by Rachel Caine
A warm hand covered hers, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that Shane was standing next to her, pale and hollow-eyed but upright.
‘‘Shane,’’ the nurse said. ‘‘Go get some juice.’’
‘‘When she’s done,’’ he said.
The nurse must have realized there was no arguing about it, because she kicked her wheeled stool over to him. ‘‘Then at least sit down. I really don’t want to be picking you up off the floor.’’
It probably took less time than it felt, but Claire was desperately glad when the nurse came back to remove the needle and apply bandages. She didn’t look at the blood bag. The nurse said something nice, and Claire tried to respond in kind but wasn’t absolutely sure what came out of her mouth. Shane led her to the next room, which was a sitting area with a plasma television tuned to a news channel, juice and sodas and water, and trays of crackers and cookies and fruit. Claire took an orange and a bottle of water. Shane went straight for the sugar shock—Coke and cookies.
Claire rubbed her fingers over the purple stretch bandage around her elbow. ‘‘Is it always like that?’’
‘‘Like what?’’ Shane mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate chips. ‘‘Scary? Guess so. They try to make it nice, but I never forget whose mouth that blood ends up in.’’
She felt a surge of nausea, and stopped peeling her orange. Suddenly, the thick pulpy smell was overwhelming. She chugged some water instead, which went down cool and heavy as mercury.
‘‘They use it for the hospitals, though,’’ she said. ‘‘For accident victims and things like that.’’
‘‘Sure. Reusing the leftovers.’’ Shane crammed another cookie into his mouth. ‘‘I hate this shit. I swore I’d never do it, but here I am anyway. Tell me again why I stay in this town?’’
‘‘They’ll hunt you down if you leave?’’
‘‘Good reason.’’ He dusted crumbs from his fingers. She peeled the rest of her orange, broke loose a slice, and ate it with methodical determination—not hungry, no sir, but well aware she was still shaky. She ate three more slices, then passed Shane the rest.
‘‘Wait,’’ she said. He paused in the act of biting into the orange. ‘‘You’ve never done this before, have you? I mean, you left town before you were eighteen, so you didn’t have to. And then you’ve ducked it since coming back. Right?’’
‘‘Damn straight.’’ He finished the orange and chugged the rest of his Coke.
‘‘So you’ve never been inside the Bloodmobile.’’
‘‘I didn’t say that.’’ Shane got that grim look again. ‘‘I went with my mother once—didn’t have to donate, but she wanted me to get used to the idea. I was fifteen. They dragged in this guy—he was crazy, out of his head. Strapped him down and started draining him. They hustled the rest of us out of there, but when we left, he was still there. I watched. They drove away with him. Nobody ever saw him again.’’
Claire swallowed more water. She felt weak, but she wanted out of here. The comfortable room felt like a trap, a windowless, airless box. She tossed the rest of her water and the orange peel in the trash. Shane three-pointed his Coke can and took her hand.
‘‘Is Eve going to stay at the hospital?’’ she asked.
‘‘Not all night. It’s pretty uncomfortable; her dad’s sobered up, and he’s doing the amends thing.’’ Shane’s mouth twisted. He clearly didn’t think much of that. ‘‘Her mom just sits there and cries. She always was practically a bag of wet tissues.’’
‘‘You don’t like them much.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t, either.’’
‘‘Any sign of Jason?’’
Shane shook his head. ‘‘If he’s showing up to do his family duty, he’s sneaking around in the dead of night. Which, come to think of it, would probably work for him. Anyway, Michael said he’d bring Eve home. They’re probably already there.’’
‘‘I hope so. Did Michael say where he was, you know, before?’’
‘‘When he was missing? Something about this damn ball,’’ Shane said.
I should ask him about the invitation. She almost did—she opened her mouth to do it—but then she remembered how Shane had looked last night, how deeply Ysandre had shaken him.
She didn’t want to see him look like that again.
Maybe she ought to just leave it. He’d talk about it when he wanted to talk.
There were two doors—one that said EXIT, one that had nothing on it at all. Shane passed the unmarked door, hesitated, and backed up.
‘‘What?’’ Claire asked. Shane took hold of the handle and eased the door open.
‘‘Just a hunch,’’ he said. ‘‘Shhhh.’’
On the other side was another waiting area, and there were people standing in line. This part of the Donation Center was darker, with fewer overhead lights. Three people were standing in front of a long white counter, like at a pharmacy, and behind it stood a tall woman wearing a lab coat. She didn’t smile, and she was about as warm as a flask of liquid nitrogen.
‘‘Oh crap,’’ Shane breathed, and about the same time Claire realized that the blond guy first in line at the counter was Michael. He wasn’t home. . . . He was here.
He finished signing something and shoved the clipboard back, and the woman handed him over a plastic bottle, about the size of the bottled water Claire had been drinking.
This one didn’t hold water. Tomato juice, Claire told herself, but it didn’t look at all like juice. Too dark, too thick. Michael tilted it one way, then another, and his face—he looked fascinated.
No, he looked hungry.
Claire wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Michael unscrewed the cap on the bottle as he stepped out of line, put the blood to his lips, and began to drink. No, to guzzle. Claire was distantly aware that Shane’s grip on her hand was so tight it was painful, but neither of them moved. Michael’s eyes were shut, and he tilted the bottle back and drank until it was empty except for a thin red film on the plastic.
He licked his lips, sighed, and opened his eyes, and looked straight at the two of them.
His eyes were a bright, brilliant, glowing red. He blinked, and it went away, replaced by an eerie shine. Another blink, and it was all gone, and he was back to being Michael again.
He looked as horrified as Claire felt. Betrayed and ashamed.
Shane shut the door and dragged Claire toward the exit. They hadn’t reached it before Michael came barreling in after them.
‘‘Hey!’’ he said. His skin had taken on a flush, a faint pink tone, that Claire remembered seeing before. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’
‘‘What do you think we’re doing? They hauled me here in cuffs, man,’’ Shane snapped. ‘‘You think I’d be here if I had a choice?’’
Michael stopped in his tracks, and his gaze flashed down to the stretchy bandages on their arms. Recognition flashed, and then he looked . . . sad, somehow. ‘‘I—I’m sorry.’’
‘‘What for? Not like we didn’t already know how much you crave the stuff.’’ Still, Claire heard the betrayal in Shane’s voice. The revulsion. ‘‘Just didn’t expect to see you chugging it down like a drunk at happy hour, that’s all.’’
‘‘I didn’t want you to see it,’’ Michael said quietly. ‘‘I drink it here. I only keep some at home for emergencies. I never wanted you to watch—’’
‘‘Well, we did,’’ Shane said. ‘‘So what? You’re a bloodsucking vampire. That’s not a news flash, Michael. Anyway, it’s no big thing, right?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Michael agreed. ‘‘No big thing.’’ He focused on Claire, and she couldn’t fit the two things together—Michael with those terrifying red eyes, gulping down fresh blood, and this Michael standing in front of her, with that sad hope in his expression. ‘‘You okay, Claire?’’
She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to talk, not even a word.
‘‘I’m taking her home,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Unless that was your appetizer, and now you’re
looking for the main course.’’
Michael looked sick. ‘‘Of course not. Shane—’’
‘‘It’s all right.’’ The fight dropped out of Shane’s voice. He sounded resigned. ‘‘I’m okay with it.’’
‘‘And that bugs the crap out of you, doesn’t it?’’
Shane looked up, startled. The two of them stared it out, and then Shane tugged on Claire’s arm again. ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said. ‘‘See you at home.’’
Michael nodded. ‘‘See you.’’
He was still holding the empty bottle, Claire realized. There was a tiny trickle of blood left in the bottom.
As the door shut between them, she saw Michael realize what he had in his hand, and throw it violently in the trash can.
‘‘Oh, Michael,’’ she whispered. ‘‘God.’’ In that one gesture, she realized something huge.
He really did hate this. He really did, on some level, hate what he’d become, because of what he saw in their eyes.
How much did that suck?
The rest of the night passed quietly. The next morning, they woke up to a ringing phone.
Eve’s dad was gone.
‘‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’’ Eve said. She wasn’t crying. She didn’t look much like herself this morning— no makeup, no effort at all put into what she’d thrown on. Her eyes were veined with red, and her nose almost glowed. She’d cried all night; Claire had heard her, but when she’d knocked on the door, Eve hadn’t wanted company. Not even Michael’s.
‘‘Are you going?’’ Michael asked. Claire thought that was a funny question—who wouldn’t go? But Eve just nodded.
‘‘I need to,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re right about that closure thing, I guess. Will you . . . ?’’
‘‘Of course,’’ he said. ‘‘I can’t do graveside, but—’’
Eve shuddered. ‘‘So not going there, anyway. The church is bad enough.’’
‘‘Church?’’ Claire asked, as she poured mugs of coffee for the three of them. Shane, as usual, had slept through the phone. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘You’ve never met Father Joe, have you?’’ Eve managed a weak smile. ‘‘You’ll like him. He’s— something.’’
‘‘Eve had the hots for him when she was twelve,’’ Michael said, and got a dirty look. ‘‘What? You did, and you know it.’’
‘‘It was the cassock, okay? I’m over it.’’
Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Is Father Joe a . . . ?’’ She did the teeth-in-neck mime. They both smiled.
‘‘No,’’ Michael said. ‘‘He’s just nonjudgmental.’’
Eve got through the day without too much trouble; she did the normal things—helping with the laundry, taking half the cleaning jobs for the day. It was her day off from work. Claire had a few classes, but she skipped three that she knew she’d already built up enough momentum in, and attended only the one that seemed critical. Michael didn’t go in to teach private guitar lessons, either.
It was nice. It was like . . . family.
The funeral was held at noon the next day, and Claire found herself trying to pick out what to wear. Party clothes seemed too . . . festive. Jeans were too informal. She borrowed a pair of Eve’s black tights and wore them with an also-borrowed black skirt. Paired with a white shirt, it looked moderately respectful.
She wasn’t sure how Eve planned to dress, because at eleven a.m., Eve was still sitting in front of her vanity mirror, staring at her reflection. Still in her black dressing gown.
‘‘Hey,’’ Claire said. ‘‘Can I help?’’
‘‘Sure,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Should I do my hair up?’’
‘‘It’d look nice that way,’’ Claire said, and picked up the hairbrush. She brushed Eve’s thick black hair until it shone, then twisted it into a knot and pinned it up at the back of her head. ‘‘There.’’
Eve reached for her rice-powder makeup, then stopped. She met Claire’s eyes in the mirror.
‘‘Maybe not the right time,’’ she said.
Claire didn’t say anything at all. Eve applied some lipstick—dark, but not her usual shade—and began searching through her closet.
In the end, she went with a black high-necked dress, one long enough to hang to the tops of her shoes. And a black veil. It was subdued, for Eve.
The four of them were at the church with fifteen minutes to spare, and as Michael pulled into the parking garage, Claire saw that several vampire-tinted cars were already present. ‘‘Is this the only funeral?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, and turned off the engine. ‘‘I guess Mr. Rosser had more friends than we thought.’’
Not that many, as it turned out; when they entered the vestibule of the church, it was nearly empty, and there weren’t many names noted in the register. Eve’s mother stood by the book, waiting to pounce on anyone who came in the door.
True to Michael’s earlier description, Mrs. Rosser couldn’t seem to stop crying; she was wearing all black, like Eve, only it was much more theatrical— dramatic sweeps of black satin, a big formal hat, gloves.
And, Claire reflected, when you were more theatrical than Eve, you definitely had issues.
Mrs. Rosser had gone in heavy for mascara, and it was in messy streams all down her cheeks. Her hair was dyed blond, and straggling around her face. If she was going for the role of Ophelia in the town production of Hamlet, Claire thought she probably had it in the bag.
Eve’s mother threw herself on Claire like a wet blanket, sobbing on her shoulder and smearing mascara on her white shirt. ‘‘Thank you for coming!’’ she wailed, and Claire awkwardly patted her on the back. ‘‘I wish you’d known my husband. He was such a good man, such a hard life—’’
Eve stood there looking remote and a little sick. ‘‘Mom. Get off her. She doesn’t even know you.’’
Mrs. Rosser drew back, gulping back another sob. ‘‘Don’t be cruel, Eve, just because you didn’t love your father—’’
Which was just about the coldest thing Claire had ever heard. She exchanged a stricken look with Shane.
Michael got between mother and daughter, which was damn brave of him. Maybe it was the vampire gene. ‘‘Mrs. Rosser. I’m sorry about your husband.’’
‘‘Thank you, Michael, you’ve always been such a good boy. And thank you for taking care of Eve when she went out on her own.’’
Mrs. Rosser blew her nose, which was how she missed Eve saying caustically, ‘‘You mean, when you threw my ass out on the street?’’
‘‘Sign us in,’’ Michael said to Claire, and took Eve’s arm and led her into the church. Claire hastily scribbled their names in the book, nodded to Mrs. Rosser—who was staring after her daughter with an expression that turned Claire’s stomach—and grabbed Shane’s arm to follow.
She’d been in the church before. It was nice—not overly fancy, but peaceful in its simplicity. No crosses anywhere in sight, but just now, the focus was the big, black casket at the end of the room. She was struck by the smooth curve of the wood, and how much it reminded her of the Bloodmobile.
That made Claire shiver and grip Shane’s arm even more tightly as they slid into the pew beside Michael and Eve.
There were about fifteen people scattered through the sanctuary, and more arrived as the minutes ticked by. A couple of men in suits—from the funeral home, Claire supposed—set up more floral displays on either side of the casket.
It somehow didn’t seem real. And the sounds of Mrs. Rosser’s continued sobs and wails, responding to every mourner who entered, made it even weirder.
Eve slid out of the pew and walked up to the coffin. She stared down into it for a few long seconds, then bent and put something in it and came back to take her seat. She had her veil down, but even with the softening blur, her expression looked frozen and hard.
‘‘He was a son of a bitch,’’ she said when she saw Claire watching her. ‘‘But he was still my dad.’’
She leaned against Michael’
s shoulder, and he put his arm around her.
Mrs. Rosser finally entered the sanctuary and took a seat in the front row, ahead of where the four of them were. One of the funeral home attendants handed her an entire box of tissues. She pulled out a handful and continued to sob.
And a tall, good-looking man in a black cassock and white surplice, with a purple stole around his neck, came out from behind the floral displays and knelt down next to her, patting her hand. The fabled Father Joe, Claire supposed. He seemed nice—a little earnest, and younger than she’d expected. Brown hair and golden eyes that were very direct behind a pair of square gold-rimmed spectacles. He listened to Mrs. Rosser’s ode to her husband with a sympathetic, if distant, expression, nodding when she paused. His glance flicked away once or twice, to the clock, and he finally bent forward and whispered something to her. She nodded.
More people had come in at the last minute, enough to fill about half the church. Claire, turning, spotted familiar faces: Detectives Joe Hess and Travis Lowe, who nodded in her direction as they took their seats at the back of the room. She recognized a few more people, including a total of four vampires in dark suits and sunglasses.
One of them was Oliver, looking bored. Of course— Eve’s family had been under Brandon’s Protection, and when Brandon had died, they’d come under his superior’s authority. Oliver’s appearance here had less to do with genuine feeling than public relations.
Father Joe stepped to the pulpit and began eulogizing a man Claire had never met, and one she doubted Eve recognized; except for the facts and figures of his life, his character seemed way better than anything his daughter had ever mentioned. From the way Mrs. Rosser nodded and cried, she was buying into the fiction wholesale.
‘‘What a load of crap,’’ Shane whispered to Claire. ‘‘Her dad hit her, you know. Eve.’’
Claire sent him a startled look.
‘‘Just keep that in mind,’’ he finished. ‘‘And don’t shed any tears. Not for this.’’
Shane could, Claire thought, be one of the hardest people she’d ever met. Not that he was wrong. Just—hard.
But it helped. The emotion swirling through, amped higher by Eve’s mother, washed over her and away without doing more than making her eyes sting. When Father Joe finished his eulogy, the organ started, and Mrs. Rosser was the first to the casket.