by Rachel Caine
‘‘What about Detective Hess?’’ Claire offered. ‘‘I’m sure he’d give us a ride.’’
‘‘Light it up.’’
Claire tried. The number rang, but nobody picked up. Same thing with Travis Lowe. She looked at Shane with a sinking feeling and shrugged helplessly. Eve stood up, shivered, and crossed her bare arms for warmth. Shane took his black jacket off and draped it around her shoulders.
‘‘Guess we’re on foot,’’ he said, and took Claire’s hand, then Eve’s. ‘‘Don’t slow down, and don’t stop for anything. If I tell you guys run, you run. Got it?’’
He didn’t give them a chance to argue. They walked down the path to the exit from the university grounds. Outside, the streetlights were few and far between, and Claire could just feel eyes on her in the shadows. Whether that was real or not, she didn’t know, but it made her shake all over with fear. Come on, Claire, get it together. There are three of us, and Shane can kick enough ass for all of us.
They crossed the street and headed over a couple of blocks, then down. It was the straightest shot to the house, and the best lit, but it also was going to take them right by Common Grounds. Somehow, Claire felt even more uncomfortable at the idea that Oliver was going to see them trailing by, in all their not-too-smart glory. They’d had a rough enough night without that.
Although, it was a cheering thought that Monica almost certainly was having a worse one, trying to explain to the cops about why there were more drugs in her house than the Rite Aid Pharmacy, not to mention the underage drunken orgies and the dead girl in the bedroom.
By contrast, walking home in darkness in Vampire U.S.A. seemed a little bit mild.
At least until Eve whispered, ‘‘Somebody’s following.’’
Claire almost faltered, but kept walking when Shane’s hand tightened around hers. ‘‘Who?’’ he asked. Eve didn’t turn her head.
‘‘Don’t know; I just caught a glimpse. Somebody in dark clothes.’’
Since only Amelie seemed to like colors in the pale winter hues, Claire figured that didn’t narrow it down much. She walked faster, tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and nearly went down, if it hadn’t been for Shane’s steadying grip. But it slowed them all down, and they couldn’t afford for it to happen again.
‘‘Crap,’’ Shane breathed. They were still at least a block from the next burning streetlight, and now Claire could hear slow, steady footsteps behind them. Up ahead, a single open storefront spilled warm yellow light onto the street. Common Grounds. Neutral territory, at least theoretically. ‘‘Right. We’re not going to make it all the way home. We go into Common Grounds, and—’’
‘‘No way, I’m not going in there!’’ Eve blurted. ‘‘I can’t!’’
‘‘Yes you can; you have to. Neutral ground. Nobody will hurt you there. We can make some kind of deal with Oliver if we have to, temporary protection or something. Promise me—’’
Shane didn’t have time for anything else, because all hell broke loose. The footsteps behind them suddenly accelerated to a run, Shane swung around and pushed the two girls behind him, and there was a flash of movement Claire couldn’t really see. Something hit Shane in the head. Hard. He stumbled and went down to one knee.
Claire screamed and reached for him, but Eve grabbed her and hauled her by force toward the glow of Common Grounds.
‘‘Get up!’’
Claire twisted out of Eve’s grip and whirled to see that the yell had come from the jerk from the party, the one who’d felt her up and then gotten his ass kicked by Shane. He’d followed them, and he had a baseball bat. He’d hit Shane in the head with the baseball bat and he was getting ready to do it again.
‘‘No!’’ Claire cried, and lunged back toward them, but Eve grabbed her tightly and swung her around toward the coffee shop again.
‘‘Get inside!’’ she screamed.
‘‘Let go—’’
They stopped fighting each other as a shadow stepped out of the alley, right in front of them, blocking the way.
A long silver line glinted in the starlight. A knife.
It was Eve’s brother Jason, looking as greasy and starved and fevered as he had at the party.
‘‘Hey, sis,’’ he said, and the knife turned, and turned, and turned. ‘‘I knew you’d be coming this way. Soon as I heard you left the party without your bloodsucking bodyguard, I knew the time was right.’’
‘‘Jason’’—Eve let go of Claire and stepped in between the two of them—‘‘this isn’t her problem. Let her go.’’
Claire was torn—watch Jason, who was terrifying, or pay attention to what was happening behind her, because Shane was fighting now, fighting for his life, and he was already hurt. She risked a glance back and saw Shane grab the baseball bat from his attacker, hit a home run to the guy’s shoulder, and send him spinning into the brick wall. The frat guy went down, screaming, but Shane was clearly not doing well, either—he lurched, off balance, and went down to his hands and knees. The bat rolled away.
‘‘Oh God,’’ Claire whispered. There was blood running down his face, dripping in a wet thread to the pavement. ‘‘Shane!’’
Shane shook his head, and the blood flew in a spray, splattering the concrete around him. He looked up, saw her, and blinked.
Then he saw Eve, and behind her, with the knife, Jason.
Shane fumbled for the bat, found it, and climbed to his feet. He stumbled forward, grabbed Claire and pushed her behind him, then yanked Eve away from Jason, as well. He set his feet wide apart and took up a batting stance.
He looked pale and shaken and half-dead, but Claire knew he wasn’t backing down.
‘‘Leave them alone,’’ he said. Not a yell, not a threat, just a low, quiet voice with absolute control. ‘‘Walk away, Jason.’’
Jason lost his smile. He put the knife in his pocket and held up his hands. ‘‘Sure. Sorry, man. Don’t go all Sammy Sosa on me.’’ He lowered his hands again and stuffed them in his coat pockets, looking casual, but there was an avid glitter to his eyes, and a cruel twist to his thin lips. ‘‘I heard you found a present in your basement. Something girl-shaped.’’
Eve groaned, and Claire reached out to steady her when she swayed. ‘‘Jason,’’ Eve whispered, and she looked awful, as though she was going to throw up. ‘‘Oh God, why?’’
Shane took a step forward, bat raised and ready, and Jason backed up again. ‘‘Doing it there, that was just fun,’’ he said. ‘‘But it’s not about the girls. I had to show them I was ready.’’
‘‘Ready?’’ Eve echoed. ‘‘Oh God, Jase, is that what this is about? You’re just some pathetic wannabe vampire making his bones?’’ Eve sounded so freaked it made Claire’s guts knot up. ‘‘You’re trying to impress them? By killing?’’
‘‘Sure.’’ Jason shrugged. He looked thin and weedy, almost lost inside that black leather jacket. ‘‘How else do you get attention around here? And I’m going to get lots of attention. Starting with you, Claire.’’
Shane yelled—it wasn’t even words, just a yell of pure fury—and swung at him. Jason jumped back, faster than Claire would have expected, and the bat missed him. Then he lunged forward. Shane was off balance, not really steady on his feet, but that wouldn’t matter; if Jason was crazy enough to want to go hand-to-hand with Shane, it was all over.
Wasn’t it?
Jason punched Shane low in the stomach, and Shane made a surprised sound and took a step back from him.
Shane was backing away. . . .
And then Claire saw the knife in Jason’s hand, glittering silver and red, and for a second she didn’t understand, she didn’t understand at all.
It wasn’t until Shane’s hand opened and the baseball bat hit the pavement with a noisy rattle, and Shane collapsed to his knees, that she realized that he’d been stabbed.
Shane didn’t seem to understand it, either. He was panting, trying to say something, but he couldn’t get the words out. His eyes were wide and con
fused. He tried to get up, but couldn’t.
Jason pointed the knife at him, slung it in an arc that spattered them all with blood drops, and turned and walked away. He put the blade back in his pocket. People were coming out of Common Grounds, looking puzzled and alarmed, and at the forefront was Oliver. Oliver’s head turned quickly to stare at Jason’s departing form, and then he focused on them.
Claire dropped to her knees next to Shane. He looked desperately into her face, and slowly collapsed to his side.
His hands were clutching his stomach, and there was so much blood. . . .
Eve hadn’t moved. She was just—standing there, in her lovely black dress, staring blindly after her brother.
Oliver grabbed her and shook her. Her black hair flew wildly, and when he let go, Eve sank down in a defeated slump against the building’s brick wall. Oliver shook his head impatiently and turned to Claire, and Shane.
Claire looked up, mute with misery, and saw Oliver staring down at them.
For just a second, she thought she saw something in him. Maybe just a tiny glimmer of empathy.
‘‘Someone is calling the ambulance,’’ he said. ‘‘You should put pressure on the wound. He’s losing a lot of blood. It’s a waste.’’ The blood, he meant. Not Shane.
‘‘Help me,’’ Claire said. Oliver shook his head. ‘‘Help me!’’
‘‘You’ll find that vampires aren’t particularly good with the wounded,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m doing you a favor by staying away. And don’t try to order me, little girl. That gold bracelet of yours means almost nothing to me, except that I shouldn’t leave witnesses behind.’’
Shane coughed, wet and hard, and blood trickled out of his mouth. He looked as pale as Michael. Vampire pale.
Claire cradled him in her arms. Oliver glanced at Eve, frowned, and went away. People were coming closer, murmuring, asking questions, but Claire couldn’t make any sense out of it. She pressed down on the wet bloody mess of Shane’s shirt, felt him tense and try to squirm away, and didn’t let him. Pressure on the wound. It seemed to take forever until she heard the distant sound of sirens approaching.
Shane was still breathing when they loaded him inside the ambulance, but he wasn’t moving, and he wasn’t talking.
Claire went to Eve, got her on her feet, and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘‘Come on,’’ she said. ‘‘We should ride with Shane.’’
Oliver was staring at the wet, dark smears of blood on the concrete, and as Claire helped Eve up into the back of the ambulance, he looked at one of his coffee shop employees and nodded toward the mess.
‘‘Clean it up,’’ he said. ‘‘Use bleach. I don’t want to smell it all night.’’
11
Shane survived the trip, and they rushed him right into surgery. Eve sat silent in her black velvet dress, looking more Goth than ever, and wildly out of place in the soothing neutral waiting room. Claire kept getting up and washing her hands, because she kept finding more of Shane’s blood on her clothes and skin.
Eve was crying quietly, almost hopelessly. For some reason Claire didn’t cry at all. Not at all. She wasn’t even sure she could. Did that make her sick? Screwed up? She wasn’t sure whom she could ask. She couldn’t seem to feel anything right now except a vague sense of dread.
Richard Morrell came to take their statements. It was simple enough, and Claire had no hesitation in turning in Jason for the stabbing. ‘‘And he confessed,’’ Claire added. ‘‘To killing those girls.’’
‘‘Confessed how?’’ Richard asked. He sat down in the chair across from her in the lounge area, and Claire thought he looked tired. Older, too. She guessed it wasn’t easy being the semisane one in the family. ‘‘What exactly did he tell you?’’
‘‘That he left one for us,’’ she said, and glanced at Eve, who hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t, as far as Claire could tell, actually blinked. ‘‘He called them presents.’’
‘‘Did he mention any of them by name?’’
‘‘No,’’ she whispered. She felt very, very tired all of a sudden, as if she could sleep for a week. Cold, too. She was shivering. Richard noticed, got up, and came back with a big gray fleece blanket that he tucked around her. He’d brought a second one for Eve, who was still wrapped in Shane’s black coat.
‘‘Is it possible that Jason just said that because he knew about the bodies being found near your house?’’ Richard asked. ‘‘Did he talk about anything more specific that wasn’t in the papers?’’
Claire almost said yes to that, but she stopped in time. The police didn’t know about the girl being found in their basement. They thought she’d been taken to the church by her killer.
She had no choice. She just shook her head.
‘‘It’s possible Jason’s all talk, then,’’ Richard said.
‘‘We’ve been watching him. We haven’t seen anything to prove that he’s got any involvement with these dead girls.’’ He hesitated, then said, very gently, ‘‘Look. I don’t want to make this about Shane, but he did have a bat, right?’’
Eve raised her head, very slowly. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Shane had a bat.’’
‘‘He took it from another guy,’’ Claire said, nearly tripping over the words in her hurry to get them out. ‘‘A guy from Monica’s party. Shane got jumped; he was just defending himself! And he was trying to get Jason to back off—’’
‘‘We have witnesses who say that Shane swung the bat at Jason after Jason had put away his knife.’’
Claire couldn’t find the words. She just sat there, lips parted, staring into Richard’s weary, hard eyes.
‘‘So that’s it,’’ Eve said. Her voice started out soft, but hardened quickly. ‘‘It’s all going to be Shane’s fault, because he’s Shane. Never mind that some frat ass tried to knock his head off, or that Jason stabbed him. It’s still Shane’s fault!’’ She stood up, stripped away the blanket, and threw it at him. Richard grabbed it before it hit his face, but just barely. ‘‘Here, you’ll need it for your cover-up!’’ She stalked away, slender and pale as a lily in all that black.
‘‘Eve—’’ Richard sighed. ‘‘Dammit. Look, Claire, I have to have the facts, okay? And the facts are that during the confrontation, Jason put his knife away, Shane had a bat, and Shane threatened him. Then Jason stabbed him in self-defense Is that right?’’
She didn’t answer. She sat for a few seconds, just staring at him, and then stood up, stripped off the blanket, and handed it to him.
‘‘You’re going to need a bigger cover-up,’’ she said. ‘‘See if there’s a circus in town. Maybe you can borrow a tent.’’
She walked down the hall to see if Shane was out of surgery.
He wasn’t.
Eve was pacing the hallway, stiff with rage, hands clenched into fists barely visible as knots in the too-long sleeves of the coat. ‘‘Those sons of bitches,’’ she said. ‘‘Those bastards! They’re going to put Shane down; I can feel it.’’
‘‘Put him down?’’ Claire repeated. ‘‘What do you mean, put him down? Like, a dog?’’
Eve glared at her. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and wet with tears. ‘‘I mean even if he makes it through the surgery, they’re not going to let him get out of this. Richard practically told us; don’t you get it? It’s the perfect frame. Shane took the swing, Jason acted in self-defense, and nobody’s even going to look at Jason for these murders. They’ll just bury it, like they bury the bodies.’’
She stopped talking, and her eyes refocused over Claire’s shoulder. Claire turned.
Michael was striding toward them, lean and powerful and tall, and he headed straight for Eve. No hesitation, as if nothing had happened. As if they hadn’t seen him bending over a dead girl at the party.
He stopped just inches away from Eve, and held out his hands.
‘‘I went looking for you guys. I finally tracked you to Common Grounds. How is he?’’ he asked. His voice was hoarse.
‘‘Not
so good,’’ Eve whispered, and flowed into his arms like water through a broken dam. ‘‘Oh God. Oh God, Michael, it all went wrong, it’s all wrong—’’
He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, and rested his golden head next to her dark one. ‘‘I should have come with you. I should have made you get in the damn car. I was going to, but—things happened; I had to take care of it at the party. I never thought you’d try to walk home.’’ He paused, and when he finally went on, his voice was thick with pain. ‘‘It’s my fault.’’
‘‘It’s nobody’s fault,’’ Claire said. ‘‘You know you can’t make Shane do something he doesn’t want to do. Or Eve, for that matter. Or me.’’ She put a hand hesitantly on Michael’s arm. ‘‘You didn’t kill that girl, did you?’’
‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘I found her when I was searching for Jason. I was trying to find him and get him out of the party. He was probably already gone by then.’’
‘‘Then who—’’
Michael looked up, and his blue eyes were fiercely bright. ‘‘That’s what I had to take care of. There were vampires there, hunting. I had to stop it.’’
One of the nurses passing by slowed, watching Michael and Eve. Her eyes narrowed, and she stopped to stare. She muttered something, then walked on.
Michael turned to the nurse, who was already halfway down the hall. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ he said. ‘‘What did you say?’’
The nurse stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. ‘‘I didn’t say anything. Sir.’’ That last word sounded sharp enough to cut.
‘‘I think you did,’’ Michael said. ‘‘You called her a fang-banger.’’
The nurse smiled coldly. ‘‘If I muttered something under my breath, sir, that shouldn’t concern you. You and your—girlfriend—ought to do your business in the waiting room. Or the blood bank.’’
Michael’s hands curled into fists, and his face went tight with rage. ‘‘It’s not like that.’’
The nurse—her name tag said her name was Christine Fenton, RN—outright sneered at him. ‘‘Yeah, it never is. It’s always different, right? You’re just misunderstood. You want to hurt me, go ahead and try. I’m not afraid of you. Any of you.’’