Bite Club mv-10

by Rachel Caine

  “I’m not,” he said. “I don’t need to. Fencing was a survival skill in my day. Again?”

  “Sure.” Eve backed up to the far end of the marked-off strip—the piste?—and settled into a low crouch that somehow didn’t look at all awkward.

  “Go,” Amelie said, and there was another blur of motion. This time, Claire made out a couple of things—one, that Eve seemed to lunge for Oliver’s chest and then dropped way down, and her point took him in the lunging leg. His slid over her shoulder. Eve hit the ground and rolled up to her feet, raising her épée in triumph.

  “Dude, gotcha!” she said. “Mortal wound, right there. Femoral artery. You are so dead.”

  He didn’t respond at all, just walked back to his spot on the other side of the strip.

  “Seriously? You can’t walk away with a tie?” Eve asked. She’d pulled off her helmet, and her black eyes were wicked bright. “Can’t we all just get along?”

  “Fence,” he barked. “Don’t talk.”

  Eve popped her helmet back on and took her place on the strip. Amelie drew in a breath, and instead of giving the signal, said, “Oliver, perhaps you should let it go.”

  His helmeted face turned toward her, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it, and then focused back on Eve, who was taking the en garde stance. “Start us,” he said. “Two out of three.”

  “He doesn’t like to lose,” Amelie said to Claire, and shrugged. “Very well. Go!”

  Claire focused, and managed to see exactly what happened this time. Oliver lunged. Eve parried, but he was ready for it, and got his blade back in line by knocking hers out of line. She tried for another thigh wound, but that didn’t work this time.

  Oliver slammed the point of his épée into her chest so powerfully, it drove her back a step and made her drop her sword.

  “Oliver!” Amelie snapped, and he backed off. Eve staggered backward, lost her footing, and fell on her butt. Her épée clattered away across the floor as she put both hands to her chest, then reached up to rip her helmet off. Her face had gone chalk white, and her eyes were huge.

  “Ow,” she said. “Damn. That’s going to leave a mark.”

  Oliver walked away, circling restlessly, turning his épée around and around in his gloved hand. “You asked for it,” he said. “Now get off the piste if you’re going to complain about a bruise.”

  Eve slowly rolled up to her knees, collected her helmet and sword, and stood up. She didn’t seem too steady.

  “Help her out,” Amelie said. “Make sure she’s not broken a rib. Oliver, that was unnecessary.”

  “What was unnecessary was her gloating,” he replied. “I didn’t come here to fight children, and she needs to learn the same harsh lesson I did: taunting those who are stronger has consequences.”

  “The stronger have a responsibility to the weaker,” Amelie said. “As you very well know.”

  “I’ve had quite enough responsibility. And I thought we came here to fight, woman. If all you want is to hold philosophical discussions while attractively dressed, surely we can do that elsewhere.”

  Eve looked better now, with the color coming back to her face—coming back too fast for Claire’s comfort, because there was an angry, frightened glitter in her eyes. “Bully,” she muttered.

  Oliver took off his helmet and stared at her. He looked as solid as bone, and like someone nobody wanted to mess with. “I don’t allow people to mock me,” he said. “And the next time you presume to call me by a pet name, I’ll do worse than crack a rib for you on the piste. Now get out of the way. The adults require space.”

  Amelie cocked her head to one side, studying him, and said, “I’m bored with all these rules. Shall we dispense with the conventions, then?”

  “By all means,” Oliver said, and tossed his helmet into the corner. She put hers safely out of the way. “Weapons?”

  “I prefer the épée,” she said. “Two of them.”

  “Ah. Florentine. That suits me well enough.”

  They each took two swords, and as Claire and Eve retreated back to a bench in the rear of the room, Amelie and Oliver faced off. Amelie crossed her two swords in front of her face, and Oliver followed suit; the sound of four blades cutting the air in salute made Claire shiver. “What are they doing?” she whispered.

  “Free fighting,” Eve answered, keeping it quiet. “No rules. More like the old-style duels.”

  “Not quite,” Amelie said. She was almost smiling. “This likely won’t end in death.”

  “But no guarantees,” Oliver said. He was smiling, and not his usual eviler-than-you sort of twisted lips, either. He almost looked happy. “Ready?”

  “Of course.” Amelie didn’t seem to be; she was holding her swords down, almost not seeming to know what to do with them.

  Oliver took one step toward her, and the weapons snapped up and targeted him so fast, Claire blinked. Oliver raised one over his head in a pose that made her think of a scorpion’s stinger, and circled to the right. Amelie circled, too, keeping the distance between them…until suddenly she was moving, two light, quick steps, a sudden jump that ended in a sliding lunge, and both her épées hit targets, one slicing across Oliver’s leg, the other under his arm. He whirled and hit her in the back with an underhand stroke—or tried to. She must have known it was coming, because she bent forward, graceful as a willow, and rolled up on her knee to parry the next lunge.

  And that was just the start.

  “You know,” Eve said distantly, about five minutes later, as the two vampires were still circling, slashing, hacking, and scoring points on each other, “I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t ever piss him off. Or her. Again.”

  “You think?” Claire whispered back. “Jeez. It’s like The Terminator meets Buffy.”

  “How do they decide who wins? I mean, clearly, they’re hitting each other, but they don’t even pretend those are going to hurt….”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Claire said.

  She was proven right just thirty seconds later, when Amelie reached down and tapped the point of one épée three times on the floor. Oliver, moving in for a lunge, veered off at the last second and went to a neutral position.

  “Done?” he asked.

  “Most enjoyable,” she said. “Thirty-two mortal touches for you; thirty-one for me. But I don’t mind losing to a master, Oliver.” She bowed slightly, swords down.

  He bowed back, a little more deeply. “Nor do I,” he said. “But winning is always better. You’re favoring your right again, you know.”

  “I noticed. We can’t all overcome nature’s disadvantages so easily.”

  They exchanged a smile, a real one, and Claire exchanged a look with Eve. Eve cleared her throat.

  “Are you still here?” Oliver asked without changing his expression. He didn’t look away from Amelie. “Leave.”

  “Right,” Claire said. “Going.”

  She picked up Eve’s stuff and walked with her to one of the small changing rooms to strip off the sweat-damp uniforms. Eve stuffed hers into the bag and stripped off her pink shirt. Claire gasped at the forming bruise, which was at least three inches across and looked very painful.

  “Dammit,” Eve said. “That’s going to show over my bra. Got to rethink the wardrobe for the next few days.” She probed at the bruise with a fingertip and winced. “Nothing broken, just a nice reminder not to screw around with Ollie on the pointy-object dance floor.”

  “I can’t believe you fought him.”

  “Fought him? Damn, girlfriend, I got a touch on him. You know how difficult that is? I’ve been a serious fencer for years, but I never even got close to a touch on anybody without a pulse. He used to duel for real, you know. Without the safety tips on the blades.”

  Claire could believe it. What she couldn’t get her head around was that Eve thought that was cool.

  Maybe, she thought, fencing isn’t my sport after all.

  FOUR

  Michael was home when they arrived, a
nd surprisingly, he wasn’t playing guitar. He was sitting on the couch in Shane’s customary spot, playing a game. “Hey,” he said as Claire and Eve entered. “Nobody made dinner.”

  “Nobody but you was home to eat it,” Eve said. “And I’m taking a wild guess that you didn’t make it, either.”

  “Nope.” He killed a zombie with a chainsaw, and ducked instinctively as another one lunged at him out of the shadows on the screen. “Guess we’re all going to bed hungry, like the bad children we are.”

  “Guess not.” Eve winked at Claire, who held up a grease-stained bag. “Seriously, you couldn’t smell the burgers? Is your vampire nose on the fritz, Michael?”

  “I was hoping I was imagining the burgers.”

  “Shut up. I got you one made extra rare. With pickles. I know you like pickles.”

  Michael paused the game and put the controller aside, and as he stood up, the door opened and Shane came in. He nodded to Michael as he dropped his canvas bag in the hallway, next to Eve’s. “Who got burgers?”

  “See, he can smell the burgers!” Eve yelled from the kitchen.

  Michael ignored that. “You guys go to the gym?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “The martial arts guy is pretty hard-core.”

  “I got a bruise!” Eve shouted. “Big one! Right over my heart! Guess who put it there?”

  Michael raised his eyebrows at Shane, who held up his hands. “Not me, man. I never touched her.”

  “Oliver!” Eve backed out of the kitchen door, holding plates, balancing them like a pro. “Michael, here’s your almost-cooked one. Shane, got you the jalapeño burger. Me and Claire have plain old boring ones.”

  “We’re branching out into different forms of junk food,” Michael said. “Exciting.”

  “Shut up. Do you want your juice warmed up?” Juice, Claire figured, was Eve’s new code for blood. Well, technically, it was juice, Claire supposed. People juice.

  “I’ll get it,” Michael said. “Thanks. Shane, Claire—Cokes?”

  “Yes!” Claire yelled, at the same time Shane did. He walked over to put his arm around her and bent to kiss her.

  “Jinx,” he whispered.

  “I like this version of jinxies better than the one I did in grade school,” she said. He tasted like salt and metal, but it still seemed sexy—and so did the way his damp T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest. She’d never thought sweaty was all that sexy before, but Shane…well. Shane rocked it.

  “So, what did you do at the gym?” he asked. “I thought I saw you on the stair machine.”

  Oops. Busted. “I was on it for a while,” she said. “Then Eve took me to teach me how to fence.”

  “Not so much how to fence as how to hold a sword and not drop it,” Eve said. “And then I fought Oliver to a draw.”

  Shane fluttered his hands. “Oh, and then we were all elected as ice princesses and asked to go to Disneyland!” He rolled his eyes.

  “Laugh all you want. I’m going to look way better in full skirts than you,” Eve said. “And besides, I’m not lying. I got a mortal touch on Oliver. Ask your girlfriend.”

  “She hit him with her sword,” Claire said, when both Michael and Shane looked at her. “I saw it.”

  “And then, to make sure I knew my place, he practically rammed his épée through my heart, but, you know, details. Hence the bruise.” She dragged down the neckline of her shirt to show off the top of it. Shane whistled appreciatively—not at her assets, Claire felt sure. The bruise. That was Shane, through and through.

  “I didn’t know fencing was a contact sport,” he said. “I thought it was more, you know, a pretend sport. Like golf. Or competitive eating.”

  “Hey, golf is hard.” Eve shrugged. “Anytime you want me to whip your lame ass on eighteen holes, let me know.”

  “I got whipped enough, thanks.” Shane flopped down in his chair and pulled the plate toward him. “I could eat roadkill, I’m so hungry. Without hot sauce.”

  “Well, you’re in luck, because I have no idea what’s really in these burgers,” Eve said. Michael came out of the kitchen and put three cold cans of Coke on the table, and one sports bottle that might have possibly held juice. Warm juice. Claire was glad it was opaque. “Dinner together. Wow. This is an event.”

  It was, recently. They’d all been doing their own thing so much, it had been more like two of them eating together, or maybe three. Having all four at the table was great for a change. Eve chattered on about work, and how awesome the fencing room (the salle?) was at the new gym. Michael put in a few tidbits about what was happening with his music, which was still up in the air after their road trip to Dallas to get his demo recorded. It was sounding positive, but Michael was all about the caution and pessimism.

  Claire almost blurted out the whole Myrnin/Frank face-off, but realized that she couldn’t, because Shane was there, and Shane still didn’t know his father had survived…at least, in the form of a brain in a jar, hooked up to a computer. Shane thought Frank was dead, and he was at peace with that, kind of. Claire didn’t know how he was going to feel about the rest of it, and she couldn’t stand to hurt him. There was no reason he had to know.

  Or so she kept telling herself, anyway.

  It was a nice time together, and it felt like home. The laughter made her warm, and the occasional glances and smiles from Shane made her tingle all over. After dinner, she and Eve did the dishes (but only because it was their turn) while Michael and Shane claimed the couch and loaded up the new game. Turned out it was—no surprise—another zombie game. Blood and guts ensued. Claire curled up between them on the couch with a textbook, while Eve stretched out on the floor and flipped through a magazine.

  A normal night. Very, very normal.

  Until Shane lost the game.

  “Damn it!” he yelled, and threw the controller at the screen. Like, really threw it. It hit the edge of the frame, instead of the softer LCD part, and pieces of the controller broke off and went everywhere. Eve yelped and rolled over, brushing off pieces of plastic. Claire flinched.

  “Jesus, Shane, get a grip,” Michael said. “You lost. BFD, man. It’s not the first time.”

  “Shut up,” Shane said. He stood up, grabbed the controller, and glared at it. “Piece of crap.”

  “Don’t blame the equipment. It was working fine before you scrapped it.”

  “How the hell do you know? Were you playing it?”

  “I know you owe me for a new controller.”

  “Screw you, bro.” Shane threw the broken controller at Michael this time. Not that it was a risk; Michael calmly reached up and caught it, so smoothly it might have been some kind of special effect.

  “Maybe you should chill out.”

  “Maybe you should stop with the vampire reflexes in game!”

  Michael frowned. He didn’t usually let Shane get to him, but Claire could see the anger forming. “I played you fair.”

  “Fair?” Shane barked out a laugh. “Man, you have no idea what you’re talking about anymore, do you? You don’t even know when you’re screwing us.”

  “Hey!” Claire said, and stood up between them, as Michael got to his feet. The air felt thick and ominous now, the house’s reflection of the feelings of its owners. “You guys, stop! It’s just a game!”

  “No, it’s not just a game. Get the hell out of the way!”

  “Stop!” she said sharply, and punched Shane in the shoulder. “Jeez. Didn’t you get enough fighting in for the day? What is this? Michael’s right. You don’t get to destroy stuff just because you lost a game. You’re not three years old, Shane!”

  His dark eyes focused on her, and she felt a very real, very cold chill go through her. That was not the Shane she knew. That was the other Shane. “Don’t hit me,” he said. “I don’t like it.”

  Claire let her hands drop to her sides and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just wanted to get your attention.”

  Well, she’d gotten it, all right.
She wished she hadn’t. But at least it had broken the momentum of whatever was going on between Shane and Michael.

  Now it was just between her and Shane.

  “Claire,” Michael said. She held out a hand without looking at him, and he fell silent.

  And she waited for Shane to say something.

  SHANE

  I hate losing. I mean, really, a lot. I usually try to cover it up and pretend like I don’t, but there’s something inside me that gets twisted up and desperate. Because losing means that you’re at someone else’s mercy, even if it’s just a game. Even if it’s not supposed to mean anything.

  I’d had too much of that in my life, being in someone else’s power. First my dad’s. Then the vampires’. There was always somebody looming, somebody faster and stronger and crueler than me, and it made me feel like a scared kid inside all the time.

  I wasn’t lying. The game controller had flaked out on me. The buttons stuck. It wasn’t my fault that I lost; it was the tool’s. I wasn’t going to lose, not to Michael. Not anymore. Yeah, losing my temper was stupid—I mean, it was my favorite game controller I’d busted—but thinking that it wasn’t fair, that he’d cheated, that he’d used those vampire reflexes to win and didn’t deserve it…It burned me, okay? Burned me bad.

  And I wanted to kick his ass.

  Maybe it was just that something had gotten loose in the gym, something I usually kept locked down inside some dark cave. I mean, it was Michael. But just now, staring him down, I was reminded that he wasn’t actually my friend. Not the one I’d grown up with, the one who’d had my back, anyway. This was Michael’s body, but he wasn’t the same person inside of that shell. Not at all.

  The girls were upset. Claire was trying to talk to me, but I wasn’t hearing her, not until she smacked me in the shoulder. It felt like a sharp, stabbing blow, although I knew it wasn’t; it was just that all my nerves were on fire because I was so hyped, and I probably had a bruise there on top of everything. I said something to her, something that probably wasn’t very nice, and I felt a particularly nasty impulse race red from my brain to my hand.