by Rachel Caine
There was a woman, too—tall, leggy, with blond hair pulled back in a bouncy, glossy ponytail. She seemed pretty, too, but Claire had to admit, her attention was on Mr. Man Candy. Even at a distance, Monica had nailed the description.
Monica pushed away from the pillar and set off in a runway stride, high heels clicking on the hot concrete sidewalk.
“Come on,” Shane said, and tugged Claire after her. “This, I’ve got to see. And maybe get on the Internet.”
TWO
CLAIRE
As they got closer to the van, Claire realized it was big—Texas-style big, with a high roof. It looked more like something to haul equipment than people. The logo on the side of the van was on a magnet backing, and it was red on black. There was some kind of skull with a microphone and hard-to-read letters, not that she was paying a lot of attention.
Monica’s target was clearly Mr. Man Candy, who, Claire had to admit, did not suffer from closer inspection. He was tall (as tall as Shane), and broad-shouldered (like Shane)…but with an expensive-looking style to his thick dark hair, and perfect golden brown skin. Whether it was airbrushed or natural, it looked good on him. He had on a tight knit shirt that showed off his washboard abs, and his face was just…perfect.
“Hi,” Monica said, and held out her hand to him as she came to a stop about a foot away from him. “Welcome to Morganville.”
He smiled at her with dazzlingly white teeth. “Well,” he said, and even his voice was perfect, with just a little hint of a Spanish accent to give it spice. “Morganville gets points for having the loveliest welcoming committee yet. What’s your name, lovely?”
Monica was not used to being one-upped in the flattery game, Claire guessed, because she blinked and actually looked a little taken aback. But it lasted only an instant, and then she smiled her biggest, brightest smile and said, “Monica. Monica Morrell. And what’s your name?”
His smile lost a little of its luster, and those sparkling dark eyes dimmed a bit. “Ah, I thought you knew.”
Monica froze. Shane muttered, “Thank you, God,” and took out his cell phone to start recording. “It’s like arrogant matter meets arrogant antimatter.”
Monica unfroze long enough to snap, “Put that away, Shane. God, are you six?” before focusing back on Mr. Man Candy. “Don’t mind him—he’s the village idiot. And she’s the village Einstein, which is nearly as bad.”
He accepted that as an apology, Claire guessed, because he took the girl’s hand and bent over it to plant his lips on her knuckles. Monica looked dazzled. And a little scared. Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and for a moment she looked like a normal, regular girl of nineteen who’d been knocked off her feet by an older, slicker man. “My name is Angel Salvador,” he said. “I am the host of the show After Death. Perhaps you know it?”
It sounded vaguely familiar—one of those ghost-hunting shows Claire never watched.
Shane pivoted and focused on the girl. “And you are…”
“His cohost,” the woman standing a few feet away said. She was just as pretty as Angel, but she was frosty…. Even her hair was a pale, watery blond, and her eyes were very light blue. Unlike Angel, she looked uncomfortable in the harsh sunlight. “Jenna Clark.”
The other guy snorted and said, “Since nobody’s going to ask my name, it’s Tyler, thanks. I’m just the one who does all the work and hauls all the equipment and—”
Jenna and Angel said, in perfect, bored synchronicity, “Shut up, Tyler.” Then they threw each other poisonous looks. Clearly, there was no love lost there. Or maybe some gone bad.
“After Death?” Shane asked. “Don’t you guys do some kind of spirit-hunting thing?”
“Yes, exactly,” Jenna said, and seemed to focus on Shane as an actual human being for the first time. She smiled, but to Claire’s relief it was more of a professional kind of attention, not a Wow, you’re hot kind of thing. “We’re looking for the permits office.”
“Permits?” Monica had recovered her composure, at least a little. Angel had stopped kissing her fingers, but he hadn’t let her hand go, and Claire thought her voice sounded a little higher than usual. She was also a little more blushy than normal. “Permits for what? Are you moving your business here?”
Angel laughed, low in his throat—a sexy laugh, of course. “Alas, no, my lovely. Our studio is out of Atlanta. But we are interested in filming some local sights here. Perhaps conducting a nighttime investigation of your graveyard, for instance. We always pay a visit to the local offices for our filming permits. It avoids so many problems.”
Claire could not even count how many ways this was a bad idea…. Television people. In Morganville. Filming at night. She was mesmerized by the flood of horrible possibilities that ran through her brain.
Luckily, Monica wasn’t one for deep thought. “Oh,” she said, and smiled so warmly that Claire was almost fooled. “I see. Well, I wouldn’t waste my time. Morganville doesn’t have anything special for you. Not even a decent ghost to hunt. We’re just really…boring.”
“But it’s so scenic!” Angel protested. “Look at this courthouse. Pure Texas Gothic Renaissance. We passed a cemetery that was perfect—elaborate tombstones, wrought iron, and that big dead white tree—such a striking color, very photogenic. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
Shane muttered to Claire, “If they hang around there at night, they definitely will, but I don’t think it’s what they’re hoping for.”
“Ssssshhh!”
He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Monica’s right—it’s very boring.” He sounded like he was still struggling not to laugh. “Unless you want the world’s least interesting reality show. The weirdest thing that happens around here is old Mr. Evans running around naked at midnight and howling, and he only does that on special occasions.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Jenna said. “It does seem perfect.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to get the permits. At least we’ll contribute to your local economy, yes?” Angel said, and flashed them all an impartial movie-star smile. “Adios. I’m sure we’ll meet again.” He gave Monica’s hand another brief kiss, and then he and Jenna were striding up the walk toward City Hall, with Tyler scrambling in their wake while carrying a small camcorder—though what kind of filmable drama there’d be in applying for a permit, Claire couldn’t imagine.
“Crap,” Shane said. He still sounded way too amused. “So. Any bets on how long they last before the vamps make them go away?”
“No bet,” Monica said. “They won’t last long.” Looking dreamy-eyed, she sighed and cradled her hand. “Too bad. So pretty. And totally manscaped under that shirt, I’ll bet.”
Shane sent her a revolted look, then put his arm around Claire. “And on that note, we’re out.”
“Really?” Claire said, and couldn’t help but smile. “That’s what creeps you out. Waxing. You can take on vampires and draug and killers, but you’re afraid of a little chest-hair pulling?”
“Yes,” he said, “because I am sane.”
They walked on a bit, and it took a few minutes for Claire to realize that although they’d left behind the ghost hunters, they still had an unwanted visitor: Monica. She was keeping pace with them. Uninvited. “Yes?” Claire asked her, pointedly. “Something we can help you with?”
“Maybe,” Monica said. “Look, I know I’ve been historically kind of a bitch to you, but I was wondering…”
“Spit it out, Monica,” Shane said.
“Teach me how to do that stuff you do.”
“What, be awesome? Can’t do it.”
“Shut up, Collins. I mean…” She hesitated, then lowered her voice as she brushed her hair back from her face. She slowed down and stopped on the sidewalk, and Claire stopped, facing her. Shane tried to keep going, but eventually he looped back, defeated. “I mean that I want to learn how to fight. In case I need to do that. I always sort of thought—my father always said we didn’t need to worry about the vampires, because
we worked for them. But Richard never trusted that. And now I know I shouldn’t, either. So I want to learn how to make weapons. Fight. That kind of thing.”
“Oh hell no,” Shane said. “And we’re walking.”
He started to, but Claire stayed put. She was studying Monica with a frown, feeling conflicted but oddly compelled, too. Monica looked serious. Not defiant, or arrogant, or any of her usual poses. Her brother had told Claire before he’d died that he thought Monica could change—and had to change.
Maybe she was starting to understand that.
“How do we know you won’t sell us out at the first possible opportunity?” she asked.
Monica smiled. “Shortcake, I probably would if it got me anywhere, but these days, it wouldn’t do squat. The vampires aren’t looking at us like collaborators and enemies anymore. We’re all just…snack foods. So. I understand what a stake is for, but you guys seem to have all the killer toys. What do you say we work out a sharing arrangement?”
“We’ll take it under advisement,” Shane said, and grabbed Claire’s elbow. “We’re going. Now.”
They left her, and when Claire looked back, she thought Monica had really never looked lonelier. The other girl finally walked to her red convertible, got in, and drove away.
“We are not getting cozy with her,” Shane said. “She’s got vamp problems? Boo hoo. She spent her whole life siccing them on anybody who pissed her off. Smells like justice to me.”
“Shane.”
“C’mon, this is a girl who tormented me most of my life. Who beat you up and tormented you. She’s a bully. Screw her.”
Claire gave him a long look. “You’re the one who was nice to her when Richard died. And she saved your life.”
“Yeah, don’t remind me,” he said, but after a moment or two, he sighed. “Fine. She’ll always be an ass, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to teach her to use a stake or something. Basic self-defense.”
“That’s my guy.” She squeezed his arm. “Besides, if you teach her self-defense, you get to smash her into the floor when you tackle her.”
“Suddenly, I am all about this plan.”
They got about half a block before Shane stopped in front of the used-parts store to talk to the guy who ran it—something about needing a new hose for Eve’s always-being-rebuilt hearse. Claire lost interest after the conversation began sounding like a foreign language, and she ended up staring into a store two windows down. It was a junk store, really, full of discarded stuff (some of it actually good), and she got on the creepy track of wondering if people had actually brought it here to resell, or if it had been scavenged from abandoned houses after the owners’ disappearances. Maybe both.
The storefront was blessedly in dark shade, and so was the narrow brick alley next to it…which was why she didn’t see the attack coming. It happened so fast, she saw nothing but a blur out of the corner of her eye, and then felt the sensation of hands crushing her shoulders, and then a rush of dizzy motion. When she caught her breath to scream, she was slammed up against the brick wall, and a cold hand pressed over her mouth to seal in the sound.
“Hush!” Myrnin said urgently. “Hush, now. Promise me.”
Claire didn’t want to promise anything, because there was a manic gleam in her vampire boss’s dark eyes, and he looked…especially disheveled today. Myrnin was prone to eccentric dressing, but this outfit looked as if he’d picked it out in pitch-darkness by feel—some kind of moth-eaten velvet trousers that would have been deemed too out-there for the 1970s, a loose-fitting lemon yellow shirt that was buttoned up wrong, and a vest with cartoon characters. He’d matched it up with a hat that a Pilgrim might have worn and, just to top it all off, neon Mardi Gras beads—three strands.
He was also—she cringed to see it—totally barefoot. In an alley. That was disturbing.
She nodded, which wasn’t so much a promise really, but he accepted it as one and took his hand away. She finished drawing in the breath, but held off on the scream, just in case he wasn’t crazy at the moment, bare feet aside.
“I heard that you spoke with Mayor Moses?” he asked.
“You forgot your shoes.”
“Bother my feet! Moses?”
“Yes, we talked to her.”
“Did she tell you that Amelie has just announced an election?”
Claire blinked. “For what?”
“For mayor, of course. She has removed Hannah from office, effective tomorrow, since Hannah has refused to agree to sign some of her more-aggressive new decrees. The election will be held next week to appoint someone more…friendly to the new agenda.” Myrnin seemed not just agitated, but really worried. “You see why I object.”
“Uh…” Not really. “You do remember you’re a vampire, right?”
He gave her an utterly sane and baffled look. “The fangs and the fact I crave blood do give me a general clue, yes. And being a vampire, I am naturally interested in the survival of my species. Therefore I feel I ought to stop Amelie and that damn Roundhead from ruining everything we’ve accomplished of value here.”
“Myrnin, you’re not making any sense.”
“Oh, aren’t I?” He let go and stepped back from her, and she had to admit, despite the haphazard wardrobe, he looked a whole lot more together than he often did. His eyes were steady, dark, and focused; he held himself still, with no more than a minimum of fidgeting. “I came to Morganville to create something unique in the history of the world…a place where humans and vampires could coexist in relative safety, if not always peace. I will not allow Oliver to pervert that achievement into nothing more than his own personal…hunting preserve! It’s a perversion of what Amelie intended here. And if she won’t recognize it, I must do it for her.”
Shane must have just noticed she’d gone missing, because she heard him call her name, a sharp and urgent note of alarm in his voice. He knew how easily people could vanish here, even in broad daylight. It didn’t take him more than a few seconds to identify the alley as the most likely peril, and she saw his broad shoulders block out about half the murky light.
“Bother, it’s your overprotective young man.” Myrnin sighed. “Remember this: we must have a plan of how to counter Oliver’s influence. Perhaps another human on the council. If not Hannah Moses, then someone in opposition to Amelie’s agenda. Preferably someone sane, of course. Work on that. I’ll be in touch soon.” He sent a blistering look down the alley as Shane approached, then briefly bared thin, razor-sharp eyeteeth before just…vanishing. He didn’t actually disappear in a mist, Claire knew; he just moved faster than her eye could track, so the human brain filled in something similar for reference.
And then Shane was there, staring first at her, then around at the shadows. “What the hell, Claire?”
She pulled in a deep breath, and wished she hadn’t. Alleys. Disgusting. She thought of Myrnin’s bare feet, and shuddered. “Let’s get out of here.”
A phone call to Michael sorted out her vampire escort problem for her upcoming audience with Morganville’s Founder; he was willing—in fact, eager—to talk to Amelie along with her. Claire was especially grateful, since if she hadn’t been able to land his support, Shane would have insisted on going with her, and she could foresee how that would turn out. She didn’t need to be a psychic to know Shane’s mouth would get them both in trouble, especially with Amelie’s own attitude these days.
Michael brought his car and picked Claire up on the street in front of the Glass House. It was a standard-issue vampire sedan; having fangs in Morganville came with wheels, for free, as well as a membership on the withdrawal side of the town’s blood bank. The downside of riding in Michael’s car was that Claire couldn’t see anything out the windows, since it was vampire custom-tinted.
“So,” she said after they’d driven a couple of blocks in silence, “are you guys okay? Eve seemed…”
“She’s okay,” he said in a tone that meant he wasn’t going to go over the details with her. “She’s not happy with me
for not telling you guys about the cards, but having a heads-up wouldn’t have done anything but given you room to complain more. I was trying to keep the peace as long as I could.” He shot her a look, eyebrows up. “Was I wrong?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, honestly. Everything’s so weird these days, maybe you were right. At least we got to have some nice argument-free evenings out of it.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But those days are over.”
Claire thought he was probably right.
Hannah might have called ahead, but that didn’t mean word had gotten down to the level of the guards on duty near Founder’s Square—two vampires, both wearing police uniforms, only this time they were female…a tall one and a short one. The taller one wore her white-blond hair in a thick braid down her back. The shorter one wore hers cropped close to the skull.
ID cards were the first thing they asked to see. Michael silently produced his gold card, but the two cops hardly even glanced at it. They wanted Claire’s.
The taller one smiled as she looked it over. “Good blood type,” she said, and handed it to her partner, who admired it in turn. “You take care of yourself. Wouldn’t want to see it wasted.”
Claire felt particularly weird about that. It was like being exposed, as if she’d had some kind of privacy taken away. Michael must have felt it, too, because he said, in a dangerously soft voice, “You’ve checked her out. Knock it off.”
“You’re no fun,” the shorter one said, and winked at him. “Just like your grandfather. And look where that got him.”
“Dead,” the taller cop agreed. “All for trying to treat humans like equals. Seems like the Glass family members just never learn their lessons.”
Michael’s eyes flickered a sudden, bright crimson, and he said, “I’ll take any comparison to my grandfather as a compliment. And you really need to stop screwing with us now.”
