by Rachel Caine
Claire reached out in the darkness, and his hand met hers midway—cool at first, then growing warm where their skin touched.
‘‘I don’t want her, Claire,’’ he said. ‘‘But she made me want her. You understand?’’
‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’
‘‘It does. Because now that she’s done it once, it’s going to be easy for her to do it again.’’ His fingers tightened on hers, hard enough to make her wince. ‘‘Don’t try to stop her. Or me, if it comes to that. I have to handle this myself.’’
‘‘Handle it how?’’
‘‘Any way I can,’’ Shane said. He shifted over on the bed. ‘‘You’re shivering.’’
Was she? She honestly hadn’t realized, but the room felt cold, cold and full of despair. Shane was the only bright thing in it.
She stretched out facing him. Too close, she thought, for her dad’s comfort, if he’d seen them, even though they were only holding hands.
Shane reached down on the other side of the bed, found a blanket, and threw it over both of them. It smelled like—well, like Shane, like his skin and hair, and Claire felt a rush of warmth go through her as she breathed it in. She moved closer to him under the covers, partly to get warm, and partly—partly because she needed to touch him.
He met her halfway, and their bodies pressed together with every curve and hollow. Their intertwined fingers curled in on one another. Even though they were close enough to kiss, they didn’t—it was a kind of intimacy that Claire wasn’t used to, being this close and just . . . being. Shane freed his hand from hers and brushed stray locks of hair back from her eyes. He traced her slightly parted lips.
‘‘You’re beautiful,’’ he said. ‘‘When I first saw you, I thought—I thought you were too young to be on your own here, in this town."
"Not now?"
‘‘You’ve made it through better than most of us. But if I could get you to leave this place, I would.’’ Shane’s smile was dim and crooked and a little broken, in the shadows. ‘‘I want you to live, Claire. I need you to live.’’
Her fingers touched the warm fringe of his hair. ‘‘I’m not worried about me,’’ she said.
‘‘You never are. That’s my point. I worry about you. Not just because of the vampires—because of Jason. He’s still out there somewhere. And—’’ Shane paused for a second, as if he couldn’t quite get the rest of it out. ‘‘And there’s me, too. Your parents might be right. I might not be the best—’’
She moved her fingers to put them over his mouth, over those soft, strong lips. ‘‘I won’t ever stop trusting you, Shane. You can’t make me.’’
A shaky laugh out of the dark. ‘‘My point exactly.’’
‘‘That’s why I’m staying here,’’ Claire said. ‘‘With you. Tonight.’’
Shane took in a deep breath. ‘‘Clothes stay on.’’
‘‘Mostly,’’ she agreed.
‘‘You know, your parents really are right about me.’’
Claire sighed. ‘‘No, they’re not. Nobody knows you at all, I think. Not your dad, not even Michael. You’re a deep, dark mystery, Shane.’’
He kissed her for the first time since she’d entered the room, a warm press of lips to her forehead. ‘‘I’m an open book.’’
She smiled. ‘‘I like books.’’
‘‘Hey, we’ve got something in common.’’
‘‘I’m taking off my shoes.’’
‘‘Fine. Shoes off.’’
‘‘And my pants.’’
‘‘Don’t push it, Claire.’’
Claire woke up drowsy and utterly peaceful, and it took a slow second for her to realize that the heavenly warmth at her back was radiating from someone else, in the bed, with her.
From Shane.
She stopped breathing. Was he awake? No, she didn’t think so; she could feel his slow, steady breaths. There was a delicious, forbidden delight to this, a moment that she knew she’d carry with her even when it was gone. Claire closed her eyes and tried to remember everything—like the way Shane’s bare chest touched her back, warm and smooth where their skin connected. She’d negotiated for the removal of shirts, since she’d been wearing a sleeveless camisole underneath, and Shane had wavered enough to let it go. He’d insisted on keeping the pants, though.
She hadn’t mentioned that she’d gotten rid of the bra, though she knew he’d noticed that right off.
Dangerous, some part of her said. You’re going to take this too far. You’re not ready—Why not? Why wasn’t she? Because she wasn’t seventeen? What was so magic about a number, anyway? Who decided when she was ready except her?
Shane made a sound in his sleep—a deep, contented sigh that vibrated through her whole body. I’ll bet if I turn around and kiss him, I could convince him. . . .
Shane’s hand was resting on the inward curve just above her hip, a warm loose weight, and that was how she knew when he woke up—his hand. It went from utterly limp to careful, tensing and relaxing but not moving from its spot.
She could feel each individual finger on her skin.
She stayed very still, keeping her breathing slow and steady. Shane’s hand slowly, gently moved up her side, barely skimming, and then he moved away from her and sat up, facing away toward the window. Claire rolled toward him, holding the blanket at neck level.
‘‘Good morning,’’ she said. Her voice sounded drowsy and slow, and she saw a slice of his face as he turned slightly toward her. Sunlight glimmered warm on his bare skin, like he’d been dusted in gold.
‘‘Good morning,’’ he said, and shook his head. ‘‘Man. That was stupid.’’
Not at all what she was thinking. Shane got up, and she gulped at the way his blue jeans rode low on his hips, the way his bones and muscles curved together and begged to be touched—
‘‘Bathroom,’’ he blurted, and moved almost as fast as a vampire getting out of there. Claire sat up, waiting, but when he didn’t come back, she slowly began to assemble her clothes again. Bra, clicked back into place. Camisole neat and demure, if wrinkled. She’d kept her jeans on. Her hair looked like she’d combed it with a blender—she was still messing with it when she heard Eve’s trademark heavy shoes clopping down the hallway outside, passing Shane’s door, going all the way to the end.
To Claire’s own room.
Oh, damn.
Eve hammered on the door. ‘‘Claire?’’
Claire slipped out of Shane’s room quietly, trying not to look obvious about it, and made sure she was several steps into neutral territory before she said, ‘‘What is it?’’
Eve, who’d opened up Claire’s door and was looking inside, whirled so fast she almost overbalanced. She was ultra-Goth today—deep purple dress with skull patterns, black-and-white striped tights, a death’s-head choker. Her hair was up in one scary-looking spiked ponytail, and her makeup was the usual rice paper and dead black, with the addition of dark cherry lipstick.
‘‘Where’d you come from?’’ she asked. Claire gestured vaguely toward the staircase. ‘‘I just came from there.’’
‘‘Bathroom,’’ Claire said. And got a frown, but Eve let it go.
‘‘It’s Michael,’’ she said. ‘‘He’s gone.’’
‘‘Gone to work?’’
‘‘No, gone. As in, he took off in the middle of the night and didn’t tell me where he was going, and he hasn’t come back. I checked—he’s not at the music store. I’m worried, especially—’’ Eve’s train of thought switched tracks, and her eyes widened. ‘‘Oh my God, are you wearing the same thing you had on yesterday? You’re not doing the walk of shame, are you? Because I totally cannot face your parents if you are.’’
‘‘No, no, it’s not like that—’’ Claire felt a hot blush work its way up from her neck to vividly light up her face. ‘‘I just—we were talking, and we fell asleep. I swear, we didn’t, um—’’
‘‘Yeah, you’d better not have ummed, because if you did, that would be—’’
Eve struggled not to smile. ‘‘That would be bad.’’
‘‘I know, I know. But we didn’t. And we aren’t going to until—’’ Until I can convince him it’s okay. ‘‘Whatever. About Michael—what do you want to do?’’
‘‘Go ask some questions. Common Grounds is a place to start, much as I hate it; Sam’s probably there, or we can leave a message for him. I heard he’s back out in public again.’’ Sam was Michael’s grandfather— and a vampire. He’d nearly been staked dead, and it had taken Amelie’s help to save him. But he’d been left weak. Claire was glad to hear that he was better— Sam was, she felt, one of the best of the vampires. One she could trust. ‘‘Well? Are we going or what?’’
Shane still hadn’t come out of the bathroom. ‘‘Five minutes,’’ Claire said, resigned. No chance of a hot shower, or even clean clothes—the best she had available were cleanish, and not slept in. She might be able to find that last-picked pair of underwear hiding in a drawer. . . .
There was a knock downstairs at the front door. An authoritative, urgent sort of knock. It was still early, and the number of drop-in visitors in Morganville was generally pretty small anyway; Claire dragged the least wrinkled of the two T-shirts over her head, pulled on the fresh underwear and old jeans, and hurried out into the hall still zipping up. Eve was ahead of her, already going down the stairs, and as Claire passed the bathroom, Shane opened the door and stuck his wet head out. ‘‘What’s going on?’’
‘‘Don’t know!’’ she shot back, and hurried after Eve.
What was going on was the delivery of an envelope, which Eve had to sign for. As she turned it over, Claire made out the name, neatly written in an antiquely beautiful hand: Mr. Shane Collins. There was even a decorative little flourish underneath his name. The envelope was heavy cream-colored paper. On the back flap there was a gold seal with some kind of shield on it.
Eve lifted it to her nose, sniffed, and raised her eyebrows. ‘‘Wow,’’ she said. ‘‘Expensive perfume.’’
She waved it in Claire’s direction, and she caught a hint of the dark, musky fragrance—full of promise and danger.
Shane padded downstairs, barefoot and wearing only his jeans except for the towel draped around his neck. He slowed as they both turned toward him. ‘‘What?’’
Eve held up the envelope. ‘‘Mr. Shane Collins.’’
He took it from her fingers, frowned at it, and then ripped open the back flap. Inside was a folded card of the same expensive cream paper, with raised black printing. Shane looked at it for a long second, then put it back in the envelope and handed it back to Eve. ‘‘Burn it,’’ he said.
And then he went upstairs.
Eve lost no time digging the card out, and since she did, Claire didn’t feel too guilty about reading over her shoulder.
You have been summoned to attend a masked ball and feast to celebrate the arrival of Elder Bishop, on Saturday the twentieth of October, at the Elders’ Council Hall at the hour of midnight.
You will attend at the invitation of the lady Ysandre, and are required to accompany her at her pleasure.
‘‘Who’s Ysandre?’’ Eve asked.
Claire was too busy worrying about the phrase at her pleasure.
They located Sam Glass at Common Grounds, sitting and talking with two others Claire didn’t recognize, but Eve clearly did, from the nods they exchanged. Humans, because they were wearing bracelets. They said their good-byes and cleared the chairs for Eve and Claire.
Sam looked a lot like Michael—a little older, maybe, with a slightly wider chin. He had red hair to Michael’s bright gold, but a similar build and height.
That had nearly gotten him killed, not so long ago, when he’d taken a stake meant for Michael. He still looked drawn, Claire thought—tired, too. But his smile was genuine as he nodded his greeting. ‘‘Ladies, ’’ he said. ‘‘It’s good to see you. Eve, I didn’t think you’d ever come in here again, not voluntarily. ’’
‘‘Believe me, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t,’’ she said, and tapped dark purple fingernails on the scarred table in agitation. ‘‘Do you know where Michael is?’’
Sam’s ginger eyebrows rose. ‘‘He’s not at work?’’
‘‘He left last night, didn’t say where he was going. We haven’t seen him, and he’s not at work. So? Ideas?’’
‘‘Nothing good,’’ Sam said, and sat back in his chair. ‘‘Does he have his car?’’
‘‘Yeah, as far as I know. Why?’’
‘‘GPS. All of our cars are trackable.’’
‘‘Wow, good to know in case I ever go into the grand-theft-auto business around here,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Who’s got the supersecret-spy tracking gear, and how do I get my hands on it?’’
‘‘You don’t,’’ Sam said. ‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’
‘‘Soon?’’
‘‘As soon as I can.’’
‘‘But I need to find him! What if he’s—’’ Eve leaned even closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘‘What if someone has him?’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Bishop!’’
Sam’s eyes widened, and all over the coffee shop, other heads snapped up. Mostly vampires, Claire thought, who knew the name, or at least knew of it. And who could hear a whisper across a crowded room.
‘‘Quiet,’’ Sam said. ‘‘Eve, stay out of it. It’s nothing for any of you to get involved in. It’s our business.’’
‘‘It’s our business, too. The guy was in our house. He threatened us, all of us,’’ Eve said. ‘‘Can’t you find out right now? Because otherwise I’m going to call up Homeland Security and tell them that we’ve got a whole bunch of terrorists skulking around in the dark.’’
‘‘You wouldn’t.’’
‘‘Oh, I so would. With glee. And I’d tell them to bring tanning beds and conduct interviews at noon out in the parking lot.’’
Sam shook his head. ‘‘Eve—’’
Eve slammed her hand down on the table. It sounded like a gunshot, and every head turned in their direction. ‘‘I’m not kidding, Sam!’’
‘‘Yes, you are,’’ he said, deliberately quiet. ‘‘Because if you were serious, you would be making a threat against people who control the destiny of your next heartbeat, and that would be very, very stupid. Now, say you’ll let me handle this.’’
Eve’s dark eyes didn’t blink. ‘‘Is this about Bishop? Why is he here? What’s he doing? Why are you so scared of him?’’
Sam stood up, and there was something remote and cold about him just then. Something that reminded Claire, very strongly, that he was a vampire first.
‘‘Go home,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll find Michael. I doubt he’s in any trouble, and I doubt it has anything to do with Bishop.’’
Eve stood up, too, and for the first time, Claire saw her as an adult—a woman, facing him on equal terms.
‘‘You’d better be right,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Because if anything happens to Michael, that won’t be the end of it. I swear to that.’’
Sam watched them all the way out of the coffee shop. So did everyone else. Some of them looked worried; some looked gleeful. Some looked angry.
But nobody ignored the two of them as they left. Nobody. And that was . . . unsettling.
They got in the car, and Eve started it up without a word. Claire finally ventured a question. ‘‘Where are we going?’’
‘‘Home,’’ Eve said. ‘‘I’m giving Sam a chance to keep his word.’’
That, Claire thought, was going to involve Eve chewing the corners off the walls and pacing holes in the floor. And Claire had absolutely no idea what to do to help her.
But that was basically what friends were for . . . to be there to keep you from doing the crazy.
They’d been home for exactly one hour when the phone rang. Shane was sitting next to the phone— he’d appropriated the place, because he was worried Eve would keep picking up the receiver to check the line—and answ
ered on the first chime. ‘‘Glass House,’’ he said, and listened. Claire watched every muscle in his body go tense and still. ‘‘Go screw yourself.’’
And he hung up.
Claire and Eve both gaped at him. ‘‘What the hell—?’’ Eve blurted, and lunged for the phone. She flicked the contact switch.
‘‘Star sixty-nine,’’ Claire suggested. ‘‘Shane—who was it?’’
He didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his chest. Eve frantically punched in the code. ‘‘It’s ringing, ’’ she said—and then, like Shane, she went still.
She sank down in a chair.
‘‘Should’ve left it alone,’’ Shane said.
Eve closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. ‘‘Yeah, I’m here,’’ she said tightly. ‘‘What is it, Jason?’’
Claire caught Shane’s look, and she must have seemed suspiciously in the know, because he frowned at her. ‘‘Have you seen him?’’ Shane asked.
Truth, or lie? ‘‘Yes,’’ Claire said, even though that definitely wasn’t the path of least resistance. ‘‘I saw him yesterday morning on the way to school. He said he wanted to talk to Eve.’’
Oh, that look. It could have melted steel. ‘‘And you forgot about chatting with the local serial killer? Sweet, Claire. Very smart.’’
‘‘I didn’t forget. I—never mind.’’ There was no explaining the vibe she had gotten from Jason, not to Shane, whose most vivid memories of the little creep had to do with Jason sinking a knife into his guts. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should have told you.’’
Eve made a shushing motion at them and hunched over the phone, listening hard. ‘‘He said what? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.’’
Apparently, he was. Eve listened another few seconds, and then said, ‘‘Okay, then. No, I don’t know. Maybe. Bye.’’
She put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it. Her face looked frozen.
‘‘Eve?’’ Claire asked. ‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘My dad,’’ Eve said. ‘‘He’s—he’s sick. He’s in the hospital. They don’t think—they don’t think he’s going to make it. It’s his liver.’’
