by Rachel Caine
‘‘This is Shane’s idea of a good time,’’ she said. ‘‘Trust me. You do not want to try to stop him right now. Let him do his thing. He’ll be fine.’’
Claire hated it. She hated seeing Shane get hit, and she didn’t much like the way his eyes lit up when he was knee-deep in conflict, either. Stupid to be upset by it, she guessed, considering this was part of why she was so attracted to Shane in the first place—the way he would unhesitatingly throw himself into things, especially when it came to protecting others.
Eve was practically reading her mind. ‘‘Let him be who he is,’’ she said. ‘‘I know it’s hard, because in general, guys are clueless, and you just want to fix it, but just—let him be. You don’t want him trying to change you, right?’’
Right. She didn’t, although he was changing her, whether he knew it or not. Not in bad ways, she thought. Just . . . change. A year ago she’d have been paralyzed with terror at the idea of coming to a party like this, and even more terrified to imagine being groped by a stranger like that.
Now, she was mostly just annoyed, and felt like she needed a shower.
Eve whirled. ‘‘Hey! I know my ass is fine, but look, don’t touch!’’ An eruption of drunken laughter. She took Claire’s hand. ‘‘We need a wall behind us. Less chance of getting the stealth feel-up.’’
‘‘But—’’ She gave up as somebody else patted her rear. ‘‘Yeah. Okay.’’
That put them half a room away from Shane, who was now somehow at the center of a knot of maybe ten guys, all whaling away at each other (mostly without connecting; they were all too drunk to really do damage). Claire leaned gratefully against the wall and sipped water. Somehow, she’d ended up holding Shane’s beer, and with a quick sideways glance at Eve, she took a sip of that, too. Ugh. Nasty.
‘‘Acquired taste,’’ Eve said, laughing at her expression. ‘‘Shane buys like a college boy. If it’s cheap and the ad has a girl in a bikini, it must be great.’’
‘‘That’s disgusting,’’ Claire said, and took another long drink of water to wash her tongue clean. Even the water tasted bitter, after that.
‘‘Well, in fairness, beer is mostly about the buzz, not the taste,’’ Eve said. ‘‘You want taste and buzz, you get something like rum and Coke, or White Russians.’’ She seemed to remember, suddenly, how old Claire was. ‘‘Not that I’m going to let you have any of that, by the way. We promised your parents.’’ She managed to look almost righteous when she said it, and she took Shane’s beer out of Claire’s hand. ‘‘I’ll keep this.’’ Eve raised her normally soft voice to a parade-ground bellow. ‘‘Yo, Shane! Quit screwing around or I’m drinking this!’’
A ripple of laughter through the room. The fight was mostly over, anyway, and Shane shoved away the last stumbling frat boy who’d tried to take a swing at him, wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and left the field of battle. He looked rumpled and flushed and a little bit savage, and Claire felt something in her just growl in response.
She stared at him, wide-eyed. I’m not ready for this.
Parts of her clearly were.
‘‘Have a drink, Galahad,’’ Eve said, and handed him his bottle. They clinked glass. ‘‘Our hero. Here. Fix your hair.’’ She picked at it with her black-manicured nails, twitching it this way and that, until it had that glamour-boy, carefully careless look again. ‘‘God, you’re hot. Get felt up yet?’’
‘‘Couple of times,’’ he said, and smiled at Claire. ‘‘Don’t hurt them. They just couldn’t help themselves.’’
Eve snorted and looked around. ‘‘Where’s Michael?’’ ‘‘Probably in line at the bathroom.’’ Shane shrugged. It was probably true, but Claire didn’t think that was the reason. Shane did that thing where he looked at Eve too long and didn’t blink. She thought she could tell when he was lying, and that definitely was a flashing neon sign. ‘‘Ladies? Let’s wander.’’
It wasn’t so much wander as wriggle, like salmon heading upstream. What Claire could see of the house was amazing—fine art on the walls, gorgeous old furniture (mostly being splashed with drinks or shoved against the walls to make room for dancing), big, expensive Turkish rugs (Claire hoped they were dry-cleanable), and huge plasma TVs that were all playing the same music channel, blasting at ear-piercing volume. Nine Inch Nails’ ‘‘Closer’’ was on now, and despite her best intentions Claire found herself moving to the rhythm. Eve was dancing, too, and then they were dancing together, which should have seemed weird but didn’t, really. Shane formed the third point on their triangle, but Claire could see that he wasn’t really giving in to the festive atmosphere; he was scanning the crowd, looking for trouble. Or Michael.
Somebody tried to pass her something—a shot glass with a hit of something clear. She shook her head and passed it right back. Not that she wasn’t tempted, but after what had almost happened to her at the last party, she wasn’t going to be stupid.
Well, not any stupider than she already was to come here in the first place.
The drinks and drugs kept coming. Liquid E, poppers, shots, even something that she was almost sure was a crack pipe. Morganville liked its drugs, but she guessed that made sense. There was a hell of a lot to escape from around here.
She kept on dancing. Shane and Eve didn’t take anything, either—not that Claire saw, anyway. Shane was looking less into the party and more worried all the time.
Michael didn’t come back. Two songs later—two long songs—Eve finally got Shane to look for him, and the three of them moved out through the bottom floor, checking out the rooms (all packed) and not finding Michael anywhere. In the hall bathroom a line of people was waiting for the toilet, but no sign of a tall, blond vampire.
When they went up the big, sweeping steps toward the second floor, Claire couldn’t help but think about Gone With the Wind, and Rhett Butler carrying Scar-lett. Her mom loved that movie. She’d always thought it was boring, but that scene stayed with her, and she could almost see it in this house. But instead of Scar-lett, Monica Morrell was still standing at the top of the steps, surrounded by her protective circle of toadies. Gina and Jennifer were back, each wearing a dress that was plainer than what Monica had on, but in complementary colors. Her very own backup group. There were a couple of other girls in the crowd, but mostly it was guys—good-looking, polished types. The entitled of Morganville, and every one of them was wearing a bracelet.
‘‘Well,’’ Monica said. ‘‘Look who’s coming up in the world.’’ Her crowd laughed. Monica’s eyes were vicious. If she’d been sort of human when they’d been alone in the coffee shop, she’d gotten over it. ‘‘Scrubs stay downstairs. We’re going to have to have the place gutted and rebuilt anyway, after this.’’
‘‘Yeah, I’ll bet Daddy’s going to be furious when he gets home,’’ Eve said. ‘‘I meant to ask, is that dress vintage? Because I could swear I saw it on my mother once.’’ She swept up, heading straight for one of Monica’s big strong linebacker types; he looked confused, and edged out of her way. Shane and Claire followed. Monica was dangerously silent, probably realizing that any comeback she could try would sound cheap.
‘‘We’re going to have trouble getting out of here,’’ Shane said. It was quieter upstairs, although the continuing clamor downstairs throbbed through the floor and walls. The hallway was deserted, and all the doors were closed. It was lined with expensive portraits and framed formal photographs of the Morrell family. Not surprisingly, Monica took a lovely picture. Claire had never seen Mrs. Mayor, but there she was in the family photos—a wispy, half-ethereal woman always looking somewhere other than her family. Unhappy, somehow. Richard Morrell seemed grounded and adapted to this town, and of course, so did the mayor; Monica might not be stable, but she was definitely Morganville material.
Her mom, maybe not so much.
‘‘Wonder where her parents are?’’ Claire said aloud.
‘‘Out of town,’’ Eve said. ‘‘So I heard, anyway. Bet they’ll just
love getting back to find somebody did an Extreme Home Makeover: Crackhead Edition.’’ She tested the doorknob of the first room on the left. Locked. Shane tried the one on the right, opened it, and leaned in. He leaned out again, eyebrows arched.
‘‘Well, that’s new,’’ he said. Claire tried to look. He put his big hand over her eyes. ‘‘Trust me, you’re not old enough. I’m not old enough.’’ He carefully shut the door. ‘‘Moving on.’’
Claire opened the next room, and for a second she couldn’t figure out what she was seeing. Once she did, she couldn’t speak. She backed up and touched Shane wordlessly on the shoulder and pointed.
There were three guys in the room, and a girl on the bed, and she was passed out. They were taking off her panty hose.
‘‘Shit,’’ Shane said, and moved Claire back. ‘‘Eve, call the cops. Now. Time to shut this crap down before somebody gets really hurt.’’
Eve got out her cell phone and dialed, and Shane went into the room and closed the door. He came back after about a minute with the unconscious girl in his arms. ‘‘Anybody know who she is?’’
Claire shook her head. ‘‘What about those guys?’’
‘‘They’re sorry,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Eve? You recognize her?’’
‘‘Um . . . maybe. I think I’ve seen her around the UC—couldn’t swear to a name or anything. But she’s definitely gown, not town. No bracelet.’’
‘‘Yeah, I figured.’’ Shane adjusted her to a more comfortable angle in his arms. The girl—petite, brunette, pretty—snuggled into his embrace with a sleepy moan. ‘‘Damn it. I can’t just leave her.’’
‘‘What about Michael? We need to find him!’’
‘‘Yeah, I know. Look, I’ll carry her. Check the other rooms.’’
Claire was having trouble controlling her breathing. She’d almost been that girl, not so long ago. Only she’d been a little more alert, a little more able to take care of herself. . . .
Get it together, she told herself, and opened the next door. She gasped and covered her mouth with both hands, because there was a vampire in the room, and he was bending over a girl lying limp on the floor.
He looked up, and she saw the hard gleam of fangs before his face came into focus and became shockingly familiar.
Michael.
There were two raw holes in the girl’s neck, and her open, dry eyes had gone gray. Her skin was the color of old, wet paper, more blue than white.
‘‘Oh,’’ Claire whispered, and stumbled backward out of the room. ‘‘Oh no, no, no—’’
Michael shot to his feet. ‘‘Claire, wait! I didn’t—’’
Eve was in the doorway now, and Shane. Eve took one look at the dead girl, one at Michael, and turned and ran. Shane just stood there, staring at him, then said quietly, ‘‘Claire. Go after her. Now. The two of you, stay together. I’ll come find you.’’
Michael took a step toward them. ‘‘Shane, I know you’re looking for reasons to hate me, but you know I wouldn’t—’’
Shane backed up, fast, keeping distance between them. His eyes had gone very dark, his face flushed and set with anger. ‘‘Claire,’’ he said again. ‘‘Get the hell away from him. Now.’’
‘‘Shit!’’ Michael looked furious, but he also looked scared and hurt. ‘‘You know me, Shane. You know I wouldn’t do this. Think!’’
‘‘You come near me or the girls, I will kill you,’’ Shane said flatly, and then turned and yelled at Claire, full volume. ‘‘Go!’’
She backed out of the room and ran after Eve. Her heavy platform shoes felt awkward, and her cool outfit was nothing but a cheap dress-up costume. She wasn’t cool. She wasn’t sexy. She was a stupid jerk to be here, and now Michael . . . God, he couldn’t have, could he? But there was a flush to his skin, as though he’d fed. . . .
Eve was heading down a set of back stairs. Claire caught sight of the sweep of her long black dress around the spiral. She followed as fast as she dared, with the treacherous shoes. As she neared ground level, the volume of the party swelled and broke into a roar.
When she got to the bottom of the steps, there was no sign of Eve anywhere. It was a sea of moving, swaying bodies, a drunken orgy of dancing (and maybe, in the corners, just an orgy), but she didn’t see anybody in formal wear.
‘‘Eve!’’ She yelled, but even she couldn’t hear it. She looked back up the stairs but she didn’t see Shane, either.
She was alone.
When she craned her neck, she caught a flash of black velvet heading out of a door, and threw herself into the crowd to follow. If drunks groped on her way by, she barely noticed; she wanted out of here, badly, and she couldn’t let anything happen to Eve. Her dignity was the least of her worries.
A hand slipped under her skirt. She turned, instinctively furious, and slapped the guy, hard. Didn’t even register his face, or anything about him. He held up his hands in surrender, and she turned and plunged on.
The next room was nearly empty for some reason that Claire didn’t understand, until she saw (and smelled) some guy throwing up in the corner. She hurried faster. Was that Eve she was following? She couldn’t be sure. It looked like her, but the glimpses were too short, the angles all wrong. Claire had to move quicker.
She wasn’t sure how it happened, but she ended up in the vast, gleaming kitchen. A bunch of burly guys were carrying in boxes of liquor. Claire pushed past two frat guys who were high-fiving each other. ‘‘Liquid panty remover’s here!’’ one of them yelled, and there was a cheer in the other room.
Claire made it outside and gulped the cool, clear night air. She was shaking, sweating, and she felt utterly filthy, inside and out. That was fun? Yeah, she supposed if she were drinking and didn’t care, it’d be fun, but then again, this was Morganville. Fun like that, you could end up passed out on a bed with strangers . . . or in a morgue drawer.
Eve was leaning against a tree in the glare of a security light, gasping for breath. She looked glamorous, like some lost Hollywood starlet from the days of black and white, except for the red blaze of her lipstick.
‘‘Oh God,’’ she moaned, and as Claire came toward her she realized she was crying. ‘‘Oh God, he’s done it; he’s really done it—’’
‘‘We don’t know that,’’ Claire heard herself say. ‘‘Maybe he just found her. Was trying to help her.’’
Eve glared at her. ‘‘He’s a vampire! There’s a dead girl with holes in her neck! I’m not stupid!’’
‘‘I can’t believe he’d do it,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Come on, Eve, do you? Really? You know him. Is he a killer? Especially when he doesn’t have to be?’’
Eve shook her head, but that wasn’t really an answer. She was shaking off the question.
Shane came out of the kitchen door with the brunette still held in his arms. ‘‘Let’s go.’’
‘‘We came in Michael’s car,’’ Eve said numbly. ‘‘He has the keys. I could—’’
‘‘No. Nobody goes up there, and you guys stay the hell away from Michael until we know what’s going on.’’ Shane thought for a second, then pulled in a breath. ‘‘We walk.’’
‘‘Walk!’’ Claire and Eve both blurted. Eve improved it by squeaking, ‘‘Are you freaking mental?’’
‘‘Claire’s got Protection, and I’m in the mood to beat the hell out of the first vamp to look at me sideways, and it’s safer than getting the three’’—he glanced down at the nameless girl in his arms—‘‘four of us in the car with Michael right now. I want room to run if I have to. And fight.’’
‘‘Shane—’’
‘‘We walk,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘University first, we can drop this one off with the campus cops.’’
Claire cleared her throat. ‘‘Can’t we wait for the police here?’’
‘‘Trust me, no,’’ Eve said. ‘‘They’re going to roust everybody that isn’t tagged, and that includes me and Shane. And once they find a drained dead girl, it’ll be a free-for-all. We can’t t
ake the chance. We need to go. Now.’’
Claire was half hoping that Michael would show up, but he didn’t come out after them. She wondered why. She wondered where he’d been, while they’d been searching the house for him.
Shane started walking toward the street, with the drugged girl murmuring and giggling in his arms. He’d saved one victim, but lost another. And he was taking that second part very personally.
Claire looked at Eve, put her arm around her, and hurried the both of them after Shane.
It was a quiet walk to the university campus. They didn’t see anybody. The few cars that passed didn’t stop, and although they heard sirens converging on the party, none of the police cars cruised their way.
The night was just cool enough to be pleasant, and the air felt dry and crisp. No clouds. It would have been pretty and romantic, except for the general crappiness of the evening. Eve had stopped crying, but that was almost worse; she’d been so happy before, and now she’d sunk into a gloom so deep she really did seem like a true Goth.
Claire’s feet hurt. She was glad when they turned the corner and caught sight of the big, well-lit campus behind the wrought-iron fencing. They’d have to go to one of the four entrances to get through. She’d never really thought about it before, but the place looked unnatural, like a wildlife park.
Or a zoo.
Shane was getting tired, and put the girl down on the first bench they came to once they were inside the fence, while Eve flagged down a passing campus cop car. The Q&A went pretty well, but then, the campus cops weren’t especially sharp. It took about half an hour, and then the girl was whisked off to the clinic for detox and checkups, and the three of them looked at each other in the glow of the cop car’s headlights as it backed up and pulled away.
‘‘Right,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Probably ought to get moving.’’
Eve got out her phone.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ he asked.
‘‘Calling a cab.’’