by Rachel Caine
“We need to think about why they’d do this,” Shane said. “I know I piss people off, but this is a little much even for vamps.”
“It’s something we did,” Claire replied. “Something we know. Something only we know.” But by the time she finished saying it, she’d realized what it was, and so had Shane.
“The boy, out in the desert,” he said. “The letter from Blacke. So that’s top secret, eyes only? If all it said was run . . .”
“I don’t think it’s so much what it said,” Claire said slowly. “I think . . . I think it’s because we know Amelie too well. We know how she thinks, a little. More than any other humans, anyway.” She swallowed hard. “I think she wanted to keep us from talking to anybody else about what we’d seen, or thought would happen.”
“Me,” Shane corrected her. “She wanted to stop me.”
That quieted her; obviously, it was true. Myrnin had gone after Shane like an arrow; he’d had the chance to kill her, but he hadn’t even tried. Why spare her, if both she and Shane knew the same dangerous things?
You know, some voice deep inside her whispered. You know how Myrnin feels.
Claire shuddered. She didn’t. Really, she didn’t. And she didn’t want to know, either. But if Myrnin—if he’d refused to kill her, he wouldn’t have had much problem killing Shane, for exactly the same reason.
Then why had Oliver stepped in to save them, of all people? It made no sense. It left Claire feeling vulnerable and shaken in ways that all her time in Morganville hadn’t. If Amelie had turned on them . . .
She wrapped herself more closely around Shane. He made a faint, pleased sound in the back of his throat and pulled her over on his lap. Their lips met gently at first, then more urgently. Shane’s mouth tasted of rain and the bittersweet memory of coffee, and Claire found herself whimpering a little, wanting more than this, so much more, wanting to know he was alive and with her. The kiss strengthened, and Shane’s hands stroked fire down her skin. Suddenly, she felt stifled by the damp clothes. She wanted them off.
“Hey,” he whispered, and grabbed her hands as she reached for the hem of her shirt to yank it off. “Wait.”
She stopped and stared at him, stricken. The smile on his damp, kissable lips reassured her. So did the hungry, hot look in his eyes.
“Upstairs,” he said. “Got to get you dried off and warmed up properly.”
It sounded innocent, but oh, it wasn’t. Not at all.
She climbed up to her feet and offered him her hand. He raised his eyebrows, took it, and rose to put his arms around her and kiss her, again.
“He could try it again,” Claire said. “If Amelie’s turned against you, I swear, Shane, I swear that I’ll—”
He shook his head and kissed her, warm and sweet and full of promises. “Don’t think about it now,” he said in that husky whisper. “Whatever happens, we’ll be ready for it, Claire. Both of us.”
And then he led her upstairs, into the stillness of her room, where he promised her again. So many things.
Oliver knocked on the door two hours later. They were both up and dressed, and Claire was heating up soup for Shane—it was about the only thing he could get down his bruised throat. Claire opened the door and stared at him—glared, really—and said, “You knew what was going on. You knew about Myrnin. Was it Amelie?”
“May I come in?” Oliver asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, just pushed past her and walked down the hall. Claire cursed under her breath and locked up behind him. Around her, the house’s energy gathered, protective and menacing, but not quite sure who the enemy might be. It responded to her moods, even more than with the other residents. That might be useful, right about now.
Oliver had stopped at the couch, and was looking down at Shane, who was deliberately ignoring him as he stared at the flickering television. “Are you all right?” Oliver asked. Shane pointed to his throat. “Nothing permanently damaged, I trust.”
Shane flipped him off.
“Ah, I see you haven’t lost your sense of social decorum and excellent manners.” Oliver shot a glance at Claire and raised his eyebrows very slightly. “Is he all right?”
“No thanks to Myrnin.” She was so angry right now that she was almost vibrating with it. “What the hell, Oliver?”
“Not entirely Myrnin’s fault, I’m sorry to say. There was a fear that having the two of you knowing . . . what you know might be too great a risk. Count your blessings. Myrnin fought to save your life.”
“My life. Not Shane’s.”
Oliver just shrugged. “As you can see, he lives and breathes. No harm done.”
Shane silently pointed an index finger at his neck, which was an angry dark red, heading toward purple.
“No permanent harm,” Oliver amended. “Let that be an indicator of how serious this situation is, and how very serious we are about keeping even a whisper of it from the general public—and by that, I mean vampires as well as humans. Silence, do you hear me? You were never there, and you never saw anything. Or I promise you, your reprieves will be over.”
“But we don’t know anything!” Claire almost screamed it at him. She was so angry she wanted to attack him with her bare hands, and it was only the fact that Shane, usually the hair-trigger one, was sitting quietly on the couch that held her back. Well, that and the fact that Oliver wouldn’t have had the slightest problem crushing her like a bug. “What are you all so afraid of?”
Shane looked up at that, at Oliver.
Who hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I hope you never have to know the answer to that, Claire. Don’t go out tonight. Wait until tomorrow to leave this house. I have some . . . persuading to do.”
Then he left, quietly. She heard the door unlock and Oliver called back, “Lock it behind me.” Then he was gone.
Claire screamed out her frustration, dashed down the hall, and slammed the locks home with so much force she bruised her hand. Then she banged her fists on the wood, and kicked it for good measure.
Shane had followed her, and he put his hands on her shoulders. She turned toward him, staring up into his face. God, that bruise looked really bad. He’d almost died.
No, he’d almost been killed. By Myrnin, of all people. How screwed up was that?
“Relax,” he whispered. He moved his hands up to cup her face in warmth. “Just relax. The door didn’t piss you off.”
“Says the guy who punches walls.”
“Yeah, well, the walls had it coming.”
She had to laugh, but it came out as more of a cross between a bark and a sob. “God, what is going on out there? What are they not telling us?”
“Don’t know,” Shane said. “But for once, I vote we don’t ask, because it’s way out of our pay grade.” He kissed her forehead, then moved down to kiss her lips. “God, you taste good.”
“This is what you’re thinking about? After that?”
“When I get nervous, I focus on the positive. Like you.” He took her hand and led her back toward the living room, where he had her sit down on the couch as he retrieved two glasses of iced tea (Eve had taken to making it, for some reason), and put a movie into the player. She was too tense to relax, but Shane clearly wasn’t; he stretched out on the sofa, and after a few moments of feeling foolish, Claire finally settled down next to him, with his warm, heavy arm around her waist, pulling her close against him.
She had no idea what the movie was, and in a matter of moments, she really didn’t care, either. Shane’s hot kisses on the back of her neck ensured that. So did the sneaky, wonderful moves he made with his hands.
Within an hour, they were asleep together, curled up under an afghan, while the movie played on without them.
When they woke up, it was to the sound of plates clattering in the kitchen, and the smell of pizza. Claire was the first to stir, and her yawning and stretching made Shane mumble something that sounded happy, and burrow in closer to her, but she smiled and slipped out from under his arms.
Shane
cracked his eyelids open just a slit and said, “No fair, you’re leaving.”
“Well, there’s pizza,” Claire said. “Get up or I won’t save you any.”
Pizza was almost as magical a lure as tacos, apparently, because he was on his feet in thirty seconds, shaking his head to flop his hair back into its usual I-don’t-care style.
Oh God, his neck looked horrible. No way of disguising that. Claire stepped close to him and whispered, “We can’t tell them. You remember, right? Oliver said—”
“Right, ’cause I’m so good at taking orders from walking fangs,” Shane whispered back. Even his whisper sounded raw and painful.
“Shane, you can’t!”
“Fine. I won’t. You explain it.”
That was the best he was willing to offer, so Claire pushed through the kitchen door, still casting him doubtful looks, and found Michael and Eve standing at the counters, filling plates with pizza from a box. There were two larges, and Shane made straight for the one with everything. He grabbed a slice and started eating it standing up.
Eve rolled her eyes and slid a plate down the countertop. “Honestly, were you raised in a pony pen or something? Plates! Learn them; love them. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her expression turned shocked. “What the hell happened to you, Shane?”
Michael looked up from preparing his own plate and saw it, too. His blue eyes widened. “Damn,” he said. “You okay?”
Shane gave him a silent thumbs-up.
“Shane! What happened?”
He pointed at his throat and looked pitiful. Oh, of course. He was seriously dumping this whole thing on her, Claire realized. She had no choice but to step in. “He can’t talk,” she said. “Well, he can, but it hurts.” All true. “He got in a fight.” Also true, although it hadn’t been so much fight as attack. “The good news is he won.”
“Dude, someone tried to choke you. That goes a little further than most fights,” Michael said. He sounded genuinely concerned. “Was it about the flyers?”
It was a perfectly good explanation, but Claire couldn’t help but flinch from using it. For one thing, Michael and Eve already felt bad enough about the tension in town. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It was . . . personal.”
“You know, you really need to stop trying to make new friends, Shane. You’re not good at it. And aren’t we enough for you?” Eve batted her thick eyelashes at him and smiled, but Claire could tell she was still alarmed, and worried. “Here. Have a Coke. That’s good for a sore throat, right?”
“Good for everything,” Shane croaked, and took the extended cold can with good grace. “Thanks.”
“You owe me a dollar,” Eve said. “I’ll add it to the five thousand you already owe me, though.”
He blew her a kiss, and she stuck her tongue out at him, and that was the end of the subject, thankfully.
They sat at the table together, eating; Michael and Eve did most of the talking. Shane, of course, stayed quiet from necessity; Claire just couldn’t think what to say, because today’s events had crowded out all her small-talk skills, and she was afraid of saying anything for fear of blurting the wrong thing. Oliver had made it clear enough what the penalties for that would be. Oh God, we already told Eve that Myrnin was freaking out, Claire remembered—they’d said it at the coffee shop, but at least they hadn’t spilled anything more than that. If the breaking news was that Myrnin was acting weird, well, nobody was going to interrupt regularly scheduled programming. Hopefully.
“Earth to Claire!” Eve was snapping her fingers in front of Claire’s face. She blinked, jerked back, and hastily took a bite of cooling pizza. “Wow. See what happens when you take a nap in the middle of the afternoon? Brain cells hibernate.”
“Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was asking if you planned to be around tomorrow. I may need help picking up the cake and flowers and stuff.”
“I—” Claire’s brain went completely blank for a second. There might have been something to Eve’s brain-cell-hibernation theory. “I have to make up a test tomorrow morning,” she finally remembered. “And I really ought to check in at the lab sometime.”
“So that would be a no, then,” Eve said, and turned to Michael.
“Teaching guitar lessons,” he said. “If you need me to cancel—”
“No. Because I know Slacker Boy here has nothing planned. Right, Shane?”
He mimed chopping things. Eve shook her head. “Oh, no, you don’t. I checked the schedule. You’re not working until Monday. Don’t even try.”
He took a too-big bite of pizza for a reply. Michael patted him on the shoulder. “I like this plan,” he said. “You and Eve, picking up cake and flowers, and you can’t even say a word. Should be tons of fun.”
Shane almost choked, and gave Michael a sideways glare. Michael sent him a hundred-watt smile in return—no fangs, which was probably for the best.
All in all, it wasn’t a bad evening, especially when they all curled up on the sofa together for bad-movie night. It wasn’t quite the same without Shane’s snarky commentary, but just relaxing against him, his arm around her, made Claire feel that all might just be right with the world after all.
No, it’s not, some traitorous, cold part of her brain insisted. Nothing’s right. You’re in danger.
If Amelie was freaked enough to try to kill Shane, even if it was some kind of terrible mistake, Claire’s instincts were almost certainly correct.
SIX
CLAIRE
Friday morning dawned clear, all rain clouds gone; the air was crisp, dry, and icy cold, and the wind—which never really stopped out here—whipped up random gusts of blown sand as Claire, wrapped in a thick jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves, picked up her coffee from Common Grounds. Eve hated the early-morning shift, so this morning it was a girl named Christy; she was a bouncy little blonde who had probably been a Morganville High cheerleader last year, two years ago at the most. Common Grounds was doing brisk business serving up coffee delicacies to people heading off to work and students making their way to early classes. Claire had trouble finding a table, but finally spotted one crammed in close to the wall just as the previous occupant vacated it.
She was three sips into her mocha and checking e-mail on her phone when a plaid book bag thumped down on the table. Claire glanced up and saw Monica Morrell dropping into the chair across from her. Monica wasn’t making any concessions to the weather. She had on white kneesocks and a plaid, pleated miniskirt with a low-cut white top. No coat.
“Aren’t you freezing?” Claire asked. “Oh, and by the way, the seat’s taken by my invisible friend.”
“Yes, I’m freezing—it’s what you do for fashion, not that you’d know anything about that, Brainiac. And screw your invisible friend. I want my coffee, and you’ve got the only open chair. Not like I want to be besties or anything.” Monica tossed her lustrous dark hair back over her shoulders. It had been a while since she’d changed the color, and Claire thought this one suited her best anyway. She was a tall, attractive girl with a mean, sharp edge to the pretty, but she and Claire had, over the long months, achieved something like armed truce if not friendship.
“How’s Gina?” Claire asked, and took another drink. The faster she finished her coffee, the faster she could escape from Planet Princess. “I heard she’s in rehab.”
Gina was one of Monica’s two normal wing girls, and she wasn’t in the celebrity kind of rehab; no, this was physical rehab, because she’d smashed up her car in a pretty spectacular wreck. One that Claire figured was karmic in nature. She felt a little guilty about not being more concerned. The question had been purely for form’s sake.
“She’s walking fine,” Monica said. “They’re thinking about putting her into some kind of mental-therapy thing, though. Apparently she slapped a nurse.”
“Well, that’s Gina,” Claire said. “Making friends.”
“Grudge-hold much?”
“She pulled a knife on me, Monica. More tha
n once. And she broke Miranda’s nose.” Miranda was a skinny kid who’d taken way too much trauma in her short life; Gina had cold-bloodedly punched her, and just for that, Claire hoped that the rehab lasted forever. Well, not literally. But hopefully it was at least painful.
Monica didn’t say anything to that. She hadn’t, Claire knew, been all that thrilled with Gina’s behavior, but she hadn’t put a stop to it, either. “It’s probably good they get her in to see a shrink,” Monica said. “Bitch is crazy.”
Three words, and she dismissed one of her most loyal followers and henchwomen. Claire didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted. Probably both. “She’s not the only one around here.”
“You should know. Speaking of crazy bitches, can’t wait to see what happens at the engagement party. Ought to be epic.” Monica’s eyes sparkled with petty delight. “I hear Wannabe Dead Girl invited half the rebel alliance of Morganville, and they’re bringing their friends. I’m wearing something that blood will wash out of, just to be safe.”
Of course Monica would be coming to the party; Monica never missed one, especially one where she could cause mayhem. Well, Claire figured she wouldn’t be the biggest problem they had. Or even the worst behaved.
That was just sad.
“This has been fun,” Claire said, and even though she had half her coffee left, she got up to leave.
Monica flung out her hand, grabbed Claire’s coat sleeve, and said, “Wait. Sit. Please.”
A please from Morganville’s self-appointed crown princess? Now, that was interesting. Claire settled back down and took a sip of her mocha, waiting for the other designer shoe to drop.
“Something’s going on,” Monica said. She dropped her voice, and leaned across the table as she glanced around to be sure nobody was watching them. As far as Claire could tell, nobody was. “My brother got called in to some kind of closed-door meeting with Amelie yesterday and he hasn’t come out yet. He doesn’t answer his cell, either. Can you find out . . . ?”