by Rachel Caine
‘‘Oh.’’ She had no idea what else to say to that.
‘‘I thought a little retail therapy, and then we all go study,’’ Monica said. ‘‘We’re going to check out that new place, not Common Grounds. Common Grounds is so last century. Like I want to be under Oliver’s thumb all the time. Now that he’s taken over as Protector for our family, he’s been all hands-on, wanting to see my grades. Sucks, right?’’
‘‘I—’’
‘‘C’mon, save my life. I really need help with economics, and these two are boneheads.’’ Monica dismissed her two closest friends with an offhand wave. ‘‘Seriously. Come with. Please? I could really use your brainpower. And I think we should get to know each other a little better, don’t you? Seeing as how things have changed?’’
Claire opened her mouth, then closed it without saying anything. The last two times she’d gone anywhere with Monica, she’d been flat on her back on the floor of a van, getting beaten and terrorized.
She managed to stammer, ‘‘I know this is going to sound rude, but—what the hell are you doing?’’
Monica sighed and looked—how weird was this?— contrite. ‘‘I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I was a bitch to you, and I hurt you. And I’m sorry.’’ Gina and Jennifer, her constant Greek chorus, nodded and repeated sorry in whispers. ‘‘Water under the bridge, all right? All is forgiven?’’
Claire was, if anything, even more mystified. ‘‘Why are you doing this?’’
Monica pursed her glossy lips, leaned forward, and dropped her voice to a low, confidential tone. ‘‘Well . . . all right, yeah, it’s not like I had a head injury or something and woke up thinking you were cool. But you’re different now. I can help. I can introduce you around to all the people you really need to know.’’
‘‘You’re kidding. I’m different how?’’
Monica leaned even closer. ‘‘You signed.’’
So . . . this wasn’t about Michael. Claire had just become . . . popular. Because she’d become Amelie’s property.
And that was terrifying.
‘‘Oh,’’ she managed, and then, more slowly, ‘‘Oh.’’
‘‘Trust me,’’ Monica said. ‘‘You need somebody in the know. Somebody to show you the ropes.’’
If the only other person left on the planet was Jack the Ripper, Claire would have trusted him first. ‘‘Sorry,’’ she said. ‘‘I have plans. But—thank you.
Maybe some other time.’’
She shut the door on Monica’s surprised face, then locked it. She jumped when she turned to find Shane standing right behind her, staring at her as though he’d never seen her before.
‘‘Thank you?’’ he mimicked. ‘‘You’re thanking that bitch? For what, Claire? For beating you? For trying to kill you? For killing my sister? Christ. First Michael, then you. I don’t know any of you anymore.’’
In true Shane fashion, he just took off. She listened to the heavy tread of his footsteps cross the living room and then go up the stairs. Heard the familiar slam of his door.
‘‘Hey!’’ she shouted after him. ‘‘I was just being polite!’’
2
‘‘So,’’ Eve said as she drove Claire to school, ‘‘what was up with the Monica thing? I mean, maybe you ought to watch your back with her. Even more than you already do.’’
‘‘She sounded like she really kind of meant it. It took a lot for her to come eat crow like that.’’
Eve shot her a look. One of those looks, doubly effective coming from a girl wearing rice-powder makeup and flawless eye liner and black-cherry lips. ‘‘In Monica’s world, being friends means doing whatever Monica wants, when Monica wants to do it. Somehow, I can’t see you as one of her brain-dead backup singers.’’
‘‘No! That’s not—I didn’t say I was going to be her friend, just—you asked.’’ Claire crossed her arms and settled back in the bucket seat of Eve’s ancient black Caddy, shooting for a stubborn look. ‘‘She’s not my friend, okay? You’re my friend.’’
‘‘So when Monica starts bringing the in-crowd to hang at your study table, you’ll get up and leave? No way. You’re too nice. Before you know it, you’re tagging along with them, and then you start to actually feel sorry for them. You’ll tell me how Monica’s not bad, she’s just misunderstood, and before you know it you’re braiding each others’ hair and giggling over boy bands.’’
Claire made a retching sound. ‘‘I wouldn’t do that.’’
‘‘Please. You like everybody. You even like me. You like Shane, and let’s face it, Shane’s kind of an idiot, at least right now.’’ Eve’s eyes narrowed as she thought about that. ‘‘And about Shane, I swear, if he doesn’t snap out of it, I’m going to punch him in the face. Well, punch him in the face and then run like hell.’’
Claire played that out in her head and nearly laughed. Eve’s best possible punch wouldn’t do more than surprise Shane, she figured, but she could just picture the wounded look of confusion on his face. What the hell did I do?
‘‘I’m not popular,’’ she declared. ‘‘Monica’s not my friend, and I’m not hanging with her, ever, end of story.’’
‘‘Swear?’’
Claire held up her hand. ‘‘Swear.’’
‘‘Huh.’’ Eve didn’t sound convinced. ‘‘Whatev.’’
‘‘Look, if we’re friends, how about buying me a mocha?’’
‘‘Mooch.’’
‘‘You’re the one with the job.’’
Midafternoon, and it was raining, which was kind of a rarity—a cold, early-fall rain that came down in glittering sheets. Claire, like about 90 percent of the other students, hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, so she sloshed along miserably along the Quadrangle, past the empty benches and rain-soaked message boards, toward her chem lab. She loved Chem Lab. She hated rain. She hated being soaked to the skin and frankly, living in this part of Texas made it usually not that much of a risk. There was no room in her backpack for anything frivolous, like a raincoat. She worried her books were getting soggy, but the backpack was supposed to be waterproof. . . .
‘‘You look cold,’’ said a voice from behind her, and then the rain cut off, and she heard the hollow thump of raindrops hitting the thin skin of an umbrella. Claire looked up, blinked water out of her eyes, and saw she was walking under a golf umbrella big enough for four or five of her . . . or one of her, plus the guy holding the umbrella. Because he was huge. Also cute, in that big-boned football player kind of way. He would have made Shane look small. Well proportioned, though, so the height (had to be at least six feet five, Claire thought) and weight just seemed right on him. He had chocolate brown skin and gorgeous brown eyes, and he seemed . . . kind of nice.
‘‘I’m Jerome,’’ he said. ‘‘Hey.’’
‘‘Hey,’’ she said back, still amazed that somebody who was clearly somebody would stop to hang an umbrella over her head. ‘‘Thanks. Um, I’m Claire. Hi.’’
She juggled her dripping backpack to her other hand and offered him her right. He took it and shook. His was about three times as large, big enough (she bet) to cup most of an entire football.
He was wearing a TPU athletic department T-shirt. No mystery about his major.
‘‘Where’re you heading, Claire?’’
‘‘Chem Lab,’’ she said, and pointed at the building, which was about a football field-length away, on the other side of the Quad. He nodded and steered that direction. ‘‘Look, it’s nice of you, but you don’t have to—’’
‘‘It’s no problem.’’ He smiled at her. He had dimples. ‘‘I hear the Science Building is nice this time of year. And anything for a friend.’’
‘‘But I’m not—’’
Jerome nodded to a group of girls standing huddled together under the awning of the Language Arts Building. Pretty girls. In the center of them was Monica Morrell, and she blew Jerome a flirty sort of kiss.
‘‘Oh,’’ Claire said. ‘‘That friend.’’ Her estimate o
f Jerome fell by several dozen notches, hit bottom, and started digging for China. ‘‘Look, I appreciate it, but I’m not sugar. I won’t melt.’’
She veered away and walked fast. Jerome took about two long strides and put the umbrella over her again without comment. She glared at him.
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘‘I can play this game all day.’’
‘‘Fine,’’ she said. ‘‘But I don’t need favors from Monica.’’
‘‘Girl, it’s an umbrella, not a Lamborghini,’’ he pointed out. Way too reasonably. ‘‘I’m not even lending it to you. It’s not really that much of a favor.’’
She kept her mouth shut, head down, and walked fast. Jerome stopped at the foot of the Science Building’s stairs, and she bounded up and darted under the concrete porch, which was already choked with other students hiding from the rain. She looked back down. Jerome smiled and waved, and a bronze or copper bracelet caught her eye.
He was Protected. Probably a native of Morganville.
‘‘I’m not her friend. That was not my fault,’’ she complained, defending herself to an Eve who wasn’t even there.
And then she sneezed, sniffled, and dragged her soggy butt to class.
The rain kept up all day and all night, but the next day dawned bright and shiny, with a pale silver sun not quite as fierce as Claire expected. Kind of nice, actually. She’d already showered by the time Eve stumbled into the bathroom, looking more like the walking dead than most vampires. Eve mumbled something and ignored Claire as she started up the shower again. Claire finished at the sink and hurried downstairs. She found Michael at the coffeepot, emptying the filter of cold grounds. Deeply weird that he was more of a morning person as a vampire. Maybe he was just enjoying having a morning again, instead of becoming a floaty ghost at dawn.
‘‘Eve’s up. You’d better make it so dark the spoon melts.’’
Michael shot her a half smile, still almost lethal enough to stop a girl’s heart. Luckily he knew just how much current to use on his charm. ‘‘That bad, huh?’’
She thought about it for a second as she took down a bowl and the box of Rice Krispies, and found the milk behind the bottles of beer—contraband, from Shane—in the fridge. ‘‘You’ve seen that movie where the zombies eat people’s brains?’’
‘‘Night of the Living Dead?’’
‘‘The zombies would run if they got a look at her.’’
Michael spooned extra coffee into the fresh filter. He looked good, she thought. Strong, tall, confident. He had on a nice blue shirt and some not-so-ratty blue jeans, and he was wearing shoes. Running shoes, sure, but shoes. Claire stared at his feet. ‘‘You’re going out,’’ she said.
‘‘Got a job,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Working at JT’s Music over on Third Street, ten to close. Mostly I’ll be demoing guitars and selling them, but JT said he’d let me do some private lessons if I wanted.’’
That was so . . . normal. Really normal. And he sounded happy, too. Claire bit her lip and tried to organize the explosion of questions in her brain. ‘‘Ah—what about the sun?’’ she asked. Because that seemed to be the first hurdle.
‘‘They issued me a car,’’ Michael said. ‘‘It’s in the garage. Fully sunproofed. And there’s underground parking at JT’s. There is most places.’’
‘‘Issued—who issued you a car?’’ He shot her a you’re not stupid look. ‘‘The town? Amelie?’’
He didn’t answer directly as he slid the filter compartment shut and turned on the brew switch. The machine began wheezing and trickling into the pot. ‘‘They tell me it’s standard procedure,’’ he said. ‘‘For new vampires.’’
‘‘Not that there have been any for fifty years, right?’’
He shrugged. It was obvious that she was making him uncomfortable with the questions, but Claire couldn’t help herself. ‘‘Did you ever find out why— why there haven’t been any in so long?’’
‘‘I don’t think it’s a great idea to be too curious right now.’’
She understood that—and understood he meant it for her as well—but she couldn’t stop asking questions, somehow. ‘‘Michael—did they get you the job, too?’’
‘‘No. I know JT. I got the job all by myself. They offered—’’ He stopped, clearly thinking he’d already said too much.
Claire finished it out, guessing. ‘‘They offered you some kind of job in the vampire community. Right? Or—’’ Oh God. ‘‘Or they offered to make you a Protector?’’
‘‘Not right off the bat,’’ he said, still staring at the coffeemaker. ‘‘You have to work up to that. So they say.’’
Michael. Owning people. Skimming off their wages like some Mafia don. She tried not to let him see how sick that idea made her feel, that he’d ever really consider doing it.
His eyes suddenly cut toward her, as if he’d read her mind. ‘‘I didn’t do it. I found the job at JT’s, Claire,’’ Michael said, and suddenly moved toward her. She flinched, and he took a deep breath and held out his hand in clear apology. ‘‘Sorry. I forget sometimes—it’s hard, okay, learning how to move around people when I can go so much faster. But I wouldn’t hurt you, Claire. No way.’’
‘‘Shane thinks—’’
Light caught and flared in Michael’s eyes, eerie and frightening, and then he blinked and it was gone. He obviously made a real effort to keep his voice quiet. ‘‘Shane’s wrong,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m not changing, Claire.
I’m still your friend. I’ll look after you. All of you. Even Shane.’’
She didn’t answer him. Truthfully, as much as she liked him—and it verged on love—she felt something different about him today. Something complicated and agitated and strange.
Was he . . . hungry? He was staring at her. No, he was staring at the thin skin of her neck, wasn’t he? Claire put her hand to it, involuntary but irresistible, and Michael got a very slight pink flush in his pale cheeks and looked away.
‘‘I wouldn’t,’’ he said, in a far different tone than before. It almost sounded scared to her. ‘‘I wouldn’t, Claire. You have to believe me. But—this is hard. It’s so hard.’’
She did believe him, mostly because she could hear all the heartbreak and sorrow in his voice. She took a breath, stepped forward, and hugged him. He was tall; the top of her head only brushed his chin. His arms felt strong and comforting, and she told herself that he wasn’t warm because it was chilly in the kitchen. It wasn’t really true, but that helped.
‘‘I wouldn’t hurt you,’’ he murmured. ‘‘But I’ve got to admit, I want to. I spent all my life hating vampires, and now—now look at me.’’
‘‘You had to,’’ Claire said. ‘‘You didn’t have a choice.’’
She felt his sigh go through both of them. ‘‘Not true,’’ he said. ‘‘Shane’s right—I did have a choice. But this is the choice I made, and now I have to live with it.’’
He let go when she stepped back. Neither of them knew what to say, so Claire busied herself by opening kitchen cabinets to get down the four mismatched cups they used in the morning. Michael’s was plain chunky stoneware, oversized, like a diner cup on steroids. Eve’s was a petite black thing with a yawning cartoon vampire on it. Shane’s had a happy face with a bloody bullet hole in the center of its forehead. Claire had taken one with Goofy and Mickey on it.
‘‘How’s school?’’ Michael asked. Neutral subjects. He didn’t want to talk it out; he wanted to keep it inside. She wasn’t too surprised. Michael had always been too self-contained for his own good, as far as she could tell.
‘‘Too easy,’’ she sighed, and poured coffee.
They were sitting down and sipping from their mugs when the kitchen door opened, and Shane—wearing pajama bottoms and a ratty old faded T-shirt—came into the kitchen. He avoided Michael, picked up his cup off the counter, and filled it to the brim. He left without a word.
Michael watched him go, face set and hard.
Claire felt the need to apologi
ze. ‘‘He’s just—’’
‘‘I know,’’ Michael said. ‘‘Believe me. I know exactly how Shane is. Doesn’t mean I have to like it right now.’’
I really need to stop being the Glass Goodwill Ambassador, Claire thought, but she knew she’d keep on doing it. Somebody had to, after all. So after she’d finished her coffee, she went to talk to Shane.
Shane’s door was unlocked and slightly open. Claire pushed it and stepped inside, then stopped short. All her carefully prepared speeches flew right out of her head, because Shane was getting dressed.
The sight of him short-circuited her thought processes and completely grounded her better judgment. He’d already hauled on his blue jeans, and his back was to her. No shirt yet. She was spellbound by the ripples of muscles on his back, the gorgeous smoothness of his skin, the way his shaggy hair brushed the tops of his shoulders and begged to be smoothed back. . . .
The sound of his zipper being pulled up snapped her back to sanity. She stepped hastily back, out into the hall, and pulled the door almost shut, then knocked.
‘‘What?’’ It wasn’t a friendly response.
‘‘It’s me,’’ she said. ‘‘Can I come in?’’
She heard something halfway between a grunt and a sigh, and opened the door to find him dragging a dark gray, form-fitting shirt over his head. It looked very good on him. Not as good as the no-shirt thing, but she was trying hard not to think about that. It had made her warm and fluttery inside.
‘‘Is that a new shirt?’’ she asked, desperate to get her mind off the vivid mental pictures that kept bubbling up. That got another indefinite grunt. ‘‘It looks nice.’’
Shane gave her an ironic look. ‘‘We’re talking clothes now? Wait, let me get my Fashion for Dummies book.’’
‘‘I—never mind. About Michael—’’
‘‘Stop.’’ Shane stepped forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘‘I know, you don’t want me ripping him, but I can’t help it. Give me some time, okay? I need to figure some things out.’’
