by Rachel Caine
“How do you want to do this?”
“You keep Bishop occupied. I save the girl.”
“Really? Come on.”
“What? You think I’ve got a better shot at him?”
“No, I think you’re better at keep-away,” Michael said, “and Bishop likes going after humans first. He likes the easy kills.”
“No offense intended.”
“I didn’t say you’d be one of them.”
Shane considered it. Bishop frankly scared the bejesus out of him, but Michael had one thing right—he could get to the girl faster, pick her up, and run her out of danger much better than Shane could. He could be back in seconds to jump in the fight, too.
Shane just had to keep Bishop at arm’s length for maybe . . . a minute. Maybe less.
It didn’t sound that hard, which was why Shane knew it would be ridiculous. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s do this thing.”
“I’ll get the lights,” Michael said. “Five seconds.” And then he was gone, moving like a ghost through the dark, and Shane was left alone, gripping the stake in one hand, and his plastic bag of silver powder in the other. He counted down in his head, focusing on the numbers instead of all the things that could go wrong.
He was still on two when the lights blazed on in the warehouse, ranks of greenish, flickering things that cast a weirdly alien color over everything—which wasn’t much. Piles of debris. Old, sagging cardboard boxes. And over at the far end of the warehouse, some kind of broken-down forklift that was missing its wheels.
And there was Mr. Bishop, holding the wrist of a little red-haired girl about twelve years old. Growing up in Morganville, you knew people by sight, even if you didn’t want to have anything to do with them, and he knew that kid. Her name was Clea Blaisdell.
Not that it mattered, whether he actually knew her. He wouldn’t have left anybody, even Monica Morrell, to Bishop’s nonexistent mercy.
So he stepped out in full view, twirled the stake in his fingers like he actually felt that cocky, and yelled, “Yo, Grandpa, you eating snack sizes now? Trying to lose a few pounds?” He kept walking, closing the distance between them. He couldn’t see Michael, but that didn’t matter; he knew he was there, working his way around to a good striking distance.
Shane was still twenty feet away, but that was close enough to see Bishop’s lips part in a smile like the edges of a knife wound. Bishop was, frighteningly, even more horrible than he remembered—stringy white hair clinging to his scalp like it hadn’t been washed, ever; gray, dirty clothes; a face so white and sharp it hardly looked human at all.
“If it isn’t the Collins boy,” Bishop said. His voice sounded rusty. “I would have thought your father’s example had taught you to mind your manners. No matter. I won’t waste my time on turning you into one of my own. I’ll just settle for having you dead at my feet.”
“Nice fantasy,” Shane said, and kept walking. His heart was thumping so fast and hard it hurt. “Never happen, sucker. Come on. Show me what you got, you lame old—”
He didn’t have time to finish the insult, because Bishop dropped the girl’s wrist and flew at him in a blur. Shane took a running step—not back, but toward him—and threw himself flat on the concrete in a slide as Bishop’s leap carried the vampire over him. Shane twisted and rolled to his feet as Bishop landed, ten feet too far, and twirled the stake again. He was breathless, and his whole body was screaming at him to run, dammit, but he covered it with a wolfish grin and a come on gesture as he twirled the stake. When Bishop let out a low, unsettling growl and lowered his fangs, Shane started backing away. Strategically. Keeping Bishop’s back to the red-haired girl . . .
. . . who was caught up by another running blur, which didn’t slow down as it whipped through the air toward a gap in the back wall. Bishop’s private entrance, most likely. Go, Mikey, Shane thought, and then he didn’t have time for thinking because he had the world’s oldest, meanest vampire on his ass, and Bishop meant business.
Shane tried to keep away, and he dodged a swipe of Bishop’s sharp fingernails that would have gutted him; his feet felt clumsy, even fueled by adrenaline and terror. Bishop was fast, very fast, faster than Michael, maybe. Human agility wasn’t enough.
As Bishop’s hand closed on Shane’s arm and yanked him forward, Shane figured he was pretty much already dead. It was only a matter of how it would happen . . . drained and left some dry corpse, or ripped apart in a bloody spree. On the whole, Shane thought maybe the ripping thing was better, but then, he’d never actually had time to give it much thought. His arm would break first, and then . . . then . . .
Then, suddenly, a silver shower of dust exploded around Bishop like fireworks, glittering dully in the fluorescent lights, and Shane blinked and coughed as it hit him, too. About one second later, Bishop’s grip on his arm loosened, and the red-rimmed eyes widened, and Bishop’s mouth split open in a scream.
His hair caught fire around his head in a weird flaming halo. Shane pulled his arm free and stumbled backward, his brain just catching up with what he was seeing.
Bishop, on fire where the fine silvery powder had hit him. As Bishop whirled to see who’d thrown it, Shane saw Michael standing ten feet behind him, arm still extended from the throw. There were burn marks on his palm.
Now, Shane thought, and as Bishop started to lurch toward his best friend, Shane brought up the stake and lunged, fast. He didn’t let himself think about it, or try to direct what he was doing. Sometimes, his body just knew these things.
Sometimes, it was better if the mind stayed out of its way.
The stake hit Bishop in the back on the left side, punched in through the still-burning skin, and slammed straight into Bishop’s heart.
Shane fell backward, slapping out the flames that had caught on the sleeves of his jacket, as Bishop screamed and danced madly in place, trying to reach the stake that had pierced his heart . . . and then slowly toppled to his knees, then forward onto his face.
He was too old to die quickly. In fact, Shane wasn’t sure even silver would do it—but he hoped. Man, he really, really hoped.
Shane stayed where he was, lying propped on his elbows and watching the vampire, but nothing happened. Bishop didn’t pop up, snarling; the silver burned him, but not really very much. It was like a slow, reluctant sizzle around the stake.
Bishop blinked, very slowly.
Not dead. Not yet.
Michael came to Shane’s side and offered him a hand.
“We should cut his head off,” Shane said, not taking the hand. Michael didn’t pull it back.
“Not ours to do,” he said. “But promise me something.”
“What?”
Michael’s face looked so pale, so strange in the greenish glare of the lights. “Promise me you’ll do it for me if I become like him.”
Shane hesitated, then reached up and took his hand, and let Michael pull him up to his feet. “You won’t,” he said, and didn’t let go. “You won’t, bro. I won’t let you.”
He let go. They tapped fists, and nodded. It was a bargain.
There was a sound of engines outside, and squealing brakes, and in under five seconds the place was swarming with guys in stark black suits and ties and sunglasses, all with vamp-pale faces and weapons. They surrounded Shane and Michael, and the inert—but not dead—corpse of Bishop.
Nobody said anything.
The newcomers parted ranks, and a woman dressed in white walked through like she owned the place, which technically she probably did. She was carrying the little red-haired girl, who had her chubby arms around the woman’s long, elegant neck. The Ice Queen, which was Shane’s private nickname for her.
Amelie. The Founder of Morganville.
She was pretty, but in a cold kind of way that made Shane shiver; there was something about her eyes that wasn’t quite . . . right. Not even the other vamps had eyes like
that.
“You did this?” she asked, and looked at the burning body. There wasn’t much of an expression on her face, no hint how she really felt about the whole thing. Shane traded a look with Michael.
“Yeah,” Michael confirmed. “Sorry. We had to.”
“Oh, indeed,” she said. “It’s good you did. For his sake. Had I caught him in this situation, I might not have been quite so . . . merciful.” She paused, then shifted her gaze directly to Shane. “Who staked him?”
Before Shane could answer, Michael jumped in. “I did,” he said. “Shane saved the kid.”
Amelie didn’t blink. “It’s good it was you,” she said. “Were it Mr. Collins, I might have to convene a Council meeting and order punishment. Humans don’t stake vampires in Morganville, Mr. Collins. Not without consequences. But of course it wasn’t Shane at all, was it, Michael?”
“No,” Michael said. “It was me.”
Shane opened his mouth, got a cold glance from Amelie, and shut it, fast. He didn’t nod. He decided that maybe it wasn’t a lie, exactly, if he didn’t move. Or breathe.
Amelie turned away, toward one of her guards, who leaned toward her expectantly. “Take care of this,” she said. “No one finds out about this. See to it that my father goes back where he belongs. And don’t be in any hurry to remove the stake.”
“Ma’am,” he said. He looked over at Michael and Shane. “What about them?” Meaning, Shane realized with a sinking feeling, that they were security risks. Not that they’d hurt Michael. But he was just a breather. Nothing to lose sleep over, assuming Amelie actually slept.
She hesitated a moment, one pale, elegant hand smoothing down the girl’s red hair, and then said, “I think we can trust Shane and Michael to understand the importance of keeping this to themselves.”
“And the girl?”
Amelie looked down at the kid. “Clea,” she said. “Her name is Clea. I’ll take her home. I’m sure her parents will also understand how to keep quiet as well.” She looked at Shane. “You have something to say?”
He shook his head. “Just surprised. You know her name.”
Amelie’s pale lips curled into a smile, and there was a shadow of warmth in her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “I know all the names.”
She didn’t look back at Bishop. With a nod to Michael, she turned and carried Clea out of the building, into the night. Probably to a limousine, with a driver. Which beat the hell out of the little motorcycle Shane had ridden in on.
“We should go,” Michael said. “Need a ride?”
“Are you kidding?” Shane asked. “Do you know what Rad does to people who don’t bring back his bikes?”
• • •
The sun was just coming up when Shane sat down on the edge of Claire’s bed. He didn’t wake her up, not right at first. . . . She was curled on her side, the morning glow turning her skin gold, making her hair burn red at the ends. Shane curled a strand of it around his finger, and it felt like warm silk.
He let the hair fall away, and moved his finger gently over her cheek, then lightly over her lips. Claire’s eyelids fluttered, and she made a soft, vague, pleased kind of sound deep in her throat.
And then she focused on him.
Her brown eyes went all gold in the sun, and he felt golden inside, too. She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
He bent over and kissed her, and her lips were warm and sweet, and he thought, Worth living for.
When he finally sat up, she smiled at him, and it was so beautiful he forgot whatever he was going to say to her. Probably something lame, like Good morning.
“What did you do last night?” she asked, and scooted over.
Shane slowly lowered himself down next to her, never looking away from her warm, sunlit eyes. And that smile. “You know,” he said. “The usual.”
She knew better, but she didn’t argue. Besides, they had more to think about . . . and none of it involved vampires.
And all of it was . . . good.
DRAMA QUEEN’S LAST DANCE
This was an important missing scene between books, and for some reason, I ended up selling it as a short story to an anthology: Eternal, the follow-up to Immortal, also edited by P. C. Cast. I love writing in Eve’s point of view, particularly when she’s snarky, and there is a lot of that on display here. There are also fancy gowns, jealousy, dancing, Michael in distress, DANCING OLIVER (I cannot stress this enough, because I always wanted to write that scene), and, most of all, a spontaneous proposal. So if you haven’t read it, here’s your chance to see the tale of Michael, Eve, Gloriana, and the last dance of the drama queen.
My name is Eve, and I am a drama queen.
I don’t mean like any old garden-variety teen throwing a tantrum, oh no. I am a Drama Queen, with big initial capital letters and curlicues on top. I work hard at it, and I resent anybody lumping me in with a bunch of wannabe poseurs who haven’t even qualified in Beginning Pouting, much less Champion Fit Throwing.
So when I had a golden opportunity for launching a big, fat, drama-filled scene, and ended up acting like an actual adult, perhaps you’ll appreciate just how important this was to me. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
First, let me explain the drama that is my life—and this is just the background, broad strokes, you know, for I am epic, I tell you. I am a Goth, but mainly for the fashion, not the ’tude. I had an emotionally abusive father and a checked-out mom. My little brother turned out to be one step short of either the asylum or federal prison.
Oh, and my boyfriend is a sweet boy, a gifted rock guitarist, and he just happens to have an allergy to sunlight and crave plasma on a regular basis. However, in our hometown of Morganville, this is not really all that unusual, since about a third of the citizens are vamps. Yes, vampires. Really. So you see why my life was generally a nightmare from an early age—the monsters under the bed really existed, and the pressure on all of us growing up was to give in. Be a good Morganville conformist.
Give up our blood for the cause.
Not me. I had a pact with all my other rebel friends. We’d never, ever be part of that scene.
And I mentioned my boyfriend is a vampire, right? Yeah. There’s that.
Given all that, when I say that today was a crisis . . . well. Maybe you get the legendary scale of which I am speaking.
The saga started out a normal day—don’t they all? I mean, surely one morning back there in prehistoric times a dinosaur woke up, yawned, chewed some coffee beans, and thought his day was going to be dead boring, just before a comet slammed into his neighborhood. “Normal day” in my life means that I woke up late, yelled at my housemate Shane to get the hell out of my way as I dashed to the bathroom in my vintage dragon-embroidered silk robe, and spent forty-five minutes doing shampoo, body wash, conditioner, blow-dry, straightening, makeup, clothes, and listening to Shane bang on the door and complain about how he was going to go pee all over my bedroom floor if I insisted on living in the bathroom.
I blew him a mocking black-lipsticked kiss on the way out, checked the time, and winced. I was late for my job at Common Grounds, the best local coffee shop of the two in town. (I also worked at the second best, but on alternate days.) I didn’t mind dragging my ass in late to the University Center java store, but at Common Grounds, the boss was a little more of a leg-breaker—probably because he’d been making people show up on time since before the invention of the pocket watch.
I tried sneaking in the back door of Common Grounds, which seemed to work all right; I ditched my coffin purse in my locker, grabbed my long black apron, and tied it on before I went to grab a clipboard from the back. I took a hasty, not very thorough inventory, and toddled out to the front. . . .
. . . Where my boss, Oliver, fixed me with a long, cold glare that had probably been terrifying underlings for hundreds of years. Oliver = vampire, obviously, althoug
h he did a good job of putting on a human smile and seeming like Mr. Nice Hippie Dude when he thought it would get him something. He wasn’t bothering today, because the counter was slammed three deep with people desperate for their morning caff fix, and his other help, what’s-her-name, Jodi-with-an-i, hadn’t shown up yet. I held up my clipboard and put on my best innocent expression. “I was doing inventory,” I said. “We need more lids.”
He growled, and I could hear it even over the hissing brass monster of the espresso machine. “Get on the register,” he snapped, and I could tell he wasn’t buying the inventory excuse for a second. Well, it had been thin at best. I mouthed, Sorry, and hurried over to beam a smile at the next harassed person who wanted to fork over $4.50 for his mochachocalattefrappalicious, or whatever it was he’d ordered. We made things easy by charging one price for each size of drink. Funny how people never seemed to appreciate that time-saver. I worked fast, burning through the backlog of caffiends in record time, then moved to help Oliver build the drinks once the register was idle. He’d stopped growling, and from time to time actually gave me a nod of approval. This was, for Oliver, a little like arranging for a paid vacation and a dozen roses.
We’d gotten the morning rush out of the way, and were settling into the slow midmorning period, when a door in the back of the store opened, and a girl came strolling out. Now, that wasn’t so unusual—that door was the typical vampire entrance, for those who wanted to avoid the not-so-healthful effects of a stroll in the sun. But I’d never seen this particular vamp before. She was . . . interesting. Masses of curly blond hair that had that salon sheen you see in commercials, but which hardly exists in the wild; porcelain-pale skin (without the benefit of the rice powder I was using); big jade green eyes with spots of golden brown. She was wearing an Ed Hardy tee under a black leather jacket, all buckles and zippers. She looked pretty much like any other twentysomething in any town in the U.S., and maybe in a lot of the world. Shorter than most, maybe. She was five feet three, tops, but all kinds of curvy.
