Not today.
Monica, who usually was the centerpiece, looked awful. Her shiny, flirty hair was dull and fuzzy, as if she had barely bothered to brush it, much less condition or curl. What little Claire could see of her face looked makeup free. She was wearing a shapeless sweater in an unflatteringly ugly pattern, and sloppy blue jeans, the kind Claire imagined she might keep around to clean house in, if Monica ever did that kind of thing.
Gina and Jennifer didn’t look much better, and they all looked defeated.
Claire still felt a little, tiny, unworthy tingle of satisfaction . . . until she saw the looks they were getting. Morganville natives who’d taken off their bracelets were outright glaring at Monica and her entourage, and a few of them did worse than just give them dirty looks. As Claire watched, a big, tough jock wearing a TPU jacket bumped into Jennifer and sent her books flying. She didn’t look at him. She just bent over to pick them up.
“Hey, you clumsy whore, what the hell?” He shoved her onto her butt as she tried to get up, but she wasn’t his real target; she was just standing between him and Monica. “Hey. Morrell. How’s your daddy?”
“Fine,” Monica said, and looked him in the eyes. “I’d ask about yours, but since you don’t know who he was—”
The jock stepped very close to her. She didn’t flinch, but Claire could tell that she wanted to. There were tight lines around her eyes and mouth, and her knuckles were white where she gripped her books.
“You’ve been Princess Queen Bitch your whole life,” he said. “You remember Annie? Annie McFarlane? You used to call her a fat cow. You laughed at her in school. You took pictures of her in the bathroom and posted them on the Internet. Remember?”
Monica didn’t answer.
The jock smiled. “Yeah, you remember Annie. She was a good kid, and I liked her.”
“You didn’t like her enough to stand up for her,” Monica said. “Right, Clark? You wanted to get in my pants more than you wanted me to be kind to your little fat friend. Not my fault she ended up wrecking that stupid car at the town border. Maybe it’s your fault, though. Maybe she couldn’t stand being in town with you anymore after you dumped her.”
Clark knocked the books out of her hand and shoved her up against a nearby tree trunk. Hard.
“I’ve got something for you, bitch.” He dug in his pocket and came up with something square, about four inches across. It was a sticky label like a name tag, only with a picture on it of an awkward but sweet-looking teenage girl trying bravely to smile for the camera.
Clark slapped it on Monica’s chest and rubbed it so it stuck to the sweater.
“You wear that,” he said. “You wear Annie’s picture. If I see you take it off today, I swear, what you did to Annie back in high school’s going to seem like a Cancún vacation.”
Under Annie’s picture were the words KILLED BY MONICA MORRELL.
Monica looked down at it, swallowed, and turned bright red, then pale. She jerked her chin up again, sharply, and stared at Clark. “Are you done?”
“So far. Remember, you take it off—”
“Yeah, Clark, you weren’t exactly subtle. I get it. You think I care?”
Clark’s grin widened. “No, you don’t. Not yet. Have a nice day, Queenie.”
He walked away and did a high five with two other guys.
As Monica stared down at the label on her chest in utter disgust, another girl approached—another Morganville native who’d taken off the bracelet. Monica didn’t notice her until the girl was right in her face.
This one didn’t talk. She just ripped the backing off another label and stuck it on Monica’s chest next to Annie McFarlane’s photo.
This one just said KILLER in big red letters.
She kept on walking.
Monica started to rip it off, but Clark was watching her.
“Suits you,” he said, and pointed to his eyes, then to her. “We’ll be watching you all day. There are a lot more labels coming.”
Clark was right. It was going to be a really long, bad day to be Monica Morrell. Even Gina and Jennifer were fading back now, heading out in a different direction and leaving her to face the music.
Monica’s gaze fell on Claire. There was a flash of fear in her eyes, and shame, and genuine pain.
And then she armored up and snapped, “What are you looking at, freak?”
Claire shrugged. “Justice, I guess.” She frowned. “How come you didn’t stay with your parents?”
“None of your business.” Monica’s fierce stare wavered. “Dad wanted us all to go back to normal. So people could see we’re not afraid.”
“How’s that going?”
Monica took a step toward her, then hugged her books to her chest to cover up most of the labels, and hurried on.
She hadn’t gotten ten feet before a stranger ran up and slapped a label across her back that had a picture of a slender young girl and an older boy of maybe fifteen on it. The words beneath said KILLER OF ALYSSA.
With a shock, Claire realized that the boy in that picture was
Shane.
And that was his sister, Alyssa, the one who’d died in the fire that Monica had set.
“Justice,” Claire repeated softly. She felt a little sick, actually. Justice wasn’t the same thing as mercy.
Her phone rang as she was trying to decide what to do. “Better come home,” Michael Glass said. “We’ve got an emergency signal from Richard at City Hall.”
12
T
he signal had come over the coded strategy network, which Claire had just assumed was dead, considering that Oliver had been the one running it. But Richard had found a use for it, and as she burst in the front door, breathless, she heard Michael and Eve talking in the living room. Claire closed and locked the door, dumped her backpack, and hurried to join them.
“What did I miss?”
“Shhh,” they both said. Michael, Eve, and Shane were all seated at the table, staring intently at the small walkie-talkie sitting upright in the middle. Michael pulled out a chair for Claire, and she sat, trying to be as quiet as possible.
—No telling whether or not this storm will hit us full on, but right now, the Weather Service shows the radar track going right over the top of us. It’ll be here in the next few hours, probably right around dark. It’s late in the year for tornado activity, but they’re telling us there’s a strong possibility of some real trouble. On top of all the other things we have going on, this isn’t good news. I’m putting all emergency services and citizen patrols on full alert. If we get a tornado, get to your designated shelters.
Designated shelters?
Claire mouthed to Michael, who shrugged.
If you’re closer to City Hall, come here; we’ve got a shelter in the basement. Those of you who are Civil Defense wardens, go door-to-door in your area, tell people we’ve got a storm coming and what to do. We’re putting it on TV and radio, and the university’s going to get ready as well.
“Richard, this is Hector,” said a new voice. “Miller House. You got any news about this takeover people are talking about?”
“We’ve got rumors, but nothing concrete,” Richard said. “We hear there’s a lot of talk going around town about taking back City Hall, but we’ve got no specific word about when these people are meeting, or where, or even who they are. All I can tell you is that we’ve fortified the building, and the barricades remain up around Founder’s Square, for all the good that does. I need everybody in a security-designated location to be on the alert today and tonight. Report in if you see any sign of an attack, any sign at all. We’ll try to get to you in support.”
Michael exchanged a look with the rest of them, and then picked up the radio. He pressed the button. “Michael Glass. You think Bishop’s behind this?”
“I think Bishop’s willing to let humans do his dirty work for him, and then sweep in to make himself lord and master on the ashes,” Richard said. “Seems like his style. Put Shane on.”
Michael held out the radio. Shane looked at it like it might bite, then took it and pressed TALK. “Yeah, this is Shane.”
“I have two unconfirmed sightings of your father in town. I know this isn’t easy for you, but I need to know: is Frank Collins back in Morganville?”
Shane looked into Claire’s eyes and said, “If he is, he hasn’t talked to me about it.”
He
lied.
Claire’s lips parted, and she almost blurted something out, but she just couldn’t think what to say. “Shane,” she whispered. He shook his head.
“Tell you what, Richard, you catch my dad, you’ve got my personal endorsement for tossing him in the deepest pit you’ve got around here,” Shane said. “If he’s in Morganville, he’s got a plan, but he won’t be working for or with the vamps. Not that he knows, anyway.”
“Fair enough. You hear from him—”
“You’re on speed dial. Got it.” Shane set the radio back in the center of the table. Claire kept staring at him, willing him to speak, to say
something
, but he didn’t.
“Don’t do this,” she said. “Don’t put me in the middle.”
“I’m not,” Shane said. “Nothing I said was a lie. My dad told me he was coming, not that he’s here. I haven’t seen him, and I don’t want to. I meant what I said. If he’s here, Dick and his brownshirts are welcome to him. I’ve got nothing to do with him, not anymore.”
Claire wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t think he was intentionally lying now. He probably did mean it. She just thought that no matter how much he thought he was done with his dad, all it would take would be a snap of Frank Collins’s fingers to bring him running.
Not good.
Richard was answering questions from others on the radio, but Michael was no longer listening. He was fixed on Shane. “You knew? You knew he was coming back here, and you didn’t warn me?”
Shane stirred uneasily. “Look—”
“No,
you
look. I’m the one who got knifed and decapitated and buried in the
backyard
, among other things! Good thing I was a ghost!”
Shane looked down. “Who was I supposed to tell? The vamps? Come on.”
“You could have told me!”
“You’re a vamp,” Shane said. “In case you haven’t checked the mirror lately.”
Michael stood up. His chair slid about two feet across the floor and skidded to an uneven stop; he leaned his hands on the table and loomed over Shane. “Oh, I do,” he said. “I check it every day. How about you? You taken a good look recently, Shane? Because I’m not so sure I know you anymore.”
Shane looked up at that, and there was a flash of pain in his face. “I didn’t mean—”
“I could be just about the last vampire around here,” Michael interrupted. “Maybe the others are dead. Maybe they will be soon. Between the mobs out there willing to rip our heads off and Bishop waiting to take over, having your dad stalking me is all I need.”
“He wouldn’t—”
“He killed me once, or tried to. He’d do it again in a second, and he wouldn’t blink, and you know that, Shane. You know it! He thinks I’m some kind of a traitor to the human race. He’ll come after me in particular.”
Shane didn’t say anything this time. Michael retrieved the radio from the table and clipped it to the pocket of his jeans. He shone, all blazing gold and hard, white angles, and Shane couldn’t meet his stare.
“You decide you want to help your dad kill some vampires, Shane, you know where to find me.”
Michael went upstairs. It was as if the room had lost all its air, and Claire found herself breathing very hard, trying not to tremble.
Eve’s dark eyes were very wide, and fixed on Shane as well. She slowly got up from the table.
“Eve—” he said, and reached out toward her. She stepped out of reach.
“I can’t believe you,” she said. “You see me running over to suck up to my mom? No. And she’s not even a murderer.”
“Morganville needs to change.”
“Wake up, Shane, it
has
! It started months ago. It’s been changing right in front of you! Vampires and humans working together. Trusting one another. They’re
trying.
Sure, it’s hard, but they’ve got reason to be afraid of us, good reason. And now you want to throw all that away and help your dad set up a guillotine in Founder’s Square or something?” Eve’s eyes turned bitter black. “Screw you.”
“I didn’t—”
She clomped away toward the stairs, leaving Shane and Claire together.
Shane swallowed, then tried to make it a joke. “That could have gone better.” Claire slipped out of her chair. “Claire? Oh, come on, not you, too. Don’t go. Please.”
“You should have told him. I can’t believe you didn’t. He’s your friend, or at least I thought he was.”
“Where are you going?”
She pulled in a deep breath. “I’m packing. I’ve decided to move in with my parents.”
She didn’t pack, though. She went upstairs, closed the door to her room, and pulled out her pitifully few possessions. Most of it was dirty laundry. She sat there on the bed, staring at it, feeling lost and alone and a little sick, and wondered if she was making a point or just running like a little girl. She felt pretty stupid now that she had everything piled on the floor.
It looked utterly pathetic.
When the knock came on her door, she didn’t immediately answer it. She knew it was Shane, even though he didn’t speak.
Go away,
she thought at him, but he still wasn’t much of a mind reader. He knocked again.
“It’s not locked,” she said.
“It’s also not open,” Shane said quietly, through the wood. “I’m not a complete ass.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Okay, sometimes I am.” He hesitated, and she heard the floor creak as he shifted his weight. “Claire.”
“Come in.”
He froze when he saw the stuff piled in front of her, waiting to be put in bags and her one suitcase. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”