by Rachel Caine
“Why is it always sugar with you?” Shane asked.
“Shut up, Collins. This one was all on you, you know.”
He shrugged and put his arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“What are we going to do?” Claire asked. “About Oliver?”
Nobody had an answer.
The sheriff’s cruiser let loose a shocking little whoop of siren, just to let them know he meant business. Eve swallowed, put the car in reverse, and backed the sedan onto the street. “Guess we’ll figure it out as we go,” she said. “Anybody got his cell number?”
“I do,” Michael and Claire said, simultaneously, and exchanged guilty looks. Michael took out his phone and texted something as Eve drove—staying well under the speed limit, which Claire thought was very smart—and as they passed a sign announcing the town limit, the sheriff’s car coasted to a stop. The lights were still flashing.
“Keep going?” Eve asked. She kept looking in the rearview mirror. “Guys? Decision?”
“Keep going,” Shane said, leaning forward. “We can’t get back as long as he’s watching. If we’re going back at all. Which I don’t vote for, by the way.”
“Better idea,” Michael said, and pointed up ahead, on the left side of the narrow, very dark road. “There’s a motel. We check in, wait for Oliver to join us. We’re going to have to sit the day out somewhere, anyway.”
“There?” Eve sounded appalled, and Claire could see why. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz. It wasn’t even as good as that motel in the movie Psycho. It was a little, straight line of cinder-block rooms with a neon sign, a sagging porch, and one big security light for the parking lot.
And the parking lot was empty.
“You can’t be serious,” Eve said. “Guys. People get eaten in places like this. At the very least, we get locked in a room and terrible, evil things get done to us and put on the Internet. I’ve seen the movies.”
“Eve,” Michael said, “horror movies are not documentaries.”
“And yet, I really think a serial killer owns this place. No. Not going to—”
Michael’s phone buzzed. He flipped it open and read the text. “Oliver says to stop here. He’ll join us in about another hour.”
“You are kidding.”
“Hey, you’re the one who had to have the ice cream. Look what kind of trouble we got ourselves into. At least this way we’re safe in a room with a door that locks. And the sign says they have HBO.”
“That stands for Horrible Bloody Ohmygod,” Eve said. “Which is the way they kill you. When you think you’re safe.”
“Eve! ” Claire was starting to get creeped out, too. Eve put her hands up, briefly, then back down to the wheel.
“Fine,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, while we’re all screaming and crying. And I’m sleeping in my clothes. With a stake in both hands.”
“It’s probably not run by vampires.”
“First, you wanna bet?” Eve hit the brakes and put the car in park. “Second, sharp pointy things tend to work on everything else, too. Including cannibals running creepy motels.”
They sat in silence as the engine ticked and cooled, and finally Shane cleared his throat. “Right. So, we’re going in?”
“We could stay in the car.”
“Yeah, that’s safe.”
“At least we can see them coming. And also run.”
Claire sighed and got out of the car, walked into the small office, and hit the bell on the counter. It seemed really, really loud. She heard doors slamming behind her—Shane, Michael, and Eve finally bailing out. The office was actually nicer than the outside of the building, with carpet that was kind of new, comfortable chairs, even a flat-screen TV playing on the wall with the sound turned off. The place smelled like ... warm vanilla.
Out of the back room came an older lady with graying hair tied back in a ponytail. Claire couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like a serial killer, actually—she looked like a classic grandma, even down to the small, round glasses. She was wiping her hands on a dish towel and was wearing an apron over blue jeans and a checked shirt. “Help you, honey?” she asked, and put the towel down. She looked a little nervous as the others came in behind her. “Y’all need a room?”
“Yes ma’am,” Claire said softly. Michael and Shane were doing their best to look like nice boys, and Eve was, well, Eve. Smiling. “Maybe two, if they’re not too expensive?”
“Oh, they’re not expensive,” the lady said, and shook her head. “Ain’t exactly the Hilton, you know. Thirty-five dollars a night, comes with breakfast in the morning. I make biscuits and sausage gravy, and there’s coffee. Some cereal. Ain’t fancy, but it’s good food.”
Michael stepped up, signed the book, and counted out cash. She read the register upside down. “Glass? You from around here?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “We’re just passing through. Heading for Dallas.”
“What the hell possessed you to come all the way out here?” she asked. “Never mind; glad you did. Fresh sheets and towels in the rooms, soaps, some complimentary shampoo. You need anything, you just call. You kids have a good night. Oh, and no hell-raising. We may be outside of town, but I know the sheriff personally. He’ll make a special trip.”
“Why does everybody think we’re so insane?” Eve asked, and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, we’re nice. Not everybody our age rolls with anarchy.”
“You would, if anarchy offered free ice cream,” Michael said. He accepted the two keys and smiled. “Thank you, ma’am—”
“Name’s Linda,” the lady interrupted. “Ma‘am was my mother. Though I guess I’m old enough now to be ma’am to you folks, more’s the pity. You go on. Let me finish up my baking. You stop back later. I’ll have fresh chocolate chip cookies.”
Eve’s mouth dropped open. Even Michael looked impressed. “Uh—thanks,” he said, and they retreated out to the parking lot, staring at one another. “She’s making cookies.”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Terrifying. So, how are we doing this thing?”
“Girls get their own room,” Eve said, and plucked one of the keys out of Michael’s hand. “Oh, come on, don’t give me that face. You know that’s the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “Looks like they’re right next door to each other.”
They were, rooms one and two, with a connecting door between. Inside, the rooms—like Linda’s office—were really pretty nice. Claire checked out the bathroom; it was nicer than the one at home—and cleaner. “Hey, Eve?” she called, sticking her head around the door. “Should I be terrified now, or later?”
“Shut up,” Eve said, and flopped on one of the two beds, crossing her feet at the ankles as she reached for the remote on the TV. “Okay, it’s not Motel Hell. I admit it. But it could have been.... Hey, check it out—there’s a Saw marathon on HBO!”
Great. Just what they needed. Claire rolled her eyes, went out to the car, and helped the boys unload the stuff they needed—which was, actually, pretty much everything by the time they finished. Eve remained loftily above it all, flipping channels and searching for the most comfortable pillow.
Shane dragged her suitcase into the room and dumped it on the floor beside her bed. “Hey, Dark Princess? Here’s your crap. Also, bite me.”
“Wait, here’s your tip—” She flipped him off, without taking her eyes off the TV. “Nice to know we can still be just the same even outside of Morganville, right?”
He laughed. “Right.” He looked at Claire, who leaned her own suitcase against the wall and looked around. “So I guess this is good night?”
“Guess so,” she said. “Um, unless you guys want to watch movies?”
“I’ll bring the chips.”
Two hours later, they were lying on the beds, propped up, groaning and wincing and yelling stuff at the screen. The sound was turned up loud, and what with all the screaming and chain saws and such, it took a few seconds for the sound o
utside the room to filter through to any of them. Michael heard it first, of course, and nearly levitated off the bed to cross the room and pull back the curtains. Eve scrambled to mute the TV. “What? What is it?”
Out in the parking lot, Claire could now hear hoots, drunken laughter, and the crash of metal. She and Shane bounced off the bed, too, and Eve came last.
“Hey!” she screamed, and Claire winced at the rage in her voice. “Hey, you assholes, that’s my car!”
It was the three jerks from the truck stop, only about a case of beer more stupid, which really didn’t seem possible, in theory. But they were going after Eve’s car with a great big sledgehammer and two baseball bats. The glass in the front window shattered at a blow from the sledgehammer, which was swung by Angry Dude. Orange Cap swung a baseball bat and added another deep dent to the already horribly damaged hood. The last guy knocked off the side mirror, sending it to left field with one hard blow.
Orange Cap blew Eve a gap-toothed kiss, reached in his back pocket, and pulled out a glass bottle filled with something that looked faintly pink, like lemonade....
“Gas,” Michael said. “I have to stop them.”
“You’ll get your ass killed,” Shane said, and flung himself in the way. “No way. This ain’t Morganville, and if you end up in a jail cell, you’ll die. Understand?”
“But my car!” Eve moaned. “No no no ...”
Orange Cap poured gas all over the seats inside, then tossed in a match.
Eve’s car went up like a school bonfire at homecoming. Eve shrieked again and tried to lunge past Shane, too. He backed up to block the door and dodged a slap from her. “Claire! Little help?” he yelped, as Eve actually connected. Claire grabbed her friend’s arms and pulled her backward. It wasn’t easy. Eve was bigger, stronger, and more than a little crazy just now.
“Let go!” Eve yelled.
“No! Calm down. It’s too late. There’s nothing you can do!”
“I can kick their asses!”
Michael had already come to the same conclusion as Shane, and as Eve broke free from Claire, he got in her way and wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to a fast stop. “No,” he said, “no, you can’t.” His eyes were shimmering red with fury, and he blinked and took deep breaths until he was himself again, blue-eyed Michael, under control—barely.
The three men in the parking lot whooped and hollered as Eve’s car burned, then scrambled for their big pickup truck as the motel’s office door slammed open.
Grandma Linda stood there, looking like the wrath of God in an apron. She had a shotgun, which she pointed at an angle at the sky and fired. The blast was shockingly loud. “Get lost, you morons!” she yelled at the retreating three men. “Next time I see your taillights I’ll give you a special buckshot kiss!”
She racked another shell, but she didn’t need to reload; the truck was already peeling out, spitting gravel from tire treads as it flew out of the parking lot, did a quick, drunken U-turn, and headed back inside Durram’s town limits.
Grandma Linda shouldered the shotgun, frowned at the burning car, and went back into the office. She returned with a fire extinguisher, and put the blaze out with five quick blasts of white foam.
Shane opened the door and got immediately mowed down by Eve, who blew past him, with Michael right behind. Shane and Claire followed last. Claire felt physically sick. The car was utterly trashed. Even with the fire put out, the windows were shattered, the bodywork dented and twisted, the headlights broken, tires flat, and the seats were burned down to the springs in several places.
She’d seen better wrecks at the junkyard.
“Those three ain’t got the sense God gave a virus,” Linda said. “I’ll call the sheriff, get him out here to write up a complaint. I’m sorry, honey.”
Eve was crying, violent little jerks of sobs that came with shudders as she stared at the wreckage of the car she’d loved. Claire put her arm around her, and Eve turned and buried her face in Claire’s shoulder. “Why?” she cried, full of rage and confusion now. “Why did they follow us? Why’d they do that?”
“We scared them,” Michael said. “Scared people do stupid things. Drunk, scared bullies do even stupider things.”
Linda nodded. “You got that right, son. It’s a damn shame, though. Hate to see something like this happen to nice kids just minding their own business. People like that, they just got to pick on somebody, and everybody around here’s had enough of ’em. Guess they figured you for the new toys.”
“They figured wrong,” Michael said. His eyes glittered briefly red, then faded back to blue. “But we’ve got problems. What are we going to do for a car?”
“Just be glad we got our stuff out of it,” Shane said, and Michael, knowing what he was getting at, looked briefly sick, then nodded. “Eve and I will do some shopping tomorrow. See what we can get in town.”
Eve sniffled and wiped at her eyes, which made a mess of her mascara. “I don’t have the money for a new car.”
“We’ll find a way,” Shane said, as if it made sense and happened to him on a regular basis. Claire guessed, with his history, it probably had. “Come on, moping around out here isn’t fixing anything. Might as well go in for the night. We’re not going anywhere.”
Linda sighed. “Hate to see this kind of thing happen,” she said again. “Damn fools. You wait here a second.”
She went back into the office, carrying the fire extinguisher, and came back out with a small ceramic bowl full of...
“Cookies,” Shane said, and accepted it from her. “Thanks, Linda.”
“Least I can do.” She kicked a rock, frowning, and shook her head. “Damn fools. I’ll sit up the rest of the night, make sure they don’t come back here.”
Somehow, Claire didn’t think they’d take the chance. Linda had looked pretty serious with that shotgun.
The joys of the movie party were over, but the cookies were warm, fresh, and delicious. Eve’s tears dried up and left a feverish anger in their place. She took a long shower to burn it off, and when she came out of the bathroom, wreathed in steam, she looked small and vulnerable, stripped of all her Goth armor.
Claire hugged her and gave her a cookie. Eve munched it and hugged her black silk kimono around herself as she climbed onto the bed. “Boys gone?” she asked.
“Yeah, they’re gone,” Claire said. “Mind if I—?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll just sit here and watch my car smoke.” Eve stared moodily at the curtains, which were closed, thankfully.
Claire shook her head, grabbed her stuff, and went in to take her own bath. She did it at light speed, half convinced that Eve would find some way to get herself in trouble while she was gone, but when she emerged pink and damp and glowing from the hot water, Eve was exactly where she’d left her, flipping channels on the TV.
“This is the worst road trip ever,” Eve said. “And I missed the end of the movie.”
“Jigsaw always wins. You know that.”
There was a soft sound at the motel room door. Something like a scratching sound; then a thud. Eve came bolt upright in bed. “What the hell was that? Because I’m thinking serial killer! ”
“It’s Shane, trying to freak you out. Or maybe it’s those guys again,” Claire said. “Shhh.” She went to the curtains and peeked out, carefully. The light was dim in front of the door, but she saw someone slumped against the wall. Alone. “Just one guy—I can’t really see him.”
“So the serial killer option’s still on the table? New rule. The door doesn’t open.”
They both jumped as a fist thudded once on the door. “Let me in,” Oliver’s voice commanded. “Now.”
“Oh,” Eve said. “In that case, new rule. Also, technically, he is a serial killer, right?”
Claire didn’t really want to think too much about that one, because she was afraid Eve might have a point on that.
She slipped back the locks and opened the door, and Oliver came into the room. He made it two steps before
his knees gave out on him, and he fell.
“Don’t touch him!” Claire said as Eve slipped off the bed to approach him. She could see cuts and blood on him. “Get Michael. Hurry.”
That wasn’t a problem; Michael and Shane were already opening their own door, and the four of them were standing together when Oliver rolled over on his side, then to his back, staring upward.
He looked bad—pale, with open wounds on his face and hands. His clothes were cut, too, and there was blood soaked into them. He didn’t speak. Michael dashed back into his room and came back with the cooler. He knelt next to Oliver and looked over his shoulder at the three of them. “You guys need to leave. Go next door. Now. Hurry.”
Shane grabbed the two girls and steered them out, closing the door behind him and leaving Michael alone with Oliver.
Claire tried to turn around.
“No, you don’t,” Shane said, and shepherded them into his room. “You know better. If he needs blood, let him get it from the cooler. Not from the tap.”
“What happened to him?” Eve asked the logical, scary question, which Claire had been at some level trying not to face. “That’s Oliver. Badass walking. And somebody did that to him. How? Why?”
“I think that’s what we have to ask him,” Shane said. “Providing he’s not having a serious craving for midnight snacks.”
“Damn,” Eve said. “Speaking of that, I left the cookies. I could use another cookie right now. How screwed are we, anyway?”
“Given the car and whatever trouble Oliver stirred up? Pretty well screwed. But hey. That’s normal, right?”
“Right now, I wish it really, really wasn’t.”
They sat around playing poker until Michael came back, with Oliver behind him. He was upright and walking, though he looked as if he’d put his clothes through a shredder.
He didn’t look happy. Not that Oliver ever really looked happy when he wasn’t playing the hippie role, but this seemed unhappy, plus.
“We need to leave,” he said. “Quickly.”
