by Rachel Caine
Like they were lost. All lost.
Claire sniffled and stepped back, and when she did, she saw Eve standing in the doorway, watching them. Whatever Eve was thinking, it wasn’t good, and it wasn’t anything that Claire ever wanted to see again.
“Eve—’”
“Whatever,’” Eve said flatly. “There’s still one vampire who might help us. If we can find him and get him to agree. He could get into Founder’s Square without any problem. He might even be willing to open up Shane’s cage if we create some kind of diversion.’”
Michael turned toward her. “Eve.’” He didn’t sound guilty, at least. He sounded worried, though. “No. We talked about this.’”
“Michael, it’s the last thing we can do. I know that. But we need to go for it now, if we’re going to do it at all.’”
“What vampire?’” Claire asked.
“His name is Sam,’” Michael said, “and this is going to sound weird, but he’s my grandfather.’”
“Sam? He’s your—your—’”
“Grandfather. Yeah. I know. Freaks me the hell out, too. It has all my life.’”
Claire had to sit down. Fast.
When she recovered her breath, she told Eve and Michael about running into Sam at Common Grounds. About the present Sam had tried to give her for Eve. “I didn’t take it,’” she said. “I didn’t know—well, it just didn’t seem—right.’”
“Damn straight,’” Michael said.
Eve wasn’t looking at him. “Sam’s okay,’” she said.
“I thought you hated vampires.’”
“I do! But…I guess if there’s a most-hated-vampire list, he’s at the bottom. He always seems so lonely,’” Eve said. “He came into Common Grounds pretty much every night and just talked for hours. Just talked. Oliver always watched him like a hawk, but he never did anything, never threatened anybody—not like Brandon. In fact, I sometimes wondered—’”
“Wondered what?’”
“If Sam was there keeping an eye on Brandon. Maybe on Oliver, although I didn’t know that at the time. Looking out for…’”
“For the rest of us?’” Michael nodded slowly. “I don’t know how true it is, because I always avoided him, but family talk always said Sam was a good guy, before he was changed. And he is the youngest of all of them. The most like…well, like us.’”
Eve had gone over to the dark window, and was looking out, hands behind her back. “You know anything else about him? Family secrets, I mean?’”
“Just that supposedly he took on the vampires and won.’”
“Won? He’s one of them! How exactly is that winning?’”
Michael shook his head, moved up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. He kissed the nape of her neck gently. “I don’t know, Eve. I’m just telling you what I heard. He got some kind of agreement out of the vampires. And it was because Amelie loved him.’”
“Yeah, loved him enough to kill him and turn him into a bloodsucking fiend,’” Eve said grimly. “How sweet. Romance isn’t dead. Oh, wait. It is.’”
She pulled free of Michael and walked into the kitchen. Michael looked at Claire mutely. She shrugged.
When they got downstairs, they found that Eve was making bologna and cheese sandwiches. Claire wolfed down one in about six bites, then took a second sandwich. The other two looked at her. “What?’” she asked. “I’m starved. Honest.’”
“Be my guest,’” Michael said. “I hate bologna. Besides, not like I can starve.’”
Eve snorted. “I made you roast beef, genius.’” She handed him one. “So go on. This is the first I’ve heard from you about the History of Sam. What made him so special to be the last vampire ever?’”
“I don’t really know,’” Michael said. “The only thing Mom ever told me was what I just told you. The point is, Sam’s never really fit in with the vampires. Amelie doesn’t like to be reminded of weakness, and he was a constant neon sign. She really cared about him. So she cut him off—last I heard, she wouldn’t see him or talk to him. He hangs around humans a lot more than other vampires.’”
“And that’s why I said he could help us,’” Eve said. “Or at least, he’d be willing to listen. Bonus if he’s family.’”
“So where do we find him?’” Claire looked from Michael to Eve, then back again. “At Common Grounds?’”
“Off-limits to you,’” Eve said. “Hess told me what happened with you and Oliver.’”
“Something happened?’” Michael mumbled around his roast beef. “Why don’t I know this? God, I needed this. Tastes great.’”
Eve rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sandwiches take great skill. I’m thinking of teaching a class. Meanwhile, back on the subject, Claire is not going anywhere near Common Grounds. I said so. If anybody’s going, it’s me.’”
“No,’” Michael said. Eve glared at him.
“We had this talk,’” she said. “You may be dead sexy, and I mean, like, really dead and really sexy, but you don’t get to tell me what to do. Right? And no headshrinker stuff, either, or I swear to God, I’ll pack my shit and move!’”
Claire scraped her chair back, walked over to the cordless phone lying on the counter, and dialed from the business card still stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. Four rings, and a cheerful voice answered on the other end and announced she’d reached Common Grounds. “Hi,’” Claire said. “Can I talk to Sam, please?’”
“Sam? Hold on.’” The phone clattered, and Claire could hear the buzz of activity in the background—milk being steamed, people chatting, the usual excitement of a busy coffee shop. She waited, jittering one leg impatiently, until the voice came back on the line. “Sorry,’” it said. “He’s not here tonight. I think he went to the party.’”
“The party?’”
“You know, the zombie frat party? Epsilon Epsilon Kappa? The Dead Girls’ Dance?’”
“Thanks,’” Claire said. She hung up and turned to face Michael and Eve, who were staring at her in outright surprise. She held up the phone. “The power of technology. Embrace it.’”
“You found him.’”
“Without going into Common Grounds,’” Claire pointed out. “He’s at a party on campus. The big frat thing. The one—’” She paused, felt a chill, then a rush of heat. “The one I was invited to. It was kind of a date. I was supposed to meet this boy there. Ian Jameson.’”
“Guess what?’” Eve said. “We’re both going. Time to put on the dead look, Claire.’”
“The—what?’”
Eve was looking at her critically while she munched her sandwich. “Size one, maybe two, right? I’ve got some things that would fit you.’”
“I’m not getting dressed up!’”
“I don’t make the rules, but everybody knows you don’t get into the Dead Girls’ Dance without making an effort. Besides, you’ll look way cute as a teeny little Goth girl.’”
Michael was frowning at them both now. “No,’” he said. “It’s too dangerous for you to be out at night without an escort.’”
“Well, we’re fresh out of escorts. I think Claire broke Detective Hess last night. And I’m not going to just sit and wait, Michael. You know that.’” Eve locked eyes with him, and softened as he reached across the table and took her hand. “No head stuff. You promised.’”
“I promised,’” he agreed. “Never happen again.’”
“Cute as you are when you worry, it’s a party—there are hundreds of people there. It’s safe enough.’” Eve held his gaze steadily. “Safer than Shane is, in that cage, waiting to die. Unless you’re giving up on him.’”
Michael let go of her hand and walked away. He stiff-armed his way out of the kitchen door.
“Guess not,’” Eve said softly. “Good. Claire. We need to find out what the timeline is. Whether they’ve moved it.’”
“I’ll do it,’” Claire said, and punched in the number from another card. It was Detective Hess’s private number, the one penciled
in on the back, and it rang four times before he picked up. He sounded bleary and exhausted. “Sir? It’s Claire. Claire Danvers. I’m sorry to wake you—’”
“Not asleep,’” he said, and yawned. “Claire, whatever you’re thinking, don’t. Stay home, lock the doors, and keep your head down. I mean it.’”
“Yes, sir,’” she lied. “I just want to know—there was talk about moving up the—the execution?’”
“The mayor said no,’” Hess said. “Said he wanted due process, and called for Shane’s dad to give himself up. Looks like a Mexican standoff to me: he’s got Shane; Shane’s dad has Monica. Nobody wants to blink.’”
“How long…?’”
“Before sunrise. Five in the morning,’” Hess said. “It’ll all be over before dawn. For Monica, too, if Shane’s dad isn’t just bluffing.’”
“He’s not bluffing,’” Claire said numbly. “Oh God. That’s not much time.’”
“Better than what Oliver wanted. He wanted to do it at sunset tonight. The mayor backed him off, but only to the legal deadline. There won’t be any last-minute stays of execution.’” Hess shifted; his chair creaked. “Claire, you need to prepare yourself. There’s no miracle coming; nobody’s going to have a change of heart. He’s going to die. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’”
She didn’t have the heart to argue with him, because she knew, deep down, that he was right. “Thank you,’” she whispered. “I have to go now.’”
“Claire. Don’t try. They’ll kill you.’”
“Good-bye, Detective.’”
She hung up, put the phone down on the counter, and braced herself with stiffened arms. When she looked up, Eve was watching her with bright, strange eyes.
“All right,’” Claire said. “If I have to be a zombie, I’ll be a zombie.’”
Eve smiled. “Cutest zombie ever.’”
Claire had never worn this much makeup in her life, not even at Halloween. “You wear this every day?’” she asked as Eve stepped back to look at her critically, makeup sponge still in hand. “It feels weird.’”
“You get used to it. Close your eyes. Powder time.’”
Claire obeyed, and felt the feathery touch of the powder brush as it glided over her face. She fought back an urge to sneeze.
“Okay. Now, eyes,’” Eve said. “Hold still.’”
It went on like that for a while, with Claire passively sitting and Eve working whatever dark magic she was working. Claire didn’t know. There was no mirror, and she was weirdly reluctant to see what was happening to her, anyway. It felt a little like she was losing herself, although that was stupid, right? How you looked wasn’t you. She’d always believed that, anyway.
Eve finally stepped back, studied her, and nodded. “Clothes,’” she said. Eve herself had put on a black corset thing, a tattered black skirt, and a necklace of skulls with matching earrings. Black lipstick. “Here you go.’”
Claire took off her blue jeans and T-shirt with great reluctance, then sat down to put on the black hose. They had white death’s-head symbols in a line, and she couldn’t figure out if they were supposed to go front or back. “Where do you find this stuff?’” she asked.
“Internet. Skulls go in the back.’”
After the adventure of the hose, the black leather skirt—knee-length, jingling with zippers and chains—seemed almost easy. Claire’s legs felt cold and exposed. She hadn’t been in a skirt in…when? Not since she was twelve, probably. She’d never liked them.
The top was a black net thing, stretchy and tight, see-through with a black skull and crossbones printed on it. “No way,’” she said. “It’s transparent!’”
“You wear it over a camisole, genius,’” Eve said, and tossed a black silky thing to her. Claire slipped it over her head, then fought her way into the clingy embrace of the skull shirt. “Watch the makeup!’” Eve warned. “Okay, you’re good. Excellent. Ready to take a look?’”
She wasn’t, but Eve didn’t seem to notice. She steered her into the bathroom, turned on the light, and put her arm around Claire. “Ta da!’” Eve said.
Oh my God, Claire thought. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
She looked like Eve’s skinny little sister. A dead-on junior freak in training.
Well, at least she’d blend in, and if anybody was looking for her, they’d never, ever recognize her. She wouldn’t recognize herself. And somehow she just knew there’d be pictures on the Internet later.
Claire sighed. “Let’s go.’”
Eve drove the black Cadillac onto campus and parked in the faculty lot—a blatant violation, but then, Eve didn’t give a crap about campus tickets, either. It was the closest parking to the frat house. So close, in fact, that Claire could see the lights blazing from every window, and hear the low thudding thump of the bass rattling through the car.
“Wow,’” Eve said. “They’ve gone all out this year. Good old EEK.’”
There was a graveyard around the house—tilting tombstones, big creepy-looking mausoleums, some decaying statues. There were also zombies—or, Claire guessed, party guests—lurching around and doing their best Night of the Living Dead parody for their friends’ cameras.
The dull roar of the party was audible even through the car’s closed windows.
“Stay close,’” Eve said. “Let’s find Sam, yeah? In and out.’”
“In and out.’” Claire nodded.
They got out and ran the short distance to the graveyard.
At close range, the tombstones were either foam rubber or Styrofoam, and the mausoleum was a dressed-up storage building, but it looked great. Zombie hands were reaching up out of the dirt. Nice touch, Claire thought. She came close to one, and it turned and groped her ankle. Claire screamed and jumped back into Eve, who caught her. “Jesus, guys, grow up,’” Eve said, and crouched down to look at the ground. “Where are you?’”
“Right here!’” A trapdoor covered with sod lifted up, and a geeky-looking frat boy wearing a pledge board stuck his head out. “Uh, sorry. Just kidding. I have to—’”
“Grope girls and look up their skirts. Yeah. Tough work, pledge.’” Eve stood up and brushed dirt from her knees. “Carry on.’”
He grinned at her and thumped the trapdoor back down. His hand came up again through a hole in the ground.
“Wow,’” Claire said. “How many of them are there? In the ground?’”
“Just the pledges,’” Eve said. “Come on. If Sam’s here, he’ll be talking to people. He loves to talk.’”
If Sam could talk, and anyone could hear him, it was more than Claire could imagine. The music was pounding so loud that she felt it like physical waves through her body, and she had to fight back an urge to cover her ears. Eve had put Claire’s hair up in little pigtails, and she missed having it over her ears to block out the roar. “I need earplugs!’” she yelled in Eve’s ear. Eve mimed a What did you say? “Never mind!’”
The Epsilon Epsilon Kappa fraternity house was trashed. Claire suspected it was usually trashed, but this was extra special—plastic cups everywhere, drinks soaking into carpet, a chair broken in the corner, and drunks sleeping on the sofa. And this was just the foyer. Two guys stepped into their path and held out their hands in the universal gesture for Don’t even think about it; they were big, muscular guys dressed in white face paint with black T-shirts that said UNDEAD SECURITY on them. “Invitations?’” one of them yelled. Claire exchanged a look with Eve.
“Ian Jameson invited me!’” she screamed back. “Ian Jameson!’”
The security guys had a list. They checked it, and nodded. “Upstairs!’” one yelled. “Last door on the left!’”
She didn’t intend to find Ian, but she nodded anyway. She and Eve pressed between the two security guys—who were maybe a little too close—and stepped over the threshold into the wildest party Claire had ever seen in her entire life.
Not that her experience was wide, but still…she was pretty sure Paris Hil
ton would have classified this as wild. Despite the fact that alcohol was banned on campus, she was also pretty sure the punch that was being ladled out of gigantic coolers was alcoholic (it also had severed hands, eyeballs, and assorted plastic gross-outs floating in it, and was bloodred). A lot of the people at the party already showed the telltale signs of being wasted—stumbling, laughing too loud, making wild gestures. Spilling drinks all over themselves and others, which really didn’t seem to bother people because, hey, zombies! Not neat freaks. Everybody wore white makeup, or had some kind of rubbery disgusting mask (though that was mostly the guys).
The main room was kind of a dance floor, people pressed up against each other and swaying. Claire stood in the doorway, frozen with sudden dread. It looked like a room full of dead people. Worse—dead, drunk, horny people.
“Come on,’” Eve yelled impatiently, and grabbed her by the hand. She plunged into the crowd without hesitation, craning her head to look around. “At least he’s a redhead!’” Because most of those at the party were wearing black wigs, or had dyed their hair like Eve’s. Claire’s had suffered a temporary blacking from some kind of spray-on stuff Eve had assured her would wash right out. Claire tried to shield herself from unnecessary body-to-body contact, but it was pretty much useless; she was closer to a whole bunch of guys than she’d ever been in her life.
A hand tried to go up her skirt as she pressed through the crowd. She yelped and jumped, moving faster. Somebody else swatted her on the ass.
“Faster!’” she yelled at Eve, who had slowed down to get her bearings. “God, I can’t breathe in here!’”
“This way!’”
Claire felt filthy—not just from getting groped, which continued to happen, but because she was sopping with other people’s sweat by the time Eve squirmed them through to a small clear space on the other side of the room, next to the stairs. It must have been the Wall-flower Corner; there were some shy-looking girls, all dressed in mock-Goth finery, grouped together for comfort and (Claire suspected) protection. She felt an instant sympathy for them. “Great party!’” Eve screamed over the pounding beat of the music. “Wish I could enjoy it!’”