by Rachel Caine
Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.
Claire took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. She checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight—she’d slept for more than twelve hours.
And missed all her classes. Not that she’d have wanted to show up looking like this, even if she hadn’t been so paranoid about Monica following her around…but she’d need to hit the books later. At least the books didn’t hit back.
Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.
She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.
Oh. The music. She’d thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it. She’d never heard live music before—not really playing, not like this. He was…wow. He was wonderful.
She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn’t even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane’s, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.
He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. “Happy birthday to you, man.” He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. “And here’s to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned.”
Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. “Oh. You’re the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down.”
She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalog the bruises.
He didn’t say a word about them. “I’m Michael,” he said. “And you’re not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation.”
She sat, fast, heart pounding. “I’m in college,” she said. “I’m a freshman. My name is—”
“Don’t bullshit me, and I don’t care what your name is. You’re not eighteen. It’s a good bet you’re not even seventeen. We don’t take anybody in this house who isn’t legal.” He had a deep voice, warm but—at least right now—hard. “Not that you’d be signing on to Orgy Central, but sorry, me and Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there’s something going on—”
“Wait,” she blurted. “I wouldn’t do that. Or say that. I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble. I just need—”
“No,” he said. He put the guitar aside, in its case, and latched it shut. “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. House rules.”
She’d known it was coming, of course, but she’d let herself think—Eve had been nice, and Shane hadn’t been horrible, and the room was so nice—but the look in Michael’s eyes was as final as it got. Complete and utter rejection.
She felt her lips trembling, and hated herself for it. Why couldn’t she be a badass, stone-cold bitch? Why couldn’t she stand up for herself when she needed to, without breaking down into tears like a baby? Monica wouldn’t be crying. Monica would be snapping some comeback at him, telling him that her stuff was already in the room. Monica would slap money down on the table and dare him to turn it down.
Claire reached in her back pocket and pulled out her wallet. “How much?” she asked, and started counting out bills. She had twenties, so it looked like a lot. “Three hundred enough? I can get more if I have to.”
Michael sat back, surprised, a little frown bracketing his forehead. He reached for his beer and took another sip while he thought about it. “How?” he asked.
“What?”
“How would you get more?”
“Get a job. Sell stuff.” Not that she had much to sell, but in an emergency there was always the panicked call to Mom. “I want to stay here, Michael. I really do.” She was surprised at the conviction in her voice. “Yeah, I’m under eighteen, but I swear, you won’t have any trouble from me. I’ll stay out of your way. I go to school, and I study. That’s all I do. I’m not a partyer, I’m not a slacker. I’m useful. I’ll—I’ll help clean and cook.”
He thought about it, staring at her; he was the kind of person you could actually see thinking. It was a little scary, although he probably didn’t mean it to be. There was just something so…adult about him. So sure of himself.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, kid. But it’s just too much risk.”
“Eve’s only a little bit older than I am!”
“Eve’s eighteen. You’re what, sixteen?”
“Almost seventeen!” If you were a little fluid on the definition of almost. “I really am in college. I’m a freshman—look, here’s my student ID….”
He ignored it. “Come back in a year. We’ll talk about it,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry. What about the dorm?”
“They’ll kill me if I stay there,” she said, and looked down at her clasped hands. “They tried to kill me today.”
“What?”
“The other girls. They punched me and shoved me down the stairs.”
Silence. A really long one. She heard the creak of leather, and then Michael was on one knee next to the chair. Before she could stop him, he was probing the bump on her head, tilting it back so he could get a good, impersonal look at the bruises and cuts. “What else?” he asked.
“What?”
“Besides what I can see? You’re not going to drop dead on me, are you?”
Wow, sensitive. “I’m okay. I saw the doctor and everything. It’s just—bruises. And a strained ankle. But they pushed me down the stairs, and they meant it, and she told me—” Suddenly, Eve’s words about vampires came back to her and made her trip over her tongue. “The girl in charge, she told me that tonight, I’d get what was coming to me. I can’t go back to the dorm, Michael. If you send me out that door, they’ll kill me, because I don’t have any friends and I don’t have anyplace to go!”
He stayed there for a few more seconds, looking her right in the eyes, and then retreated to the couch. He unlatched the guitar case again and cradled the instrument; she thought that was his comfort zone, right there, with the guitar in his arms. “These girls. Do they go out in daylight?”
She blinked. “You mean, outside? Sure. They go to classes. Well, sometimes.”
“Do they wear bracelets?”
She blinked. “You mean, like—” Eve had left hers behind on the table, so she picked up the leather band with its red symbol. “Like this? I never noticed. They wear a lot of stuff.” She thought hard, and maybe she did remember something after all. The bracelets didn’t look like this, though. They were gold, and Monica and the Monickettes all had them on their right wrists. She’d never paid much attention. “Maybe.”
“Bracelets with white symbols?” Michael made the question casual; in fact, he bent his head and concentrated on tuning his guitar, not that it needed it. Every note sounded perfect as it whispered out of the strings. “Do you remember?”
“No.” She felt a pure burst of something that wasn’t quite panic, wasn’t quite excitement. “Does that mean they have Protection?”
He hesitated for about a second, just long enough for her to know he was surprised. “You mean condoms?” he asked. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“You know what I mean.” Her cheeks were burning. She hoped it wasn’t as obvious as it felt.
“Don’t think I do.”
“Eve said—”
He looked up sharply, and those blue eyes were suddenly angry. “Eve needs to keep her mouth shut. She’s in enough danger as
it is, trolling around out there in Goth gear. They already think she’s mocking them. If they hear she’s talking…”
“They, who?” Claire asked. It was his turn to look away.
“People,” he said flatly. “Look, I don’t want your blood on my hands. You can stay for a couple of days. But only until you find a place, right? And make it fast—I’m not running a halfway house for battered girls. I’ve got enough to worry about trying to keep Eve and Shane out of trouble.”
For a guy who made such beautiful music, he was bitter, and a little scary. Claire put the money hesitantly on the table in front of him. He stared at it, jaw tense.
“The rent’s a hundred a month,” he said. “You buy groceries once a month, too. First month in advance. But you’re not staying past that, so keep the rest.”
She swallowed and picked up two hundred of the three hundred she’d counted out. “Thanks,” she said.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just don’t get us into trouble. I mean it.”
She got up, went into the kitchen, and spooned chili into two bowls, added the bowls to trays along with spoons and Cokes, and brought it all back to set it on the coffee table. Michael stared at it, then her. She sat down on the floor—painfully—and began eating. After a pause, Michael took his bowl and tasted it.
“Shane made it,” Claire said. “It’s pretty good.”
“Yeah. Chili and spaghetti, that’s pretty much all Shane can cook. You know how to make anything?”
“Sure.”
“Like?”
“Lasagna,” she said. “And, um, sort of a hamburger hash thing, with noodles. And tacos.”
Michael looked thoughtful. “Could you make tacos tomorrow?”
“Sure,” she said. “I have classes from eleven to five, but I’ll stop and pick up the stuff.”
He nodded, eating steadily, glancing up at her once in a while. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“About what?”
“Being an asshole. Look, it’s just that I can’t—I have to be careful. Really careful.”
“You weren’t being an asshole,” she said. “You’re trying to protect yourself and your friends. That’s okay. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Michael smiled, and it transformed his face, made it suddenly angelic and wonderful. Dude, she thought in amazement. He’s totally gorgeous. No wonder he’d been worried about her being underage. A smile like that, he’d be peeling girls off of him right and left.
“If you’re in this house, you’re my friend,” he said. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Claire. Claire Danvers.”
“Welcome to the Glass House, Claire Danvers.”
“But only temporarily.”
“Yeah, temporarily.”
They shared a smile, uneasily, and Michael cleared up the plates this time, and Claire went back up to her room, to spread out her books on the built-in desk and start the day’s studying.
She listened to him playing downstairs, the soft and heartfelt accompaniment to the night, as she fell into the world she loved.
4
Morning dawned bright and early, and Claire woke up to the smell of frying bacon. She stumbled to the bathroom down the hall, yawning, barely aware that she was scantily dressed in her extra-long T-shirt until she remembered, Oh my God, boys live here, too. Luckily, nobody saw, and the bathroom was free. Somebody had already been in it this morning; the mirrors were still frosted with steam, and the big black-and-white room glistened with drops of water. It smelled clean, though. And kind of fruity.
The fruity smell was the shampoo, she found, as she lathered and rinsed. When she wiped the mirror down and stared at herself, she saw the patterns of bruises up and down both sides of her pale skin. I could have died. She’d been lucky.
She tossed the T-shirt back on, then dashed back to her room to dig out the panties she’d rescued yesterday from the washer. They were still damp, but she put them on anyway, then dragged on blue jeans.
On impulse, she opened the closet, and found some old stuff pushed to the back. T-shirts, mostly, from bands she’d never heard of, and a few she remembered as ancient. A couple of sweaters, too. She stripped off her bloodstained shirt and dragged on a faded black one, and, after thinking about it, left her shoes on the floor.
Downstairs, Eve and Shane were arguing in the kitchen about the right way to make scrambled eggs. Eve said they needed milk. Shane said milk was for pussies. Claire padded silently past them, over to the refrigerator, and pulled out a carton of orange juice. She splashed some into a glass, then silently held the carton up for the other two. Eve took it and poured herself a glass, then handed it to Shane.
“So,” Shane asked, “Michael didn’t pitch you out.”
“No.”
Shane nodded slowly. He was even bigger and taller than she remembered, and his skin was a golden brown color, like he’d spent a lot of time in the sun over the summer. His hair had that bronzy sheen, too. Sun-bleached where Michael was naturally blond. Okay, truthfully? They’re both hotties. She wished she hadn’t really thought that, but at least she hadn’t said it out loud.
“Something you should know about Michael,” he said. “He doesn’t like taking chances. I wasn’t sure he’d let you stay. If he did, then he got a good vibe off of you. Don’t disrespect that, because if you do—I won’t be happy, either. Got it?”
Eve was silently watching the two of them, which Claire figured was a new experience for Eve, at least the not-talking part. “He’s your friend, right?”
“He saved my life,” Shane said. “I’d die for him, but it’d be a dumbass thing to do to thank him for it. So yeah. He’s been my friend all my life, and he’s more like a brother. So don’t get him in trouble.”
“I won’t,” she said. “No milk in the eggs.”
“See?” Shane turned back to the counter and started cracking eggs into a bowl. “Told ya.”
“Traitor,” Eve sighed, and poked at the frying bacon with a fork. “Fine. So. How was Linda last night?”
“Laura.”
“Whatever. Not like I have to remember a name for more than one date, anyway.”
“She bowled a one fifty.”
“God, you’re such a disappointment. Share, already!”
Shane smiled tightly down at the eggs. “Hey, not in front of the kid. You got the note.”
“Kid?” That hurt. Claire dropped plates on the counter with a little too much force. “Note?”
Shane handed over a folded piece of paper. It was short and sweet, and signed “Michael”…and it told them that Claire was underage, and that the two of them were supposed to look out for her while she was in the house.
Cute. Claire didn’t know whether to be pissed or flattered. On reflection…pissed. “I’m not a kid!” she told Shane hotly. “I’m only, like, a year younger than Eve!”
“And girls are much more mature.” Eve nodded wisely. “So you’re about ten years older than Shane, then.”
“Seriously,” Claire insisted. “I’m not a kid!”
“Whatever you say, kid,” Shane said blandly. “Cheer up. Just means you don’t have to put up with me telling you how much sex I didn’t get.”
“I’m telling Michael,” Eve warned.
“About how much sex I didn’t get? Go ahead.”
“No bacon for you.”
“Then no eggs for you. Either of you.”
Eve glowered at him. “Prisoner exchange?”
They glared at each other, then swapped pans and started scooping.
Claire was just about to join in when the front doorbell rang, a lilting silvery sound. It wasn’t a scary sound, but Eve and Shane froze and looked at each other, and that was scary, somehow. Shane put his plate down on the granite countertop, licked bacon grease from his fingers, and said, “Get her out of sight.”
Eve nodded. She dropped her own plate onto the counter, grabbed Claire’s wrist, and hustled her to the pantry—a do
or half hidden in the shadow of the awkwardly placed refrigerator. It was big, dark, and dusty, shelves crowded with old cans of yams and asparagus and glass jars of ancient jellies. There was a light with a string pull above, but Eve didn’t turn it on. She reached behind a row of murky-looking cans of fruit and hit some kind of a switch. There was a grating rumble, then a click, and part of the back wall swung open.
Eve pushed it back, reached in, and grabbed a flashlight that she handed to Claire. “Inside,” she said. “I’m going to turn the light on out here, but try to keep that flashlight off if you hear voices. It could show through the cracks.” Claire nodded, a little dazed, and crouched down to crawl through the small opening into…a big empty room, stone floored, no windows. A few spiderwebs in the corners, and loads of dust, but otherwise it didn’t look too bad.
Until Eve shut the door, and then the darkness slammed down, and Claire hastily flicked on the flashlight, moved to the nearest corner, and knelt down there, breathing fast and hard.
Just one minute ago, they’d been laughing about bacon and eggs, and all of a sudden…what the hell had just happened? And why was there a secret compartment in this house? One with—so far as she could tell—no other entrances or exits?
She heard distant voices, and hastily thumbed off the flashlight. That was bad. She’d never really been afraid of the dark, but dark wasn’t really dark most of the time…. There were stars, moonlight, distant streetlights.