She had a million questions firing off in her mind, but until she found Dr Anderson alone and able to answer them, there wasn’t much point in considering them. Still, the fact that Anderson was apparently neck-deep in spy science was … well, chilling. More chilling than the vampire stuff, since Claire was accustomed now to thinking of it as normal.

Claire ducked into one of the student lounge areas, found a worn-out, battered couch that didn’t have anyone currently napping on it, and took out her phone to look up the number for Florey’s. She found it on the Internet, called and asked for Jesse.

The roar on the other end of the phone indicated it was definitely happy hour. ‘She’s busy,’ said the man who’d answered; he had to shout to be heard over the noise. ‘Call back later.’

‘Wait – I—’

No good. The phone went dead. She called back, and it rang a long time, but no one picked up. Not too surprising. She supposed that they probably couldn’t hear it over the shouting. Must have been some kind of sport on TV, from the cheering.

Just call Dr Florey and let him know, Anderson had said. There wasn’t any doubt in Claire’s mind that she meant Jesse and Pete.

Well, if they wouldn’t answer the phone, there was only one thing to do:

Go there.

Claire had never been to Florey’s – she wasn’t old enough to legally drink, and exploring places full of ominous strangers after dark … well, in Morganville, that would have made her survival-deficient. Here, she supposed, it just made her more socially inept, but she was okay with that. She hadn’t felt any urge to explore the local party places favoured by students, and Liz wasn’t the going-out-to-party type, either. Given the stalking, she was way too paranoid for that.

That didn’t mean Claire didn’t know where the bars were, though; it was just part of the landscape, like the textbook stores and bubble tea shops and Laundromats. Alcohol was an essential student service, she guessed. At least for some.

She didn’t dare take time to walk, so she flagged down a cab and paid the fare to Florey’s; once she got there, though, she was more than a little taken aback, because the place was packed. There was a football game on TV, and through the open door she could see that the small space inside was packed with drinking, cheering people. She couldn’t even glimpse the bar, much less see if Jesse was working behind it.

There was a guy sitting on a three-legged stool outside of the single wide door. It wasn’t Pete, but he was obviously an official bouncer; he gave Claire a blank, assessing look as she walked up, and said, ‘ID.’ That was all, no hello how are you. Not the chatty type.