by Rachel Caine
Otherwise, though…it was just freedom. Fight until they said stop.
“Ah,” Vassily said. “He’s watching.” He didn’t sound especially happy about it. I looked up and I thought I saw a shadow upstairs, behind thick glass. A drawn, thin face, old and pale, that almost looked familiar, but it was gone in a blur of motion. Vassily sighed. “Did you see that, Shane?”
I nodded.
“I was afraid of that. Glory, if you would?”
It all blurred away, all the sharp edges and the surfacing memories. Gone. Whatever it was I was supposed to remember…Well, I didn’t.
I looked up at the window reflexively, but I couldn’t see anything. Probably just a reflection. I’d seen a reflection.
“This is too public,” Glory said to Vassily. “We need to move operations sooner than we’d planned—for the bout, at least.”
“Yes,” he said. “And we’d better have a third option, in case. I don’t want anyone crashing our party. You’ve got lists of people we can trust to fill seats?”
“By the time I’m finished in this town, you’ll be able to trust almost everyone.” She laughed. “But yes. Reliable sources. We are very close.”
“Good,” Vassily said, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hit the showers, Shane. You’re ready.”
It was on Thursday when things started crashing down. To start with, Shane was late, really late. When he finally got home, he came bearing food—barbecue again, but with all the veggies and everything. Which made him popular, of course.
But as she set the table, Claire watched him wandering around the living room. He was pacing, and Shane usually didn’t pace—he was more inclined to drape himself over the couch and look like he was asleep, even when he wasn’t. Tonight, though, he was moving like he was pumped up and distracted, and when she touched him on the shoulder, he spun around so fast, she took a step back. It was easy to forget how big Shane was and how strong, until she saw him in action. He was usually so gentle with her.
“What?” he snapped, and then some of the shadows left his expression. “Oh. Sorry, Claire. Didn’t mean that.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s up with you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Restless, I guess. Been like this all day. I think after dinner I’ll hit the gym, burn off some energy.” That was not like Shane. He was usually all about lazing around on the couch, maybe putting some energy into a video game. He wasn’t the nervous type.
“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “Maybe play a game first? I’ve hardly seen you at all. We could spend some time together.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who runs off to High Wizard Crazy Pants every time he snaps his fingers. Don’t blame me if you never see me. I’ve got a life, too. It sucks, but I’ve got one.” Shane’s words were blunt, and his tone—it was almost mean. Claire felt it like a slap, and it shocked her—why, she didn’t know. He’d been angry enough over the Myrnin incident, but she’d thought…Well, she’d thought he’d gotten over it, that it was safe to talk to him again.
Clearly he hadn’t moved past it. She decided not to say anything at all, which was probably wrong, but she didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t want him to hear how much he’d hurt her.
After another second of silence, he looked away. “Sorry. Game sounds good. I’m just in a mood, I guess. Maybe a little unnatural-creature killing is just what I need.” Not zombies. Unnatural creatures. That might be nothing, but Claire’s instincts told her it was a very bad sign.
Michael was putting out the food. Claire knew he was listening, but he didn’t say anything, just shot her a glance. From that, she got that he was worried, too. Something was off. Definitely off.
“Hey, bro, you’d better play me first,” Michael said. “Been a week since I got to beat your punk ass. Time for you to step up.”
Shane bared his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “You want to play? Let’s play. We’ll see who gets bloody this time.” That was Shane, but it wasn’t. All the subtext was wrong—the body language, the tone, everything but the words.
Michael knew it, too. He locked eyes with Shane, frowned, and said, “Maybe you’d better lay off the caffeine.”
“Maybe you’d better mind your own damn business.” He said something under his breath. It sounded like bloodsucker.
“Hey,” Claire said, and put her hand on his arm. “We’re all friends here.”
He flinched and shook her off. “Are we?” Shane asked. “You sure about that?”
“Hey!” Eve had come in, and now she thumped plates down on the table. She looked furious. Michael, on the other hand, was silent, watching Shane with a wariness that made Claire’s skin prickle. “Hey, Van Helsing Junior, back off. How many times do we have to play this? What crawled up your ass again? Michael is one of us; you know that.”
“He’s one of them,” Shane said. “Like my dad. Like Oliver and Amelie and all of those others. He used to be one of us. Now he just looks like us. You’d better stop drinking the suicide juice, Eve, before you wake up without a pulse, just like him.”
“What are you talking about? What the hell happened? Michael? Did you say anything?” Eve looked to him, but Michael shook his head.
“Oh, come on. Stop pretending,” Shane said, and took a step toward Michael. Michael tensed up. “I can feel it, man. I can feel you watching me. Watching Claire. Hell, Eve, too. We’re all just walking snacks to you now. You think I don’t know that?”
“Seriously,” Michael said. “You need to check yourself. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t hurt you or Claire or Eve. Never.”
“Never?” Shane laughed, high and tense. His eyes had a feverish kind of glitter. He crossed to Eve, and she shrank back, but too late. He grabbed her arm, and she dropped a handful of knives and forks with a clatter to the table.
She was wearing a black velvet choker with a skull and crossbones printed on it. He reached up and ripped it off her neck.
And on her throat were healing bite marks. Eve clapped a hand over them, eyes wide, but it was too late. They’d all seen it.
“You want to tell me that again?” Shane said. He was almost whispering now, face close to Eve’s, but it wasn’t kind. It was cruel. “You want to lie to me again about how you’d never hurt her, Mikey?”
Eve gave a little sound of distress and tried to pull free. His hand closed around her arm even tighter, holding her there.
“Shane, stop it. You’re going to break my arm….”
Maybe he would have let go—Claire didn’t know—but Shane didn’t get the chance.
Michael totally snapped, and sent Shane flying.
Shane hit the wall with a heavy thump, knocking over a table and sending a lamp crashing to the floor, which sizzled out with a frying sound as the bulb smashed. Claire was too shocked to move—it had happened too fast—but Shane rolled out of it and back to his feet in seconds. Michael was standing between him and Eve now, staring at Shane like he’d never seen him before. And Shane was glaring back, looking as angry and dangerous as Claire had ever seen him—chin down, head thrust forward.
Michael said, “Back off. You don’t get to push Eve around. Or Claire, either. Not in my house. Are you drunk? Because you’re damn sure channeling the ghost of Frank Collins.”
That should have slapped Shane out of it; Claire winced, and it wasn’t even directed at her. But Shane didn’t react as if he’d heard at all. He took a step toward Michael, then another one, and then all of a sudden he rushed him.
Fast as he was, Michael missed the wind-up. Shane hit him and had him down on the floor in less than a second, kneeling on his chest to hold him down, fist pulled back for a second blow.
Claire ran forward and grabbed Shane’s forearm, trying to hold him back, but he shook her off. She delayed him only by a second or two, but it was enough time for Eve to throw herself forward, over Michael, and look up at Shane with defiance and shock.
“No!” she yelled, right in his face. “Don’
t you dare start this, Shane!”
“I’m trying to help you, you crazy bitch! You can’t trust him. Don’t you understand? He’s biting you! He’s going to hurt you worse than—”
“We’re getting married!”
Shane froze in place and his arm sagged. His fist opened and dropped to his side. He just stared at her for a couple of heartbeats, and then shook his head so violently, his shaggy dark hair lashed his face. “You’re what?”
“We’re getting married. And if I want to let him bite me, it’s none of your damn business. And, anyway, you don’t know what happened or why, so just shut your mouth, Shane.” Her voice was trembling now, but she was trying to look sure of herself. “No, never mind. Open it and congratulate us. You owe us that.”
“No.”
“Why not? Because you don’t approve? You asshole!” Eve shoved him, and Shane let her push him back, off Michael. He sat on the floor, suddenly limp, staring down at his open hands. His knuckles were bruised—they’d been bruised a lot lately, and cut and swollen. Claire had assumed at first that it had been martial arts practice, but now she was thinking…it was fights. Real fights.
Like this one.
Michael sat up, putting his arm around Eve. She touched his face where he’d been hit and said, “Does it hurt? Are you okay?”
“It stings,” he said. “Shane packs a hell of a punch these days.” He looked into her eyes for a long few seconds. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell anybody yet.”
“I didn’t,” Eve said. “But it just—it just kind of came out. Sorry. I wanted to have a big party for the announcement, you know, but…I had to say something to make him stop.”
“He wasn’t going to hurt me. Not much, anyway.”
“Maybe not, but you were going to have to hurt him if he didn’t back off. And I didn’t want that.”
Claire didn’t know how she felt about all this. Sure, she loved Michael and Eve, and she knew they were together, but this…this seemed fast and final and odd. Like they were rushing into something.
She felt anxious about it, and she had no idea why.
Michael pulled Eve close again and kissed her with authority. Eve sighed and snuggled against his chest, and both of them looked at Shane and Claire, who was kneeling beside him. She wanted to ask Shane if he was all right, but it would sound stupid under the circumstances. Of course he wasn’t all right. This was so not all right.
None of it was right.
She reached out, placed her fingers under his chin, and tipped his face up. His eyes were shimmering with tears, and he looked young and terribly frightened.
Lost.
“What’s happening to me?” he asked. “God, Claire, why did I do that? I don’t do that. I don’t get angry for—for nothing. I didn’t used to, anyway.” He swallowed. “Do you think…? Is it…? Maybe it’s because…my dad…He wasn’t always an abusive asshole, you know; he just got that way. He’d get in these moods and he’d…he’d…” He gulped for air, as if he was drowning, and the misery and pain in his voice made her ache inside. She didn’t think; she just put her arms around him and held him, fiercely loving him, afraid for him, afraid for all of them. “I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. I don’t want to be like him. I don’t. I can’t. Please help me.”
“You’re not,” she whispered, lips close to his ear. “I swear you’re not.”
“Then why did I do that? I wanted to kill him, and it’s like I couldn’t stop myself.”
She didn’t know, either. She held him and they talked in soft, almost wordless murmurs, and his arms around her were strong but shaking, and she pretended not to feel it when his tears soaked through her shirt.
Michael and Eve left sometime during all that. The food sat cold on the table when Claire raised her head to check. Shane’s skin felt cold and damp to the touch. “You should eat,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you eat.”
He laughed wretchedly. “You think if I eat I’ll stop being a complete dick?”
“You’re not.”
“Only because I’m not good at anything. Including that.”
God, he was just falling apart, and she didn’t know what to say. Claire got him to stand up and then sit down at the table. She carried the food back into the kitchen to warm it in the microwave and found that Eve and Michael were in there, engaged in a quiet, intense discussion themselves. They stopped when they saw her.
“We should eat,” she said, and pushed microwave buttons.
“Something’s wrong with him,” Eve said. “You saw. You know.”
“Let’s eat,” Claire said. “We’re all tired and hungry and nervous.”
“Claire—”
“Please.” Her voice broke when she said it, and she had to wipe her eyes to keep tears from falling. “Just sit down and eat!”
But when she carried the food out, Shane’s seat at the table was empty. She checked his room, but he wasn’t there, either.
He was gone.
And she didn’t know where.
SHANE
I sat there alone at the table, looking at the house that had meant so much to me. My home. And it didn’t feel like home anymore. Nothing felt right—least of all me. I didn’t fit here anymore. I was dangerous. Something was wrong with me, and I couldn’t take the risk I’d hurt Claire. I couldn’t stop thinking about Eve’s face as I’d been about to punch her, about the shocked, furious, haunted look she’d given me.
About how I’d seen my dad’s face in that reflection.
I hated Michael now, hated him, and I didn’t want to. He was my best friend, my buddy, my rock, but that didn’t matter inside me now. He was just one of them.
It hurt. Bad.
Hearing Eve say she was marrying him…It tore everything apart. I hated him, and I couldn’t hate him. I loved her, and I couldn’t not hate her, too, because she’d made that choice. None of it made any sense anymore. I hated the people I was supposed to love. Not Claire—that was pure; it was perfect. I couldn’t hate her.
Not until I thought about Myrnin. Not until I remembered what Jester had said… She’s marked. I can smell the bite on her. Not her fault, but I hated that Myrnin had that claim on her. That I couldn’t make it go away, no matter how much I tried.
Vassily had promised me money, and he’d delivered. He’d also promised me and Claire a way out.
And I had to take it soon, because there wasn’t going to be anything left to save.
Claire was in the kitchen, talking to Michael and Eve, and a sensation swept over me…paranoia, probably. I just knew that she was trying to make it all okay, that we would all have to sit together and pretend, just pretend that the cracks weren’t big enough to fall through.
And I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.
I got up and left, closing the door quietly behind me.
Out in the dark, no Protection, no vampires who would snap their fingers and make sure I could walk around in safety—not that it worked that way, no matter what they promised. I had gotten a letter in today’s mail; I was overdrawn at the blood bank again, and if I didn’t show up to pay my taxes soon, the Bloodmobile would come calling. They weren’t gentle when that happened. They came in, grabbed you, strapped you down, and stuck a needle in your vein, whether you liked it or not.
Sometimes they forgot to take it out when you filled up your pint. Or two. Or three.
Sometimes people just didn’t come out again.
No way I was going to do that anymore. I wasn’t part of this. I was going to get out and take Claire with me.
I walked to the gym. If there were vampires out there in the dark, stalking me, they’d be sorry, and they must have sensed it, because I made it there without anybody touching me. I was sweating, even in the cold wind; there was steam coming off my skin. I felt shaky, though. Empty again. Not hungry, but thirsty.
When I got inside the gym and behind the private door, the first thing I did was pop open a sports bottle from th
e common fridge and down the protein drink. Then another one. Then another. By the third one I was feeling steady again. In control. Focused.
Strong.
“Hey, man,” said Greg, another human who was training. He was a juicer, bulked up with fake muscles, but he was cool, anyway. ’Roid rage was an advantage in the ring. We high-fived as I passed him, and then I went to sit on the bench with five others waiting for a chance at the ring. Shiemaa was the only girl—buzz cut, tougher than her weight in iron. She gave me a fist bump, and so did the others. All crazy together.
“I heard Stinky Doug got his ass killed,” Shiemaa said over my head, talking to Keith, another juicer with arms as big around as Shiemaa’s whole head. “Somebody said it was because he talked. True?”
“Guess so,” Keith said. “Crazy little bastard. He wasn’t going to last—didn’t have the fire, anyway—but he could take a punch. I’ll give him that.”
“Yeah, you gave him plenty of those,” Shiemaa said. She and Keith tapped fists in front of me. “Not like I miss him, but what did he say?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“Doug,” I repeated. Some of the fog cleared for me, even though I kept clenching my fists, burning off excess energy. “College guy? Got his throat cut?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Stinky Doug. ’Cause, man, he had some hygiene issues.”
“Which is a lot, coming from you,” Shiemaa said. Keith threw a punch at her, behind my back. She blocked it without any effort. “Why? Did you know him?”
“My girl found the body,” I said. “She knew him. I didn’t know he was in this.”
“Yeah, he was one of the first they asked in,” Shiemaa said. “Probably because he was crazy and a loner and cracked out half the time. Wasn’t even a Morganville kid. Guess they cut their losses.”
Funny, but the idea that Vassily and Glory would kill one of us to protect their little messed-up fight club…that didn’t surprise me. Didn’t alarm me, either. Stinky Doug had brought it on himself.
Shiemaa tapped me on the back of the head, not gently. “Yo, pretty boy, you want to go a few?” The ring was empty now. The vamps were disappearing now, heading out to do whatever it was they did during the midnight hours.
