scrunch into – but his face is hard, emotionless, as though the crying he did earlier has had no effect on him. I can tell that he misses Sam, but I'm struggling to see who misses him more – Michael or Amelie. Never before did I think that she could love him as deeply as I can see she does now, and that startles me; love is supposed to only run so deep, but I can see that she's been acting with his love as her power for so long now, she doesn't know what to do now that it has ceased to exist.

"See you then, Amelie." Once again, I speak for Michael, knowing he hasn't the ability to speak for himself, and Amelie nods slowly, turning around without another word.

As soon as she's gone from the room, Michael wraps his arms around me, and lets out the tears at the same time as I do. Sam's gone. Sam has died, and we're going to have to move on from that, but I never thought he would be gone. He was who kept me alive when Michael was recovering, the one who taught me things I would have never known before, the only person who could love someone like Amelie and that gave me respect for him because he would never give in. No matter what you threw at him, he didn't give in.

Not until the very last minute, at least.

Neither of us speak for a long time, so long, in fact, it seems as though we've both lost our voices. It seems too strange, too surreal, that everyone I've cared for has died, disappeared, or been left in a state akin to death, in my opinion. There's no point being close to me – the only one who still is has been turned into a vampire to be able to get out of the damned house! It's all my fault.

"It's not your fault, Claire." Michael's voice is low and almost a growl, and I realise that I've been muttering that it's my fault – for how long, I don't know. Even as I try to stop, my lips continue to move to form the words, even if they don't manage to make a sound, and I realise that there's no way that I'm ever going to forgive myself. There is no way. I have destroyed all these people's lives, only through my coming to the damned town!

I refuse to reply to Michael and end up tuning him out as he begins to go on about how none of it is my fault, how we just need to stick together, and whatever else he continues to say; I have no interest. It is all my fault.

~x~

I see Oliver at Sam's funeral. It shouldn't be a surprise; he's an important vampire, and Sam was important to Amelie (and it's another dead vampire) so it's right that he should be here. But there's something in his face that makes him seem almost happy that Sam is dead, happy that the most honest, good vampire in the world is dead and no longer with us.

I end up shivering slightly, and Michael pulls me into the church faster, fearful that the excessive heat from the fire – no burns on my skin, just indelible marks in my brain – has caused a chill in me, but it hasn't. It's just the fact that Oliver seems so calm at Sam's funeral…and that I know, in my heart, that he's going to want to speak to me at some point.

The words blend together, as Father Joe, and then various other members of the audience stand at the front of the jam-packed room to give their memories of Sam. There's not one single bad word said against him, and the feeling of love that spreads through when Amelie speaks is indescribable, yet nothing stands out. It's just one montage of memories, things that will never bring him back, yet I notice that Oliver says nothing; it's probably to do with how he only came to town last year, so he didn't really know him, but I also think it is to do with the fact that he would have nothing positive to say about him.

"You ok?" Michael asks me as we stand up, preparing to go home, because there is no wake. There would never be a wake for a vampire, even one like Sam, because of the trouble it could cause.

"Fine," I manage to say, even managing to get the smallest smile on my face…until Oliver appears.

"I would like a word with you, Claire," he doesn't bother to greet me, merely gets straight on with what he wants. There's no compassion in his voice, nothing to suggest that he feels sorrow for my near death experience, or even Sam's death, and I want to just stake him like Sam was staked, though on purpose this time, and sit down to watch him die. "Tomorrow, of course…today is, naturally, no day for business or discussions, is it?" his lips curl into an approximation of a smile, and it is perhaps the most sinister thing I have ever seen, something that sends further shivers running through me.

"Ok…I'll see you tomorrow, in your office," I reply slowly, barely stopping myself heaving a sigh afterwards.

"Ten o'clock," he calls after me as Michael begins to pull me towards his car, the sudden desperation for us both to leave not just because of Sam and his memory. "Don't be late."

I don't bother to reply, simply throw myself into the passenger seat of the car and slam the door shut, burying my head in my hands to allow all the suppressed tears out. It still isn't real that Sam is dead, that we aren't going to see him again, and that Oliver wants me back at work literally straight away. I don't even know how I'm going to get through the day, especially in this new house that reminds me too much of what happened, yet is better than where we could have been living.

The borrowed dress slips off at the shoulder and I yank it back into place, simultaneously fastening my seat belt as Michael begins to drive away.

"We'll be fine, Claire, you'll be fine," he growls, and I get the feeling that he's not just talking about recovering from Sam. "He can't hurt you. He can't. I know he can't."

And then I know that he's talking about Oliver.

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