by Rachel Caine
He hustled her toward the kitchen. Behind them, Eve said, ‘‘Just another great family dinner. Whatever! I’m taking the last hot dog!’’
Even with the kitchen door shut, Michael wasn’t taking any chances. He pulled Claire along with him to the pantry, opened the door, and turned on the light. ‘‘Inside,’’ he ordered. She stepped in, and he shut the door after her. It was cramped with two people, and it smelled like old spices and vinegar, from where Shane had dropped the bottle a few weeks back. Michael’s voice dropped to a fierce hiss. ‘‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’’
‘‘What I had to,’’ she said. She was shaking all over, but she wouldn’t let Michael intimidate her. She was tired, and besides, everybody seemed to be trying to intimidate her these days. She was small; she wasn’t weak. ‘‘It was the only way. Amelie—’’
‘‘You should have talked to me. Talked to us.’’
‘‘Like you came clean with us, when you were a ghost? And did you have a house meeting before you decided to go all the way to vampire?’’ Claire shot back. ‘‘Right. Well, you’re not the only one who can make choices, Michael. This was mine; I made it; I’ll live with it. And it’ll keep all of you safe.’’
‘‘Who says?’’ Michael asked bluntly. ‘‘Amelie? You’re trusting vampires now?’’
She didn’t look away from his big blue eyes. ‘‘I trust you.’’
He suppressed a smile. ‘‘Dumbass.’’
‘‘Dork.’’ She shoved him, just a little, and he let her do it. He even pretended to stagger, although she didn’t imagine vampires got knocked off balance very often, except by other vampires. ‘‘Michael, she didn’t give me any choice. Shane’s dad—even though he left, he did damage. Shane wasn’t going to be trusted here, and you know what happens if—’’
‘‘If they don’t trust him,’’ Michael said somberly. ‘‘Yeah. I know. Look, don’t worry about Shane. I’ll protect him. I told you—’’
‘‘You may not be able to. Look, no offense, but you’ve only been a vampire for a couple of weeks. I have library books that have been out longer. You can’t promise—’’
Michael reached out and put one cool finger across her lips, stilling them instantly. His blue eyes were intense, narrow, and very focused.
‘‘Shhhh,’’ he whispered, and turned out the light.
Claire heard the kitchen door thump, and then the hard-heeled clonk of Eve’s shoes crossing the wood floor. ‘‘Hello? Helllloooooooo? Great. Why do all my housemates sulk like little girls or vanish when the dishes are dirty? If you can hear me, Michael Glass, I’m talking to you!’’
Claire snorted, almost laughed. Michael’s hand closed over her mouth, stifling her. He tugged on her arm, and she followed him, moving carefully so as not to knock anything off the shelf. She heard the scrape of the door opening at the rear of the pantry, the tiny little bolt-hole, and bent down to go through it. The other side was pitch-black, with not even the tiny crack of light that the pantry had enjoyed, and Claire felt a flutter of panic. Michael’s hand pushed her onward, and she stepped hesitantly into the close, thick dark. Behind her, she heard him close the door with a very soft click, and bright electric light flooded over the floor.
‘‘Here,’’ Michael said, and handed her the flashlight. ‘‘She might come looking for us here, but not for a while.’’
It was a secret hidey-hole, one that Claire had been shoved into on her very first morning in the Glass House; no exits, only the one entrance. She’d thought from the beginning it looked like someplace a vampire might stash a couple of handy coffins, but it was empty. And as far as she knew, Michael slept on a Serta.
‘‘I meant to ask you. What is this?’’
‘‘Root cellar,’’ he said. ‘‘This house was built before refrigerators, and ice deliveries were only so-so. This was where they kept most of their vegetables.’’
‘‘So . . . not a vampire hideout?’’
Michael stretched his long legs out with a sigh and leaned against the wall. God, he was pretty. No wonder Eve was willing to overlook the lack of pulse. ‘‘Not so far as I’ve ever known, but the vampires in Morganville never really had to hide. Only the humans did.’’
Which wasn’t what they were here to talk about, she supposed. She crossed her arms and felt the bracelet bite into the skin of her wrist under the shirt. ‘‘Whatever lecture you were going to give me, it’s too late. I signed, it’s done, I’ve got the souvenir bracelet.’’ Which made her suddenly, strangely want to cry. ‘‘Michael—’’
‘‘What’s she asking you to do?’’ Which was so right-on that she felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes and in her nose get even higher.
‘‘Um . . .’’ She couldn’t tell him; Amelie and Sam had both made it clear. ‘‘It’s just extra schoolwork. She wants me to study some things.’’
‘‘What things?’’ Michael’s voice got sharp and worried. ‘‘Claire—’’
‘‘It’s nothing. Science stuff. I would have probably been doing it anyway, but it’s just—it’s a lot more time, and I don’t know how I’m going to—’’ Keep it from Shane. Because she had to, right? Bad enough he hated Michael for being a vampire, but what was he going to think about her, selling herself to Amelie? ‘‘I just don’t know how I’m going to do all this.’’
And suddenly, she was crying. She didn’t mean to, but there it was, boiling out of her. She expected Michael to do the Shane thing, come and comfort her, but he didn’t. He sat right where he was and watched her. When her sobs died down, and she swiped her hands across her wet cheeks, he said, ‘‘Finished?’’
She gulped and nodded.
‘‘You made the choice; now you want to have it both ways—the benefits, but not the consequences. You can’t, Claire. It’s coming home to roost, and you’d better handle it now rather than later.’’ Michael’s tone softened, just a little. ‘‘Look, I’m not an asshole; I know how scared you are. But you’re a player in this town now. You’re not the fragile little thing we took in for protection. You’re trying to protect us. That means you may not be as well liked anymore, and you’re going to have to sack up about that.’’
‘‘What?’’ She felt dazed. Somehow, this wasn’t how she’d expected all this to go. Especially Michael’s cool, challenging look, and the lack of hugging.
‘‘Signing the contract isn’t the last choice you’re going to have to make,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s the choices you make from now on that show whether you did the right thing or not.’’ He stood up, pale and strong and as gorgeous as an angel in the glow of Claire’s flashlight. ‘‘And stop lying to me. You ought to get off to a better start.’’
‘‘I—what?’’
‘‘You said what Amelie has you doing is just more studying,’’ he said grimly. ‘‘And I can tell when you’re lying. No, I’m not going to ask, because I can tell it scares you, but just remember, vampires know, all right?’’
He swung the door open and ducked out. Claire stared after him, openmouthed, but by the time she’d scrambled through and switched off the flashlight, Michael was already gone, out of the pantry. In fact, by the time Claire followed, Michael was already sitting on the couch, Eve curled next to him with her head on his chest. They were watching something on TV, and Eve’s gaze followed Claire as she hurried past them, mumbling an apology.
She stopped on the stairs and looked back at them. Two people she cared about, wrapped in a moment of warmth and happiness.
Michael was a vampire, and that meant that Michael was dying. Like Myrnin. He was going to suffer and lose his mind and hurt people.
He could even hurt Eve, no matter how much he cared about her.
Tears pricked at her eyes, and she felt suddenly short of breath. When it had been just an abstract problem, just Morganville minus vampires equals safety, then that had been one thing, but it wasn’t abstract. It was people she knew, liked, even loved. She wouldn’t shed any tears over Oliver, but how co
uld she not care about Michael? Or Sam? Or even Amelie?
Claire picked up her book bag and went upstairs.
Shane’s door was shut. She knocked. He didn’t answer for a long moment, and then said, ‘‘If I ignore you, will you go away?’’
‘‘No,’’ she said.
‘‘Might as well come in, then.’’
He was flopped on the bed, staring at the ceiling, hands under his head, and he didn’t look at her as she entered and closed the door behind her.
‘‘So is this how it’s going to go?’’ she asked. ‘‘I do something dumb like stay out late; you get mad and run away; I come and apologize and make everything better?’’
Shane, surprised, looked at her, then said, ‘‘Well, that kinda works for me, yeah.’’
Claire thought about Michael, about the suddenly grown-up way he’d treated her. She sat down on the bed next to Shane, staring down at the floor for a few seconds to gather her courage, and then she pulled back her sleeve to expose the bracelet.
Shane didn’t make a sound. He slowly sat up, staring at the shiny gold band with its Founder’s Symbol.
‘‘We need to talk,’’ she said. She felt sick and terrified, but she knew it was the right choice. The only other thing to do was lie, but she couldn’t keep on lying. Michael was right about that.
Shane could have done anything—he could have run away, he could have thrown her out of his room. He could even have hit her.
Instead, he took her hand in his, bent his head, and said, ‘‘Tell me.’’
Eve wasn’t so understanding. ‘‘Are you out of your mind?’’ She picked up the handiest thing to throw—it happened to be the PlayStation controller—and Shane quickly, carefully de-gamed her. Claire thought he probably wouldn’t have moved that fast if Eve had grabbed, oh, say, a book.
‘‘Let’s be adults about this,’’ Michael said. They were downstairs again, together, although Shane and Michael were still clearly standing at opposite poles. It was getting late—eleven already—and Claire was feeling the strain of a very long, hard day. In fact, she yawned, which only made Eve shoot her a look of absolute exasperation.
‘‘Oh, I’m sorry, are we keeping you awake? Michael, how the hell do we be adults about this when one of us isn’t an adult?’’ Eve leveled a shaking finger at her. ‘‘You’re a kid, Claire. As in, you’re still a wet-behind-the-ears dumbass who hasn’t even been in this town a couple of months. You have no idea what you’re doing!’’
‘‘Maybe I don’t,’’ Claire agreed. Her voice was almost steady, which pleased and surprised her. She didn’t like having Eve angry at her. She didn’t like having anyone angry at her. ‘‘The thing is, it’s done. I made the choice; that discussion was over before we had it. I wanted you to know, though. I didn’t want to’’—her eyes met Michael’s briefly—‘‘lie to you.’’
‘‘Why the hell not? Everybody around here lies. Michael lied about being a ghost. Shane lies about shit all the time. Why not you, too?’’
Shane groaned. ‘‘Yo, Drama Princess, want to tone it down a little? Somewhere, Sandra Bernhard wants her tantrum back.’’
‘‘Oh, like you don’t throw a hissy every time somebody trips your angst switch!’’
Claire looked helplessly at Michael, who was having a hard time not smiling. He shrugged and took a step forward. That meant, of course, that Shane backed up. ‘‘Eve,’’ Michael said, ignoring Shane for the moment.
‘‘Give the girl some credit. At least she told you, instead of letting you figure it out on your own.’’
‘‘Yeah, and she told me last!’’ Eve glared at the two boys, hands on her hips.
‘‘Boyfriend,’’ Shane said, holding up his hand.
‘‘Landlord,’’ Michael chimed in.
‘‘Crap,’’ Eve sighed. ‘‘Right, next time you sell your soul to the devil, I get first contact! Girl solidarity, right?’’
‘‘Um—okay?’’
‘‘Dumbass,’’ Eve sighed, defeated. ‘‘I can’t believe you did that. I worked so hard to get away from that Protection crap, and here you are, all . . . Protected. I just wanted you to be—safe. And I’m not sure this is.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Me neither. But I swear, it was the best thing I could think of. And at least it’s Amelie. She’s okay, right?’’
They all looked at each other. Shane said, ‘‘But you won’t tell us what she’s got you doing that keeps you out late.’’
‘‘No. I—I can’t do that.’’
‘‘Then she’s not okay,’’ Shane said. ‘‘And neither are you.’’
But none of them had any good suggestions for how to fix it, and Claire fell asleep on the couch with her head in Shane’s lap as he and Michael and Eve kept talking, and talking, and talking. It was three a.m. when she woke up. Shane hadn’t moved, but she was covered with a blanket, and he was sound asleep, sitting straight up.
Claire yawned, groaned at sore muscles, and rolled to her feet. ‘‘Shane. Up. You need to go to bed.’’
He woke up cute, softened by sleep. ‘‘Come with?’’ He was only half joking. She remembered being curled up with him in her bed the night she’d been so scared; he’d been careful then, but she wasn’t sure she could count on that kind of self-restraint at three a.m., when he was half-awake.
‘‘I can’t,’’ she said reluctantly. ‘‘Not that I don’t want to. . . .’’
He smiled and stretched out on his side on the couch, leaving a narrow space between his warm, solid body and the cushions. ‘‘Stay,’’ he said. ‘‘I promise, no clothes will come off. Well, maybe shoes. Do shoes count as clothes?’’
She kicked hers off and climbed over him to slip into that small pocket, and sighed in relief as his body pressed against hers. She didn’t even need the blanket, but he put it over the two of them, anyway, and then combed her hair back from her neck and kissed her on the soft, vulnerable skin.
‘‘You were leaving,’’ she whispered. He stopped moving. As far as she could tell, he stopped breathing. ‘‘You were leaving, and you didn’t even know if I was okay.’’
‘‘No. I was going to go look for you.’’
‘‘After you packed.’’
‘‘Claire, I didn’t even know you hadn’t come home until Eve came upstairs to yell at me. I was going to look for you.’’
She looked back at him, over her shoulder, and saw the desperation hiding in his eyes.
‘‘Please,’’ he said. ‘‘Please believe me.’’
Against her will, even against her better judgment, she did believe him. She felt safe, anchored against the troubled world by the heat of his body against hers.
His arm went around her waist, and she felt absolutely protected.
‘‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’’ he said. It was a promise he probably couldn’t keep, but in the night, in the dark, it meant everything to her. ‘‘Hey.’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Wanna fool around?’’
She did.
She must have drifted off to sleep, because she woke up with her heart pounding, and feeling like there was something really, really wrong. For a second, as she came awake, she thought she smelled smoke, and that propelled her upright in a surge of panic. The house had almost burned once already. . . .
No, not fire, but something was definitely wrong. There was something in the whole atmosphere of the house. The smoke had been some kind of signal, from it to her. A get your butt out of bed signal.
Shane was still lying next to her on the couch, but he was already awake, too, and in the next second he rolled off to his feet as if he’d also felt it.
‘‘What’s happening?’’ Claire felt a jolt go through her like electricity. ‘‘Shane?’’
‘‘Something’s wrong.’’
They both froze as they heard the sudden loud blare of a siren. It sounded as though it was right in front of the house.
Claire heard feet on th
e stairs and saw Eve hurrying down in a satin nightgown and fluffy black robe. Eve’s face was bare of any Goth makeup, and she looked flushed and anxious and scared.
‘‘What is it?’’ Eve called. ‘‘What’s going on?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Something bad. Can’t you feel it?’’
This was an event; they were all up and it was barely six a.m.
Eve plunged down the steps and yanked up the cord to raise the blinds on the window that faced the front yard. They all looked out. A police car was in the middle of the street, siren still wailing, and its headlights cast a hot circle of light on a maroon sedan stopped on the street, its driver’s-side door open. Its lights were still on, and there was a body slumped on the road next to it.
The windows were dark-tinted.
It was a vampire’s car.
Eve screamed, spun, and looked at them with wide, terrified eyes. ‘‘Where’s Michael?’’ she asked, and Claire stupidly looked behind her, as if she were going to find him standing there.
They all looked back at the street, the car, the body.
‘‘It can’t be,’’ Claire whispered. Shane was already moving for the door at a flat run, but Eve just stood there staring, frozen. Claire put her arm around her and felt her shaking.
She saw Shane blow through the gate at the fence and run toward the body; the cop who’d just emerged from the patrol car grabbed him, slung him around, and slammed him face-first onto the hood. Shane was yelling something.
‘‘I need to go out there,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Stay here.’’
Eve nodded numbly. Claire hated leaving her there, but Shane was going to get himself arrested if he kept it up, and who knew what could happen to him in jail?
She was only to the porch when another police car turned the corner, lights flashing, siren adding its howl to the chaos. It braked beside the first one, and another policeman got out and moved to where Shane was being restrained.
Claire didn’t recognize the cop who had Michael facedown on the hood, but she knew the new arrival. It was Richard Morrell, Monica’s big brother. He wasn’t a bad guy, although he was definitely from the same icky gene pool. He took over for the other cop, who backed away.