by Rachel Caine
‘And she’s going to be on her best behaviour,’ Michael said. Eve mouthed silently, not likely, and Claire covered her smile with her hand. ‘Listen, I know it’s late, so you get to bed. Anything you want me to tell Shane …?’
‘Are you really going to tell him all the sexy romantic things I want to say?’
‘Not hardly.’
‘Then just tell him to call me when he can,’ she said. ‘Or text. If he can get his big fingers on the tiny little keys.’
She needed a hug, but she settled for extravagant air kisses from Eve, and a movie-star fond smile from Michael, and then she logged off to face the empty, cold house that had less personality than a broom closet in what she still thought of as home: the Glass House.
Still not sleepy, Claire unpacked some posters, unrolled them, and pinned them up on the walls. One was a gift from her parents, a poster of Hawkeye from the Avengers movie, because they knew she thought he was cute, and she wanted that bow and arrow, badly. A couple of her favourite band posters. Another movie one-sheet, this one from The Hunger Games. Katniss was cool, and again, she coveted the bow and arrows. Definitely of use in her normal life. Well, life before MIT …
She froze in the act of pushing the thumbtacks in on that one, because she heard the downstairs door rattle. Then, a knock.
Claire slipped down the steps, careful to walk on the edges near the banister to avoid creaks, and risked a quick peek out through the peephole. She expected loathsome Derrick, but what she saw surprised her – a group of people, boys and girls, talking among themselves.
And in the front of the group was Nick, who’d walked her home.
She unlocked and swung the door open. ‘Hey, Nick,’ she said. ‘Guys.’
Most of them smiled at her. A few were too deep in their own things to bother. Nick’s smile was especially bright.
‘Hi, Claire. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but we were on our way to crack some books at the coffee shop. You like coffee? And books? I figure you would, since you enrolled here, and it’s kind of a prerequisite.’
‘That’s his idea of logic flow,’ one of the girls said – a cute African-American girl, wearing a knitted cap with earflaps and dangling yarn balls. She rolled her eyes. ‘No wonder he needs to crack books, because he sucks at critical path. I’m Kass, by the way.’
‘Hi, Kass. Um, thanks, Nick, that’s really nice of you, but I – I’m waiting for my housemate. We’ve got dinner on tonight. Maybe some other time?’
‘There’s a party later, is what Nick the Quick is failing to mention,’ one of the other boys said. He was a weedy kid about Shane’s age, very self-assured and hipster-chic with his tight, too-small buttoned sweater, jeans with the hems turned up, and pork-pie hat he’d probably stolen from the character on Breaking Bad. ‘So you should blow off dinner and come with.’ He had his arm around a plump blonde girl who had pink streaks in her hair and matching cat-eye glasses, and a retro cotton-candy-pink dress. ‘Right, Sarah?’
‘Right!’ she agreed, and grinned. ‘We might get tattoos, too. I was thinking about a dragon.’
‘Tattoos,’ Claire said, and pretended to think it over. ‘Well … that sounds fun, but honest, I have to stay home. You guys have a good time. And Nick—’ Never going to happen, she wanted to say, but she couldn’t, in front of his friends. Which was probably why he’d brought them, to be honest. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘One more time: study, books, party, tattoos. Sold?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But thanks. Have a good time.’
‘Oh, we will,’ the other boy said, and kissed Sarah, who giggled. ‘Your loss, Tex – what’s her name again?’
‘Claire,’ Nick said, still watching her. ‘Her name is Claire.’
‘Right. Well, mine’s Robert, but everybody calls me Drag. Don’t ask.’
‘I won’t,’ she said, and stepped back over the threshold. ‘Good night. Be safe, you guys.’
‘You too!’ It was a chorus, and the group wandered off with their backpacks and enthusiasm, and for a moment, she badly wanted to change her mind and join them. Just be part of something again, and not stuck here in the dark.
But she closed and locked the door, and went back upstairs instead.
No Liz. Claire did her e-mail, called her parents, and finally changed into her pyjamas. She was worried enough by that time to call Liz’s cell, and got an answer, finally.
Liz was drunk. Epically. From the sound of it, she was either at a bar, or a very noisy party. Claire couldn’t get much out of her except that she wasn’t planning on coming home soon, and yes, she’d take a cab.
‘Everybody’s having fun but me,’ Claire muttered, and threw her cell onto the nightstand in annoyance as she wrapped the covers tight. She turned the lights off, and tossed and turned, unable to sleep for the unfamiliar creaks and pops of the old house.
She slid out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen without turning on the lights, opened the fridge and pulled out the carton of milk to pour herself a glass. She’d just put the milk back and shut the door when she heard the sound of the front door opening, and almost said, How drunk are you, anyway, but something stopped her.
Something subliminal that she didn’t realise until a full ten seconds later: she hadn’t heard a car, or Liz stumbling up the steps, which she assumed Liz would be doing.
This was utterly quiet.
Claire grabbed her milk glass and backed away into the narrow pantry closet, where she crouched down, bathed in the aroma of old spices; there were some big packs of toilet paper and paper towels in here, bought from some big-box outlet store, and she quickly moved them in front of her, just in case. She hadn’t shut the pantry door completely, so she knew she’d see when the lights came on …
But the lights didn’t come on. Instead, she saw the glow of a flashlight sweep across the kitchen, and then the pantry door whipped open and the flashlight bored straight in. She ducked behind the wall of paper towels, and after a heart-stopping second, the flashlight moved away, and the pantry door swung shut.
It was all done so quietly.
Claire waited until she heard the stairs creaking, and then moved the paper wall out of the way to move to the doorway. She couldn’t see much, but she thought the kitchen was empty. Whoever it was had gone upstairs; she heard footsteps overhead, so they’d gone into Liz’s room.
Derrick?
The thought made her heart race, and she slid a butcher knife out of the block, just in case. Shane had taught her the right way to knife fight, but that didn’t mean the idea didn’t terrify her; if Derrick got his hands on her, she was done. He was too big, and too crazy.
Stay away, Liz. Just stay where you are.
Claire picked up the kitchen phone and got a blessedly clear dial tone. She dialled 911 with shaking fingers, and whispered the information to the operator that she was hiding in the kitchen with a knife, and there was someone in the house. The operator sounded unimpressed, but professional about it, and promised the police were on the way, and to hide until they arrived but keep the phone on.
Which Claire intended to do, but then she heard a man’s voice from upstairs, and static, like there would be on a walkie-talkie. She edged to the kitchen door, looking up at the stairs, and saw a black-clothed man walk out of her room, and another come out of Liz’s. She ducked back inside and flattened against the kitchen wall, but it didn’t seem like either of them had spotted her.
One of them was talking. ‘—Nothing. Nobody home, and we didn’t find anything. Looks like a normal college girl to me, sir. She’s got Hunger Games on the wall and textbooks and clothes, not a lot else here. Bed was unmade but she’s not here, we looked. Went through all the boxes, nothing … no, sir, I’m sure. She’s probably out with friends.’
He was talking about her. And this wasn’t Derrick, not even if Derrick had brought a friend. This sounded calm and professional. The two men came down the steps and went out the front do
or without pausing, and closed it quietly behind them.
Then they locked it.
Claire rushed to the peephole and stared out. In the glow of the streetlights, she saw two completely normal-looking guys in dark shirts and pants heading down the steps. Athletic, mid-twenties to early thirties. Short haircuts. They could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or CIA, she had no idea.
But either way, they were able to enter and leave the house without leaving a mark.
Dr Anderson had been right to move the device to safekeeping, because Claire was almost sure that whoever these guys were, they were looking for evidence that the little student from Morganville was something else again.
And she knew, somehow, that it would mean a lot of trouble if they found out the truth.
The phone was still on, and the operator’s voice buzzing like a bee. Claire held it up to her ear and said, ‘Sorry, false alarm – it was my roommate. We’re okay here.’
There was more to it, because the operator was worried Claire was under duress, and the police still showed up to check, but Claire assured them it was all okay.
It wasn’t though.
It really wasn’t.
And then Liz came home, too drunk to make it up the steps on her own, and vomited all over the bathroom, and Claire had to clean it up and put her to bed and deal with the pitiful hangover that came later … but all the time, what she was really thinking was, who’s after me? Why?
And, from time to time, why hasn’t Shane called?
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHANE
Claire saw me.
For a split second, all I could think was there she is, and I froze, because I’d wanted so badly to catch another glimpse of her … and then reality set in, because she was across the room from me, in Florey’s, and she was staring right at me.
I didn’t think about what I was going to do, I just did it: I moved, fast, and blocked her view with a bunch of noisy, clamouring patrons bellied up to the bar. Then I dumped the load of glasses on the ledge where the bartenders could easily grab them, and yelled in Jesse’s ear, ‘My girlfriend Claire is in the bar. Don’t let on that I’m here, okay? I’m not supposed to be in Cambridge!’
She sent me a wide-eyed, disbelieving glance, but she hardly had time to argue; she was popping the top on a beer with one hand (without a bottle opener, she had some kind of crazy thumb technique that was much faster) and mixing a rum and Coke with the other. The two other servers behind the bar were equally busy. They’d go through the load of glasses I’d delivered in about an hour, and I already had two industrial-sized dishwashers running and was doing the overflow by hand. It was definitely the busiest day Florey’s had seen since I’d arrived.
I grabbed the tub with the dirty glasses in it, hoisted it on my left shoulder, and used it to mask myself as I headed back into the kitchen. My arm – the one that had been bitten and healed up – twinged when I did that, but there was nothing wrong with it that a little exercise wouldn’t cure. It still burned, from time to time. And yeah, it worried me. I’d been bitten by a devil dog, after all. There could be side effects. But I wasn’t running a fever, or feeling sick or anything like that, and I knew that going to a traditional doctor wasn’t going to reveal anything.
The last thing I wanted to be was at the mercy of the vampires, even their resident doc, who was a pretty good guy as bloodsuckers went. I shuddered at the thought.
Once I made it to the back, I dumped the bin on the counter and drew fresh hot water, and tried not to think about what the hell Claire, of all people, was doing at a bar on game night. She must have been with someone. Who? Friends, maybe. Yeah, it had to be friends. This wasn’t her kind of scene, and I knew that. She wasn’t just here on her own, and she wasn’t here to make new drunk friends, either.
Then why did every bone in my body demand I walk out, take off the apron, grab her and march her out of there? She wasn’t in any danger, except of being trampled in the crowd. Nobody would hurt her. Pete ran a tight ship, and anybody who got out of line answered to him. Nobody was eager to do that.
Why was she here?
She couldn’t be looking for me. She couldn’t.
I washed up ten glasses, then dried my hands, took out my new phone, dialled, and propped the thing up on the counter away from the dishwater, on speaker. It took three rings, but Michael finally answered. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘No time to talk, but did you tell Claire where I was?’
‘What? No, man. You made me promise. I won’t tell her. That’s your business.’
‘Eve? Would Eve tell her?’
‘No. She wants to, but she won’t.’
‘Crap. Well, Claire’s here.’
‘Here, where?’
‘In the bar. Where I’m working. Oh, and living. In the room upstairs. The job kinda comes with room and board. So it isn’t like I can permanently duck her if she catches on.’
‘Did you talk to her?’
‘Hell no, I didn’t talk to her! I’m washing dishes in the back!’ That, and I was scared she’d hate me for following her. Scared she’d think I’d broken my promise, although I really hadn’t – I was keeping away. Just … within reach, if she needed me. ‘Look, just – I don’t know if she saw me or not, but if she asks to talk to me, just tell her I’m at work. It won’t be a lie.’
‘You’re sliding over the line from best friend to friend who asks me to cover up for him,’ Michael said. ‘Just flashing the warning sign, man. Asking somebody to lie to your girlfriend is never a good step in a relationship.’
‘I know. I just – look, I’m going to tell her, but I want her to have the time she wants, that’s all. I’m trying to stay out of her way—’ I was interrupted by a yell from the bar area; they were out of beer mugs, again. I yelled back that they were coming, and sure enough, Luis, the other dishwasher, picked up the slack and took them out. ‘Look, I’ve gotta go. We good?’
‘We’re good,’ Michael agreed. ‘Watch your back.’
‘I hear ya. My worst problem right now is dishpan hands.’
‘I’ll send you some lotion and nail polish. Want me to buy you a mani-pedi, too?’
‘Mother—’ He hung up on me before I could get the rest of it out, which was probably for the best. I shook my head and scrubbed glasses – damn, I hated lipstick, at least in this context – for another twenty minutes or so before Jesse suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped and almost dropped a martini glass, which would have come out of my not-so-great pay, but she caught it on the way down. She had great reflexes.
Too great.
‘Your girlfriend is Claire Danvers?’ she asked me, and set the martini glass in the clean tray.
‘Yeah. Is she still here?’
‘No, I never saw her in there, but I got a message she’d be waiting in the back. Do you want to talk to her?’
Yes. I wanted to talk to her so badly it made my stomach churn. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell her I’m here, okay? It’s complicated.’ Dammit, my arm twinged again, and the muscles burned and contracted. I rubbed it, frowning, and wondered if I’d been overworking the recovery just a little.
‘Copy that, friend. All right, she asked for me, so I’m going. Keep up the good work.’ She winked at me, and yeah, she was hotter than just about any girl who’d ever winked at me, at least in a theoretical sense. But I’d had plenty of experience around hot vampire chicks, and it had never ended well for me. So I sent back a non-committal nod, and tried not to watch her ass as she headed for the door. I was the only one managing to resist, looked like. She drew male attention the way pitcher plants draw bugs … and the outcome would be the same.
You could drown in that honey.
Jesse was gone her full fifteen for her break, and when she came back in she gave me a quick thumbs up. ‘She’s okay,’ she told me. ‘Heading home. So, although you haven’t said so, I’m guessing you’re also from her hometown.’
I nodded without committing to anything; I didn’t know i
f Jesse actually knew where Claire was from, after all. But she must have, because she glanced around the kitchen to be sure Luis was neck-deep in his own work before turning back to me with her eyes flaring a brief, bloody red. Her lips parted just enough to show me the tips of her fangs, sliding smoothly down, sharp enough to pierce steel.
In response, I showed her my left wrist, which was covered by a thick silver chain bracelet. It looked like fashion, but it was also a weapon, and a good one. Then I pulled down the neck of my T-shirt to show her the matching necklace.
She laughed softly, and the glow and fangs were immediately banished. ‘I’m just messing with you,’ she said, and gave me a quirky, in-on-the-joke smile. ‘You’re a cool one, Shane.’
‘As long as I don’t have to be a cold one.’
‘I knew I liked you. You’ve got’ – she licked her lips, not at all suggestively. Okay, maybe a little. Or a lot – ‘spice.’
‘It’s my body spray, it’s real manly. Don’t take it as an invitation. I’ve got nothing for you, Jesse.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short, handsome, but in any case, you’re not my preferred flavour of snack. And I’m not one of those who go in uninvited, if you take my meaning.’
‘I get it. You like to think you’re a nice vampire.’
The smile vanished, and what was left in its place was just … dangerous. ‘Let’s not call each other names. Someone might get hurt. What are you doing here? Hunting? Because if that’s your thing, we can work it out somewhere else. I have to earn a living here.’
‘Just pulling down a pay cheque, same as you,’ I said. ‘Look, I really didn’t expect to run into any vam—very nice ladies such as yourself in a city like this. My understanding was they were all concentrated back home, where the Founder kept an eye on them.’