by Rachel Caine
Shane moved aside a picture hanging on the wall between her room and Eve’s, and pressed a button underneath.
And a door opened on the other side of the wall. It was built into the paneling, and she’d never have even known it was there. She gasped, and Shane beamed like he’d invented the wheel. “Cool, huh? This damn house is full of crap like that. Trust me, in Morganville it pays to be up on the hiding places.” He pushed open the door, revealed another set of stairs, and padded up them. She expected them to be dusty, but they weren’t; the wood was clean and polished. Shane’s feet left prints of the ball of his foot and his toes.
It was a narrow pitch of just eight steps, half a story, really, and there was another door at the top. Shane opened it and flipped on a switch just inside. “First time I saw this, and the room back of the pantry, I figured, yep. Vampire house. What do you think?”
If she believed in vampires, he might have been right. It was a small room, no windows, and it was…old. It wasn’t just the stuff in it, which was antique and dark; it had this sense of…something ancient, something not quite right. And it was cold. Cold, in the middle of a Texas heat wave.
She shivered. “Does everybody know about this room?”
“Oh yeah. Eve says it’s haunted. Can’t really blame her. It creeps me the hell out, too. Cool, though. We’d have stuck you in here when the cops came, only they’d have seen you through the windows coming out of the kitchen. They’re nosy bastards.” Shane wandered across the thick Persian carpet to flop on the dark red Victorian couch. Dust rose in a cloud, and he waved it off, coughing. “So what do you think? Think Michael sleeps off his evil-undead days in here, or what?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Oh, come on. You think he’s one of them, right? ’Cause he doesn’t show up during the day?”
“I—I don’t think anything!”
Shane nodded, eyes downcast. “Right. You weren’t sent here.”
“Sent—sent here by who?”
“I got to thinking…. The cops were looking for you, but maybe they were looking for you to make us want to keep you here, instead of pitch you out. So which is it? Are you working for them?”
“Them?” she echoed thinly. “Them, who?” Shane suddenly looked at her, and she shivered again. He wasn’t like Monica, not at all, but he wasn’t playing around, either. “Shane, I don’t know what you mean. I came to Morganville to go to school, and got beaten up, and I came here because I was scared. If you don’t believe me—well, then I guess I’ll go. Hope you liked the tacos.”
She went to the door, and stopped, confused.
There wasn’t a doorknob.
Behind her, Shane said quietly, “The reason I think this is a vampire’s room? You can’t get out of it unless you know the secret. That’s real convenient, if you like to bring victims up here for a little munch session.”
She whirled around, expecting to see him standing there with that huge knife he’d used on the onions, and she’d broken the first rule of horror movies, hadn’t she, or was it the second one? She’d trusted someone she shouldn’t have….
But he was still sitting on the couch, slumped at ease, arms flung over the back on both sides.
Not even looking at her.
“Let me out,” she said. Her heart was hammering.
“In a minute. First, you tell me the truth.”
“I have!” And, to her fury and humiliation, she started to cry. Again. “Dammit! You think I’m trying to hurt you? Hurt Michael? How could I? I’m the one everybody hurts!”
He looked at her then, and she saw the hardness melt away. His voice was a lot gentler when he spoke. “And if I was somebody who wanted to kill Michael, I’d put somebody like you in to do it. Be real easy for you to kill somebody, Claire. Poison some food, slip a knife in his back…and I have to look out for Michael.”
“I thought he looked out for you.” She swiped angrily at her eyes. “Why do you think somebody wants to kill him?”
Shane raised his eyebrows. “Always somebody wanting to kill a vampire.”
“But—he’s not. Eve said—”
“Yeah, I know he’s not a vampire, but he doesn’t get up during the day, he doesn’t go out of the house, and I can’t get him to tell me what happened, so he might as well be. And somebody’s going to think so, sooner or later. Most people in Morganville are either Protected or clueless—kind of like you can raise rabbits for either pets or meat. But some of them fight back.”
She blinked the last of the brief storm of tears away. “Like you?”
He cocked his head to one side. “Maybe. How about you? You a fighter, Claire?”
“I’m not working for anybody. And I wouldn’t kill Michael even if he was a vampire.”
Shane laughed. “Why not? Besides the fact that he’d snap you in two like a twig if he was.”
“Because—because—” She couldn’t put it into words, exactly. “Because I like him.”
Shane watched her for another few, long seconds, and then pressed a raised spot on the head of the lion-carving armrest of the couch.
The door clicked and popped open half an inch.
“Good enough for me,” he said. “So. Dessert?”
7
She couldn’t sleep.
Maybe it was the memory of that creepy little Gothic room—which she suspected Eve really, deeply loved—but all of a sudden, her lovely cozy room seemed full of shadows, and the creaks of old wood in the wind sounded…stealthy. Maybe the house eats people, Claire thought, lying there alone in the dark, watching the bone-thin shadows of branches shudder on the far wall. The wind made twigs tap her window, like something trying to get in. Eve had said vampires couldn’t get in, but what if they could? What if they were already inside? What if Michael…?
She heard a soft, silvery note, and knew that Michael was playing downstairs. Something about that helped—pushed the shadows back, turned the sounds into something normal and soothing. It was just a house, and they were just kids sharing it, and if there was anything wrong, well, it was outside.
She must have slept then, but it didn’t feel like it; some noise startled her awake, and when Claire checked the clock next to her bed it was close to five thirty. The sky wasn’t light outside, but it wasn’t totally dark, either; the stars were faded, soft sparkles in a sky gradually turning dark blue.
Michael’s guitar was still going, very quietly. Didn’t he ever sleep? Claire slid out of bed, tossed a blanket over her shoulders over the T-shirt she wore to bed, and shuffled out and into the still-dark hallway. As she passed the hidden door she glanced at it and shivered, then continued on to the bathroom. Once she’d gotten that out of the way—and brushed her hair—she crept quietly down the steps and sat down, blanket around her, listening to Michael play.
His head was down, and he was deep into it; she watched his fingers move light and quick on the strings, his body rock slowly with the rhythm, and felt a deep sense of…safety. Nothing bad could happen around Michael. She just knew it.
Next to him, a clock beeped an alarm. He looked up, startled, and slapped it off, then got up and put his guitar away. She watched, puzzled…. Did he have someplace to be? Or did he actually have to set an alarm to go to bed? Wow, that was obsession….
Michael stood, watching the clock as if it were his personal enemy, and then he turned and walked over to the window.
The sky was the color of dark turquoise now, all but the strongest stars faded. Michael, holding a beer in his hand, drank the rest of the bottle and put it down on the table, crossed his arms, and waited.
Claire was about to ask him what he was waiting for when the first ray of sun crept up in a blinding orange knife, and Michael gasped and hunched over, pressing on his stomach.
Claire lunged to her feet, startled and afraid for the look of sheer agony on his face. The movement caught his attention, and he jerked his head toward her, blue eyes wide.
“No,” he moaned, and pitched forward
to his hands and knees, gasping. “Don’t.”
She ignored that and jumped down the stairs to run to his side, but once she was there she didn’t know what to do, didn’t have any idea how to help him. Michael was breathing in deep, aching gasps, in terrible pain.
She put her hand on his back, felt his fever-hot skin burning through the thin cloth, and heard him make a sound like nothing she’d ever heard in her life.
Like someone dying, she thought in panic, and opened her mouth to scream for Shane, Eve, anybody.
Her hand suddenly went right through him. The scream, for whatever reason, locked tight in her throat as Michael—transparent Michael—looked up at her with despair and desperation in his eyes.
“Oh, God, don’t tell them.” His voice came from a long, long way off, a whisper that faded on the shafts of morning sun.
And so did he.
Claire, mouth still open, utterly unable to speak, waved her hand slowly through the thin air where Michael Glass had been standing. Slowly, then faster. The air felt cold around her, like she was standing in a blast from an air conditioner, and the chill slowly faded.
Like Michael.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, and clapped both hands over her mouth.
And muffled the scream that she had to let out or explode.
She might have blacked out a little, because next thing she knew, she was sitting on the couch, next to Michael’s guitar case, and she felt kind of funny. Bad funny, as if her brain had turned liquid and sloshed around in her head.
Weirdly calm, though. She reached over and touched the leather cover of his guitar case. It felt real. When she flipped up the latches and pulled her shaking fingers across the strings, they made a wistful sort of whisper.
He’s a ghost. Michael’s a ghost.
He wasn’t a ghost. How could he be a ghost, if he sat here—right here!—at the table and ate dinner? Tacos! What kind of ghost ate tacos? What kind of…?
Her hand went right through him. Right through him.
But he was real. She’d touched him. She’d—
Her hand went right through him.
“Don’t panic,” she said numbly, out loud. “Just…don’t panic. There’s some explanation….” Yeah, right. She’d stumble over to Professor Wu’s physics class and ask. She could just imagine how that would go over. They’d toss a net over her and pump her full of Prozac or whatever.
He’d said, Oh, God, don’t tell them. Tell who? Tell…? Was he gone? Was he dead?
She was about carried away by panic again, and then something stopped it cold. Something silly, really.
The alarm clock sitting on the table next to the sofa. The one that had gone off just a few minutes ago.
The one that had warned Michael that sunrise was coming.
This happens…every day. He hadn’t acted like it was odd, just painful.
Shane and Eve had both said that Michael slept days. They were both night owls; they were sound asleep right now, and wouldn’t be up for hours yet. Michael could have…disappeared…daily like this with nobody paying attention.
Until she came along, and got nosy.
Don’t tell them. Why not? What was so secret?
She was crazy. That was the only rational explanation. But if she was crazy, she wasn’t rational….
Claire curled up on the sofa, shivering, and felt cold air brush over her again. Ice-cold. She sat up. “Michael?” she blurted, and sat very still. The chill went away, then brushed over her again. “I—I think I can feel you. Are you still here?” Another second or two without the icy draft, and then it drifted across her skin. “So—you can see us?” Yes, she figured, since the warm-cold cycle repeated. “You don’t go away during the day? Oh—um, stay where you are if it’s no, okay?” The chill stayed steady. “Wow. That’s—harsh.” A yes, and weirdly, she felt a little cheered. Okay, she was having a conversation with a breeze, but at least she didn’t feel alone. “You don’t want me to tell Shane and Eve?” Clearly, a no. If anything, it got colder. “Is there anything—anything I can do?” Also a no. “Michael—will you come back?” Yes. “Tonight?” Yes, again. “We are so going to talk.”
The chill withdrew completely. Yes.
She collapsed back on the sofa, feeling giddy and strange and exhausted. There was a ratty old blanket piled near the guitar case; she carefully moved the instrument over to the table (and imagined an invisible Michael following her anxiously the whole way), then wrapped herself in the blanket and let herself drift off into sleep, with the ticking of the grandfather clock and memories of Michael’s guitar as a soundtrack.
That day, Claire went to class. Eve argued with her; Shane didn’t. Nothing much happened, although Claire spotted Monica twice on campus. Monica was surrounded by admirers, both male and female, and didn’t have time for grudges. Claire kept her head down and stayed out of any deserted areas. It was an early afternoon for her—no labs—and although she wanted to get home and wait around for Michael to show up (and boy, she wanted to see how that happened!) she knew she’d drive herself crazy, and make Shane suspicious.
As she walked in that general direction, she spotted the small coffee shop, wedged in between the skateboard shop and a used-book store. Common Grounds. That was where Eve worked, and she’d said to stop by….
The bell rang with a silvery tinkle as Claire pushed open the door, and it was like walking into the living room of the Glass House, only a little more Gothic. Black leather sofas and chairs, thick colorful rugs, accent walls in beige and blood red, lots of nooks and crannies. There were five or six students scattered at café tables and built-in desks. None looked up from their books or computers. The whole place smelled like coffee, a constant simmering warmth.
Claire stood for a second, indecisive, and then walked over to an empty desk and dumped her backpack before going to the counter. There were two people behind the waist-high barrier. One was Eve, of course, looking perky and doll-like with her dye-dark hair in two pigtails, eyes rimmed with liner, and lipstick a dramatic Goth black. She was wearing a black mesh shirt over a red camisole, and she grinned when she spotted Claire.
The other was an older man, tall, thin, with graying curly hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. He had a nice, square face, wide dark eyes, and a ruby earring in his left ear. Hippie to the core, Claire guessed. He smiled, too.
“Hey, it’s Claire!” Eve said, and hurried around the counter to slip her arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Claire, this is Oliver. My boss.”
Claire nodded hesitantly. He looked nice, but hey, a boss. Bosses made her nervous, like parents. “Hello, sir.”
“Sir?” Oliver had a deep voice, and an even deeper laugh. “Claire, you’ve got to learn about me. I’m not a sir. Believe me.”
“That’s true.” Eve nodded wisely. “He’s a dude. You’ll like him. Hey, want a coffee? My treat?”
“I—uh—”
“Don’t touch the stuff, right?” Eve rolled her eyes. “One noncoffee drink, coming up. How about hot cocoa? Chai? Tea?”
“Tea, I guess.”
Eve went back behind the counter and did some stuff, and within a couple of minutes, a big white cup and saucer appeared in front of Claire, with a tea bag steeping in the steaming water. “On the house. Well, actually, on me, because, yikes, boss is right here.”
Oliver, who was working on some complicated machine that Claire guessed was something that made cappuccino, shook his head and grinned to himself. Claire watched him curiously. He looked a little bit like a distant cousin she’d met from France—the same kind of hook nose, anyway. She wondered if he’d been a professor at the university, or just a perpetual student. Either looked possible.
“I heard you had some trouble,” Oliver said, still concentrating on unscrewing parts on the machine. “Girls in the dorm.”
“Yeah,” she admitted, and felt her cheeks burn. “Everything’s okay, though.”
“I’m sure it is. Listen, though: if you have troubl
e like that, you come here and tell me about it. I’ll make sure it stops.” He said it with absolute assurance. She blinked, and his dark eyes moved to rest on hers for a few seconds. “I’m not without influence around here. Eve tells me that you’re very gifted. We can’t have some bad apples driving you off.”
“Um…thanks?” She didn’t mean to make it a question; it just came out that way. “Thanks. I will.”
Oliver nodded and went back to his work dissecting the coffeemaker. Claire found a seat not far away. Eve slipped out from behind the counter and pulled up a chair next to her, leaning forward, all restless energy. “Isn’t he great?” she asked. “He means it, you know. He’s got some kind of pipeline to—” She made a V sign with her fingers. V, for vampires. “They listen to him. He’s good to have on your side.”
Claire nodded, dunking the tea bag and watching the dark stains spread through the water. “You talk about me to everybody?”
Eve looked stricken. “No! Of course I don’t! I just—well, I was worried. I thought maybe Oliver knew something that…Claire, you said it yourself—they tried to kill you. Somebody ought to be doing something about that.”
“Him?”
“Why not him?” Eve jittered her leg, tapping the thick heel on her black Mary Janes. Her hose had green and black horizontal stripes. “I mean, I get that you’re all about being self-sufficient, but come on. A little help never hurts.”
She wasn’t wrong. Claire sighed, took the tea bag out, and sipped the hot drink. Not bad, even on a blazing-hot day.
“Stay,” Eve said. “Study. It’s a really good place for that. I’ll drive you home, okay?”
Claire nodded, suddenly grateful; there were too many places to get lost on the way home, if Monica had noticed her after all. She didn’t like the idea of walking three blocks between the student streets, where things were bright and busy, and the colorless hush of the rest of the town, where the Glass House lived. She put the tea to one side and unpacked books. Eve went back to take orders from three chattering girls wearing sorority T-shirts. They were rude to her, and giggled behind her back. Eve didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care.
