by Rachel Caine
The back door supposedly had an alarm, but it was propped open, probably to let in the breeze and compensate for the fierce heat coming out of the pizza ovens. Claire slipped through without anyone stopping her, and took a second to look over the alley beyond. It was deserted, and there was no place for Derrick to hide himself.
She ran for the side street, turned left, and headed straight home.
Even though she spent the whole walk looking over her shoulder, she didn’t see any sign of Derrick. Maybe he’d gone home to wash the sticky mess out of his hair, change clothes, and plot how to make her pay.
Not really all that comforting, in the end.
Claire’s moving boxes arrived an hour later at her apartment, courtesy of a small delivery truck; there weren’t many, and she signed for them as they were carried up to her room and piled in the very little space that remained. She obeyed Dr Anderson’s instructions and opened the carton that contained her Morganville-invented device … which looked a lot like some steampunked ray gun, only a whole lot clumsier. It was there. As far as she could tell, it was intact.
Liz wasn’t home. Claire locked up after the movers and went back upstairs to stack boxes in order of priority unpacking. She texted Dr Anderson to tell her the device was safe, and Anderson quickly got back to her to order her to wait at home. Apparently, she was sending reinforcements.
Claire spent the time waiting checking the windows for any signs of tampering. Nothing. All was secure, or as secure as it could be. She was unpacking winter clothing from the last box when she finally got a phone call to her cell – not from Dr Anderson, but from a number she didn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Claire. You don’t know me, but don’t hang up. Irene Anderson asked me to drop in and take you to her lab. My name is Jesse.’ She sounded calm and relaxed, and had a slightly exotic accent, something that vaguely reminded her of the Deep South, but it was well concealed. ‘My friend Pete and I will be there around six.’
‘That’s late,’ Claire said, surprised. ‘I thought she wanted me to get it to her as soon as possible.’
‘Day jobs, they do throw a crimp in your social life,’ Jesse said, and chuckled. It was a warm rumble of a sound, and despite her current on-alert-for-trouble attitude, she found herself liking the other girl for it. ‘Coming as fast as we can. Oh, and she said you might be a little trigger happy, so please, don’t shoot. We come in peace, and I’d rather not go in pieces.’
‘I promise to ask questions first,’ Claire said. Jesse laughed again, and hung up.
And she did ask questions. She called Dr Anderson, who confirmed straight away that Jesse and Pete were known to her. Claire hadn’t really doubted it, but she was still worried about Derrick; it seemed unlikely he knew about Dr Anderson and the escort she’d ordered up, but just now, paranoia was an advantage.
She spent the spare few hours studying, surfing the ’net, and wondering – worrying – about where Shane was, and what he was doing. She’d had an e-mail, she saw – not a video this time, just plain text, telling her that he had a new phone number, and giving it to her. She memorised it and put it into her phone and logged it in her computer in her private phone list – her usual triple backup plan – and was considering calling him (just to be sure the number was right, of course).
Just as she hovered her finger over his name in the address book, though, she heard a loud knock on the door. Her gaze jerked up. It was – surprisingly – six o’clock, and they were right on time.
She still checked the peephole before she began clicking back the locks. Not Derrick, for sure; a boy and girl, both a little older than she was. The girl was the one who drew the attention first, because she was tall, well built, and had fiery red hair that fell in shining waves almost to her waist. She was also – like Eve – Goth style, with lots of black eyeliner, pale make-up, and unnaturally coloured lips. Skulls and leather featured heavily in her outfit.
Claire eased the door open just a bit and said, ‘Jesse and Pete?’
Jesse smiled and slid a thumb toward her short, easily overlooked friend. He was built like a bulldog, but he had a pleasant face, and he gave her a weary smile and wave. ‘Pete. I’m Jesse,’ the redhead said. ‘So. We’re taking you to Dr Anderson, right? Let’s get going. Got places to be, yo.’
‘Let me get my bag,’ Claire said. ‘Come in.’
Pete and Jesse shook their heads, almost in unison. ‘Got to keep an eye on the car,’ Pete said. ‘This neighbourhood, we’ll get ticketed if we don’t stay right here.’
‘Oh.’ Claire hadn’t thought of that; there was a car sitting down at the kerb, shiny and dark blue. It had tinting and what looked like death metal decals – Jesse’s ride, probably. ‘I just need to lock this door, that’s all.’ Because she had a horror now of leaving it open, even though she didn’t think Jesse and Pete would let Derrick slip inside while she was gone.
‘I’ll go in, and Jesse can stay out here and guard the car,’ Pete offered. ‘Is this thing you’ve got heavy?’
‘A little,’ Claire said. ‘It’s not bad.’
Jesse patted Pete’s shoulder. ‘Let my man here carry it, he loves showing off his muscles for the ladies.’
‘Don’t be sexist. I flex for guys too.’
‘Yeah, but not with so much style.’ Jesse winked. ‘Go on, you. I’ll tackle the metre maid if necessary.’
Claire led Pete upstairs, pointed out the box, and Pete very happily (and super easily) picked it up and got it down the long flights without a problem. ‘So, you’re just moving in, right?’ he said. ‘New student?’
‘Does it show?’
‘Not as much as most. I don’t see a lot of kitten posters and boy bands on the walls up there.’
Claire almost laughed. ‘Not my style. Though if you know of any place I can get a sparkly unicorn poster …’
‘Ask Jesse,’ he said, and stood aside as she opened up the door. ‘She’s the sparkly unicorn fancier.’
He said it loudly enough that Claire figured it was bait for Jesse to respond, and the redhead probably normally would have done it, but she was standing very still, facing away. This time of year, and with the height of the buildings, the sky was a dusky blue, well into twilight, and Claire couldn’t see much farther than the other side of the street, so she couldn’t figure out what had attracted Jesse’s undivided attention.
Then a streetlight flickered on, shedding a cold pale light over concrete, a fireplug at the corner, some trash bags … and a man standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall, watching them.
‘Friend of yours?’ Jesse asked. She sounded calm and relaxed, still, but her body language said something different.
Claire couldn’t see his face, but the size looked right. ‘It’s probably Derrick. My roommate’s ex. He’s a stalker.’
‘Want us to go have a little chat?’ Jesse asked, and Claire realised with a start that she was serious about it. ‘Pete?’
‘Always up for a little heart-to-heart chat,’ he said, ‘but Anderson was pretty firm about this thing being a priority. So maybe we leave it for later, okay?’
Jesse hadn’t moved; Derrick had her attention fixed as if she’d been glued down in one direction. She finally sighed and turned her head to give Pete a disappointed look. ‘You take all the fun out of life, you know that?’ Pete shrugged, as if he lived with disappointment, and carried the box down the stairs to the car. Jesse stayed put, still attentive toward Derrick’s silent, still presence across the street, as Claire locked and rechecked the door. ‘Do you have an alarm in there?’
‘No,’ Claire said. ‘I told Liz we need to get one, but she doesn’t think we can afford it.’
‘Better broke than dead,’ Jesse said. ‘I can smell the crazy on that man from here. I have a nose for it.’ In the dim light, a passing car’s lights hit Jesse full in the face, and lit her up like a billboard. Her blue eyes were very, very bright, and for a second Claire had a Morganville déjà vu
… but this was the real world, and Jesse was just a badass. Like Pete.
Maybe that was enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHANE
I was up to my elbows in hot water.
I don’t mean that figuratively. It was actual hot water, with suds, and I was washing bar glasses. My second full day in Cambridge, and I had a job – crappy as it was – at a place called Florey’s Bar & Grill, although the only thing I’d seen them grill so far had been some burgers and hot wings. It was the kind of place that offered up a food menu small enough to fit on a business card, and a nine-page drinks list.
So even though my official title was dishwasher, I was washing glasses. Every once in a while, there was a plate for variety. Maybe a fork. Not much else.
Like all industrial kitchens everywhere, it was humid, hot and a little nasty; the building was old and had probably seen various owners shilling drinks for at least a hundred years. The plumbing probably hadn’t been significantly upgraded in all that time. Hell, it probably had rats older than me, and maybe bigger, too. When I was done with the glasses – if that ever happened – I’d be expected to mop and scrub the place out.
A kitchen is run like an army; in fact, they call it a brigade system. The chef de cuisine (‘Yes, chef!’) is the general; his second-in-command is the sous chef; and then there are chefs des parties, who are responsible for individual workstations. Somewhere way down at the bottom of that organisational chart is something called a plongeur – as in, dishwasher. That’s what I was doing. In a major restaurant there would be a bunch more positions, but all we had in this mini-brigade was the chef (‘Yes, chef!’) Roger, who had been in the navy and swore like a sailor, too, and then Bridget, who was his second and did everything else other than swear.
Yes, I knew the system. This was, obviously, not my first dishwashing gig.
Amazing thing was, what little they cooked was pretty great. I’d gotten hired to fetch, carry and clean, and since I had a valid state-issued ID, they were overjoyed (and surprised). Technically I couldn’t drink in a place like this, but I got free meals to make up for it. And Bridget was a cute, motherly type. I’d already made friends with the bouncer, Pete, a short, muscular type who casually mentioned that he powerlifted with an eye to making the Olympic team someday. Damn.
What worried me, though, was the bartender. Her name was Jesse, and she was a stunning knockout redhead in tight leather. I’m usually all in favour of that, from a purely scenic standpoint, but there was something about her that set off alarms – Morganville-type alarms. I’d convinced myself that I was being paranoid, but I found myself still wondering about her over the course of the two days I’d been working at Florey’s. Pete was one of those laconic types who didn’t say much about other people, but he’d finally given up that Jesse had drifted into town a few years back and was one hell of a good bartender; she knew how to cut people off when they had too much, and get them out the door without trouble, which in his opinion was ninety per cent of a good bartender’s job.
In other words, he didn’t much like to exert himself. I approved of this. A bouncer’s worth isn’t how much he flexes his muscles, but how rarely he has to. It’s the security guys who are always looking for a fight that cause trouble.
This is why I did not get hired to be a bouncer. I knew better than to apply.
I filled up the dishwasher – a big, industrial thing – again, and started it, and took care of the overflow, then did some clean-up and trash-taking-out before it was time for my dinner break. The sky outside was sliding toward twilight, and I stood out in the alley for a little while enjoying the cool air, so unlike Morganville’s dry desert wind, before the smell of garbage drove me back inside. Roger was swearing about something I didn’t bother to register, since it wasn’t glasses, plates, utensils, pots, pans or cleaning; Bridget was chopping celery, knife flying in a blur, but she spared me a wink and a grin as I signed out for dinner, took off my kitchen apron, and hung it up.
I went looking for Pete.
The bar was already starting to fill, even this early, with after-work happy hour people; the day bartender was still on duty. Jesse didn’t come on until seven, and it was still a quarter to six. Pete usually started his day early, with dinner, so I figured I’d sit down with him … but I spotted him on the other side of the doorway, heading into the street. I followed, intending to tap him on the shoulder and ask if he was free, but then I saw he was heading for a car that pulled smoothly in at the kerb. The passenger door opened, and I saw Jesse leaning over, all stark contrasts of black and white except for the fiery red sheen of her hair …
… And her eyes.
I stopped dead in the doorway, staring, as Pete slid into the front seat, slammed the door, and they drove off.
Had I really seen that flash of red in her eyes? Or had I just seen a reflection from the dashboard, maybe? Was I hallucinating Morganville all over the place? Maybe. Yeah, probably. Not every hot girl in pale trendy make-up could be a genuine vampire.
But maybe, just maybe, one could hide in plain sight.
Fun facts: she worked nights, never showing up until after the sun went down. She drove a car with windows tinted as dark as non-Morganville laws would allow. She went for the powder-faced Goth look, always.
She never had a problem handling drunks.
Add all that together, and you came up with …
C’mon, I told myself. Really? You move out of the one town that has a heavy population of vampires, and you think you’re going to run into one halfway across the country?
Some people are just lucky like that. Also, I hadn’t just gotten this job for no good reason … I’d followed Claire’s new professor lady here, where she ate lunch and had pleasant chats with Jesse and Pete. I’d done it purely to find out what Dr Anderson was like; anybody who had the Amelie Seal of Approval was automatically someone I felt I should check out carefully, and by extension, I’d been checking out Jesse and Pete, then. Hence, the dishwashing gig.
And now, Jesse, with the flashing red in her eyes. So it wasn’t so much coincidence as deliberate investigation on my part. I wanted Claire to be safe, and I wanted to be absolutely certain she wasn’t walking unsuspecting into a lion’s den.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I’d used the savings I had left after securing my very grungy little room above the bar to buy a beat-up motorcycle, and I wasted no time getting on it and following Jesse’s modified vampmobile. Claire would hate that I was doing this; she’d think I was interfering. Which I was. But only behind the scenes. I didn’t intend for her to even know I was in town; it was enough to be close, if she needed me. Or if she said she wanted to see me. I wasn’t going to pull some romantic movie stunt and show up uninvited on her doorstep. She needed space; I was giving it.
But Jesse was making me very, very nervous.
I got even more jumpy when Jesse’s car pulled up at the kerb of a row house that I’d driven past once before, and memorised everything about. I’d resisted driving past again, mainly because I knew that it would drive me crazy to be that close and not stop. Now, I kept moving, past Jesse and around the block, where I stopped and dismounted. I took up a vantage point at the corner, where I could see what was going on.
Jesse and Pete went up the steps to Claire’s row house, knocked, and after a while and some discussion at the door, Pete went inside. I didn’t know if it was Liz, Claire’s housemate, letting them in, or whether Claire was doing it. Jesse stayed outside, which was a relief.
In the idle time before the next thing happened, I saw Jesse fix on someone standing across the street from her – much closer than I was. Couldn’t tell a lot about him except that he was big, and didn’t seem bothered by Jesse’s stare. I knew from experience how off-putting a vampire’s attention could be, and it was a little surprising he didn’t take the hint.
Then, the door opened again, and Claire and Pete stepped out. As Claire locked up, I drank in the sight of her like
water in the desert … damn, she looked good. Still the same girl who’d kissed me a few days ago. She hadn’t changed at all – but then, had I really expected her to, in such a short time?
Pete had a bulky-looking box in his thick arms, and he carried it down to Jesse’s car. Don’t get in, I thought, watching Claire. Danger. C’mon. I know you have better instincts than that.
But she got in the car, and it pulled out, heading for parts unknown. I mounted the motorcycle and took off after them, hanging back enough in traffic to be sure I wasn’t remarkable. Plenty of students cruising around on similar rides, so I didn’t stand out.
Sure enough, the drive ended up at the building where Dr Anderson worked, and Claire did her studies. A dead end – ha – because I damn sure couldn’t go strolling in, or I’d definitely risk coming face-to-face with Claire and have an uncomfortable conversation about what I was doing there, exactly. It would start with I was worried about you and end with her (probably rightly) saying I told you I needed to do this on my own.
I considered for a bit, then decided to head back to the bar. I could still grab a decent dinner before it was back to the regular kind of hot water.
For no damn good reason, I took the way back that led past Claire’s row house, and as I slowed down, I saw a guy trying to open the door. I say ‘trying’ because he clearly wasn’t having any luck. He had what might have been a key in his hand, but I didn’t think so. He was also bigger than I was, and I didn’t think he should have any business jimmying my girlfriend’s door, so I pulled in, jumped off the bike, stood on the bottom step to block his path, and said, ‘Hey, something I can do for you there, buddy?’
He whipped around, and I saw the fury and fear mixed together before it all smoothed into a bland, but still somehow unpleasant, mask. ‘What’s your problem?’ he barked at me, and flexed his shoulders to show me his muscle-guns were loaded. I remained unimpressed. ‘Just having some trouble with my key. Had a break-in last week, had to change the locks, this one sticks.’
