by Rachel Caine
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.
She quickly took her wallet out and showed him her identification, and he glanced at it and nodded. ‘Drinking age is twenty-one,’ he said. ‘In case you’re a foreign student. No, we don’t care if it’s sixteen in your home country. Five bucks cover.’
He held out his hand.
‘I just need to go in and talk to somebody.’
‘Really? Never heard that one before, cutie. Five bucks or get out of line.’ Because there were people queued up behind her now, she realised; they were all older than she was. Claire fumbled in her wallet, pulled out a five dollar bill, and passed it over, and he reached down and grabbed a bright neon-green armband out of a box, and snugged it tight on her wrist. ‘Water, soft drinks, tea, coffee. Got it?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Go on with you.’
‘I – I’m looking for Pete. Or Jesse.’
That got her an entirely different look, one of surprise; the bouncer leant forward a little and studied her again. ‘Not a good time,’ he said. ‘It’s busy in there. Jesse’s up to her neck in bottle caps and booze, and Pete needs to keep an eye on everything inside. He doesn’t need distracting.’
‘I have a message for him,’ Claire said. It sounded as if Pete would be easier to get to than Jesse, anyway. ‘Where do I find him?’
‘Beats me. Good luck finding him. Next!’
She had no real option but to push forward into the crowded room, where she was instantly lost in the roar of conversation, clinking bottles and glasses, the sharp smell of spilt beer and sweat and old wood. The glare of the TV screens washed over her, and turned everyone in the darkened room odd colours, with twisted and distorted faces. If she knew anyone here, she probably wouldn’t recognise them. Bodies crowded hot against her and surged forward as a runner sprinted forward on the TV; the roar that washed over her was deafening.
I’m never going to find them, she thought in despair, and then she caught sight of Jesse’s red hair on the far side of the bar, which was on the far side of the room. It was just a flash, but definitely her – not just the hair, but the pale skin and the self-assured smile.
Finding Pete in this mob looked like a lost cause, but at least Jesse was stationary. Claire swam against the tide, heading for the bar, and then ran into a solid knot of young men and women all waiting three or four deep for their own turn. Claire felt suffocated; she was too short and too thin to make her own space against a horde of people who were either drinking, impatient to be drinking or drunk.
‘Hey,’ a voice next to her said, and Claire saw a tall young man standing close by, leaning in. ‘You need to order something? Let me be your hero.’
‘If you want to be my hero, tell the red-headed bartender that Claire needs to see her out back,’ Claire said. ‘Please?’
He grinned. He was a good-looking guy, cocky and confident of his ability to get anything he wanted. ‘As long as you promise to have a drink with me later.’
‘I’m not your type,’ she said, and gave him a mysterious smile. He raised his eyebrows, looked over the sea of heads and focused on Jesse, then back on Claire.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. Sorry. Well, what kind of hero would I be if I didn’t help out with a hot bartender hook-up? Gotcha covered. You sure I can’t bring you back a drink or anything?’
‘I’m sure,’ Claire said. She’d been to enough parties in Morganville to know that she shouldn’t let strangers get her drinks, ever. ‘Thanks.’
‘Brian,’ he said. ‘Brian Taylor. Of the Boston Taylors.’ He said that last in a funny drawling accent, and – as much as possible, in the crush – gave her an old-fashioned from-the-waist bow. He didn’t do it very well, when measured up against Myrnin and his old-school elegance, but she gave him points for effort. ‘And you are …?’
‘Claire Danvers, of the nobody in particular,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Brian. I appreciate it.’
‘No worries. Go on. I’ll have her meet you out there.’
He pressed forward toward the bar, and Claire let the current of people sweep her back the other way. Something bad must have happened on the screen, because there was a collective groan, followed by violent shouting and gesturing, and she had to duck to avoid getting either a beer in the face, or an elbow in the head.
In the process of ducking, she caught sight of someone in a long white apron coming through the double doors behind the bar, carrying a gigantic tray full of – she assumed – freshly washed bar glasses. And for a second she froze, because everything about that split-second glance, everything, told her she knew him.
It was a flash, nothing more, and the guy carrying the tray was moving fast to deliver the glasses, but she could have sworn, however irrationally, that …
That it was Shane.
But of course it wasn’t. In the next few seconds she stood on tiptoe and tried to get another look, but there were too many people in the way, and besides, Shane was in Morganville. It was a tall guy, broad shoulders, brown hair. There were probably hundreds of thousands of guys fitting that description in Cambridge and Boston. She was missing him so badly that she was projecting his face onto others who just fit some template.
God, she missed him. Suddenly she felt short of breath, flushed, frightened by the intensity of her reaction; she wasn’t even sure what she was feeling, really. Sadness, and longing, and a need that just cut the strength out of her.
The tide carried her right, left, finally back to the centre, and she was within striking distance of the door, finally. She had to wiggle her way between incoming patrons, some of whom were high-fiving their buddies, and finally gained the free air on the other side.
The bouncer looked at her, checked his watch, and said, ‘Had a
good time?’
‘Fantastic,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
He gave her a wolfish grin, and went back to checking IDs.
Claire made sure he wasn’t watching before she turned the corner and headed through the narrow, not very pleasant little walkway between Florey’s and its east-side neighbouring building; it was deserted, but it felt ancient and oppressive, and the bricks looked as if they were probably at least as old as the Civil War, if not older. Cambridge, and Boston, had an impressive amount of history that she was only just starting to appreciate.
She wasn’t so trusting that she just assumed Brian Taylor (of the Boston Taylors) was willing to help her out of the goodness of his heart, so she loitered in the angle at the edge of that narrow walkway and the wider alley, where the back door of Florey’s was, next to a big industrial dumpster that stank even from here of old booze and rotting food. Nobody was there. She waited, and waited, and checked her watch: fifteen minutes, and still no sign of Jesse.
Maybe Brian had blown the whole thing off. Or maybe Jesse just didn’t care.
It was another fifteen minutes, and Claire was preparing to try her luck with the bouncer again, when finally, the back door banged open, and Jesse stepped outside. She stretched, all sinuous curves and long legs and arms, and then pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and put it in her mouth as she flicked a portable lighter.
‘That’s a bad habit,’ Claire said, stepping out. Jesse took a deep drag, let out a cloud of smoke, and smiled.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘So. What was so urgent I have to spend my precious break time on it? Please don’t tell me it’s that guy watching your house. I don’t have the time right now.’
‘Dr Anderson got a visit from some government types while I was still there,’ Claire said. ‘She wanted you to know about it.’
‘Huh.’ Jesse frowned and took another long pull on the cigarette, held the smoke, and then let it slowly trickle out in a grey fog. ‘Anything particular they seemed to be looking for? Did they ask what she was working on?’
‘What do you work with her on? Because no offence, a bartender doesn’t seem to be the world’s most likely team-up with a physics professor.’
‘Hey, I have depth,’ Jesse said. ‘We have things in common.’
‘Yeah, I get it, you’re friends, but why would she call you about a visit from the CIA, or whatever they are? She also didn’t specifically ask for you. She told me to call Dr Florey. Which means you, or Pete. Right?’
Jesse took her time answering. She took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette on the brick and finally said, ‘It means one of us, yeah. Look, this is really none of your business, Claire, you get that, right? So why are you in it?’
‘Because I work with Dr Anderson, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt about working for scary scientists, it’s that you’d better stay aware of exactly what they’re into if you want to avoid troubles of your own,’ Claire shot back. ‘I’m not saying I’m doing it out of general altruism. It’s selfish.’
That earned her a glance that was, at least partially, admiring. ‘Okay, then. Consider your ass covered. Now. Tell me exactly what she said. Word for word. Can you do that?’
‘She said, Call Dr Florey and let him know. That was all.’
‘It’s a general heads-up,’ Jesse said. ‘Not run-for-cover DEFCON 4 phrasing. So we’re still good. I’ll break Pete loose to go over and make sure she’s okay.’
‘I thought you’d go.’
‘It’s easier for Pete to cut out than it is me. People notice when I’m gone. Speaking of’ – Jesse checked her watch – ‘time to water the stampede again. God, I hate game nights, except that my tip jar runneth over.’
Claire nodded. ‘Okay. Is there anything you want me to do?’
‘Go home,’ Jesse said, and winked at her. ‘Unless the hot boy you had giving me the message is waiting for you. In that case, hop on that. He was polite.’
‘He was just doing me a favour,’ Claire said, and felt her cheeks growing a little warm. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Your loss. Watch your back,’ Jesse said. ‘If Anderson’s got eyes on her, you probably will too, not that they really expect to see anything. You’re an eighteen-year-old from Podunk, Texas, after all. They don’t know you’re secretly a badass.’
‘Am I?’ Claire asked. Jesse didn’t know anything about her – or at least, she’d assumed that to be true.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Jesse said, and smiled off into the darkness. ‘You couldn’t possibly have survived Myrnin if you weren’t.’
With that stunning comment, she went back inside, and the back door slammed shut behind her. Claire stared after her, thoughts tumbling around in chaos, but what finally stuck was she knows about Myrnin. And Morganville.
Just who was she, anyway?
It was a mystery Claire knew she was going to have to solve … but not tonight. It was dark, and the alley was creepy, and she suddenly wanted, very badly, to retreat to the safety of their little row house, lock the doors, and call Shane.
She needed to hear his voice.
Feeling safe, as it turned out, wasn’t in the cards for her, because when she got home there was an official-looking card stuck to the front door, and when Claire pulled it off she saw that it was from the police department. The note with it said that there had been an attempted break-in reported by a passer-by, and to double-check all interior spaces and locks to ensure that no one had entered.
Fabulous.
Derrick wasn’t at his usual post, which was nice, because the note made Claire feel even more paranoid, and she rushed in, locked the door, and yelled for Liz. Useless, because of course Liz wasn’t home; she would have gotten the note if she had been. It was still and dark inside, and Claire methodically made the rounds, checked all the windows, and finally ended up in her top-floor room with the door shut and all the lights burning brightly. She made an effort to unpack a few more boxes (she was rapidly running out of space for what she’d brought) and finally called it quits, fired up her laptop, and tried to reach Shane on Skype. No answer. After she’d tried his phone and gotten the same nonresponse, she instead tried Eve.
And Eve answered so quickly it was as if she’d been sitting there waiting. Her image came on the screen, face turned pale blue by the computer’s reflected glow, and the sight of her was enough to make Claire feel a rush of tears. ‘Hey,’ Claire managed to choke out. ‘Thought I’d check in and see how it was going.’
‘Claire Bear!’ Eve bounced up and down in her chair, twisted around, and yelled, ‘Michael! Get your undead ass in here, guess who’s calling?’
‘I don’t have to guess, and you don’t have to yell,’ Michael said. Claire hadn’t seen him approach, but all of a sudden he was there, leaning over Eve’s shoulder to give her a light, sweet kiss. ‘Hey, Claire, how’s your new place? Are you settling in?’
‘Not so much, and it’s—’ She couldn’t think how to describe it, so she picked up the computer and panned it around. ‘It’s like that.’
‘Yow,’ Eve said. ‘Who picked that paint, a drunk colour-blind frat boy? Because a drunk colour-blind sorority girl would have better sense.’
‘I know.’ Claire sighed. ‘This whole thing … it’s – a lot to take in. I started meeting with my new professor. I like her, I guess. But it looks like it’s going to be complicated.’
‘Oh, we are so not going to waste time talking about dusty professors and boring classes, unless they’re sexy, sexy classes. Let’s get to the important info. Do you hate it enough to come running back here to us yet? And yes, I’m actually kind of hoping that will happen, sorry, but we miss you loads, Claire.’ Eve, always quick to cry, had a glimmer of tears in her eyes. ‘It’s not the same around here with you gone.’
‘She’s right,’ Michael said. He would have probably gone on, but Eve put her hand up in front of his mouth.
‘Sorry, just need to clarify … what was that you said?’
&nbs
p; ‘That you were right.’
‘Ah. I thought you said that. Just wanted to be sure. Although I think you left out the word always, there, and I know you meant to add it in,’ Eve said. ‘Just trying to be helpful.’
He managed to hold back his sigh, but only just, and leant forward into the camera. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘could you please tell my lady here that she doesn’t have to harass me all the time?’
‘Sorry, I do have to. It’s part of the marriage vows. Didn’t you read the fine print? To have and to harass.’
‘Honey, I hate to break it to you, but you need glasses.’
Eve smacked him, which meant exactly nothing to a vampire; he did her the courtesy of making it seem like he actually noticed. When she tried it again, he caught her hand, held it, and kissed it. Well, that was hotly romantic, and Claire felt the temperature notch up a couple of degrees between them. ‘Um, you guys, get a room.’
‘Got one,’ Eve said, and smiled so serenely she looked like the Mona Lisa. ‘Got several, and trust me, we’re working on breaking them allllllll in …’
Claire put her hands over her ears. ‘La la la, can’t hear you!’ Then she took her hands down and said, ‘Wait a second, my bedroom?’
‘Couldn’t exactly use Shane’s, could we? It smells like sweat socks and Mentos in there. Besides, if he found out about it, that would be a whole lot more strange conversations around the dinner table than anybody really needs.’ Eve waved it away. ‘Okay, enough about our luscious sex life, about which you don’t want to hear anyway. Amelie invited us to be on the new Morganville City Council. Takes the place of the old vampire-themed one, and it has to be more than fifty per cent humans. I guess they figured including me and Michael would send a message about how seriously she was taking this whole new let’s-be-nice-to-each-other thing.’