by Rachel Caine
The kitchen door swung open, and she jumped, expected Shane, but it was Michael. He walked over to the sink, ran some cold water in his hands, and splashed it over his face and the back of his neck.
“Bad night,’” Claire said.
“Tell me about it.’” He cut a sideways look toward her.
“Do you think he’s right? About them, you know, killing his mother?’”
“I think Shane’s carrying around a load of guilt the size of Trump Tower. And I think it helps him to be angry.’” Michael shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible. But I don’t think we can know one way or the other.’”
That felt…sick, somehow. No wonder Shane was so reluctant to talk about it. She tried to imagine living with that kind of uncertainty, those memories, and failed.
She was glad she did.
“So,’” Michael said. “I’ve got about three hours until morning. We need to make some plans about what we’re going to do, and what we’re not going to do.’”
Claire nodded and set a plate aside to dry.
“First thing is, none of you leave the house,’” Michael said. “Got it? No school, no work. You stay indoors. I can’t protect you if you go outside.’”
“We can’t just hide!’”
“We can for a while, and we will. Look, Shane’s dad can’t run around out there forever. It’s a temporary problem. Someone’s going to find him.’” The unspoken subject of what would happen to Shane’s dad after he was caught was a whole other issue. “As long as we don’t do anything directly that ties us to whatever his dad does, we’re okay. Amelie’s word is good for that.’”
“You’re putting a lot of trust in—’”
“A vampire, yeah, I know.’” Michael shrugged and leaned a hip against the counter, looking down on her. “What choices do we have?’”
“Not too many, I guess.’” Claire studied him more closely. He looked tired. “Michael? Are you okay?’”
Now he looked surprised. “Sure. Shane’s the one who’s got issues. Not me.’”
No, Michael was all good. Killed, dismembered, buried, reborn…yeah, just another day in the life. Claire sighed. “Guys,’” she said mournfully. “Michael, I’ll stay home today, but I really do have to go to school, you know. Really.’” Because her missing school was like a caffeine addict going without a daily jolt.
“Your education or your life, Claire. I’d rather you be alive and a little bit dumber.’”
She met his eyes squarely. “Well, I wouldn’t. I’ll stay home today. I don’t promise about tomorrow.’”
He smiled, leaned forward, and put a warm sloppy kiss on her forehead. “That’s my girl,’” he said, and left. She sighed again, this time happily, and found herself grinning. Michael might be Eve’s new main crush, but he was still available as an oh-my-God-how-cute-is-he thrill.
Claire finished the dishes and went back to the living room. The TV was on, tuned to some forensics show, and Shane was slumped on the couch staring at it. No sign of Eve or Michael. Claire hesitated, thinking longingly about bed and forgetting about all this for a while, but Shane just looked so…alone.
She went and settled in next to him. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he, and after a while his arm went around her and that was all right.
She fell asleep there, braced against his warm body.
It was nice.
Claire supposed that she should have known Shane might have nightmares—bad ones—but she’d never really thought about it. When Shane jerked and rolled off the couch, she thumped flat onto the cushions. The TV was still on—a flickering confusion of color—and Claire flailed and scrambled for some grasp of what was going on through the fog of interrupted sleep.
“Shane?’”
He was on his side on the floor, shuddering, curled up into a ball. Claire slid down next to him and put her hands on his broad back. Under the thin T-shirt his skin was clammy, and his muscles were as tense as steel cable. He was making these sounds, agonizing gasps that weren’t quite sobs but weren’t quite not, either.
She didn’t know what to do. She’d felt helpless a lot in the past few hours, but this was worse, somehow, because Michael and Eve were nowhere to be seen, and she wasn’t sure if Shane would have wanted them to see him like this. Or if he wanted her to see him like this. Shane was all about the pride.
“I’m okay,’” he gasped out. “I’m okay. I’m okay.’” He didn’t sound okay. He sounded scared, and he sounded like a little boy.
He managed to sit up. Claire wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight, and after a few seconds of resistance she felt him sag against her, and hug her back. His hand stroked her hair as if she might break. “Shhh,’” she whispered to him, the way her mother had whispered it to her when things got bad. “You’re here. You’re safe. You’re okay.’” Because wherever he’d been in his dreams, he hadn’t been any of those three things.
If she expected him to talk about it, she was disappointed. He pulled back, avoided looking at her, and said, “You should go to bed.’”
“Yeah,’” she agreed. “You first.’”
“Can’t sleep.’” Didn’t want to, more likely; his eyes were red and blurred with exhaustion. “I just need some coffee or something.’”
“Coke?’”
“Whatever.’”
She fetched it for him, and Shane downed it like a frat boy at a mixer, belched, and shrugged an apology. “Where’s Michael?’” She spread her hands. “Eve?’” She did another silent pantomime of ignorance. “Well, at least somebody’s getting a good night’s sleep. They together?’”
Claire blinked. “I—don’t know.’” She hadn’t thought about it, actually. She hadn’t seen them go, didn’t know if they’d gone to separate rooms or if Eve had finally worked up the courage to proposition Michael. ’Cause he’d never make the first move. That just wasn’t Michael, somehow.
“Christ, I hope so,’” Shane said. “They deserve a little fun, even in hell.’” He was kidding, but not. He did see Morganville as hell. Claire had to admit, he had a point. It was hell, and they were the lost souls, and it was coming on toward morning and she’d been scared for what felt like a very, very long time….
He was watching her closely, in a way that made her feel warmth all over her skin, like a light sunburn.
“How about us?’” she heard herself ask. “Don’t we deserve a little fun?’”
I did not just say that.
Only she had.
He smiled. She wondered if the shadows were ever going to leave his eyes again. “I could do something fun.’”
“Ummm…’” She licked her lips. “Define fun.’”
“Quit doing that, jailbait. It’s distracting.’”
The whole idea that somebody would even think of her as jailbait was tremendously exciting. Especially Shane. She tried to hide that, and act like she wasn’t quaking on the inside like a Jell-O fruit salad. “So now you want me to stay up? I thought you said I should go to bed.’”
“You should.’” He didn’t put any particular emphasis on it. “’Cause if you stay down here, there’s going to be fun. I’m just saying.’”
“Video game fun?’”
His eyes widened. “You want to play video games?’”
“Do you?’”
“You are the weirdest girl.’”
“Please. You live with Eve.’” She was not doing this right. How did girls seduce boys? What did they say? Because she was pretty sure that talking about video games and bringing up roommates wasn’t in the have-fun game plan. She was hyperaware of her body, too. How was she supposed to move? She felt awkward, all angles, and she wanted to be one of those graceful girls, all delicacy and elegance. Like in the movies.
Eve would know. She’d had those garter hose on, and those thong panties, and Claire didn’t even own those things, or have any idea how to get them. And Eve had worn them for Michael, or maybe just as a secret little excitement for h
erself around Michael. Yeah, Eve would know what to say.
Say something sexy, she commanded herself, and in a blind panic, she opened her mouth and blurted, “Do you think they’re doing it?’” She was so appalled that she clapped both hands over her mouth. She’d never in her life wanted to take back words so much, and so fast…and for a second, Shane just looked at her, like he couldn’t figure out what she was talking about.
And then he laughed. “Man, I hope. Those two could use a good—uh—’” He blinked and she saw her age flash in front of his eyes. “Hell. Never mind.’”
Words weren’t working for her. She leaned forward and kissed him. It felt weird, and awkward, and he didn’t immediately respond—maybe he was too surprised. Maybe she was doing it wrong, or she’d been wrong to make the move on him….
His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on.
Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers.
She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes.
Time really wasn’t happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch.
He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There’s no room.’”
“Plenty of room,’” he said.
She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and, oh my God, over all the rest of him, too.
“Better?’” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from his gaze.
“Perfect,’” she said.
It felt like being naked, except for all the clothes. The kisses this time were wet and urgent and deep, and the feeling of Shane’s muscles tensing and relaxing under her was incredibly exciting. This should be illegal, she thought. Well, it was kind of illegal. Or would be, if any clothes came off.
Shane might not have been Michael, with all the responsibility, but he definitely wasn’t that impulsive. At least, not with her. His hands roamed, but never to places where she wanted them to—badly—and some of the places they roamed made her wonder why she’d never wanted someone to touch her there before. Like the small of her back, where the skin dipped into a shallow valley. Or the back of her neck. Or the inside of her arms. Or…
As he was bringing his hands up her sides, his fingers just barely brushed the outer curve of her breasts, and she gasped into his mouth.
Shane immediately sat her upright, and moved to the other end of the couch. His face was flushed; his eyes were bright and no longer looked even a little bit tired. “No,’” he said, and held out his hand like a traffic cop when she tried to scoot closer. “Red flag. If you make that sound again, we are in trouble. Or I am, anyway.’”
“But—’” Claire felt that blush creeping in again, and had no idea what it was going to be like to put this into words. “What about you? You know—’” She made a vague gesture that could have been anything. Or nothing. Or anything.
“Don’t worry about me. I needed this.’” He was still breathing deeply, but he did look better. Steadier. More like…Shane, instead of that lost and hurt little boy terrified of his nightmares. “So? Did we have fun?’”
“Fun,’” she agreed faintly. So much fun she felt like a fizzed-up soda, ready to burst. “Um, I need to—’”
“Yeah, me, too.’” But Shane made no move to go. Claire swallowed hard and took the course of the better part of valor, up the stairs to her room. She shut the door and locked it, threw herself on her brand-new mattress—she hadn’t even put sheets on it yet, and they were a little light on blankets after using most of them to fight the fire—and bounced. The room smelled like a wet smoky dog, but she didn’t care.
Not at all.
Fun.
Oh yes.
Around noon, Claire heard the doorbell, and ran downstairs. Shane was lying on the couch, sound asleep. Still no sign of Eve, and she didn’t expect to have any Michael sightings, given the daylight hours. She raced down the hall to the door, which was braced with a wooden chair as a temporary lock, and hesitated.
“Michael? You there?’” A chilly breeze swept across her, ruffling her hair. Wow. He was strong today. “Can I open the door? One for yes, two for no.’”
Apparently, yes. She pulled the chair away and peered outside. There were two men standing on the porch, both tall; one was lean and hard-looking, with black hair; the other one was a little pale (but not vamp pale) and heavyset, and where he wasn’t balding, his very short hair looked brown.
They both displayed badges. Police.
“You’re Claire, right?’” the lean one said, and extended his hand. “Joe Hess. This is my partner, Travis Lowe. How you doing?’”
“Um…’” She fumbled for the handshake. “Fine, I guess.’” Lowe also shook her hand. “Is something—I mean, did you find—?’” Because she both hoped that Shane’s dad was in a holding cell, and was afraid of what that would mean for Shane. She rocked nervously back and forth on her heels, her eyes darting from one of them to the other.
Joe Hess smiled. Unlike most smiles she’d seen since coming to Morganville, this one seemed…uncomplicated. Clean, sort of. Not happy, because that would have been weird, but comforting. “It’s okay,’” he said. “No, we haven’t found them, but you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. May we come inside?’”
She heard shuffling footsteps behind her. Shane had woken up, and was standing in the hallway, barefoot and rumpled, with a fierce bed-head that got worse as he yawned and ran fingers through his hair, standing part of it on end.
How sick was it that she found that sexy?
Claire collected herself and pointed at the cops on the doorstep. Shane’s eyes focused fast.
“Officers,’” he said, and came toward the door. “Anything you need?’”
“I was just asking if we can come in and talk,’” Detective Hess said. He’d stopped smiling, but he still looked kind. “Informally.’”
A chill moved softly over Claire’s skin. A single wave of chill. Yes. Michael was okay with it.
“Sure,’” Claire said, and stepped back to swing the door wider. The cops stepped over the threshold, Hess first, then Lowe, and Shane shot Claire a look she couldn’t quite figure out and led the men back to the living room.
Lowe studied the place more than the two of them; he seemed to really appreciate it. “Nice,’” he murmured, which was the first thing he’d said. “Great use of wood in here. Real organic.’”
She couldn’t really say thank you, because, hey, she didn’t build it. She didn’t even own it. But on Michael’s behalf she said, “We think so, too, sir.’” Claire settled nervously back on the sofa, perched on the edge. Shane remained standing, and Hess and Lowe moved around, not exactly searching, but cataloging everything. Hess stayed focused on the two of them, and after a moment, he bent his knees and sat down in the chair that Michael had occupied last night. Déjà vu, Claire thought. Hess seemed to shiver a little, and he looked up, maybe trying to locate the source of the draft that had just brushed past him.
Michael liked that chair.
“You had some trouble here last night,’” Hess said. “I know you had a talk with our colleagues Gretchen and Hans. I read the report this morning.’”
No harm in admitting to that. Both Shane and Claire nodded.
“A little scary, huh?’”
Cl
aire nodded. Shane didn’t. He gave the detective a narrow little smile. “I’m a Morganville lifer. Define scary,’” he said. “Anyway, if you’re playing good cop, bad cop—’”
“I’m not,’” Hess said. “Trust me, you’d know if I was, because I’d be the bad cop.’” And there was something in his eyes that—oddly—made Claire believe it. “Look, I won’t lie to you. Gretchen and Hans, they’ve got their own agendas. But so do we. We want to make sure you’re protected, understand me? That’s our job. We serve and protect, and Travis and I believe in that.’”
Lowe paused in his slow amble to nod.
“We’re neutral. There’s a few of us in town who did enough good for each side to earn a little freedom, as long as we’re careful.’”
“What Joe means,’” Detective Lowe said, “is that they ignore us as long as we keep it on our side of the tracks. Humans are the slave race here—forget about skin color. So we have to take care of our own when we can.’”
“And when we can’t,’” Hess said, as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed all this, “things get ugly. It ain’t like the two of us are free agents. We’re Switzerland. If you cross the line, you’re on your own.’”
Shane frowned at him. “What can you do for us, if you’re Switzerland?’”
“I can make sure that Gretchen and Hans don’t make any follow-up visits,’” Hess said. “I can keep most of the cops away from you, maybe not all. I can put out the word—widely—that you’re not just under a Founder’s seal; Travis and I are keeping an eye on you. That’ll keep anybody else from trying to win friends by smacking you around.’”
“Anybody human, he means,’” Lowe amended. “The vamps, they’ll scare the shit out of you if they can, but they won’t hurt you. Not unless you screw up and that Founder’s seal goes away. Got me?’”
Which had already happened, really. The screwing-up part. Well, technically, she supposed Shane’s dad hadn’t broken any laws—yet—because Michael hadn’t really died.
Except that he had.
God, Morganville made her head hurt.
A door slammed upstairs, and Eve came clattering down the stairs, fully dressed in Goth finery: a purple sheer shirt over a black corset thingie, a skirt that looked like it had gotten caught in a shredder, hose with skulls woven in, and her black Mary Janes. Very fierce. Her makeup was back in full force, ice white face, black-rimmed eyes, lips like three-day-old bruises.