And then horror.
He lowered his fist, gave Michael a look that pretty clearly said, Later, and turned toward Claire. There were two feet of space between them, and about a mile of separation.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “God, Shane, I am so sorry.”
He shuddered and stepped forward to put his arms around her. As hugs went, it was everything wrapped together in a tangled mess—tight, a little desperate, filled with need. He needed her. He really did.
He didn’t say anything as the elevator slowly descended. She listened to his breathing, and finally, he made a faint, wordless sound of pain, and pulled away from her. She held on to his hand.
“Come on,” she said, and Michael held the door as the two of them stepped out into the darkened garage. Claire knew there were probably threats out there in the dark, but she didn’t care. She was tired, and right now, she hated all of them so much for hurting Shane that she would have staked anybody. Amelie. Sam. Michael. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t done anything to stop it from happening. She was just now realizing that he’d stood by and . . . watched.
Shane was eerily quiet. Michael moved around them and opened the back door of his Morganville-standard vampmobile; Claire climbed in with Shane, leaving Michael alone in the front seat.
If he had any objections to the seating arrangements, he kept them to himself.
Shane held her hand tightly all the way—through the dark tunnels, then as they traveled the darkened streets. She didn’t pay attention to where they were going. Right now, one place was as good as the next, as long as she still had his hand in hers. As long as they stayed together. His misery was a thick black cloud, and it felt like it was smothering them both, but at least they could cling to each other in the middle of it. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like all alone.
When Michael braked the car and opened the back door, though, Claire realized that he’d taken Bishop’s instructions literally.
He’d brought them home.
The decaying Victorian glory of the Glass House stretched up into the night. Live oaks fluttered their stiff little leaves in the breeze, and in the distance black, shiny grackles set up a loud racket of shrieks and rattles in a neighbor’s tree. Grackles loved dusk, Claire remembered. It was their noisiest time of the day. The whole neighborhood sounded like broken glass in a blender.
She got Shane out of the car and opened the front gate. As they moved up the steps, the front door opened, and there stood Eve—not in black tonight, but in purple, with red leggings and clunky black platform shoes. She had a stake in one hand and a silver knife in the other, but as she saw them coming up the steps, she dropped both to the floor and lunged to throw herself on Shane.
He caught her in midair, out of self-defense.
“You’re out!” she cried, and gave him an extra-hard squeeze before jumping back to the top of the steps and doing a victory dance that was a cross between something found in an end zone and a chorus line. “I knew you’d beat the rap, Collins! I just knew it! High five . . . ”
She held up her hand for him to smack, but he just looked at her. Eve’s smile and upraised palm faltered, and she looked quickly at Claire, then Michael.
“Oh God,” she said, and lowered her hand. “What is it? What happened?”
“Not out here. Let’s get inside,” Michael said. “Now.”
Shane didn’t make it very far. In fact, five steps down the hallway, he gave up and just . . . stopped. He put his back to the wall, slid down to a sitting position, and sat there, staring down at his hands.
Claire didn’t know what she ought to do, other than stay with him. Before she could sit down next to him, though, Eve grabbed her by the elbow and shook her hard. “Hey! What happened? You called the house but you got cut off. I’ve been out looking for you ever since, calling everybody I could think of. Hannah’s out looking for you, too. What is it?”
“It’s Shane’s dad,” Claire said. Eve let go and covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide. She already had a sense of what was coming. “Bishop . . . he . . . he turned him into a vampire. Right in front of us.” Claire looked down at Shane. “Right in front of him.”
Eve didn’t know what to say. She just looked at them, and finally at Michael. “You couldn’t do anything about it?”
He kept his head down. “No.”
“Nothing? Nothing at all?”
Michael turned and slammed his fist into the wall with so much violence the whole house seemed to shake. Eve yelped and jumped back, and almost tripped over Shane in her stacked heels.
“No,” Michael said, with a kind of forced calm that made Claire ache inside. “Nothing at all. If I had, Bishop would have known he didn’t have me anymore, and that was what he was waiting for. This wasn’t about Shane and Claire, or about Shane’s dad. This was more about finding out if I was still his bitch.”
Shane slowly raised his head, and the two boys stared at each other for a long, quiet moment.
Michael crouched down. “I’d have killed him if I could have,” he said. “I’m not strong enough, and he knows it. That’s why he likes to keep me right there, because he knows that deep down I want to rip his head off. It’s fun for him.”
“So my dad was just your object lesson,” Shane said. “Is that it?”
Michael reached out and put his hand on Shane’s knee. He’d split the skin over his knuckles, and there was plaster dust all over his skin.
It wasn’t bleeding.
“We’re going to get him, Shane. We will.”
“Who’s we?” Shane asked wearily, and let his head fall back against the wall as he shut his eyes. “Just leave me alone, man. I’m tired. I just can’t . . . I’m tired.”
Eve put her hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Come on,” she said. “Leave him alone. He needs time.”
Shane laughed dryly. It was a rattle in his throat, like the sound the grackles were making outside. “Yeah. Time. That’s what I need.” He didn’t sound like himself. Not at all.
Michael didn’t want to go, but Eve insisted, tugging on his hand until he stood up and followed her out into the living room.
Leaving Shane sitting alone on the floor.
“Hey,” Claire said, and sat down beside him, arms wrapped around her knees. “You going to sit here all night?”
“Maybe.”
“I just thought—”
“What? I’d snap out of it and go play some video games? Eat a taco? It’s not that easy, Claire. He’s my—” Shane’s voice broke, then got stronger. “He was my dad. There was one thing in the world he was afraid of, and I just watched it happen to him. I can’t even think about this right now.”
“I know,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
They sat there together for a long time. Eve and Michael looked in on them from time to time. After a while, they quit looking, and Claire saw them head upstairs.
The house grew quiet.
“It’s cold,” Shane finally said. She was getting a little drowsy, despite the discomfort; his voice shocked her back upright again.
“Yeah, kinda. Well, it’s the floor.” Although it wasn’t really the floor’s fault, Claire supposed.
He considered that in silence for a few long seconds. “I guess it’s pretty stupid to sit here all night.”
“Maybe not. If it makes you feel better . . .”
He stretched out his legs with a sudden thump and sighed. “I don’t see how getting cold and losing feeling in my body is going to help. Also, I need a bed that isn’t a bunk, and hasn’t been the previous property of some dude named Bubba with a farting problem.”
That was—almost—the old Shane. Claire sat up straight and looked up at him. After a second, he met her eyes. He didn’t look happy, but he looked . . . better.
He was trying to be better.
“I forgot to say hello,” he said. “Back in Bishop’s office, when I saw you.”
“Given t
he circumstances, I think we can let that slide.” She swallowed, because he wasn’t looking away. “It’s been a while. Since . . . you know. Bishop put you behind bars.”
“I did notice,” he said, deadpan. “Are you asking if I have any wild men-behind-bars stories to tell you?”
“What?” She felt a blush start to burn along her jaw-line, then spill over her cheeks. “No! Of course not! I just . . . I don’t know if—”
“Stop stammering.”
“You make me stammer. You always have, when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m dessert.”
He licked her on the nose. She squealed and pulled back, swiping at the moisture, but then he was holding her, and his lips were warm and soft and damp, pressing on hers with genuine urgency. He didn’t taste like dessert, not at all; he tasted like she imagined really good wine would taste, dark and strong and going straight to her head. Her muscles warmed and purred where he touched her, and it felt like, just for a moment, there was nothing in the world.
Nothing but this.
He broke off the kiss and pressed his hot cheek against her burning one; she felt his breath fluttering the hair above her ear. She felt him draw in a breath to say something, but she got there first.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me all the reasons why this isn’t a good time, or a good idea. Don’t tell me we ought to be thinking about your dad or my parents or what Bishop is doing right now. I want to be here with you. Just . . . here.”
Shane said, “Well, I don’t want to be here.”
The world went out of focus, and her heart shattered. She’d known it was coming; she’d known that he’d changed his mind, that all that time apart had given him time to think about what he wouldn’t like about her. . . . Why would somebody like Shane love her, anyway? He’d dated other girls. Better girls. Prettier and smarter and hotter. It had just been a matter of time before he noticed that she was a skinny geek.
But it hurt; oh God, it hurt so badly, like she’d been stabbed with a dagger made of ice.
She couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes, and she couldn’t hold back the sob. Shane went tense, and pushed her back to arm’s length. “What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
She wanted to tell him it was all right, but it wasn’t, it just wasn’t, and it never would be. She felt like half of her was dying, and he looked at her in confusion and acted like he didn’t understand what he’d done to her.
Claire scrambled away from him and bolted. It was usually Shane who ran away, but this time, she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stand to be here, humiliated and stupid and hurting, and try to be nice to him, even though he needed it. Maybe even deserved it.
“Claire!” Shane tried to get up, but his feet wouldn’t stay under him. “Dammit, wait—my legs went to sleep; wait! Claire—”
She didn’t wait, but somehow, he managed to follow her, lunging after her with feet that must have been like running on concrete blocks. He tripped into her and they fell onto the couch. Claire smacked at him and tried to struggle free. “Let go!” she said around her sobs. “Just let go!”
“Not until you tell me what just happened. Claire, look at me. I don’t understand why you’re upset!”
He really didn’t know. He was all but begging her to tell him. All right, then, fine. “Fine,” she said aloud, in a voice that trembled more than she wanted. “I get it. You don’t want to be with me right now. Maybe not ever. I understand, it’s been a long time, and . . . your dad . . . I just . . . I can’t . . . Oh, just let me go!”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” And then he got it. She saw him run it through his head, and his eyes widened. “Oh my God. Claire, you thought I meant I didn’t want—No. God, no. When I said, ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I meant I didn’t want to be there. You know, sitting on the cold floor with my ass turning into an ice-berg. I wanted you. I just wanted you somewhere else.” He shook his head. “I meant it as a joke. I was going to say, ‘I want to be on the couch.’ Okay, it was stupid, I know. Sorry. I never meant you to think—Wait. Why would you think I’m not into you, anyway?”
Because I’m a girl, Claire thought. She was barely able to contain the relief welling up inside her. Because we’re all stupid and insecure and think that we’re never, ever good enough. She didn’t say that, though. Some things it was better for boys not to know. “I just . . . It’s been a tough day.” She was still crying, and she couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m sorry your dad—”
“Hey.” He touched her cheek. “It’s bad, but I can deal. I’m more worried about you.”
He always was. “Why?”
He wiped away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “Because I’m not the one doing the crying, for one thing.”
She nodded, shuddered, and started to gulp back the sobs. He waited, holding her, until she was finally quiet—relaxed in a way she hadn’t been before.
Weirdly happy just to be here, with him, no matter what had happened or would happen. This moment, she thought. This moment is perfect.
“Shane?” she asked. She felt drowsy now, lazy in the warmth of his body.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any wild men-behind-bars stories?”
“Not really. Sorry to tease you,” he said, and traced his finger down her cheek and over her lips. Slowly. “You know I spent a lot of time thinking about you, don’t you? About how you look, how you smell, how you taste . . .”
“Creepy stalker boy.”
He kissed her. There was something new in it, something fierce and hot and wild, and she felt needs explode inside her she didn’t even recognize. Her whole body lifted, like she’d become metal to his magnet. Shane groaned and rolled her over on her back, his weight on top of her, and kept on kissing her like it was the most important thing in his world.
His lips left hers gasping for air, and traveled down her neck, around the collar of her T-shirt, and his hand dragged the fabric down to expose more skin to his kisses.
Off, Claire thought incoherently, and tried to pull the hem of her shirt up.
Shane’s hand stopped hers. She looked up at him.
“Not here,” he said. She waited. He looked wary. “What?”
“I was just waiting for you to say, ‘Not now,’ too. You know, like always.”
He smiled, and it was pure Shane—full of edges and yet oddly sweet.“Claire, I just got out of jail. Do you honestly think I’m bucking for sainthood or something?”
Her whole body burned with a sudden burst of furious energy. He just said yes. Oh my God. All she could think of to say was, “Tell me how much you missed me.”
“Not everything needs a speech.” He was right about that. She could feel the wild energy in him, trembling right under his skin—a match for hers. “But I have to know, do you want to do this? Really?”
She’d been trying not to think about the scary mechanics of the moment. She’d asked Eve once, in that conspiracy-whisper voice girls used when they were embarrassed not to already know, whether or not the first time really hurt. Eve had said, very matter-of-factly, yes, and gone on to tell her all about her horrible first-time guy. So part of Claire’s body was dreading the unknown, and part of it was screaming to jump in, no matter what happened.
“Yes,” she said, and her whole body went quiet, stunned into silence. “Yes, Shane. I want to do this. I want to do it with you.”
He let out his breath in a shaky laugh. “Nobody else? Not even the hot nude guy from that movie? No? Okay. No pressure.” He gave her another kiss, this one fast and warm. “Upstairs?”
They slid off the couch together, hand in hand, and he led her up the stairs, looking back at her in warm glances, stopping every few steps to kiss her. By the time they made it to the top, she was tingling and shaking all over.
Shane pointed questioningly at his own door, but she shook her head. Her room was bigger, and it was at
the end of the hall. More private.
He pulled in a quick, shaking breath. “Five minutes,” he said. “I need a shower.”
She nodded, although somehow being parted from him made it feel risky. They could change their minds at any second.
She opened her bedroom door as Shane went into the bathroom.
It hadn’t occurred to Claire, but she supposed that Eve could have turned her former bedroom into anything—a Goth wardrobe warehouse, for instance, filled with skull- themed outfits. Or storage for her growing collection of vampire-slaying implements. Instead, the room was just the way Claire had left it—neat, kind of sterile, no trace of her own stuff left behind. There was a layer of dust on the sparse furniture, and the air felt cold for a few seconds, then began to warm up, as if the house sensed her presence and was eager to make her welcome again.
The big, soft bed still had sheets and layers of blankets and comforters.
She closed and sat down on the bed. Her hands were cold and shaking, and now that Shane wasn’t here, she felt sense trying to knock itself back into her head.
No, she thought stubbornly. No, not this time.
It was less than five minutes before he came in, hair damp around his face, beads of water on his skin and dampening his shirt.
He leaned against the door after closing it, watching her.
“So,” he said. “Maybe I should just—”
“Shut up, Shane,” she said, and went to kiss him for a long, warm, lingering moment.
Then she reached behind him and locked the door. Just her and Shane, no friends banging on the door, no family ready to drag them apart. Not even a single vampire hiding in the shadows to spoil things.
For once, nothing to make either of them change their minds.
“Don’t you dare ask me again if I’m sure,” Claire said, and raised the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it off. The cold air glided over her flushed skin and made her shiver. She knew she was blushing, and she couldn’t stop trembling, but that was all right, somehow. As she dropped the shirt to the floor, she thought, He’s seen me like this before. It’s okay.
Carpe Corpus Page 12
