Dead Girls' Dance tmv-2

by Rachel Caine

  Claire unlocked her door and eased it open, straining to catch the words, but they were just sound, no meaning. She hesitated, then slipped out of the car, eased the door shut, and hurried toward the sound of the voices. Yes, that was Detective Hess; she recognized his voice. No question about it.

  She didn’t even realize where she was going—she was so intent on listening—until she realized how dark it was, and the words weren’t getting any clearer, and she wasn’t at all sure now that was Detective Hess’s voice after all.

  And she was halfway down an alley with tall, rough board fence on both sides, trapping her.

  She’d gone into the alley. Why the hell had she done that? Hess had warned her. Gramma had warned her. And she hadn’t listened!

  Claire tried to turn around, she really tried, but then the whispers came again, and yes, for sure that was Detective Hess, there was no safety back there in the car, the car was a trap waiting to spring, and if she could just get to the end of the alley she’d be safe, Detective Hess would keep her safe, and she’d be—

  “Claire.’”

  It was a cold, clear voice, falling on her like ice down her back, and it shocked her right out of the trance she’d fallen into. Claire looked up. On the second story of Gramma’s house, bordering the alley, a slender white figure stood in the window, staring down.

  Amelie.

  “Go back,’” she said, and then the window was empty, curtains blowing in the wind.

  Claire gasped, turned, and ran as fast as she could out of the alley. She could feel it at her back, pulling at her—it, whatever it was, it wasn’t a vampire as she understood vamps in Morganville; it was something else, something worse. Trapdoor spider, that was how Gramma and Lisa had described it. Panic whited out its song in her head, and she made it—somehow—to the end of the alley and burst out into the street.

  Detective Hess was standing at the car, looking straight at the alleyway. Gun drawn and held at his side. He visibly relaxed at the sight of her, came around, and hustled her to the passenger side of the car. “That was dumb,’” he said. “And you’re lucky.’”

  “I thought I heard you,’” she said faintly. Hess raised his eyebrows.

  “Like I said. Dumb.’” He shut the door on her, came around, and put the car in gear.

  “Where’d you go?’”

  He didn’t answer. Claire looked back. There was something in the shadows in the alley, but she couldn’t tell what it was.

  Just that its eyes reflected the light.

  It was coming up on deep night, when most sensible people were fast asleep in their beds with their doors bolted and windows securely locked, and Claire was knocking on the door of Common Grounds. It had a CLOSED sign in the window, but the lights were on in the back.

  “You’re sure you want to do this,’” Hess said.

  “You sound just like my subconscious,’” Claire said, and kept knocking. The blinds twitched and tented; locks rattled.

  Oliver opened the door of the coffee shop, and the smell of espresso and cocoa and steamed milk washed over her. It was warm, welcoming, and so very wrong, considering what she knew about him.

  He looked very humanly harassed at her arrival. “It’s late,’” he said. “What is it?’”

  “I need to talk to you about—’”

  “No,’” he said very simply, and looked at Hess over her head. “Detective Hess, you need to take this child home. She’s lucky to still be alive today. If she wants to continue that winning streak, then she ought to be a little more cautious than to run around Morganville in the dead of night, knocking on my door.’”

  “Five minutes,’” Claire promised. “Then I’ll go. Please. I never did anything to hurt you, did I?’”

  He stared at her for a few cool seconds, and then stepped back and held the door open. “You, too, Detective. I hate to leave anyone with a pulse outside of shelter this evening.’”

  I’ll bet, she thought. Oliver’s peace-and-love hippie act no longer worked on her. Amelie had a kind of noble dignity that let her get away with pretending concern; Oliver was different. He was trying to be like Amelie, but not quite making it.

  And I’ll bet that pisses him off, too.

  Hess urged her across the threshold and followed her in. Oliver locked up, walked to the coffee bar, and, without being asked, began to put together three drinks—cocoa for Claire, strong black coffee for Detective Hess, and a pale tea for himself. His hands were steady and sure, the activity so normal that it lulled Claire into relaxing just a little as she sat down at a table. She ached all over with exhaustion and the tension she’d run through her body at Amelie’s.

  “Miles to go before you sleep,’” Oliver said, as he stirred the cocoa. “Here. Steamed milk and spiced cocoa. Hot peppers. It does have an amazing effect.’”

  He brought it to the table and handed it off to her, put Hess’s coffee down, and retrieved his own brewing teacup before sitting. All very normal-life casual.

  “You’re here about the boy, I would suppose,’” Oliver said. He dunked his tea bag and watched the results critically. “I really must get a new supplier. This tea is pathetic. America just doesn’t understand tea at all.’”

  “He’s not the boy. His name is Shane,’” Claire said. “And he’s not guilty. Even Amelie knows that.’”

  “Does she?’” Oliver raised his gaze to fix it on hers. “How interesting, because I, in fact, don’t. Brandon was hideously and cruelly tortured, then murdered. He might have had his flaws—’”

  “What, like molesting children?’”

  “—but he was born into a different time, and some of his habits were difficult to change. He had his bright side, Claire, as do we all. And now that’s gone, along with any harm he might have done.’” Oliver wouldn’t let her look away. “Hundreds of years of memory and experience, poured out like water. Wasted. Do you think it’s so simple to forget such a thing for me? For any of us? When we look at Brandon’s body, we see ourselves at the mercy of humans. At your mercy, Claire.’” He glanced at Detective Hess. “Or yours, Joe. And you must admit, that’s a terrifying prospect.’”

  “So you’ll just kill anyone who frightens you. Who could hurt you.’”

  “Well…yes.’” Oliver took the tea bag out of his cup and set it aside on the saucer, then sipped. “A habit we learned from you, really. Humans are all too ready to slaughter the innocent with the guilty, and if you were older, Claire, you would know this. Joe, I’m sure, is not so naive.’”

  Hess smiled thinly and sipped coffee. “Don’t talk to me. I’m just the driver.’”

  “Ah,’” Oliver said. “How generous of you.’” They exchanged some kind of a look that Claire didn’t know how to interpret. Was that anger? Amusement? A willingness to get up and beat the crap out of each other at a moment’s notice? She couldn’t even figure out what Shane and Michael were thinking, and she knew them. “Is she then aware of the price of your services?’”

  “He’s trying to get you rattled, Claire. There’s no price.’”

  “How interesting. And what a departure.’” Oliver dismissed Hess and got back to Claire, who hastily took a sip of her cocoa. Ohhhhhh…it just kind of exploded in her mouth, rich cocoa, warm milk, and a spicy edge that she didn’t expect. Wow. She blinked and took another sip, carefully. “I see you like the cocoa.’”

  “Um…yeah. Yes, sir.’” Because somehow, when Oliver was being civilized, she felt compelled to still call him sir. Mom and Dad had a lot to answer for, she decided. She couldn’t even be rude to evil vampires who’d caged her boyfriend and were preparing to roast him alive. “What about Shane?’”

  Oliver leaned back, and his eyelids drifted down to half-mast. “We’ve covered this subject, Claire. Quite thoroughly. I believe you might even have the bruises to remind you of my opinion.’”

  “He didn’t do it.’”

  “Let us deal in facts. Fact, the boy came back to Morganville with the clear intention of
disrupting the peace, at the very least, and more likely killing vampires, which is an automatic death sentence. Fact, he concealed himself from us, along with his intentions. Fact, he communicated with his father and his father’s friends both before they came to Morganville and after. Fact, he was at the scene of the crime. Fact, he has offered little in his own defense. Need I go on?’”

  “But—’”

  “Claire.’” Oliver sounded sad and wounded. He leaned forward, braced his elbows on the table, and placed his chin on top of his folded hands. “You’re young. I understand that you have feelings for him, but don’t be a fool. He’ll drag you down with him. If you force me to it, I’m sure I could uncover evidence that you knew about the presence of Shane’s father in Morganville, and you had knowledge of their agenda. And that, my dear girl, would mean the end of your precious Protection, and put you in a cage alongside your boyfriend. Is that what you want?’”

  Hess put a warning hand on her arm. “Enough, Oliver.’”

  “Not nearly enough. If you came to bargain, I think you have nothing to offer me that I can’t get elsewhere,’” Oliver said. “So please take yourselves—’”

  “I’ll sign whatever you want,’” Claire blurted. “You know, swear myself to you. Instead of Amelie. If you want. Just let Shane go.’”

  She hadn’t been planning to do it, but when he’d mentioned bargain it had just taken on a life of its own inside her, and leaped right out of her mouth. Hess groaned and ran a hand over his hair, then covered his mouth, evidently to keep himself from telling her what an idiot she was.

  Oliver continued to gaze at her with those steady, kind eyes.

  “I see,’” he said. “It would be love, then. For love of this boy, you would tie yourself to me for the rest of your life. Give me the right to use you as I see fit. Do you have any idea what you’re offering? Because I would not offer you the conditional contracts that most in Morganville sign, Claire. No, for you, there would be the old ways. The hard ways. I would own you, body and soul. I would tell you when to marry and whom to marry, and own your children and all their issue. I was born in a time when this was custom, you see, and I am not in a charitable mood just now. Is this what you want?’”

  “Don’t,’” Hess said sharply. He gripped Claire’s forearm and pulled her up to her feet. “We’re going, Oliver. Right now.’”

  “She has the right to make her own choices, Detective.’”

  “She’s a child! Oliver, she’s sixteen years old!’”

  “She was old enough to conspire against me,’” he said. “Old enough to find the book that I spent half a hundred years pursuing. Old enough to cut off my one and only chance to save my people from Amelie’s intolerable iron grip. Do you think I care about her age?’” Oliver’s friendly courtesy was all gone, and what was left was like a man-sized snake, with a cruel light flickering behind his eyes, and fangs flicking down in warning. Claire let Hess pull her out from behind the table, toward the door. He’d drawn his gun.

  “I may not let you leave,’” Oliver said. “You realize that?’”

  Hess spun and raised the gun, pointed it straight at Oliver’s chest. “Silver bullets washed in holy water, with a cross cast right in.’” He clicked back the hammer. “You want to test the line, Oliver? Because it’s right here. You’re standing on it. I’ll take a lot of shit from you, but not this. Not that kind of contract, and not with a kid.’”

  Oliver hadn’t even bothered to stand up.

  “I take it you don’t want your coffee poured to go? A pity. Do watch your back, Detective. You and I will have a talk, one of these days. And Claire…come back anytime. If the hours run thin, and you want to make that deal, I will listen.’”

  “Don’t even think about it,’” Hess said. “Claire, open the door.’” He held his gun trained on the vampire, un-blinking, while Claire unlocked the three dead bolts and swung it open. “Get in the car. Move.’” He backed out behind her as she ran to the car and dived inside. Hess banged the door to Common Grounds closed, hard enough to crack glass, and slid over the hood of the car in a move she’d only ever seen in action movies, and was in the car and starting it before she could take a breath.

  They raced off into the night. Claire checked the backseat, suddenly terrified she’d turn around to see Oliver grinning at her, but it was empty.

  Hess was sweating. He wiped at the drops with the back of his hand. “You don’t fool around when you get yourself in trouble, I’ll give you that,’” he said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never seen anybody get that out of Oliver. Ever.’”

  “Um…thanks?’”

  “It wasn’t a compliment. Listen, under no circumstances do you ever go back to Common Grounds, get me? Avoid Oliver at all costs. And no matter what happens, don’t make that deal. Shane wouldn’t want it, and you’d live to regret it. You’d live a long time, and you’d hate every horrible second of it.’” Hess shook his head and took a deep breath. “Right. That’s the end of the line for you tonight. You’re going home, I’m seeing you safe inside, and I’m going home to hide in a closet until this blows over. I suggest you do the same.’”

  “But Shane—’”

  “Shane’s dead,’” Hess said, so quietly and matter-of factly that she thought he meant it, that somehow someone had slipped in and killed him and she hadn’t even known…but then he went on. “You can’t save him. Nobody can save him now. Just let go and watch yourself, Claire. That’s all you can do. You’ve pissed off both Amelie and Oliver in one night. Enough already. A little common sense would be welcome from you right about now.’”

  She sat in dull, grim silence the rest of the way home.

  Hess was as good as his word. He walked her from the car up the steps, watched her open the front door, and nodded wearily as she stepped inside. “Lock it,’” he said. “And for God’s sake, go get some rest.’”

  Michael was right there, warm and comforting, when she closed the door. He was holding his guitar by the neck, so he’d clearly been playing; his eyes were red-rimmed, his face tense. “Well?’” he asked.

  “Hello, Claire, how are you?’” Claire asked the air. “No death threats, right? Thanks for going out in the dark to bargain with two of the scariest people on earth.’”

  He at least had the good manners to look embarrassed about it. “Sorry. You okay?’”

  “Duh. No fang marks, anyway.’” She shuddered. “I do not like those people.’”

  “Vampires?’”

  “Vampires.’”

  “Technically, not people, but then, neither am I, now that I think about it. So never mind.’” Michael put an arm around her and steered her toward the living room, where he sat her down, put a blanket around her shoulders. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well.’”

  “It didn’t go at all,’” she said. She’d been depressed on the ride home, but having to actually report on her failure was a whole new level of suck. “They’re not letting him go.’”

  Michael didn’t say anything, but the light died in his eyes. He went down on one knee next to her and fussed with the blanket, tucking it tighter around her. “Claire. Are you okay? You’re shaking.’”

  “They’re cold, you know,’” she said. “They make me cold, too.’”

  He nodded slowly. “You did what you could. Rest.’”

  “What about Eve? Is she still here?’”

  He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. Maybe he could. Claire really didn’t know what Michael could and couldn’t do; after all, he’d been dead a couple of times already. Wouldn’t do to underestimate somebody like that. “She’s asleep,’” he said. “I—talked to her. She understands. She won’t do anything stupid.’” He didn’t look at Claire when he said that, and she wondered what kind of talking that might have been.

  Her mother had always said, when in doubt, ask. “Was it the kind of talk where you gave her something to live for? Like maybe, um, you?’”

&n
bsp; “Did I—what the hell are you talking about?’”

  “I just thought maybe you and her—’”

  “Claire, Jesus!’” Michael said. She’d actually made him flinch. Wow. That was new. “You think banging me is going to make her forget about charging out to commit cold-blooded vampire slaying? I don’t know what kind of standards you have on sex, but those are pretty high. Besides, whatever’s between me and Eve—well, it’s between me and Eve.’” Until she tells me about it later, Claire thought. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. I—persuaded her. That’s all.’”

  Persuaded. Right. The mood Eve had been in when Claire left? Not too likely…

  And then Claire remembered the voices whispering to her in the alley, and her blind, stupid assumption of safety leading her into danger. Could Michael do that? Would he?

  “You didn’t—’” She touched her temple with one finger.

  “What?’”

  “Screw with her head? Like they can?’”

  He didn’t answer. He fussed with the blanket around her shoulders some more, fetched her a pillow, and said, “Lie down. Rest. It’s only a couple of hours until dawn, and I’m going to need you.’”

  “Oh, God, Michael, you didn’t. You didn’t! She’ll never forgive you!’”

  “As long as she lives to hate me later,’” he said. “Rest. I mean it.’”

  She didn’t intend to sleep; her brain was whirling like a tire rim scraping pavement, shooting off sparks in every direction. Lots of energy being expended, but she wasn’t going anywhere fast. Have to think of something. Have to…

  Michael started playing, something soft that sounded melancholy, all in minor keys, and she felt herself begin to drift…

  …and then, without any sense of going, she was gone.

  The blanket around her smelled like Shane.

  Claire burrowed deeper into its warmth, murmuring something that might have been his name as she woke; she felt good, relaxed, safe in his embrace. The way she’d been the other night when they’d spent it here on the couch, kissing…