by Rachel Caine
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.
This was pitch-black, take-no-prisoners dark, and she had the ice-cold thought that anything could be right next to her, reaching out for her, and she’d never see it coming.
Claire bit down hard on her lip, gripped the flashlight tightly, and slid down the wall until her searching hand found the rough wood of the door she’d come in through. A little light was leaking in around it, barely a glimmer but enough to ease the pounding in her chest.
Voices. Shane’s, and someone else’s. A man’s voice, deeper than Shane’s. “…standard inventory.”
“Sir, there’s nobody living here but what’s on the roster. Just the three of us.” Shane sounded subdued and respectful, which didn’t seem like him. Not that she knew him that well, but he was kind of a smart-ass.
“Which one are you?” the voice asked.
“Shane Collins, sir.”
“Get your third in here,” the voice said.
“Well, I would, but—Michael’s not here. He’s out until tonight. You want to check back then?…”
“Never mind.” Claire, straining her ears, heard paper rustling. “You’re Eve Rosser?”
“Yes, sir.” Eve sounded respectful, but brisk.
“Moved out of your parents’ house—eight months ago?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Employed?”
“At Common Grounds, you know, the coffee—”
The man, whoever he was, interrupted her. “You. Collins. Any employment?” Clearly talking to Shane.
“I’m between jobs, sir. You know how it is.”
“Keep looking. We don’t like slackers in Morganville. Everybody contributes.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep it in mind, sir.”
A brief pause. Maybe there had been a little bit more smart-ass in Shane’s response than there should have been. Claire deliberately slowed her breathing, trying to hear more.
“You left town for a couple of years, boy. What brings you back?”
“Homesick, sir.” Yes, it was definitely back in his voice, and even Claire knew that was a bad thing. “Missed all my old friends.”
She heard Eve clear her throat. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve got work in a half hour…?”
More paper shuffling. “One other thing. Here’s a picture of a girl that disappeared from her dorm last night. You haven’t seen her?”
They both chorused a “No.”
He must not have believed them, because he didn’t sound convinced. “What’s in here?” He didn’t wait to hear a response; he just opened the outer door of the pantry. Claire flinched and held her breath. “You always leave the light on?”
“I was getting some jam when you rang, sir. I probably forgot to turn it off,” Eve said. She sounded nervous. “Sorry.”
Click. The light in the pantry went out, taking what little there was seeping through the door with it. Claire barely controlled a gasp. Don’t move. Don’t move. She just knew he—whoever he was—was standing there in the dark, looking and listening.
And then, finally, she heard him say, “You ring the station if you see that girl. She’s got herself in some trouble. We’re supposed to help her get straightened out.”
“Yes, sir,” Eve said, and the pantry door shut. The conversation moved away, became softer and softer until it faded into nothing.
Claire switched on the flashlight, covered it with her hand, and pointed it at the corner—only a little light escaped, just enough to convince her that no evil zombie was sneaking up on her in the dark. And then she waited. It seemed like a long time before there were two sharp raps on the door, and it swung open in a blaze of electric light. Eve’s stark white makeup and black eyeliner looked even scarier than before.
“It’s okay,” she said, and helped Claire out of the hidden room. “He’s gone.”
“Oh, the hell it’s okay,” Shane said behind her. He had his arms folded across his chest, and rocked back and forth, frowning. “Those assholes have her picture. They’re looking for her. What’d you do, Claire? Knife the mayor or something?”
“Nothing!” she blurted. “I—I don’t know why—maybe it’s that they’re just worried because I didn’t show up last night?”
“Worried?” Shane laughed bitterly. “Yeah, that’s it. They’re worried about you. Right. I’m going to have to talk this over with Michael. If they’re going to turn the town upside down looking for you, either you’re too hot to stay in Morganville, or we need to get you under some kind of Protection, fast.”
He said it the same way Eve had. “But—maybe the police—?”
“That was the police,” Eve said. “Told you. They run the town. These guys work for the vamps—they’re not vamps themselves, but they’re scary enough without the fangs. Look, can you call your parents? Get them to pull you out of school and take you home or something?”
Sure. That would be the easiest thing in the world, only it would mean failure, and they’d never believe a word of this stuff, ever, and if she tried to explain it, she’d end up drugged and in therapy for the rest of her life. And any chance—any chance—of making it to Yale or MIT or Caltech would be blown completely. She supposed it was kind of dumb to be thinking of it that way, but those things were real to her.
Vampires? Not so much.
“But—I haven’t done anything!” she said, and looked from Shane to Eve, and back again. “How can they be after me if I didn’t do anything?”
“Life ain’t fair,” Shane said, with all the certainty of two more years of experience at it. “You must have pissed off the wrong people, is all I know. What’s the girl’s name? The one who smacked you around?”
“M-Monica.”
They both stared at her.
“Oh, crap,” Eve said, horrified. “Monica Morrell?”
Shane’s face went…blank. Completely blank, except for his eyes, and there was something pretty scary going on behind them. “Monica,” he repeated. “How come nobody told me?”
Eve was watching him, biting her lip. “Sorry, Shane. We would have—I swear, I thought she left town. Went off to college somewhere else.”
Shane shook it off, whatever it was, and shrugged, trying to look like he didn’t care. It was obvious to Claire that he did, though. “She probably couldn’t stand not being the queen bee, and had to come begging back to Daddy to buy her some grades.”
“Shane—”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“She probably doesn’t even remember you,” Eve blurted, and then looked as if she wished she hadn’t said it. “I—that’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”
He laughed, and it sounded wrong and a little bit shaky. There was a short, odd silence, and then Eve changed the subject by resolutely picking up her plate of cooling bacon and eggs.
And then went still and round-eyed. “Oh, shit,” she said, and then covered her mouth.
“What?”
She pointed at the plates on the counter. Shane’s, hers…and Claire’s. “Three plates. He knew something was up. We told him Michael wasn’t around. No wonder he kept poking.”
Shane said nothing, but Claire could see he was—if possible—even more upset. He didn’t show it much, but he picked up his plate and walked away, out into the living room, then up the steps two at a time.
His upstairs door slammed.
Eve bit her lip, watching after him.
“So…Shane and Monica…?” Claire guessed.
Eve kept staring at the doorway. “Not like you’re thinking,” she said. “He wouldn’t touch that skank in a million years. But they were in high school together, and Shane—got on her bad side. Just like you did.”
Claire’s appetite for breakfast was suddenly gone. “What happened?”
“He stood up to her, and his
house burned. He nearly died,” she said. “His—his sister wasn’t so lucky. Michael got him out of town, off on his own, before he did something crazy. He’s been gone a couple of years. Just came back right before I moved in here.” Eve forced a bright smile. “Let’s eat, yeah? I’m starving.”
They sat out in the living room, chatting about nothing, not talking about the thing that was most important: what to do.
Because, Claire sensed, neither one of them had a clue.
5
Claire watched the clock—some old-style wall clock, with hands—crawl slowly up to, and past, eleven o’clock. Professor Hamms is starting the lecture, she thought, and felt a nauseating twist in her stomach. This was the second day in a row she’d missed school. In her whole life she’d never missed two days of school back-to-back. Sure, she’d read the textbook already—twice—but lectures were important. That was how you found out the good stuff, especially in classes like physics, where they did practical demonstrations. Lectures were the fun part.
It was Thursday. That meant she had a lab class later, too. You couldn’t make up lab class, no matter how good your excuse.
She sighed, forced herself to look away from the time, and opened up her Calc II book—she’d tested out of Calc I, could have tested out of Calc II, but she’d thought maybe she might learn something new about solving linear inequalities, which had always been a problem for her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Shane. He was on the stairs, staring at her. She hadn’t heard him coming, but that was probably because he was barefoot. His hair was a mess, too. Maybe he’d been asleep.
“Studying,” she said.
“Huh,” he said, like he’d never actually seen it done before. “Interesting.” He vaulted over the railing three steps from the bottom and flopped down on the leather couch next to her, flicking the TV on with the remote next to him, then changing inputs. “This going to bother you?”
“No,” she said politely. It was a lie, but she wasn’t quite ready to be, you know, blunt. It was her first day.
“Great. Want to take a break?”
“A break?”
“That’s when you stop studying”—he tilted his head to the side to look at the book—“okay, whatever the hell that is, and actually do something fun. It’s a custom where I come from.” He dumped something in the center of her open book with a plastic thump. She flinched and picked up the wireless game controller with two fingers. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you’ve never played a video game.”
Truthfully, she had. Once. She hadn’t liked it very much. He must have read that in her expression, because he shook his head. “This is just sad. Now you have to take a break. Okay, you’ve got a choice: horror, action, driving, or war.”
She blurted, “Those are my choices?”
He looked offended. “What, you want girl games? Not in my house. Never mind, I’ll pick for you. Here. First-person shooter.” He yanked a box from a stack next to the couch and loaded a disc into the machine. “Easy. All you have to do is pull the trigger. Trust me. Nothing like a little virtual violence to make you feel better.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Hey, prove me wrong. Unless you think you can’t.” He didn’t look at her as he said it, but she felt it sting, anyway. “Maybe you’re just not up to it.”
She shut her Calc II book, picked up the controller, and watched the colorful graphics load up on the screen. “Show me what to do.”
He smiled slowly. “Point. Shoot. Try not to get in my way.”
He was right. She’d always thought it was kind of creepy, hanging out in front of a TV and killing virtual monsters, but damn if it wasn’t…fun. Before too long, she was flinching when things lunged out of the corners of the screen, and whooping just like Shane when some monster got put down for the count.
When it ended for her, and the screen suddenly showed a snarling zombie face and splashes of red, she felt it like an ice cube down her back.
“Oops,” Shane said, and kept on firing. “Sorry. Some days you’re the zombie, some days you’re the meal. Good try, kiddo.”
She put the controller on the couch cushions, and watched him play for a while. “Shane?” she finally asked.
“Hang on—damn, that was close. What?”
“How did you get on Monica’s—”
“Shit list?” he supplied, and drilled a few dozen bullets into a lunging zombie in a prom dress. “You don’t have to do much, just not crawl on your belly every time she walks in a room.” Which, she noticed, wasn’t exactly an answer. Exactly. “What’d you do?”
“I, uh…I made her look stupid.”
He hit some control and froze the game in mid-scream, and turned to look at her. “You what?”
“Well, she said this thing about World War II being about the Chinese, and—”
Shane laughed. He had a good laugh, loud and full of raw energy, and she smiled nervously in return. “You’re feistier than you look, C. Good one.” He held up a hand. She awkwardly smacked it. “Oh, man, that’s sadder than the video game thing. Again.”
Five hand smacks later, she had mastered the high five to his satisfaction, and he unfroze the video game.
“Shane?” she asked.
This time, he sighed. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, but—about your sister—”
Silence. He didn’t look at her, didn’t give any indication he’d heard a word. He just kept on killing things.
He was good at it.
Claire’s nerve failed. She went back to her textbook. It didn’t seem quite as exciting, somehow. After half an hour, she bagged it, stood, stretched, and asked, “When does Michael get up?”
“When he wants to.” Shane shrugged. “Why?” He made a face and narrowly avoided getting his arm clawed off on-screen.
“I—I figured I might go back to the dorm and get my things.”
He hit a button, and the screen paused in midshot again. “What?” He gave her his full attention, which made her heart stutter, then pound harder. Guys like Shane did not give mousy little bookworms like her their full attention. Not like that.
“My stuff. From my dorm room.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said. Did you miss the part where the cops are looking for you?”
“Well, if I check in,” she said reasonably, “I won’t be missing anymore. I can say I slept over somewhere. Then they’ll stop looking for me.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it isn’t. If they think I’m back in the dorm, they’ll leave me to Monica, right? It could be a few days before she figures out I’m not coming back. She could forget about me by then.”
“Claire—” He frowned at her for a second or two, then shook his head. “No way are you going over there by yourself.”
“But—they don’t know where I am. If you go with me, they’ll know.”
“And if you don’t come back from the dorm, I’m the one who has to explain to Michael how I let you go off and get yourself killed like a dumbass. First rule of horror movies, C.—never split up.”
“I can’t just hide here. I have classes!”
“Drop ’em.”
“No way!” The whole thought horrified her. Nearly as much as failing them.
“Claire! Maybe you’re not getting this, but you’re in trouble! Monica wasn’t kidding when she pushed you down the stairs. That was light exercise for her. Next time, she might actually get mad.”
She stood up and hoisted her backpack. “I’m going.”
“Then you’re stupid. Can’t save an idiot,” Shane said flatly, and turned back to his game. He didn’t look at her again as he started working the controls, firing with a vengeance. “Don’t tell them where you were last night. We don’t need the hassle.”
Claire set her jaw angrily, chewed up some words, and swallowed them. Then she went into the kitchen to grab some trash bags. As she was stuffing them into her backpack, she heard th
e front door open and close.
“A plague upon all our houses!” Eve yelled, and Claire heard the silver jingle of her keys hitting the hall table. “Anybody alive in here?”
“Yes!” Shane snapped. He sounded as mad as Claire felt.
“Damn,” Eve replied cheerfully. “I was so hoping.”
Claire came out of the kitchen and met Eve on her way up the hall. She was in plaid today—a red and black tartan skirt, black fishnet hose, clunky patent leather shoes with skulls on the toes, a white men’s shirt, suspenders. And a floor-length black leather coat. Her hair was up in two pigtails, fastened with skull-themed bands. She smelled like…coffee. Fresh ground. There were some brown splatters on her shirtfront.
“Oh, hey, Claire,” she said, and blinked. “Where are you going?”
“Funeral,” Shane said. On-screen, a zombie shrieked and died gruesomely.
“Yeah? Cool! Whose?”
“Hers.” Shane said.
Eve’s eyes widened. “Claire—you’re going back?”
“Just for some of my stuff. I figure if I show up every couple of days, let people see me, they’ll think I still live there….”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, bad idea. Bad. No cookie. You can’t go back. Not by yourself.”
“Why not?”
“They’re looking for you!”
Shane put the game on pause again. “You think I didn’t already tell her that? She’s not listening.”
“And you were going to let her just go?”
“I’m not her mom.”
“How about just her friend?”
He gave her a look that pretty clearly said, Shut up. Eve glared back, then looked at Claire. “Seriously. You can’t just—it’s dangerous. You have no idea. If Monica’s really gone to her Patron and tagged you, you can’t just, you know, wander around.”
“I’m not wandering,” Claire pointed out. “I’m going to my dorm, picking up some clothes, going to class, and coming home.”
“Going to class?” Eve made helpless little flapping motions with her black-fingernailed hands. “No no no! No class, are you kidding?”
Shane raised his arm. “Hello? Pointed it out already.”
“Whatever,” Claire said, and stepped around Eve to walk down the hall to the front door. She heard Shane and Eve whispering fiercely behind her, but didn’t wait.