Midnight Alley (23 page)

‘‘I'd avoid that,'' Shane said, his mouth close to her ear. ‘‘See anybody you know?''

She wasn't sure. There was barely room to move in here, with people crowding up to the counters, and streaming in and out with red plastic cups in their hands. . . .

A shock zipped down her spine. ‘‘Yeah,'' she said. ‘‘I see somebody.''

How the hell had Eve's brother gotten into the party? He was standing in a corner, slouching and sneering. Lank hair dripped toward his shoulders, and he wore the same filthy, dangerous-boy clothes that he'd had on when he'd threatened Claire at the UC. He had a drink, but he wasn't drunk; there was too much hot contempt in his eyes as he surveyed the crowd. Crazy eyes.
Oh God, that's how they look, those guys who shoot up rooms full of people.

His eyes locked with Claire's, and he gave her a bent smile. Claire anxiously looked at Eve, but her back was to her brother and she was talking to Michael; she clearly hadn't seen the potential trouble at all.

‘‘What?'' Shane asked.

Claire turned back and pointed.

Jason was gone.

Shane shook his head when she told him, and moved away to talk to Michael. Michael nodded, then handed Eve off to Shane. Claire saw his lips move:
Watch her.

And then Michael angled off through the crowd. So much for staying together.

Shane draped his arms over both of their shoulders and said, ‘‘Now this is the life. Want to get a room, girls?''

Eve rolled her thickly mascaraed eyes. ‘‘Like you'd know what to do with one of us, never mind two. Where's he going?''

‘‘Bathroom,'' Shane said blandly. ‘‘Even vamps gotta pee.''

Which, for all Claire knew, might be true, but she was sure that wasn't why Michael had cut out on them. Shane steered them up to the counter and snagged a sealed bottled water for Claire and two sealed beers, which he opened himself.
Not taking any chances,
Claire thought, and cracked the top on the bottle to take several gulps of the cool, sweet water. She hadn't realized how hot it was until then, but she could feel sweat sticking her flocked mesh shirt to her exposed skin.

Somebody grabbed her ass. Claire yelped and jumped, then turned and saw a drunk-off-his-butt frat boy leaning in next to her. ‘‘Oh baby, me like!'' he yelled in her ear. ‘‘You, me, outside, okay?'' He did a drunken pantomime of what he was thinking of doing outside, and she felt a hot roll of embarrassed shame.

‘‘Get lost,'' she said, and shoved him off. His buddies tossed him back toward her, and this time, he crashed into her off balance and pushed her up against the bar. He took advantage of it, too, hands all over her, hips grinding her right into the counter.

Shane grabbed him by the collar of his TPU golf shirt, spun him around, and punched him right in the face.

Great,
Claire thought in shaken disgust.
That's always the answer around here. Punch somebody.
Then again, she didn't think reasoned discourse was going to be big tonight.

And of course, the guy's friends piled on. Eve grabbed Claire's hand and pulled her out of the way; a tight circle formed around the combat, with people whooping and clapping. ‘‘We have to stop him!'' Claire yelled. Eve patted her on the shoulder.

‘‘This is Shane's idea of a good time,'' she said. ‘‘Trust me. You do
not
want to try to stop him right now. Let him do his thing. He'll be fine.''

Claire hated it. She hated seeing Shane get hit, and she didn't much like the way his eyes lit up when he was knee-deep in conflict, either. Stupid to be upset by it, she guessed, considering this was part of why she was so attracted to Shane in the first place—the way he would unhesitatingly throw himself into things, especially when it came to protecting others.

Eve was practically reading her mind. ‘‘Let him be who he is,'' she said. ‘‘I know it's hard, because in general, guys are clueless, and you just want to fix it, but just—let him be. You don't want him trying to change you, right?''

Right. She didn't, although he
was
changing her, whether he knew it or not.
Not in bad ways,
she thought.
Just . . . change.
A year ago she'd have been paralyzed with terror at the idea of coming to a party like this, and even more terrified to imagine being groped by a stranger like that.

Now, she was mostly just annoyed, and felt like she needed a shower.

Eve whirled. ‘‘Hey! I know my ass is fine, but look, don't touch!'' An eruption of drunken laughter. She took Claire's hand. ‘‘We need a wall behind us. Less chance of getting the stealth feel-up.''

‘‘But—'' She gave up as somebody else patted her rear. ‘‘Yeah. Okay.''

That put them half a room away from Shane, who was now somehow at the center of a knot of maybe ten guys, all whaling away at each other (mostly without connecting; they were all too drunk to really do damage). Claire leaned gratefully against the wall and sipped water. Somehow, she'd ended up holding Shane's beer, and with a quick sideways glance at Eve, she took a sip of that, too. Ugh. Nasty.

‘‘Acquired taste,'' Eve said, laughing at her expression. ‘‘Shane buys like a college boy. If it's cheap and the ad has a girl in a bikini, it must be great.''

‘‘That's disgusting,'' Claire said, and took another long drink of water to wash her tongue clean. Even the water tasted bitter, after that.

‘‘Well, in fairness, beer is mostly about the buzz, not the taste,'' Eve said. ‘‘You want taste
and
buzz, you get something like rum and Coke, or White Russians.'' She seemed to remember, suddenly, how old Claire was. ‘‘Not that I'm going to let you have any of that, by the way. We promised your parents.'' She managed to look almost righteous when she said it, and she took Shane's beer out of Claire's hand. ‘‘I'll keep this.'' Eve raised her normally soft voice to a parade-ground bellow. ‘‘Yo, Shane! Quit screwing around or I'm drinking this!''

A ripple of laughter through the room. The fight was mostly over, anyway, and Shane shoved away the last stumbling frat boy who'd tried to take a swing at him, wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and left the field of battle. He looked rumpled and flushed and a little bit savage, and Claire felt something in her just
growl
in response.

She stared at him, wide-eyed.
I'm not ready for this.

Parts of her clearly were.

‘‘Have a drink, Galahad,'' Eve said, and handed him his bottle. They clinked glass. ‘‘Our hero. Here. Fix your hair.'' She picked at it with her black-manicured nails, twitching it this way and that, until it had that glamour-boy, carefully careless look again. ‘‘God, you're hot. Get felt up yet?''

‘‘Couple of times,'' he said, and smiled at Claire. ‘‘Don't hurt them. They just couldn't help themselves.''

Eve snorted and looked around. ‘‘Where's Michael?'' ‘‘Probably in line at the bathroom.'' Shane shrugged. It was probably true, but Claire didn't think that was the reason. Shane did that thing where he looked at Eve too long and didn't blink. She thought she could tell when he was lying, and that definitely was a flashing neon sign. ‘‘Ladies? Let's wander.''

It wasn't so much
wander
as
wriggle,
like salmon heading upstream. What Claire could see of the house was amazing—fine art on the walls, gorgeous old furniture (mostly being splashed with drinks or shoved against the walls to make room for dancing), big, expensive Turkish rugs (Claire hoped they were dry-cleanable), and huge plasma TVs that were all playing the same music channel, blasting at ear-piercing volume. Nine Inch Nails' ‘‘Closer'' was on now, and despite her best intentions Claire found herself moving to the rhythm. Eve was dancing, too, and then they were dancing together, which should have seemed weird but didn't, really. Shane formed the third point on their triangle, but Claire could see that he wasn't really giving in to the festive atmosphere; he was scanning the crowd, looking for trouble. Or Michael.

Somebody tried to pass her something—a shot glass with a hit of something clear. She shook her head and passed it right back. Not that she wasn't tempted, but after what had almost happened to her at the last party, she wasn't going to be stupid.

Well, not any stupider than she already was to come here in the first place.

The drinks and drugs kept coming. Liquid E, poppers, shots, even something that she was almost sure was a crack pipe. Morganville liked its drugs, but she guessed that made sense. There was a hell of a lot to escape from around here.

She kept on dancing. Shane and Eve didn't take anything, either—not that Claire saw, anyway. Shane was looking less into the party and more worried all the time.

Michael didn't come back. Two songs later—two long songs—Eve finally got Shane to look for him, and the three of them moved out through the bottom floor, checking out the rooms (all packed) and not finding Michael anywhere. In the hall bathroom a line of people was waiting for the toilet, but no sign of a tall, blond vampire.

When they went up the big, sweeping steps toward the second floor, Claire couldn't help but think about
Gone With the Wind,
and Rhett Butler carrying Scar-lett. Her mom loved that movie. She'd always thought it was boring, but that scene stayed with her, and she could almost see it in this house. But instead of Scar-lett, Monica Morrell was still standing at the top of the steps, surrounded by her protective circle of toadies. Gina and Jennifer were back, each wearing a dress that was plainer than what Monica had on, but in complementary colors. Her very own backup group. There were a couple of other girls in the crowd, but mostly it was guys—good-looking, polished types. The entitled of Morganville, and every one of them was wearing a bracelet.

‘‘Well,'' Monica said. ‘‘Look who's coming up in the world.'' Her crowd laughed. Monica's eyes were vicious. If she'd been sort of human when they'd been alone in the coffee shop, she'd gotten over it. ‘‘Scrubs stay downstairs. We're going to have to have the place gutted and rebuilt anyway, after this.''

‘‘Yeah, I'll bet Daddy's going to be furious when he gets home,'' Eve said. ‘‘I meant to ask, is that dress vintage? Because I could swear I saw it on my mother once.'' She swept up, heading straight for one of Monica's big strong linebacker types; he looked confused, and edged out of her way. Shane and Claire followed. Monica was dangerously silent, probably realizing that any comeback she could try would sound cheap.

‘‘We're going to have trouble getting out of here,'' Shane said. It was quieter upstairs, although the continuing clamor downstairs throbbed through the floor and walls. The hallway was deserted, and all the doors were closed. It was lined with expensive portraits and framed formal photographs of the Morrell family. Not surprisingly, Monica took a lovely picture. Claire had never seen Mrs. Mayor, but there she was in the family photos—a wispy, half-ethereal woman always looking somewhere other than her family. Unhappy, somehow. Richard Morrell seemed grounded and adapted to this town, and of course, so did the mayor; Monica might not be stable, but she was definitely Morganville material.

Her mom, maybe not so much.

‘‘Wonder where her parents are?'' Claire said aloud.

‘‘Out of town,'' Eve said. ‘‘So I heard, anyway. Bet they'll just love getting back to find somebody did an
Extreme Home Makeover: Crackhead Edition.
'' She tested the doorknob of the first room on the left. Locked. Shane tried the one on the right, opened it, and leaned in. He leaned out again, eyebrows arched.

‘‘Well, that's new,'' he said. Claire tried to look. He put his big hand over her eyes. ‘‘Trust me, you're not old enough.
I'm
not old enough.'' He carefully shut the door. ‘‘Moving on.''

Claire opened the next room, and for a second she couldn't figure out what she was seeing. Once she did, she couldn't speak. She backed up and touched Shane wordlessly on the shoulder and pointed.

There were three guys in the room, and a girl on the bed, and she was passed out. They were taking off her panty hose.

‘‘Shit,'' Shane said, and moved Claire back. ‘‘Eve, call the cops. Now. Time to shut this crap down before somebody gets really hurt.''

Eve got out her cell phone and dialed, and Shane went into the room and closed the door. He came back after about a minute with the unconscious girl in his arms. ‘‘Anybody know who she is?''

Claire shook her head. ‘‘What about those guys?''

‘‘They're sorry,'' Shane said. ‘‘Eve? You recognize her?''

‘‘Um . . . maybe. I think I've seen her around the UC—couldn't swear to a name or anything. But she's definitely gown, not town. No bracelet.''

‘‘Yeah, I figured.'' Shane adjusted her to a more comfortable angle in his arms. The girl—petite, brunette, pretty—snuggled into his embrace with a sleepy moan. ‘‘Damn it. I can't just leave her.''

‘‘What about Michael? We need to find him!''

‘‘Yeah, I know. Look, I'll carry her. Check the other rooms.''

Claire was having trouble controlling her breathing. She'd almost been that girl, not so long ago. Only she'd been a little more alert, a little more able to take care of herself. . . .

Get it together,
she told herself, and opened the next door. She gasped and covered her mouth with both hands, because there was a vampire in the room, and he was bending over a girl lying limp on the floor.