by Rachel Caine
It’s a miracle he survived, Theo had told her. But what if he hadn’t, all the way? What could she do to help?
Her brain kept whirling around, desperate to find answers, and she wasn’t even aware of the time passing until she heard the door open and close.
It was Shane. He looked … tired. And, for a moment, pretty sad.
“How’d she take it?” Claire asked, and sat up.
He shook his head. “Not well.” He rubbed his forehead as if it hurt, and there was that distance in his eyes, that distraction.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“I can’t. Not right now, okay?”
“No, you know what? Really not okay,” Claire said. “What happened to you?” She wasn’t going to let it go, let him go. Not this time. There was nobody here, nobody to worry about overhearing whatever he had to tell her. Just the two of them. “You haven’t been the same since—”
“Since you got me back,” Shane said. “I know.” He looked around at the room. “Somebody redecorated, didn’t they?”
“Shane!”
“You should get some sleep, Claire.”
“No! I will not get some sleep, because you are going to tell me what’s going on with you, right now!”
He sat down on the edge of the cot where his old camp bed had been. “That’s not how it works,” he said. “Trust me. It’s just not. Because I don’t know how to explain it. It’s all …” He lifted a hand, and let it fall. “Mist.”
She tried to guess, out of wild desperation. “Was it—Michael said they made you dream. Bad dreams? Was it—was it about your sister?” Because he’d been haunted by Alyssa’s death for a long time now, and about his failure to save her in the fire. Never mind that he couldn’t have done anything. “Your mom?”
He let out a frayed sound she only recognized a second later as a laugh. “I wish they’d stuck to that,” he said. “I can deal with nightmares, I really can. But not dreams. Not …” All of a sudden his eyes just filled up with tears, and spilled over, and he ducked his chin and grabbed the frame of the cot as if it were moving around him. “Not seeing what I can’t have.”
“What can’t you have?” She sank down on her knees, looking up into his face, watching the tears roll silently down his cheeks. He wasn’t sobbing. It was as if he didn’t even know it was happening. “Shane, please. Help me understand. You’re not making any sense. What happened?”
“The dreams. They gave me what I wanted,” he said. “Everything right. Everything … perfect.” He sucked in a sudden, damp breath and blinked. “I can’t explain it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay.”
“Stop saying that! You’re not okay, Shane, there’s something—just tell me. You know you can tell me, right?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t.” He lunged forward and kissed her, hard and fast, clumsy, desperate, and she made a surprised sound deep in her throat but didn’t try to pull away. Instead, she moved closer, wrapping her arms around him as if she never intended to let him go—never. The warmth of his tears soaked the collar of her shirt, made damp spots against her neck. He spread his knees to let her in closer, and then he collapsed back on the mattress, taking her with him.
Then he just … shut down.
She felt his muscles go tense and still, as if he was fighting against himself, and his breathing sped up to a frantic pace, as if he was running a sprint.
“Shane, please. Let me help.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Tell me you’re here.”
“God, Shane—” She bent forward and pressed her lips to his, and tasted tears. “I’m here, I swear I am. What do I have to do to prove it?”
“Tell me her name,” he said. “Please tell me her name.”
“Whose name?”
He was breathing so fast she was afraid he would hyperventilate now. “She was so real, Claire, she was so real and I held her in my arms and she was so tiny, she had blue eyes and I don’t know her name, I don’t know ….” His eyes flew open, blind and almost crazy as his gaze locked on hers. “It was so perfect. Do you understand? Perfect. And I had to let it go. But what if I was wrong? What if this is … what if I never …”
“What if you never left that place?” she guessed, and cupped his face in her hands. “You did leave. We got you out.” All of a sudden, what he’d been saying made sense to her. Crazy, wicked, awful sense. “A baby. You—you dreamed about a baby. Our baby?”
His nod was more of a shudder. “I don’t know her name.”
She collapsed on top of him, trying to hold every bit of him close. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t real. You know that, don’t you? You know it couldn’t be real?”
“I need to know. I just—I just do, Claire. I’ll go crazy if I don’t know.” His warm breath stirred her hair, and his arms went around her, pressing her as close as his own skin. “Tell me what you’d name her. Just … please.”
It was crazy. Crazy. But if he needed to hear it—it wasn’t that she hadn’t secretly dreamed about all of that, about what it would be like to marry him, to have babies with him. That fantasy life she’d gone through about a million times already, all the details vivid and bright in her imagination.
But somehow, saying it felt like giving something up. Something precious and fragile and private.
“Carrie,” she whispered. “Carrie Alyssa Collins. That’s what I’d name her.”
Shane shuddered hard, as if she’d punched him someplace vulnerable. “But it won’t happen,” he said. His voice sounded so raw now. “That’s what hurts. I don’t get the things I want. I never have. That’s why they showed it to me, because it’s not true.”
“You have to trust me. You have to believe in yourself. In me. In us.” She raised her head and looked at him, kissing-close, but their lips didn’t touch. Seeing him like this, broken open … it didn’t happen often, and it scared her. Shane was the strong one, the one with the quips and the ferocious delight in the fight. She’d thought she understood what had happened to him, that he’d been through nightmares, but this … this was terrifying.
The draug had taken away his reality, twisted it, made him afraid to believe in anything.
They’d taken away his hopes and dreams and made them something punishing.
And she hated them for that.
“You said it was perfect,” she said. He nodded. “I was perfect, too?” Another nod. “But I’m not. We’re not. Remember the first time we—remember how scared we were? How it all felt crazy and awkward and honest and real? That’s us. You. Me. Together.”
He was watching her now, and actually seeing her. The Shane she knew was in there, struggling. Fighting to get to her.
“Real life isn’t perfect,” she said. “Perfect is boring.” They’d taken away perfect, made it death and dreams and the draug. He had to understand that. He had to reject that.
“Watch my lips,” she said. “I love you. And you’re not perfect.”
He laughed. It still sounded raw, and painful, but more him, somehow. Then he kissed her, but this time it wasn’t a fast and furious kind of thing …. If anything, he seemed tentative in the way he touched her, as if she might vanish if he pushed too fast, too hard. She stretched out next to him and let the kisses carry them away into that thoughtless, warm, golden place where nothing else mattered, nothing beyond the need to touch and be touched.
He didn’t say it back to her, not yet, but she felt it with every kiss, every slow and gentle caress. He was holding himself back, and it was some sort of test, a goal he’d set himself. Mostly, she thought he just needed to … feel. To get real sensations in his head again.
To know the difference.
“You know what?” she said after a long, sweet few moments. “You seriously stink, Shane.”
This time, she got a real laugh from him, and the look in his eyes was utterly surprised, and totally in the moment with her. “You really know how to turn a guy on, Claire.”
“Not perfect, is it?”
His smile faded, and what was left in his face, his eyes, the tension in his body—it was very different. She knew that look. That hunger. “Not perfect at all,” he said. “Then help me out here. No showers. What am I supposed to do about this problem?”
“Lie still,” she said. She went across the room, locked the door, and picked up a bottle of water, a basin, and a cloth. “No fair tickling me, because I will spill this all over you.” She straddled him and helped him pull the shirt off over his head. He collapsed back to the mattress and watched as she wet the cloth, then pressed it to his chest.
He twitched and yelped. “Cold!”
This time, she grinned. “Any doubts about reality now?”
“Not so much,” he said, but kept his gaze fastened on hers, wide and hungry, as she moved the washcloth over his skin, gliding it under his arms, down his sides. Over his stomach. “You’re not asking me to strip all the way, are you?”
“Maybe not yet,” she said. “My turn.”
She hadn’t had a chance to take off the stupid plastic jumpsuit, which was so not sexy; she reached for the zipper, but in one of those startlingly fast, strong moves that always took her breath away, he flipped her over so her back was against the mattress, and he was the one straddling her. He considered the zipper.
Then he took hold of the thin plastic and ripped it all the way down. She had on her bra underneath, but somehow it felt like she was naked to his eyes.
And … crazily hot.
“Oh,” she breathed, and shut her eyes as the cool air hit her skin. “So, this is getting a little on the adult channel side and that’s not exactly what I—”
“Shh,” he said, and pressed his lips to hers before he straightened again. “I’m working here.”
He reached out, as if in a dream, and the cool cloth touched her skin and glided damply over it. She shivered from both the delicious chill and the feel of his fingers following it, warming her up again. He turned her over and stripped the rest of the jumpsuit away, washed her back, skipping past her bra strap, then moving down the line of her spine, all the way down to the waistband of her jeans. Next, her arms—left, then right.
And then she turned to face him, and he looked into her eyes and put the washcloth on the floor.
“Not fair,” she said softly. “Stopping in the middle.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again—not as urgently this time, more sweetness, turning stronger and more passionate as he leaned into her. This time he was the one in charge. It took a sweet, breathless eternity for him to slide her jeans off, and reach for the clasp of her bra, and then …
Creepy organ music played, muffled by her fallen pants.
Her cell phone.
“No,” she moaned, and beat uselessly at the pillow. It wasn’t quite the worst possible moment, but it was close. Really, really close. “No, no, no!”
“You’d better answer it,” Shane said. He sank down on the other side of the bed, and his skin was lightly flushed and damp with sweat. His voice was half an octave lower than normal, and his pupils wide and dark, and she knew, knew it was unfair to him to do it …
… But she answered the phone after all.
“Put your clothes on,” Myrnin said, clipped and cold. “We have work to do. Now.”
He hung up on her. She screamed inarticulately at the phone and thought about flinging it at the wall, but it wouldn’t help, not at all, and besides, he was right. That was part of why she was so angry.
Because it wasn’t the time. Not here. Not now.
“Claire,” Shane said. He was still lying down, watching her, and there was a small, quiet smile on his lips. “Hey. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it … not perfect.”
She laughed. “What a romantic.”
“Trust me,” he said. “I am. That was the whole reason they could get to me, Claire. Because of how much I wanted … all that perfection. That life I never got to have when I was … growing up.”
She kissed him again, slow and warm and sweet. “I know. But don’t worry. We’re in Morganville. Nothing’s ever going to be perfect.”
The stroke of his tongue over her lips made her want to throw the phone away and crawl back into bed. “Hmm. Imperfection tastes pretty fantastic, actually. I’m getting really fond of it.”
Her phone rang again. “What?” she snapped as she answered it.
Myrnin, of course. “Are you on your way?”
“No!”
“Claire, there are things to do.”
“Here, too,” she said. “And I’m staying here, believe me.”
Myrnin was silent for a beat, and then he said, “Bob would be very disappointed in you.”
“Bob the spider?”
“He looks at you like a mother, you know. I’m surprised at your lack of work ethic. Think of the example you set for—”
She hung up on him and turned the phone on vibrate and relaxed in Shane’s arms.
“You’re not leaving,” he said. He sounded surprised. “You always leave when he calls.”
“Not now,” she said. And kissed him again, sweetly and gently.
Because they had all the time in the world.
Shane fell asleep, peacefully, spooned against her in the bed; they hadn’t actually done anything, after all. It had been enough to just lie there together, skin to skin, feeling safe, and relaxed and … quiet.
It might have been almost a normal day. Almost.
Just before he drifted off, he’d sighed on the back of her neck, and whispered, “You’re here.” That had been enough to make tears form in her eyes, and they spilled over when he said, after a few more seconds, “I love you, Claire.”
She’d been lying still now for half an hour, probably, just … savoring that. The relief. The feeling of having him back, real, alive.
Present.
Reality wasn’t something she could lock out for long, though; the phone continued to buzz, and buzz. Myrnin, the idiot, was going to run down the battery soon. She considered breaking it, but finally picked it up, thumbed it on, and whispered, “What?”
“Claire,” Myrnin said. “Claire, please. It’s important, very important. Oliver wants to talk to you as soon as possible. I’m sorry if I upset you, but—”
Oh, great. Oliver. He probably wanted a full report of everything; Claire twisted a little to look at Shane, but he was deeply asleep, completely relaxed. So vulnerable.
“Be there in a minute,” she whispered.
“Just you,” he said. “Please.”
“No problem.” She shut the phone off and carefully, slowly, slid out of bed. Shane moved a little, groaned, and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. But he didn’t wake up.
Dressing didn’t take long; she found her jeans, a T-shirt, and her kicks easily enough, and she’d never actually taken off the underwear. She paused to look in a mirror on the way out of the room; there was a happy flush in her cheeks, and even though there hadn’t been anything she couldn’t have told her mom about, it still felt intimate. Very. And she looked like someone with a secret.
Screw it. Myrnin and Oliver were just going to have to get over it. She ran fingers through her hair and ordered it as best she could, unlocked the door, and slipped out.
Her phone buzzed again. She answered it as she walked. “Okay, fine, I’m heading out. Where are you?”
“In the garage,” Myrnin said. “Hurry.” He hung up. Well, that was odd. Extremely odd, actually. Why was Oliver, of all people, hanging out in the garage, waiting for her report? Not that it was any weirder than many things going on today. Or actually, ever.
She made it to the hub room, where Eve usually kept the coffee going, without incident. Eve and Michael were nowhere to be seen, and she hoped they’d found some privacy of their own by now. They needed it. Michael had been trying to put on a good face, but it had been pretty clear how much he worried about Eve, and how much he wanted things to work. At least, i
t had been clear to Claire.
Maybe not so much to Eve.
There were lots of strange vampires around, but they ignored her, hustling to do their own business. Humans were no longer important, she thought; now that the vampires could fight the draug with an edge, the last thing they wanted was their blood bank underfoot. It was all business now.
She liked being ignored.
“Hey,” said a quiet voice from behind her. She turned and saw a door open just a crack, and through it peered a slice of a narrow face. Someone shorter than she was, and probably not a vamp. “Don’t go, Claire.”
The door opened wider, and Claire saw that it was, of all people, Miranda—Morganville’s town psychic/lost girl. If she had any real family, Claire had never met them; most often, the girl looked as if she’d dressed out of one of those donated clothing bins, and she never quite looked … there. Until suddenly she focused on you. Then things really got interesting. Claire hadn’t been a true believer in psychic predictions when she’d come to Morganville—she was too scientific for that. But a few encounters with Miranda, and she was prepared to at least entertain the idea of some very esoteric physics that nobody could quite explain yet.
“Don’t go where, Mir? And what are you doing here? I thought you left town!”
“I tried, but I couldn’t go,” Miranda said, and swung the door all the way open. It was a storeroom of some kind, piled with boxes. “I’ve been hiding in here.”
“You don’t need to do that. We’d let you stay with us …”
“That’s not a good idea,” she said, with confidence that was far too firm for her age. “You know that things happen when I’m around. I try to stay on my own as much as I can.”
“Miranda—”
“I only wanted to tell you not to go. That’s all.” Her blue eyes studied Claire with eerie focus. There was something sad about the girl’s expression that didn’t make Claire feel any better. “You should go back to Shane. He’s okay now. I don’t think he’s going to be all crazy anymore.”
