by Rachel Caine
A big, overmuscled guy dressed in microfiber sweats and gold chains, like some cheesy reality-show reject, gave Eve a really nasty grin. It was mostly a snarl. “You always ran around town, dressing like a wannabe bloodsucker, and now you’re banging one,” he said. Well, he didn’t actually say banging, but Claire’s brain refused to completely translate it. It was too shocking when it was said with that much venom. “I hate fang-bangers worse than the vamps. At least the vamps are just doing what comes natural. Your kind, you’re perverts.”
Eve flinched a little, but then she lifted her chin. “Really? Considering what I hear from the girls you date, Sandro, maybe you ought to think twice about throwing that word around. ’Cause I had to look up half the things you wanted them to do on Urban Dictionary, and it was disgusting.”
She was wearing the choker again, having tied it back on before they’d left the house, but now Sandro—like Shane had before—reached out and yanked on it. He didn’t manage to pull it off, but he pulled it down far enough that Eve’s fang marks were clearly visible. “Look at that. Walking blood bank. I heard you’re a walking ATM, too. That stands for Any Time Michael wants it—”
Michael stepped in front of Eve, facing Sandro, and said, “You want to say it to me?”
Sandro laughed. “You didn’t learn your lesson from your little friend there? Sure. ’Cause you ain’t got no backup, Glass. Your whole family’s been vamp pets from the Dark Ages, but we ain’t having any more of that better-than-you crap. Not here. Here, you’re all on your own, bitch.”
Shane had gone very quiet behind them. Claire looked at him, at his set, unsmiling face, and felt panic ignite. This was real, and it was dangerous. Rad and the few others who didn’t seem angry were backing off, edging out of the crowd. Maybe they’d send for some help, or maybe not. She certainly didn’t trust that the dude taking their money at the door would bother to come charging to the rescue.
Michael was a vampire, but he was young, and he couldn’t fight this crowd on his own. Plus, he’d be trying to protect Eve, and her, too.
And Shane didn’t have his back. Or any of their backs. It was obvious and painful, and Eve gave him the worst, most heartbroken and betrayed look Claire could imagine. “You’d just stand there,” she said. “You’d stand there and let this happen to us. To us. To your own girlfriend.”
Shane turned away to start slugging the heavy bag again.
“Shane,” Claire whispered. “Please. Please.”
He faltered, and one of his punches landed light. He grabbed the bag and stopped its swing, and looked over his shoulder at her. For a long, awful second, she thought he’d just go back to what he was doing, but then he nodded sharply at Sandro. “Let them go,” he said.
Sandro cracked his knuckles. “Gimme a reason.”
“I owe her that much,” Shane said. “Let them leave.” He punched the bag again with stunning force. “But take my advice, friends. Don’t come looking for me again. Any of you.”
There was some grumbling, but the circle slowly parted. Eve grabbed Michael’s hand and towed him off, heading for the exit. Claire hesitated, staring at Shane’s back as he bobbed, weaved, and punched.
“Shane,” she said. “I still love you.”
He didn’t answer. Sandro shoved her after her friends.
“You heard him,” Sandro said. “Get the hell out and stay out. He ain’t interested.”
She looked back just once. There was pain—real pain—on Shane’s face as he fought the training bag, and their eyes locked just for a second before he looked away.
His were red. It wasn’t possible to tell tears from sweat, but she thought—no, she knew—how devastated he felt.
Because she felt exactly the same.
Tears welled up and spilled over, and she sucked in a trembling breath that smelled like sweat and metal and despair.
Eve took her hand. “Come on,” she said. “Nothing you can do here.”
That was true, and it hurt so, so badly.
SHANE
I wish I could say I don’t know why I did it. That would make me feel better, cleaner, about what I said to her. But I knew. It was just like Claire figured: Glory had glamoured me. But I didn’t care, because under the glamour there was a real bad streak of…me. I felt right. More than that, I felt righteous, like a knight in the old stories riding off to some God-justified war. I felt like I had when I’d had a purpose and my dad had been alive to tell me what it was.
I punched the heavy bag until my arms trembled and my legs felt like lead, and then collapsed on a metal bench. Somebody brought me another protein shake, and I downed the bottle in thick, thirsty gulps. My head was hurting, and I was having trouble catching my breath.
“Hey, man, you all right?” That was Sandro. I hated Sandro, I hated his greasy smile and his gold chains and his fake New Jersey cred. He was from Morganville, like the rest of us. Hell, his dad was a baker. You can’t be a badass when your dad makes cakes.
Sandro squeezed my shoulder, tightly enough to bend tendons. I knocked his hand away. “Fine,” I said. “Get lost.”
“Good job dumping that little Renfield. I don’t know what you ever saw in her, anyway. She looks like half a boy. Me, I like my women with curves and bounce, if you know what I mean.”
I drained the last of the shake and felt a fresh burst of anger and hunger. “Maybe you need to look up what get lost means.” Michael wasn’t here to take it out on, but Sandro would do just as well.
“Don’t get attitude with me, Collins. You ain’t that tough.”
I knew better. Sandro was schoolyard tough. I was fight-for-your-life tough. But I wasn’t going to teach him the difference, because for all his faults, for all he was a prime, grade-A jackass, he was breathing and his heart was beating, and that’s all it took to put him on my side. Two kinds of fighters: us and them.
None of them were here right now. Glory and Vassily had separated us into humans and vamps, and it had worked. Now every time I saw a vamp it made me want to rip into it.
Including Michael.
That made me feel weird inside, but not weird enough to want to change it. This was where I belonged. This was what I was meant to do. Born and bred to it, honestly. My dad had taught me well.
In here, I didn’t have to be Shane Collins, eternal slacker, orphan, lost boy. In here, with these guys, I was part of something. Part of the war.
Even if, right now, that war was fought one on one, in the ring, with people cheering.
Someday, it would be fought in the streets, and people would cheer there, too.
Even Claire.
Soon.
“It’s Gloriana,” Claire said once they were safely in the car. “I saw her, Michael. I saw her watching you and Shane fight. She was smiling.”
“I don’t know how she could do it without affecting me or you or Eve,” he said. “Glamour isn’t that specific.”
“Hers is,” Eve said. He gave her an odd look as he drove down the street, heading for home. “What, you didn’t know that? She can grab one guy out of a room if she wants to. I’ve seen her do it. I’ve seen her do it to you.”
Claire had seen it, too, at her welcome party—Gloriana had lured Michael away with just a smile and a wink, right out of Eve’s arms. She hadn’t been serious about it—at least, Claire didn’t think she’d been serious—and Eve had gotten him back fast, but she’d felt Glory’s influence now, and the worst thing about it was that it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Frank had even warned her, and she still hadn’t believed that there was anything wrong with what she was feeling or doing.
That was what had happened to Shane.
“Sure, she can draw men to like her,” Michael said. “It’s not that hard. But changing them, the way Shane’s changed? That’s a whole different kind of thing. I don’t think even Glory can do that.”
“Well, who’d know?” Claire asked. “Amelie?”
“Maybe. Or Oliver; he seems to know he
r better.”
Claire remembered Oliver sitting with Gloriana at Common Grounds. Yeah, they had seemed cozy. Which made her stomach twist a little, because the last thing she wanted to think about was Oliver having any kind of love life, ever, with anyone. That was just disgusting. “Frank said something about—” She shut her mouth, suddenly flooded with alarm and adrenaline, with a snap, because she had not meant to mention Frank. Ever. “I mean, before he, you know—”
“Died?” Eve supplied. “Went to that big motorcycle rally in the sky? Took a dirt nap?” She sent Michael a warning glare as he winced. “What? Yes, I’m being insensitive, but Shane’s not here, and besides, I am pissed off right now. Frank Collins was never Mr. Congeniality when he was alive, you know. I don’t know why I have to give him any extra postlife respect.”
That nicely distracted everybody from Claire’s mistake, and she took the precious time to work out what she’d meant to say, leaving out Frank completely. “We need to find out what she’s doing here,” Claire said. “Something’s turning the humans at that gym into a mob, and we all know that’s what Amelie is most afraid of. Human mobs can take down vampires individually. She’ll do anything to prevent that from starting. If it’s Gloriana, then we need to prove it.”
“What if it’s Bishop?” Michael asked. Eve made a choked sound. “It’s just the kind of thing Bishop would want—humans turning against vampires, creating chaos and death. He doesn’t care who gets hurt.”
“Nasty,” Eve agreed. “If he’s got Gloriana working for him…”
“Then this could be a whole lot bigger than anybody expected,” Michael finished. He paused for a moment, and said, “I can find out.”
“How?” Eve’s voice had an edge, and Claire glanced over at her. She seemed tense, hands clenched where they rested on her thighs.
“By talking to Glory,” he said. “Look, she likes me. She’ll tell me things.”
“Yeah, that in no way makes me want to barf acid,” Eve said. “You getting cozy with her.”
“Eve—”
“We agreed. You stay away from her.”
“This is different. This isn’t just—Look, it could be Shane’s life we’re talking about. And a lot of other people’s. Innocent people. I can handle Glory.”
“Can you?” Eve asked. “Because I notice you never call her Gloriana. Just Glory.”
He shut up. Which is probably about the only smart thing he can do, Claire thought. Eve had a genuine point. There was something alarming about how fast Michael had jumped on the whole “let me talk to her” thing.
It was an uneasy silence all the way back home. As Michael parked the car and killed the engine, Claire said, “Do you think he’ll come home?”
“You mean tonight? No,” Michael said. “If you mean ever, I don’t know. That wasn’t Shane back there. I think you know that.”
She did. It hurt like a huge ball of spikes inside her stomach, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from clouding with tears every time she thought about him. It hurt—oh, God, it hurt. “Then I have to get him back,” she said. “We just do. Whatever it takes.”
Her cell phone rang, and she looked down at the screen, hoping wildly that it was Shane—but no. It had no picture and no number showing. Just blankness. She flipped it open and said, “Hello?”
“I didn’t know your boyfriend was so hot,” a girl’s voice said. “So much hotter than you, you know. You’re dating so far outside your league, you’re making us all embarrassed.” Giggles, and the voice took on a nasty edge. “He’s a rock star now, and he doesn’t need some flat-chested kid anymore. He’s going to dump you faster than last week’s Chinese food and date a real girl. A porn star.”
“What—Who are you?”
“The future Mrs. Shane Collins.” More giggles from other girls who must have been listening. “I’m watching it again. God, he is smokin’ hot!”
A click, and Claire was left with nothing. Not even—when she checked—a call history. It was a blank number.
“What?” Eve asked, frowning. Claire shook her head.
“I have no idea,” she said. “But…it probably isn’t good.”
“Well, there’s a stunning surprise,” Eve said. “Didn’t see that coming. Was it Monica?”
It should have been, by all logic that Claire knew, but…it hadn’t been Monica or Jennifer or any voice she knew. She’d made enemies in town, but not so many that she didn’t know how to identify them.
So why was some random weird girl calling her about Shane?
What had she said…? “I’m watching it again,” Claire said out loud. Eve looked at her with a frown.
“Watching what?” Michael asked.
“Exactly,” Claire said, and felt like she was falling off a cliff into the dark. “Exactly. Something’s really, really wrong, Michael. I just know it!”
“Let’s get inside,” he said. “And we’ll figure this out.”
ELEVEN
A few months back, a girl named Kim had wormed her way into Eve’s friendship, and she’d betrayed it. She’d recorded a lot of things all over Morganville, but her personal favorite had been sex tapes.
Claire, fingers trembling on the keyboard, did a search for Shane Collins on YouTube.
It came back empty, and she slumped back in her chair, so relieved she thought she might faint. If Kim had somehow gotten that on the Internet……
“Try Google,” Michael said. He was crouched down next to her chair. Eve was hovering over her shoulder, all of them fixed on the glowing screen of her laptop. Claire bit her lip and tried that, and results scrolled down. Most of them weren’t about her Shane, but one caught her eye. She clicked it, without even consciously realizing why she’d picked it.
A Web site came up, loud and red and edgy, all jagged type and torn-up graphics. The banner read immortal battles. An animated thing underneath asked if she had the courage to enter the game.
There were lots of fragments of pictures making up the splash page—dark, gritty stuff, mostly guys looking intense and sweaty.
And immediately, one face jumped right out at her. She gasped at the same time Michael leaned forward and pointed. “That’s Shane,” he said. She nodded. “Click it.”
“I—” I don’t want to, she thought, but she squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then aimed the mouse at the glowing entry box.
She clicked. It exploded, and the sound rattled harshly out of the speakers. Michael didn’t flinch, but she did.
When the screen cleared of the animated explosion, there was a sign-in box and a link to create an account. She clicked that. “It says I need a credit card,” she said. “And that it’s a hundred bucks to sign up.”
Michael opened his wallet and handed over a card. He hadn’t had it long, she guessed; it still looked shiny and new. It was black, with Amelie’s logo in gray in the background and the bank’s info at the bottom. “Do it,” he said. She typed in the info and handed the card back, then clicked register. There was the usual wait, and then the screen cleared for a video.
“That’s a vampire,” Eve said, leaning forward. “What the hell?”
“His name is Vassily,” Michael said. “I never liked him.”
Vassily—whom Claire had never seen before, except maybe at a distance—was a long-haired guy only a little older in face-age than Michael. Kind of good-looking, if you went for lots of sharp angles and arrogant smiles. He was wearing period costume, which struck her as a little weird; some vampires did, but not many. They were anxious to fit in, not stand out. He looked like he’d ripped the clothes off Dracula in an old black-and-white movie.
“Welcome,” Vassily said, and smiled. He showed teeth. “To Immortal Battles. We don’t fight to the death—we fight beyond death, in the world’s most dangerous sport. You’ll never see ultimate fighting the same way again—I promise you. Ah, I see our betting windows are open. Choose to view previous matches, or place a bet on an upcoming one. And remember: we know who you are.” Ano
ther flash of vampire teeth. It was all weirdly campy.
“What the hell?” Michael murmured, almost laughing. “Amelie’s going to kill him.”
The video went away, and Claire was left with choices. There were two previous-bout videos, and she clicked on the second one.
Michael sucked in a startled breath, and so did Eve.
Two half-naked guys in a wire cage, pounding the hell out of each other. Nothing you couldn’t see on pay-per-view, except that one guy’s skin was far too pale, and where he got cut and bled, the blood wasn’t quite right. That was a human and a vampire, fighting each other.
Then one, the human, went down and was dragged out—Claire couldn’t tell if it was theater or not, or if he’d been knocked out—and another guy entered the cage.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh no.”
It was Shane. He looked scared but determined, eyes dark and fixed on the vampire in the cage with him. The vampire hissed at him. Shane circled, looking for an opening.
“Is he insane?” Michael blurted, looking paler than ever. “He’s not even armed!”
He also wasn’t bruised, Claire realized. This had been shot before today, before she’d seen all the bruises on his body. Because of that—and only because of that—she was able to watch as Shane and the vampire bobbed, weaved, feinted…and attacked. The vampire looked weakened, thanks to the first bout, but Shane looked incredibly fast and strong.
Even so, he got pounded down, time after time. Claire found herself flinching every time a vampire fist landed. Shane kept himself alive, barely, and actually broke off one of the vampire’s fangs with an unexpected kick. That earned him a slam into the wire mesh so forceful it cut the pattern into his skin.
“I can’t watch this. I can’t,” Eve said, and put her hands over her face. “He’s bleeding!”
It dawned on Claire that if the fight had been dangerous before, now it was incredibly risky—a bleeding human was like catnip to a vampire, and the one Shane faced seemed to get a second wind, so to speak, and come after him with a vengeance.