Glass Houses

by Rachel Caine

Chapter Three

 

  She woke up in the dark with a panicked flinch that sent the ice pack - water sloshing in a bag now - thumping off her pillow and onto the floor. The house was quiet, except for the creaky, creepy noises houses made at night. Outside, wind rattled the dry leaves on the trees, and she heard music coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

  Claire slid out of bed, fumbled for a lamp, and found one next to the bed - Tiffany-style glass, really nice - and the colorful glow chased away any nightmare fears she'd been trying to have. The music was slow and warm and contemplative, kind of guitar alternative. She got her shoes on, took a look in the dresser mirror, and got a nasty shock. Her face still hurt, and it was obvious why - her right eye was swollen, the skin around it purple. Her split lip looked shiny and unpleasantly thick, too. Her face - always pale - looked even paler than normal. Her short pixie-cut black hair had a serious case of bed-head, but she fluffed it out into something like order. She'd never really been much for makeup, even when she'd been stealing Mom's to try on, but today maybe a little foundation and concealer couldn't hurt. . . . She looked ragged, and beaten, and homeless.

  Well. It was nothing but the truth, after all.

  Claire took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door. Lights were on in the hall, warm and glowing gold; the music was coming from downstairs, in the living room. She checked a clock hanging on the wall at the far end; it was after midnight - she'd slept for more than twelve hours.

  And missed all her classes. Not that she'd have wanted to show up looking like this, even if she hadn't been so paranoid about Monica following her around. . . but she'd need to hit the books later. At least the books didn't hit back.

  Her bruises felt better, and in fact her head hurt only a little. Her ankle was still the worst of it, sending sharp glassy jabs of pain up her leg with every step down the stairs.

  She was halfway down when she saw the boy sitting on the couch, where Shane had been sprawled before. He had a guitar in his hands.

  Oh. The music. She'd thought it was a recording, but no, this was real, this was live, and he was playing it. She'd never heard live music before - not really playing, not like this. He was. . . wow. He was wonderful.

  She watched him, frozen, because he clearly didn't even know she existed yet; it was just him and the guitar and the music, and if she had to put a name to what she could see on his face, it would be something poetic, like longing. He was blond, his hair cut kind of like Shane's, in a careless mop. Not as big as Shane, and not as muscled, though he was maybe as tall. He was wearing a T-shirt, too, black, with a beer logo. Blue jeans. No shoes.

  He stopped playing, head down, and reached for the open beer on the table in front of him. He toasted empty air. "Happy birthday to you, man. " He tossed back three swallows, sighed, and put the bottle down. "And here's to house arrest. What the hell. Own it or get owned. "

  Claire coughed. He turned, startled, and saw her standing there on the stairs; his frown cleared after a second or two. "Oh. You're the one Shane said wanted to talk about the room. Hey. Come on down. "

  She did, trying not to limp, and when she got into the full light she saw his quick, intelligent blue eyes catalog the bruises.

  He didn't say a word about them. "I'm Michael," he said. "And you're not eighteen, so this is going to be a real short conversation. "

  She sat, fast, heart pounding. "I'm in college," she said. "I'm a freshman. My name is - "

  "Don't bullshit me, and I don't care what your name is. You're not eighteen. It's a good bet you're not even seventeen. We don't take anybody in this house who isn't legal. " He had a deep voice, warm but - at least right now - hard. "Not that you'd be signing on to Orgy Central, but sorry, me and Shane have to worry about things like that. All it takes is you living here and somebody even hinting there's something going on - "

  "Wait," she blurted. "I wouldn't do that. Or say that. I'm not looking to get you guys in trouble. I just need - "

  "No," he said. He put the guitar aside, in its case, and latched it shut. "I'm sorry, but you can't stay here.

  House rules. "

  She'd known it was coming, of course, but she'd let herself think - Eve had been nice, and Shane hadn't been horrible, and the room was so nice - but the look in Michael's eyes was as final as it got. Complete and utter rejection.

  She felt her lips trembling, and hated herself for it. Why couldn't she be a badass, stone-cold bitch? Why couldn't she stand up for herself when she needed to, without breaking down into tears like a baby?

  Monica wouldn't be crying. Monica would be snapping some comeback at him, telling him that her stuff was already in the room. Monica would slap money down on the table and dare him to turn it down.

  Claire reached in her back pocket and pulled out her wallet. "How much?" she asked, and started counting out bills. She had twenties, so it looked like a lot. "Three hundred enough? I can get more if I have to. "

  Michael sat back, surprised, a little frown bracketing his forehead. He reached for his beer and took another sip while he thought about it. "How?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "How would you get more?"

  "Get a job. Sell stuff. " Not that she had much to sell, but in an emergency there was always the panicked call to Mom. "I want to stay here, Michael. I really do. " She was surprised at the conviction in her voice.

  "Yeah, I'm under eighteen, but I swear, you won't have any trouble from me. I'll stay out of your way. I go to school, and I study. That's all I do. I'm not a partyer, I'm not a slacker. I'm useful. I'll - I'll help clean and cook. "

  He thought about it, staring at her; he was the kind of person you could actually see thinking. It was a little scary, although he probably didn't mean it to be. There was just something so. . . adult about him. So sure of himself.

  "No," he said. "I'm sorry, kid. But it's just too much risk. "

  "Eve's only a little bit older than I am!"

  "Eve's eighteen. You're what, sixteen?"

  "Almost seventeen!" If you were a little fluid on the definition of almost. "I really am in college. I'm a freshman - look, here's my student ID. . . . "

  He ignored it. "Come back in a year. We'll talk about it," he said. "Look, I'm sorry. What about the dorm?"

  "They'll kill me if I stay there," she said, and looked down at her clasped hands. "They tried to kill me today. "

  "What?"

  "The other girls. They punched me and shoved me down the stairs. "

  Silence. A really long one. She heard the creak of leather, and then Michael was on one knee next to the chair. Before she could stop him, he was probing the bump on her head, tilting it back so he could get a good, impersonal look at the bruises and cuts. "What else?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "Besides what I can see? You're not going to drop dead on me, are you?"

  Wow, sensitive. "I'm okay. I saw the doctor and everything. It's just - bruises. And a strained ankle. But they pushed me down the stairs, and they meant it, and she told me - " Suddenly, Eve's words about vampires came back to her and made her trip over her tongue. "The girl in charge, she told me that tonight, I'd get what was coming to me. I can't go back to the dorm, Michael. If you send me out that door, they'll kill me, because I don't have any friends and I don't have anyplace to go!"

  He stayed there for a few more seconds, looking her right in the eyes, and then retreated to the couch.

  He unlatched the guitar case again and cradled the instrument; she thought that was his comfort zone, right there, with the guitar in his arms. "These girls. Do they go out in daylight?"

  She blinked. "You mean, outside? Sure. They go to classes. Well, sometimes. "

  "Do they wear bracelets?"

  She blinked. "You mean, like - " Eve had left hers behind on the table, so she picked up the leather band with its red symbol. "Like this? I never noticed. They wear a lot of stuff. " She thought hard,
and maybe she did remember something after all. The bracelets didn't look like this, though. They were gold, and Monica and the Monickettes all had them on their right wrists. She'd never paid much attention.

  "Maybe. "

  "Bracelets with white symbols?" Michael made the question casual; in fact, he bent his head and concentrated on tuning his guitar, not that it needed it. Every note sounded perfect as it whispered out of the strings. "Do you remember?"

  "No. " She felt a pure burst of something that wasn't quite panic, wasn't quite excitement. "Does that mean they have Protection?"

  He hesitated for about a second, just long enough for her to know he was surprised. "You mean condoms?" he asked. "Doesn't everybody?"

  "You know what I mean. " Her cheeks were burning. She hoped it wasn't as obvious as it felt.

  "Don't think I do. "

  "Eve said - "

  He looked up sharply, and those blue eyes were suddenly angry. "Eve needs to keep her mouth shut.

  She's in enough danger as it is, trolling around out there in Goth gear. They already think she's mocking them. If they hear she's talking. . . "

  "They, who?" Claire asked. It was his turn to look away.

  "People," he said flatly. "Look, I don't want your blood on my hands. You can stay for a couple of days.

  But only until you find a place, right? And make it fast - I'm not running a halfway house for battered girls. I've got enough to worry about trying to keep Eve and Shane out of trouble. "

  For a guy who made such beautiful music, he was bitter, and a little scary. Claire put the money hesitantly on the table in front of him. He stared at it, jaw tense.

  "The rent's a hundred a month," he said. "You buy groceries once a month, too. First month in advance.

  But you're not staying past that, so keep the rest. "

  She swallowed and picked up two hundred of the three hundred she'd counted out. "Thanks," she said.

  "Don't thank me," he said. "Just don't get us into trouble. I mean it. "

  She got up, went into the kitchen, and spooned chili into two bowls, added the bowls to trays along with spoons and Cokes, and brought it all back to set it on the coffee table. Michael stared at it, then her. She sat down on the floor - painfully - and began eating. After a pause, Michael took his bowl and tasted it.

  "Shane made it," Claire said. "It's pretty good. "

  "Yeah. Chili and spaghetti, that's pretty much all Shane can cook. You know how to make anything?"

  "Sure. "

  "Like?"

  "Lasagna," she said. "And, um, sort of a hamburger hash thing, with noodles. And tacos. "

  Michael looked thoughtful. "Could you make tacos tomorrow?"

  "Sure," she said. "I have classes from eleven to five, but I'll stop and pick up the stuff. "

  He nodded, eating steadily, glancing up at her once in a while. "I'm sorry," he finally said.

  "About what?"

  "Being an asshole. Look, it's just that I can't - I have to be careful. Really careful. "

  "You weren't being an asshole," she said. "You're trying to protect yourself and your friends. That's okay. That's what you're supposed to do. "

  Michael smiled, and it transformed his face, made it suddenly angelic and wonderful. Dude, she thought in amazement. He's totally gorgeous. No wonder he'd been worried about her being underage. A smile like that, he'd be peeling girls off of him right and left.

  "If you're in this house, you're my friend," he said. "What's your name, by the way?"

  "Claire. Claire Danvers. "

  "Welcome to the Glass House, Claire Danvers. "

  "But only temporarily. "

  "Yeah, temporarily. "

  They shared a smile, uneasily, and Michael cleared up the plates this time, and Claire went back up to her room, to spread out her books on the built-in desk and start the day's studying.

  She listened to him playing downstairs, the soft and heartfelt accompaniment to the night, as she fell into the world she loved.