Midnight Alley (12 page)

‘‘Why the hell not? Everybody around here lies. Michael lied about being a ghost. Shane lies about shit all the time. Why not you, too?''

Shane groaned. ‘‘Yo, Drama Princess, want to tone it down a little? Somewhere, Sandra Bernhard wants her tantrum back.''

‘‘Oh, like
you
don't throw a hissy every time somebody trips your angst switch!''

Claire looked helplessly at Michael, who was having a hard time not smiling. He shrugged and took a step forward. That meant, of course, that Shane backed up. ‘‘Eve,'' Michael said, ignoring Shane for the moment.

‘‘Give the girl some credit. At least she told you, instead of letting you figure it out on your own.''

‘‘Yeah, and she told me
last
!'' Eve glared at the two boys, hands on her hips.

‘‘Boyfriend,'' Shane said, holding up his hand.

‘‘Landlord,'' Michael chimed in.

‘‘Crap,'' Eve sighed. ‘‘Right, next time you sell your soul to the devil,
I get first contact
! Girl solidarity, right?''

‘‘Um—okay?''

‘‘Dumbass,'' Eve sighed, defeated. ‘‘I can't believe you did that. I worked so hard to get away from that Protection crap, and here you are, all . . . Protected. I just wanted you to be—safe. And I'm not sure this is.''

‘‘Yeah,'' Claire said. ‘‘Me neither. But I swear, it was the best thing I could think of. And at least it's Amelie. She's okay, right?''

They all looked at each other. Shane said, ‘‘But you won't tell us what she's got you doing that keeps you out late.''

‘‘No. I—I can't do that.''

‘‘Then she's not okay,'' Shane said. ‘‘And neither are you.''

But none of them had any good suggestions for how to fix it, and Claire fell asleep on the couch with her head in Shane's lap as he and Michael and Eve kept talking, and talking, and talking. It was three a.m. when she woke up. Shane hadn't moved, but she was covered with a blanket, and he was sound asleep, sitting straight up.

Claire yawned, groaned at sore muscles, and rolled to her feet. ‘‘Shane. Up. You need to go to bed.''

He woke up cute, softened by sleep. ‘‘Come with?'' He was only half joking. She remembered being curled up with him in her bed the night she'd been so scared; he'd been careful then, but she wasn't sure she could count on that kind of self-restraint at three a.m., when he was half-awake.

‘‘I can't,'' she said reluctantly. ‘‘Not that I don't want to. . . .''

He smiled and stretched out on his side on the couch, leaving a narrow space between his warm, solid body and the cushions. ‘‘Stay,'' he said. ‘‘I promise, no clothes will come off. Well, maybe shoes. Do shoes count as clothes?''

She kicked hers off and climbed over him to slip into that small pocket, and sighed in relief as his body pressed against hers. She didn't even need the blanket, but he put it over the two of them, anyway, and then combed her hair back from her neck and kissed her on the soft, vulnerable skin.

‘‘You were leaving,'' she whispered. He stopped moving. As far as she could tell, he stopped breathing. ‘‘You were leaving, and you didn't even know if I was okay.''

‘‘No. I was going to go look for you.''

‘‘After you packed.''

‘‘Claire, I didn't even know you hadn't come home until Eve came upstairs to yell at me.
I was going to look for you.
''

She looked back at him, over her shoulder, and saw the desperation hiding in his eyes.

‘‘Please,'' he said. ‘‘Please believe me.''

Against her will, even against her better judgment, she did believe him. She felt safe, anchored against the troubled world by the heat of his body against hers.

His arm went around her waist, and she felt absolutely protected.

‘‘I won't let anything happen to you,'' he said. It was a promise he probably couldn't keep, but in the night, in the dark, it meant everything to her. ‘‘Hey.''

‘‘What?''

‘‘Wanna fool around?''

She did.

 
She must have drifted off to sleep, because she woke up with her heart pounding, and feeling like there was something really, really wrong. For a second, as she came awake, she thought she smelled smoke, and that propelled her upright in a surge of panic. The house had almost burned once already. . . .

No, not fire, but something was definitely wrong. There was something in the whole atmosphere of the house. The smoke had been some kind of signal, from it to her. A
get your butt out of bed
signal.

Shane was still lying next to her on the couch, but he was already awake, too, and in the next second he rolled off to his feet as if he'd also felt it.

‘‘What's happening?'' Claire felt a jolt go through her like electricity. ‘‘Shane?''

‘‘Something's wrong.''

They both froze as they heard the sudden loud blare of a siren. It sounded as though it was right in front of the house.

Claire heard feet on the stairs and saw Eve hurrying down in a satin nightgown and fluffy black robe. Eve's face was bare of any Goth makeup, and she looked flushed and anxious and scared.

‘‘What is it?'' Eve called. ‘‘What's going on?''

‘‘I don't know,'' Shane said. ‘‘Something bad. Can't you feel it?''

This was an event; they were all up and it was barely six a.m.

Eve plunged down the steps and yanked up the cord to raise the blinds on the window that faced the front yard. They all looked out. A police car was in the middle of the street, siren still wailing, and its headlights cast a hot circle of light on a maroon sedan stopped on the street, its driver's-side door open. Its lights were still on, and there was a body slumped on the road next to it.

The windows were dark-tinted.

It was a vampire's car.

Eve screamed, spun, and looked at them with wide, terrified eyes. ‘‘Where's Michael?'' she asked, and Claire stupidly looked behind her, as if she were going to find him standing there.

They all looked back at the street, the car, the body.

‘‘It can't be,'' Claire whispered. Shane was already moving for the door at a flat run, but Eve just stood there staring, frozen. Claire put her arm around her and felt her shaking.

She saw Shane blow through the gate at the fence and run toward the body; the cop who'd just emerged from the patrol car grabbed him, slung him around, and slammed him face-first onto the hood. Shane was yelling something.

‘‘I need to go out there,'' Claire said. ‘‘Stay here.''

Eve nodded numbly. Claire hated leaving her there, but Shane was going to get himself arrested if he kept it up, and who knew what could happen to him in jail?

She was only to the porch when another police car turned the corner, lights flashing, siren adding its howl to the chaos. It braked beside the first one, and another policeman got out and moved to where Shane was being restrained.

Claire didn't recognize the cop who had Michael facedown on the hood, but she knew the new arrival. It was Richard Morrell, Monica's big brother. He wasn't a bad guy, although he was definitely from the same icky gene pool. He took over for the other cop, who backed away.

‘‘Shane! Dammit, Shane, calm the hell down. This is a crime scene; I can't let you run out there, do you understand? Calm down!''

Richard was occupied with keeping Shane under control, so the other policeman went to crouch next to the body on the street.
The body.
Claire took a step closer, and the policeman produced a flashlight and focused it on the face of the man lying in the street. Red hair flared in the light.

Not Michael.

Sam.

There was a stake in his chest, and he was still and white and
not moving.

‘‘Richard!'' the cop yelled. ‘‘It's Sam Glass! Looks dead to me!''

‘‘Sam,'' Claire whispered. ‘‘No.''

Sam had been kind to her, and somebody had dragged him out of his car and put a stake through his chest.

‘‘Shit!'' Richard spat. ‘‘Shane, sit your ass down. Down, right now. Don't make me handcuff you.'' He yanked Shane by the collar of his T-shirt and sat him down on the curb, glared at him for a second, then came over to look at the body. ‘‘Holy Mother of— grab his feet.''

‘‘What?'' The other cop—his name tag said FENTON—looked at him with a frown. ‘‘It's a crime scene; we can't—''

‘‘He's still alive, you idiot. Grab his damn feet, Fenton! If he burns, he's dead.''

The first rays of sun crept over the horizon and fell on Sam's still form.

And Claire saw him start to smoke.

‘‘What are you waiting for?'' Richard shouted. ‘‘Pick him up!'' The other cop, after a blank hesitation, grabbed Sam by the feet. Richard took him under the arms, and together they bodily threw him into the maroon sedan, the one with tinted windows, and slammed the door shut. Fenton started for the driver's side, but Richard got there first. ‘‘I'll drive,'' Richard said. ‘‘The wound's still fresh. He's got a chance if I can get him to Amelie.''

Fenton backed off. Richard gunned the engine and slammed the door even as he was peeling rubber toward the end of the street.

Officer Fenton glared at Shane. ‘‘You going to give me trouble, boy?'' he demanded. Claire sure hoped not. This man was twice the size of Richard Morrell, twice as old, and he looked like a human pit bull.

Shane held up his hands. ‘‘No trouble from me, Officer. Sir.''

‘‘You two see what happened here?''

‘‘No,'' Claire said. ‘‘I was asleep. We all were.''

‘‘All in the same room?'' the cop grunted, and looked her over, from her bed-head to the wrinkled clothes. ‘‘Didn't take you for the type.''

She couldn't figure out what he meant for a few seconds, and then felt a wave of hot embarrassment sweep over her. ‘‘No, I mean—Eve was in her own room. We were asleep on the couch.''

Shane said, ‘‘Yeah, we were all asleep. Woke up when we heard the siren.'' Which wasn't quite true, was it? They'd woken up, and
then
heard the siren. But Claire wasn't sure why that would be important.

The cop tapped on a handheld device, still frowning. ‘‘Ought to be four of you in the house. Where're the other two?''

‘‘Eve's still inside. And Michael—'' Where the hell was Michael? ‘‘I don't know where he is.''

‘‘I'll go see if he's in his room,'' Shane volunteered, but the cop froze him in place with another thunderous scowl.

‘‘You'll sit your ass down on that curb and be quiet. You, what's your name?''

‘‘Claire Danvers.''

‘‘Claire, get in there, find out if Michael Glass is inside. If he's not, find out if his car is missing.''

Claire stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘‘You don't think . . . ?''

‘‘I don't think anything until I have facts. I need to know who's here, who isn't, and work from there.'' The cop transferred his dark stare to Shane, who was starting to get up. ‘‘I already told you, sit your ass down, Collins.''

‘‘I didn't have anything to do with this!''

‘‘If I had to put together a list of prime suspects out to stake some vampires, you'd be right at the top, so yeah, you do.
Sit down.
''

Shane sat, looking furious. Claire silently begged him not to do anything stupid, and hurried back into the house. Eve was upstairs dressing—black baby-doll T with a bling-enhanced cartoon Elmer Fudd on the front, and black jeans with clunky Doc Martens.

‘‘It wasn't—''

‘‘I know. I saw,'' Eve said. Her voice sounded stuffy, as though she'd been crying, or was about to. ‘‘It was Sam, right? Is he alive? Or—whatever?''

‘‘I don't know. Richard said something like he could still be okay.'' Claire gripped the doorknob tightly, and glanced down the hall. Michael's door was closed. It was always closed. ‘‘Did you look—?''

‘‘No.'' Eve took a deep breath and stood up. ‘‘I'll go with you.''

Michael's door was unlocked, and it was completely dark inside. Claire flipped on the lights. Michael's bed was empty, neatly made, and the room looked absolutely normal. Eve checked the closets, under the bed, even the master bathroom.

‘‘No sign of him,'' she said breathlessly. ‘‘Let's check the garage.''

The garage was a shed in the back, not attached to the house; the two of them went out the back kitchen door and crossed the rutted driveway. The shed's doors were closed.

Eve opened one side, Claire the other.

Michael's car was gone.

‘‘What about work? Could he be at work?''

‘‘TJ's doesn't open until ten,'' Eve said. ‘‘Why would he be in there at six?''

‘‘Inventory?''

‘‘You think they're going to call a vampire in at six a.m. to do
inventory
?'' Eve slammed the shed door and kicked it for good measure. ‘‘Where the hell is he? And why the
hell
don't I have a working cell phone? Why don't you?''

Hers had been lost, Eve's had been smashed; both of them miserably looked at each other for a few seconds, then, without a word, walked to the front yard where Shane was still sitting on the curb. If anybody could sit rebelliously, he was doing it.