Dead Girls' Dance tmv-2

by Rachel Caine

  He glared at her, but she could see he was thinking about it.

  “Boss,’” said the man holding her. He had a deep voice, rough like his throat was lined with gravel. “Bitch got no reason to keep her word.’”

  “What makes you think I like the vamps any more than you do?’” she shot back. “Did Shane tell you about Brandon? I saw you in Common Grounds—were you looking for him? Because if you weren’t, you should be. He’s a dick.’”

  Frank Collins’s eyes drifted half-shut, and she was reminded sickly of Shane, somehow. “You telling me which vamps to kill now?’”

  “No.’” She swallowed again, acutely aware that at any second the kitchen door could swing open, and someone could come stumbling in, and everything could go to hell on the express train. “Just a suggestion. Because as far as I can tell, he’s just about the worst one. But you’re going to do what you want, I know that. I just want me and my friends out of it.’”

  Shane’s dad smiled at her. Smiled. And it seemed, for the first time, like a mostly genuine expression, not just a freaky twist of his lips. “You’re tougher than you look, kid. That’s good. You’re going to need to be, you stick around here.’” He looked past her, at the biker (or so she thought—she could feel leather squeaking behind her when she struggled). “Let her down, man. She’s okay.’”

  The biker released her. She jerked forward, spun, and set her back to the refrigerator. She scrambled for a knife in the drawer next to her, found a wicked-looking cleaver, and held it out in front of her. “You need to go,’” she said. “Right now. And don’t come back here, or I swear, I’ll tell them everything.’”

  He wasn’t smiling anymore. Well, not as much. The biker behind him, though, was grinning.

  “Girl, you don’t know my son at all, do you?’” he asked. “I don’t have to come back here. He’s going to come to me. Eventually.’”

  He made a Let’s go gesture to his six-foot bodyguard, and together they went back out the side door of the kitchen. Claire ran to pull it shut and lock it, both locks plus the newly installed sliding bolts.

  Which made her wonder why it hadn’t been locked before…oh. Of course. The cops had come in through the kitchen.

  She took some deep breaths, rinsed the taste of that sweaty hand off her lips, and picked up the coffee cups.

  Her hands were shaking so badly, there was no way she could carry anything liquid. She put them back down and went back to the door to call through, “Making some fresh!’”

  She poured out the rest of the pot, loaded it again, and, by the time the machine finished, had mostly gotten herself under control.

  Mostly.

  Claire had a break between classes—it couldn’t really be called a lunch break, because it fell at ten a.m.—and she walked over to the University Center for coffee. The UC was large and kind of seedy; the carpet was ancient, and the furniture had seen the eighties, at least, and maybe the seventies. It was one large, open atrium filled with couches, chairs, and even—tucked in one corner—a grand piano. Student-activity banners, most badly painted, draped overhead and fluttered in the weak air-conditioning.

  Most of the couch groupings were already claimed by students talking or separately studying. Claire had her eye on an open study table near the corner, but she’d have to hurry; there were plenty of people looking for places to settle.

  She hurried to the coffee bar at the back of the atrium, and smiled and waved as she spotted Eve behind the espresso machine. Eve waved back, pulled two shots at the same time, and dumped them into steamed milk. The line was about five deep, and Claire had plenty of time to think about what Shane’s dad had said. And what he hadn’t.

  What was he doing there today? Really? Maybe he’d come to fetch Shane, but she wasn’t sure. Shane’s dad seemed to have a plan, but she had no idea what it was. Maybe Shane would know, but she didn’t want to ask.

  Michael. She’d tell Michael everything, as soon as he appeared.

  “Large mocha,’” Claire said, and dug out the required three-fifty from her jeans pocket. It was a huge expense for her, but she figured it was only right to celebrate Eve’s first day on the job. The cashier—a bored-looking guy who was probably wishing he were anywhere else—took her cash and waved her on to the line for drinks.

  She was standing there, thumbing through her English-lit book, when she heard muffled laughter, and then a wet dull thud as a drink tipped over on the counter. She looked up to see a ring of guys standing around a spilled drink, which was dripping off both sides of the counter.

  “Hey, zombie chick,’” one of them said to Eve, who was standing next to the counter, still pulling shots and very obviously ignoring them. “Wanna clean that up?’”

  A muscle fluttered in Eve’s jaw, but she silently got a handful of paper towels and began to mop up the mess. Once the counter was clean, she raised the hinged section of the bar and cleaned the floor on both sides.

  The boys continued to snigger. “You missed a spot,’” said the one who’d spilled the drink. “Over there.’”

  Eve had to bend over to get to the spot where he was pointing. He quickly stepped up behind her and began banging his crotch against her butt. “Oh, baby!’” he said, and they all laughed. Laughed. “You’re so fucking hot for a dead girl.’”

  Eve calmly straightened up, turned around, and stared at him. Not a word. One thing Claire could say for Goth makeup, at least it covered up blushes…. She was blushing, furiously, on Eve’s behalf. And shaking.

  “Excuse me,’” Eve finally said, and moved him aside with one hand flat against his chest. She got behind the bar again and slammed down the hatch, took the two espresso shots and dumped them into a fresh cup, stirred, put a lid on it, and put it on the bar. “Here. On the house.’”

  The creep reached out, grabbed the cup, and squeezed. The top popped off. Coffee went everywhere, splattering Eve, the counter, the floor, the guy holding it. His buddies burst into open laughter when he said, “Oops. Guess I don’t know my own strength.’”

  Eve looked at the guy at the register, but he just shrugged. She took a deep breath, smiled—not, Claire saw, her normal smile at all—and said, “You ought to see a doctor about that, Bullwinkle. Plus the crotch rash. Next! I have a mocha for Claire!’” Eve thumped down another cup and vigorously scrubbed the counter.

  Claire hurried up. “Oh my God!’” she whispered. “What do you want me to do? Get somebody?’”

  “Who?’” Eve rolled her eyes. “It’s my first day—it’s a little early to run tattling like a girlie girl. Leave it alone, Claire. Just take your coffee and go on. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a PhD in taking shit from jocks.’”

  “But—Shane? Should I call Shane?’”

  “Only if you want to be cleaning up blood instead of coffee—’”

  “Hey, bitch, where’s my drink?’” the guy asked loudly from behind Claire. She felt him crowding up against her a second before he body-slammed her hard against the bar. “Oops, sorry, little girl, didn’t see you there.’” He didn’t move back. “Since when do we have kindergarten classes, anyway?’”

  Her mocha had—of course—tumbled out of her hand and was rolling across the counter, bleeding coffee. Eve caught it and set it back upright. “Hey!’” Claire squirmed to get free; he just kept her pinned.

  “Hey! Asshole!’” Eve echoed, louder, and pointed a finger over Claire’s head, glaring. “Back off, man, or I call the campus cops.’”

  “Yeah, they’ll really come running.’” Still, he backed up enough to let Claire twist away from him, clutching her mocha. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was a big guy—Shane-big—with black gelled hair in the latest cool style and fierce blue eyes. A nice face, good lips, high cheekbones. Altogether too pretty for his own good, Claire thought. “Get me my damn coffee. Some of us have class around here.’”

  Claire grabbed paper towels and began mopping up the spill on the customer side of the counter, so Eve didn’t have to
come around. Eve gave her a grateful look and began to pull shots. She assembled the drink in record time, slapped the top on it, and handed it to her tormentor.

  Who grinned at her, tasted it, and put it back on the counter. “Sucks,’” he said. “Keep it.’”

  He high-fived with his friends, and they all walked away.

  “What a jerk!’” Claire said, and Eve just raised her eyebrows, took the latte, and poured it out down the sink.

  “No, he was right, it did suck,’” she said. “But then, he paid three bucks for it, so I win. How’s the mocha?’”

  Claire swallowed a mouthful and gave her a thumbs-up. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something—’”

  “Gotta fight our own battles, Claire Bear. Go on. I’m sure you’ve got some kind of studying to do.’”

  Claire backed away as Eve began to pull another set of drinks; the line continued to queue up in front of the register.

  The guy picking up his latte next—a tall, kind of awkward-looking boy with a round face and big brown eyes—made a point of thanking Eve, who dimpled at him and winked. He looked much nicer than the hard-bodied jerks who’d just left, although Claire noticed that he was wearing a fraternity shirt.

  “Epsilon Epsilon Kappa?’” she read out loud. “EEK?’”

  He gave her an apologetic smile. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of a joke. Because of the town. You know, creepy.’” He blinked and focused on her, and smiled wider. “I’m Ian, by the way. Ian Jameson. From, ah, Reno.’”

  “You’re a long way from home, Ian Jameson,’” Claire said, and stuck out her hand. He shook it. “Claire Danvers. From Longview.’”

  “I’d say you were a short way from home, but everything’s far from this place,’” he said. “So, you’re—a freshman?’”

  “Yes.’” She felt the dreaded blush creeping up again. “Early admission.’”

  “Yeah? How early?’”

  She tried to shrug it off. “Couple of semesters. No biggie.’”

  “What’s your major?’” Ian took the top off his coffee and blew on it to cool it down, then took a sip. “Thanks again, by the way, this is really good.’”

  “No problem,’” Eve said. She sounded much more cheerful now, and gave the sorority girls their skinny-half-caff-no-sugar lattes with a sunny, slightly manic grin.

  Nobody had actually bothered to ask Claire what her major was before. Of course, it was customary for a freshman to change three or four times before settling on something, but Claire had always been pretty definite. “Physics.’”

  “Really?’” Ian blinked. “Wow. That’s pretty intense. You must be good at math.’”

  She shrugged. “I guess.’” Modesty in action; she’d never failed to land an A, ever.

  “Gonna transfer out of here, I suppose. I mean, a degree in physics from Nowhere U isn’t going to do you all that much good, right?’”

  “I’m hoping for MIT,’” Claire said. “What about you?’”

  Ian shook his head. “CE. Civil engineering. Yeah, I’ve got to take physics, but no way would I volunteer to take more. And I’ve got one more semester. Then I transfer out to UT Austin.’”

  A lot of students transferred out to the University of Texas; it was a major school for just about everything. Claire nodded. She’d considered it herself, but…MIT? Caltech? If she had a chance, she’d take it.

  “So…what’s EEK? A professional fraternity?’” Because there were some on campus; you paid your dues and went to some meetings and put it on your résumé later.

  “It’s a bunch of guys who like to party, really.’” Ian looked embarrassed. “I’m in it because I’ve got a couple of friends…anyway, they do throw this really cool party every year—it’s a big bash. It’s called the Dead Girls’ Dance. All zombie-freaky scary-movie stuff.’” He glanced over at Eve, who was steaming milk. “Your friend there would fit right in as is. Most people wear costumes, though.’”

  Was he asking her out? No, he couldn’t be. For one thing, she’d just met him. For another…well, nobody ever asked her out. It just didn’t happen.

  “It sounds neat,’” Claire said, and thought, I just used the word neat in a conversation with a cute boy, and I should walk away now and shoot myself.

  “It’s at the EEK frat house tomorrow night. Listen, if you give me your number, I can text you the details….’”

  “Um…sure.’” Nobody had ever asked before. She stumbled over the digits; he keyed it into his cell phone and smiled at her. A nice smile. A really nice smile, actually. “Um, I don’t know if I can come, though.’”

  “Well, if you can, you’d save my life. We geeks have to stick together while everybody else goes nuts, right? See you there tomorrow night at eight?’”

  “Right,’” she echoed. “Um…sure. I’ll be there. Thanks. Um, Ian, right?’”

  “Ian.’”

  “Claire,’” she said, and pointed at herself. “Oh. Did I already say that?’”

  He laughed and walked away, sipping his latte.

  It was only when he did that she realized she’d just agreed to go out on a date. An actual date. With a boy who was not Shane. How had that happened? She’d meant only to be nice, because he seemed like an okay guy, and then he’d been all charming, especially by comparison with the other guys….

  She had a date.

  With a boy who was not Shane.

  Not good.

  “Hey,’” Eve said, and motioned her closer. “So, what was that? Is he giving you a hard time or what?’”

  “Ummm….’” Claire’s mind went blank. “No. He just—never mind.’”

  Eve’s eyes turned from concerned to shrewd. “He hitting on you?’”

  Claire settled for a shrug. She had no idea how to tell, actually. “I think he was just being nice.’”

  “Guys aren’t nice,’” Eve said. “What did you tell him you’d do?’”

  Okay, that was scary, how quickly she’d nailed it. Claire shifted her weight uncomfortably, and fiddled with her heavy backpack. “Maybe I said I might go to this party. But it totally wasn’t a date.’”

  “Oh, totally not,’” Eve agreed. And rolled her eyes. “Next up! Vanilla latte!…which totally describes you, by the way.’”

  “I’ll, um, be over there,’” Claire said. “Studying.’”

  Eve might have wanted to stop her, but the drinks kept coming, and Claire was able to fade away and go in search of her study table. Which, miraculously, was still unoccupied. She thunked down her backpack on the battered wood and sat, sipping her mocha. The UC seemed safer than most places in Morganville…. Anyplace packed with people reading couldn’t be that bad.

  Almost like a real university.

  Claire was reading ahead in her history text when a shadow fell over the page. She looked up and saw a girl she slightly knew from her old dorm, Howard Hall—a freshman, like herself. Lisa? Lesley? Something like that.

  “Hey,’” the girl said. Claire nodded toward the empty chair opposite her, but Lisa/Lesley didn’t sit. “That Goth at the coffee bar, the one who used to work at Common Grounds—is she your friend?’”

  Word got around fast. Claire nodded again.

  “Might want to keep her from getting herself killed, then,’” Lisa/Lesley said. “’Cause she’s just pulled the pin from the Monica grenade over at the counter.’”

  Claire winced and closed her book. She checked her watch; well, it was probably close to time to leave for class anyway. It was bad, and shallow, but she wished that Lisa Lesley had decided not to do her good deed of the day. It would have been nice to leave without another crisis.

  Claire repacked her book bag and walked back toward the coffee bar. I’m just going to tell her good-bye, she thought. No agenda here at all. Totally staying out of it.

  Monica, Gina, and Jennifer were leaning on the bar, blocking coffee pickup. The counter was all that separated them from Eve, who was steadily ignoring them.

  “Hey, Walking De
ad, I’m talking to you,’” Monica was saying. “Is it true your brother tried to kill you?’”

  “Yeah, was that before or after he tried to do you?’” Hand gestures and everything. Wow, that was low even for Jennifer.

  “Tried?’” Gina snickered. “That’s not what I heard. I heard they were getting it on all through high school. No wonder they both turned out to be freaks.’”

  Eve’s face was a still white mask, but her eyes…she looked crazy. In control, but just barely. Her hands were steady as she pulled espresso shots and mixed drinks; she thumped the finished products down on the counter, three across, and said, “If you don’t go away, I’m going to call my manager.’”

  “Ooooh,’” Monica said. “Your manager. Wow, I’m terrified. You think some barely-over-minimum-wage brain donor stupid enough to work here is going to scare me? Do you?’” She leaned to the side, trying to catch Eve’s eyes. “I’m talking to you, freak face.’”

  Gina noticed Claire standing a few feet away, and drew Monica’s attention with a hand on her shoulder. “Two freaks for one,’” she said. “They must be having some kind of special.’”

  “Claire.’” Monica’s smile widened. “Sure, why not? You angry I’m ragging on your little lesbo girlfriend?’”

  “Make up your mind,’” Claire said. Her voice sounded low and kind of cool, actually. Maybe it was easier doing this here in public, where she felt more comfortable. Or maybe she was actually getting used to facing down Monica. “Are we gay, or did she sleep with her brother? ’Cause you know, kind of not making much sense.’”

  Monica actually blinked. Logic wasn’t her strong suit, anyway. Claire could almost see the Don’t confuse me with facts flicker across her brain. “You laughing at me?’”

  “Yeah,’” Claire said. “A little.’”

  Monica smiled. A big, genuine smile. “How about that?’” she said. “Claire’s grown a pair. I guess having a badass Protector hanging over your shoulder must be a real comfort.’” She threw a glance at Eve. “But it won’t last. My family means something around here. You freaks are just temporary. And…sad.’”