Black Dawn: The Morganville Vampires (35 page)

“He’s hurt,” she said, and threw the blanket back. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, like a normal girl, and she reached for a pair of flat shoes. Her hands were trembling. “Is he here? Can I see him? He’s going to be okay, right? God, these shoes don’t even match, but I couldn’t bring everything ….”

“No,” I said, “he’s not going to be okay.” She stopped in the act of sliding one shoe on, but she didn’t look up. After that hesitation, she finished, and donned the other shoe, and stood up. I stood too, not sure what to do now.

“What do you know, dumbass?” she said, and shoved past me, heading for the door. “When did
you
go to med school? You couldn’t even pass bio, for God’s sake. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Monica,” I said. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t insult her back, or raise my voice, or grab her; maybe it was just that she already knew. I don’t have any idea what happened inside her head. But she stopped as if she’d run into an invisible wall, and waited. “I saw it. I’m sorry. Hannah was with him. They’re going to bring him in soon. I thought you ought to know before—”
Before you saw his body.

She whirled on me then, and the rage in her face took me by surprise. “You lying son of a bitch!” she screamed, and picked up the first thing she could reach—the TV’s remote control—and flung it at me as hard as she could, which was pretty hard, actually. I batted it out of the way and didn’t respond. She went for something heavier, a big marble bust of somebody I supposed I should have recognized, but she couldn’t throw that nearly as well. It hit the carpet three feet from me and rolled.

And then she stumbled and fell on her knees. All the anger drained out of her, just as if someone had pulled a plug, leaving her pale and empty. Her eyes were open wide, pupils contracted to pinpoints, and she stared at me with her lips parted.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. Seemed like all I
could
say. Had I thought this was a dream, a perfect revenge? Wish fulfillment? It wasn’t. It was just … sad. “He was okay, your brother. He always tried to be fair. And he cared about you.”

It wasn’t much, as eulogies go, but it was all I had. Whatever entertainment I’d thought I would get out of this had been pure fantasy, and all I felt now was sickness, and bone-deep discomfort. I should have let Michael do it. Michael would have been good at it; he was all sensitive and crap, knew what to say and when …

Monica just
stared at me.
As if she was waiting for me to tell her it was all just a really nasty joke.

This should have been Oliver’s job,
I thought. Oliver was her vampire godfather Protector, wasn’t he? Where was
he
?

Monica finally said, in a voice I would never have recognized as belonging to her, “You’re a liar. He’s not dead. He can’t be
dead
. He’s hurt, that’s all, he got hurt and you’re just a fucking
liar.
You’re messing with me, you asshole. Because of your sister.”

“I wish I was,” I said. I shook my head and started for the door, because there was nothing else I could do here. Nothing but hurt and get hurt.

“Wait,” she said. Her voice was shaking now, as her world fell apart inside. “Shane,
wait
. I didn’t do it—I didn’t start that fire. You don’t have to be a jerk about this. This isn’t
funny …
.”

“I know,” I said. I wasn’t sure which part of that I was acknowledging. Maybe all of it, with a sad kind of acceptance. “Sorry.”

She’d always had her friends with her. Gina, Jennifer, any of a dozen other hangers-on circling the orbit of Monica, Center of the Universe. She’d always been invulnerable, armored up in attitude and trendy clothing and makeup and gloss. Always the one doing the damage.

Maybe I should have taken some satisfaction at having brought her to this, alone, on her knees.

I didn’t.

“I’ll—send somebody,” I said. I didn’t know who I could possibly send, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t hear me. I looked back to see her pitch forward in slow motion, catch herself on one arm, and then roll over on her side on the carpet. Her legs slowly pulled up toward her stomach.

She started to cry in hopeless, gulping whoops.

Jesus.

I pulled in a deep, resigned breath, and went back to the couch, where I retrieved the blanket. I settled it over her, found a box of tissues and brought them to her. Then I poured her a stiff drink from an open bottle of Scotch on the counter at the back of the room—vampires liked their alcohol as much as humans, but they had a much better class of the stuff. This was single malt, and it smelled like smoke.

“Come on,” I said, and hauled her upright to lean against the sofa’s corner. I pressed the Scotch into one hand, pulled a couple of tissues out and stuffed them in the other hand. “Drink.”

She did, obeying like a child; she choked on the first sip, but got it down, and then took a second, between gasps and shudders. A little awareness came back into her eyes, and a flash of something like shame. She used the tissues to wipe her nose, then got another to blot at her eyes. The tears were still coming, and her eyes were red and swollen. Never mind what the movies
say—girls don’t get prettier when they cry. That made her more … human.

“Why’d you come?” she asked, finally, when the whiskey was down to a thin amber line at the bottom of the glass. Calmer now, maybe artificially, but at least she wasn’t shaking like she was about to come apart. “Why not
Claire
? She’s the nice one.” She tried to make it sound like an insult, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I figured maybe—”

“Maybe this would make you feel better about your sister?” she asked, and drained the last of the alcohol. “How’s that going for you?” Her hand was trembling.

I didn’t answer. I was seriously considering getting myself a shot, which was all kinds of wrong. Monica held out the empty glass to me, and I put it aside.

“I was hoping for a refill,” she said.

“You don’t need one. Last thing you need is to be drunk right now.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Yes,” I said. I met her gaze solidly. “You’re an evil bitch, and a bully, and I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to break your neck. But I kind of liked your brother. That’s why I came.”

She took in a deep, fluttering breath, but she didn’t break out in tears again. That was done, at least for now. I waited for the snappy comeback. It didn’t make an appearance. Finally she said, “He always said that he hoped he was adopted.” She made a weird little attempt at a laugh. “Most kids think that, but I think he was right. He deserved better.” She swiped at her eyes again. “Shit. I can’t believe I let you see me like this. You’re never going to let me forget it, are you?”

I let that pass into silence, and then asked, “You going to be okay?”

This time the laugh was a little more recognizable, but hollow, as if she was empty inside. “No,” she said. “But thanks anyway. For not—”

For not standing there smiling while she suffered, the way she’d done to me. She couldn’t say that, but I figured it was what she meant.

“Is this where we hug and say we’re BFFs?” I said. “Because I’d rather skip that part.”

“Ugh. Absolutely.” She blew her nose, threw the tissue at the coffee table, and pulled another from the box. “I guess I should—get dressed or something.” She didn’t know what to do, I could tell, but getting dressed was Monica’s go-to coping mechanism. “So get out already.”

I nodded and stood up. I put the glass on the coffee table, then said, “Richard wanted you to be less of a bitch. You might want to look into that, if you really loved him.”

She said nothing, and finally I was able to escape.

The door shut behind me, and I leaned against the wall, eyes shut, breathing in deep, cool gasps. I felt weirdly feverish, and a little sick. No satisfaction at all.

In a strange sort of way, that was
good.

R
ichard was
dead.

Claire had seen it, and somehow, she just couldn’t … believe it. At the last second, she’d realized what was going to happen when Captain Obvious had fired his rifle; she’d just … known. So she’d turned and hidden her eyes.

She was sorry about that now, as if she’d somehow let Richard down. As if she’d owed him that much.

Shane had left her standing there in the rotunda while Michael and Eve hugged out their differences, and she felt … useless. Alone.

And so, so exhausted. It just all seemed overwhelming. She was so tired of being uncertain. Isolated. Scared.

She walked back to the room where their beds were, alone. Someone had neatened it up since they’d left; there were beds now,
foldaway cots instead of the camping kind. The sleeping bags were neatly rolled and stowed against the wall. There were sheets, blankets, pillows.

She sat down on her cot and just … stared.
What is happening to us?
she thought.
He went to talk to Monica instead of coming with me. Monica.
Okay, that was probably mean and cruel to even think it; he’d gone to break the news of Richard’s death, and that had taken guts. She really hadn’t wanted to do it, though she’d offered.
I just wish he’d come back. I need …

She needed to know he was okay. Because he’d seriously lost it out there at the MHS shed. Whatever was happening in his head was strange and disconnected, and she was afraid, deeply afraid, that it would never get better.

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?”