“I’ll play you for it.”
“What?”
“Best high score wins?”
That was the same basic thing as doing it herself now and saving herself the humiliation, Claire thought. “No bet,” she said. “Wash, dish boy.”
He flicked suds at her. She shrieked and laughed and flipped more at him. They splashed water. It felt ... breathlessly good, when Shane finally captured her in his soapy hands, pulled her close to his wet T-shirt, and kissed her.
“And that’s World War
Sixteen,
” he said. “Officially over.”
“I’m still not playing Dead Rising with you.”
“You’re no fun.”
She kissed him, long and sweet and slow, and whispered, “You sure?”
“Well, I’m certainly changing my mind,” Shane said, straight-faced, at least until he licked his lips. His pupils were large and dark and completely fixed on hers, and she felt as if gravity had reversed, as if she could fall up into his eyes and just keep on going.
“Dishes,” he reminded her. “Me dish boy. And I can’t believe I just said that, because that was lame.”
She kissed him again, lightly this time. “That’s for later,” she said. “By the way? You look really hot with suds all over you.”
The kitchen door opened, and Eve walked in, dumped a plateful of trash in the can, and practically danced her way over to the sink. She still had smeared mascara, and her tears weren’t even dry, but she was smiling, and there was a dreamy, distant look in her eyes.
“Hey,” Shane said. “How about you? Want to play Dead Rising?”
“Sure,” Eve said. “Fine. Absolutely.”
She wandered out. Shane blinked. “That was not what I expected.”
“She’s floating,” Claire said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But she didn’t even insult me. That’s just
wrong.
It disturbs me.”
“I’m taking advantage of all this calm,” Claire said. “Study time.”
“Bring it downstairs,” Shane said. “I need a cheering section, because she is going to
suck
at zombie killing tonight. Just way too happy.”
Claire laughed, but she dashed upstairs and grabbed her book bag, which promptly ripped right down the seam, spilling about twenty pounds’ worth of texts, supplies, and junk all over the wooden floor. “Great,” she said with a sigh. “Just great.” She gathered up what she needed in an untidy armload and headed back downstairs.
She was halfway down the stairs when someone knocked at the front door. They all stopped what they were doing—Michael, in the act of picking up his guitar; Shane and Eve, taking seats on the couch with game controllers. “Expecting anybody else?” Shane asked Eve. “Is your distant cousin Jack the Ripper dropping in for coffee?”
“Screw you, Collins.”
“Finally, the world is back to normal. Still not up to the usual Rosser Olympic-level insult standards, there, sunshine. Never mind. I’ll get it.”
Michael didn’t say anything, but he put down the guitar and followed Shane to the end of the hall, watching. Claire descended the rest of the steps quickly, trying to keep her pile of stuff from tottering over, and dumped it on the dining table before hurrying over to Michael’s side.
Shane checked the peephole, stepped back, and said, “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“Trouble?”
Michael crossed the distance in a flash, looked out, and bared his teeth—
all
his teeth, including the vampiry ones, which didn’t exactly bode well. Claire sucked in a deep breath. Damn stupid book bag, picking a bad time to break; usually, she’d have brought all the stuff down, but she’d left her antivamp supplies upstairs in the ruined bag’s pocket.
“It’s Morley,” Michael said. “I’d better go out and talk to him. Shane, stay here with them.”
“Word of advice—stop telling me to stay with the girls,” Shane said, “or I will seriously bust you in the mouth one of these days. Seriously. I could break one of those shiny fangs.”
“Today?”
“Ah ... probably not.”
“Then shut up.” Michael opened the door just wide enough to slide out, looked back, and said, “Lock it.”
Shane nodded, and as soon as the wood thumped closed, he shot all the bolts and glued his eye to the peephole.
Claire and Eve, by common silent decision, dashed to the living room window, which gave them an angled view of the porch—not perfect, but better than nothing.
“Oh no,” Eve whispered.
Michael was standing in a wash of moonlight, facing not just one vampire, but
three.
Morley—a ragged, rough vampire who rocked the homeless look, although Claire knew he actually did have a home—was standing there, with two of his crew. He had quite a number of them, disaffected vampire youth, although
youth
was a relative term when you talked about vampires. It was mostly a matter of status, not just age; the have-nots, or the ones feeling squeezed by those who had power over them.
They also had a human with them.
Jason.
And he wasn’t there voluntarily, as far as Claire could tell. One of the vampires had a hand around his arm in what looked like a friendly grip but was probably bone-crushing hard.
“Jase,” Eve whispered. “Oh God. I
told
you to be careful! ”
Shane left the door, came into the living room, and dragged a black canvas bag out from under a chair. He unzipped it and took out a small crossbow, cranked it back, and loaded it with an arrow. He tossed silver-coated stakes to Claire and Eve, then joined them at the window. “So,” he said, “your brother’s already said he was a vampire wannabe. Does he need rescuing, or is this his idea of a really great date?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Eve said, and gripped the stake so hard her whole hand turned paler than normal. “They wouldn’t turn him, anyway. They’ll just drain him.” It was a lot of work for a vampire to turn a human, and from what Claire had seen, they didn’t seem all that eager to go through it themselves. It hurt. And it took something out of them. The only one she’d ever seen take any real pleasure out if had been Mr. Bishop, Amelie’s vile, old vampire father. She’d seen him turn Shane’s father, and that had been—horrible.
Really
horrible.
This was why Shane, however he felt about Jason Rosser, was loading up a crossbow, and was more than prepared to use it.
“What’s Michael doing?”
“Talking sense,” Shane said. “It’s always his A game. For him, it usually works. Me, I’m usually Plan B, all the time.”
“B for brute force?” Eve said. “Yep, that’s you.”
Shane slotted the arrow in place and raised the window sash. He kicked out the screen on the other side and aimed the crossbow right at Morley.
Morley, who was dressed in clothes that seemed pieced together out of rags, except for one brand-new Hawaiian shirt in disgustingly bright shades of neon, looked straight at the window, smiled, and tipped his head just a little in acknowledgment.
“Just so we’re clear, bloodsucker,” Shane said.
“Can he hear you?”
“He hears every word. Hey, Morley? I will put this right between your ribs, you got me?”
Once again, Morley nodded, and the smile stayed in place.
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Eve whispered. “Threatening him, I mean?”
“Why not? Morley speaks fluent threat.”
It went on for a while, all the talking; Shane never took his eyes off Morley. Claire kept her hand on him, somehow feeling as if that were helping—helping them both—and finally Morley made some polite little bow to Michael, then waved at the other vampire, who was holding Jason.
The vampire let go. Jason stumbled backward, then took off at top speed, running flat out down the street. The vampires watched him. Nobody followed.
Eve breathed a slow sigh of relief and leaned against the wall.
Shane didn’t move. He still had the crossbow aimed at Morley’s chest.
“Emergency’s over,” Eve said. “Stand down, soldier.”
“Go open the door. I stand down when Michael’s back inside.” Shane smiled, all teeth. Not quite as menacing as a vampire smile, but it got the point across. Eve nodded and ran to the door. Once it was open, Michael—still looking cool and calm—backed in, said good night, and shut the door. Claire heard him shooting the locks, and still Shane kept his aim steady until Morley, touching a finger to his brow, turned and walked off into the dark with his two followers.
Claire slammed down the window, locked it, and Shane let out his breath in a slow sigh, removing the arrow from the bow. “Nothing like a little after-dinner terrification,” he said, and gave Claire a quick kiss. “Mmmm, you still taste like brisket tacos.”
She would have called him a jerk, but she was shaking, and she was too short of breath, anyway. He was already down the hall by the time she pulled in enough air, and she used it to follow him. Michael was standing beside Eve, an arm tight around her waist.
“So?” Shane asked. “What’s Morley hanging around for? Waiting for us to get ripe?”
“You know what he was here for,” Michael said. “We haven’t gotten his people passes to leave town yet, which is what you promised him in return for not killing you three when he had the chance. He’s getting impatient, and since you three are on the hook as his own personal blood donors, I think we need to get serious about making that happen.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“No? Can’t say that I agree with you. Morley isn’t afraid of much that I can tell, including Amelie, Oliver, or a wooden arrow in the heart.” Michael nodded at Shane. “Still. Thanks. Nice.”
“Brute force. It’s what I do.”
“Just keep it aimed the right way.”
Shane looked as innocent as Shane ever could and put his hand over his heart. “I would never. Unless you flash fang at me again, or ever tell me to stay with the girls. Except for that.”
“Cool. Let’s go shoot some undead things on the TV, then.”
“Loser.”
“Not if I win.”
“Like
that
ever happens.”
2
T
he next day, Claire had classes at Texas Prairie University, which was always a mixture of fascinating and annoying; fascinating, because she’d managed to finagle her way into a lot of advanced classes she really didn’t have the prerequisites for, and annoying because those not in the know about Morganville in general—which was most of the students at the school—treated her like a kid. Those who didn’t, and knew the score about the vampires and the town of Morganville itself, mostly avoided her. It occurred to her, the second time somebody tried to buy coffee for her but not make eye contact, that some people in town still looked at her as
important
—as in Monica Morrell-level important.
This seriously pissed off Monica, Queen Bee of the Morganville Under-Thirty set. Still, Claire had come a long way from the clueless early-admission freshman she’d been last year. When Monica tried to bully her—which was virtually certain to happen at least a couple of times every week—the outcome wasn’t usually in Monica’s favor, or always in Claire’s, either. But still, a draw was better than a beat-down, in Claire’s view. Everybody was left standing.
Claire’s first stop was at the campus student store, where she bought a new backpack—sturdy, not too flashy, with lots of pockets inside and out. She ducked into the next bathroom she found to transfer the contents of her taped-together book bag to the new one, and almost threw the old one away ... but it had a lot of sentimental value, somehow. Ripped, scuffed, stained with all kinds of things she didn’t want to remember, but it had come with her to Morganville, and somehow she felt that throwing it away would be throwing away her chance of ever getting out of here.
Crazy, but she couldn’t help it.
In the end, she stuffed the rolled-up old backpack into a pocket of the new one, hefted the weight, and jogged across campus to make her first class of the day.
Three uneventful (and mostly boring) hours later, she ran into Monica Morrell, who was sitting on the steps of the Language Arts building, sunglasses on, leaning back on her elbows and watching people go by. One of her lipstick mafia girls was with her—Jennifer—but there was no sign of the other one, Gina. As always, Monica looked expensive and perfect—Daddy’s estate must be holding up well no matter what the economy dudes were saying on TV—and Jennifer looked as though she shopped the cheap knockoffs of what Monica bought for full price. But they both looked good, and about every thirty seconds some college boy stopped to talk to them, and almost always got shot down in flames. Some of them took it okay. Some of them looked as if they were one more rejection from ending up on a twenty-four-hour channel as breaking news.
Claire was heading up the steps, ignoring them, when Jennifer called out brightly, “Hey, Claire! Good morning! ”
That was creepy enough to stop Claire right in her tracks. She looked over, and Jennifer was
waving.
So was
Monica.
This, from the two girls who’d punched and kicked her, thrown her down a flight of stairs, abducted her at least twice, threatened her with knives, tried to set her house on fire ... yeah. Claire didn’t really feel like redefining the relationship on their new buddy-buddy terms.
She just gave the two of them a long look, and kept on up the stairs, trying to focus on what it was she was supposed to remember today about early American literature. Nathaniel Hawthorne? So last week ...
“Hey!” Monica grabbed her two steps from the top, yanking on the strap of her new book bag to drag her to a halt. “Talking to you, bitch!”
That was more like it. Claire glanced down at Monica’s hand and raised her eyebrows. Monica let go.
“I figured it couldn’t be me,” she said. “Since you were acting so nice and all. Had to be some other Claire.”
“I just thought since the two of us are more or less stuck with each other, we might as well try to be friendly, that’s all. You didn’t have to act as if I stole your boyfriend or something.” Monica smiled slowly and pulled her sunglasses down to stare over the top. Her big, lovely blue eyes were full of shallow glee. “Speaking of that, how
is
Shane? Getting bored with the after-school special yet?”