Midnight Alley (3 page)

‘‘No,'' Claire said and settled in carefully next to him, with enough open space between so he didn't feel pressured. ‘‘Why are there sides, anyway?''

‘‘What?''

‘‘Michael's your friend; he's our housemate. Why do there have to be sides?''

He snapped his fingers. ‘‘Um, wait, I've got this one . . . because he's a bloodsucking, night-crawling leech who
used
to be my friend?''

‘‘Shane—''

‘‘You think you know, but you don't. He's going to change. They all change. Maybe it'll take time, I don't know. Right now, he thinks he's just human plus, but that's not what it is. He's human
minus.
And you'd better not forget it.''

She stared at him, a little bit stunned and a whole lot saddened. ‘‘Eve's right. That sounds like your father talking.''

Shane flinched, paused the game, and threw the controller down. ‘‘Low, Claire.'' He wasn't exactly his dad's biggest fan at the best of times—he couldn't be, with the number of cruel things his dad had done to him.

‘‘No, it's just true. Look, it's
Michael.
Can't you give him the benefit of the doubt? He hasn't hurt anybody, has he? And you have to admit, having a vampire on our side,
really
on our side, couldn't hurt. Not in Morganville.''

He just glared at the screen, jaw set. Claire was trying to think of another way to get through to him, but she was derailed by the ringing of the doorbell. Shane didn't move. ‘‘I'll get it,'' she sighed, and went down the hall to open the front door. It was safe enough—midmorning, sunny, and relatively mild. Summer was finally starting a slide toward fall, now that it had burned all the green out of the Texas landscape.

Claire squinted against the brilliance. For a second she thought that there was something deeply wrong with her eyes.

Because her archenemy, Queen Bitch Monica Morrell, flanked by her ever-present harpies Gina and Jennifer, was standing on the doorstep. It was like seeing Barbie and her friends, blown up life-sized and dressed like Old Navy mannequins. Tanned, toned, and perfect, from lip gloss to toenail polish. Monica had on a forced, pleasant expression. Gina and Jennifer were trying, but they looked like they were smelling something rotten.

‘‘Hi!'' Monica said brightly. ‘‘Got plans today, Claire? I was thinking we could hang.''

That's it,
Claire thought.
I'm dreaming. Only this is a nightmare, right? Monica pretending to be my friend? Definitely a nightmare.

‘‘I—what do you want?'' Claire asked, because her relationship with Monica, Gina, and Jennifer had started with being pushed down the stairs at the dorm, and hadn't improved since. She was a crawling bug to the Cool Girls. At best. Or . . . a tool.
Was this about Michael?
Because his status had changed from ‘‘hermit musician'' to ‘‘hottie vampire'' in one night, and Monica was definitely a fang-banger, right? ‘‘You want to talk to Michael?''

Monica gave her an odd look. ‘‘Why would I want to do that? Can he go shopping in broad daylight?''

‘‘Oh.'' She had no idea what else to say to that.

‘‘I thought a little retail therapy, and then we all go study,'' Monica said. ‘‘We're going to check out that new place, not Common Grounds. Common Grounds is so last century. Like I
want
to be under Oliver's thumb all the time. Now that he's taken over as Protector for our family, he's been all hands-on, wanting to see my grades. Sucks, right?''

‘‘I—''

‘‘C'mon, save my life. I really need help with economics, and these two are boneheads.'' Monica dismissed her two closest friends with an offhand wave. ‘‘Seriously. Come with. Please? I could really use your brainpower. And I think we should get to know each other a little better, don't you? Seeing as how things have changed?''

Claire opened her mouth, then closed it without saying anything. The last two times she'd gone anywhere with Monica, she'd been flat on her back on the floor of a van, getting beaten and terrorized.

She managed to stammer, ‘‘I know this is going to sound rude, but—what the hell are you doing?''

Monica sighed and looked—how weird was this?— contrite. ‘‘I know what you're thinking. Yes, I was a bitch to you, and I hurt you. And I'm sorry.'' Gina and Jennifer, her constant Greek chorus, nodded and repeated
sorry
in whispers. ‘‘Water under the bridge, all right? All is forgiven?''

Claire was, if anything, even more mystified. ‘‘Why are you doing this?''

Monica pursed her glossy lips, leaned forward, and dropped her voice to a low, confidential tone. ‘‘Well . . . all right, yeah, it's not like I had a head injury or something and woke up thinking you were cool. But you're different now. I can help. I can introduce you around to all the people you really need to know.''

‘‘You're kidding. I'm different
how
?''

Monica leaned even closer. ‘‘You signed.''

So . . . this wasn't about Michael. Claire had just become . . . popular. Because she'd become Amelie's property.

And that was terrifying.

‘‘Oh,'' she managed, and then, more slowly, ‘‘Oh.''

‘‘Trust me,'' Monica said. ‘‘You need somebody in the know. Somebody to show you the ropes.''

If the only other person left on the planet was Jack the Ripper, Claire would have trusted him first. ‘‘Sorry,'' she said. ‘‘I have plans. But—thank you.

Maybe some other time.''

She shut the door on Monica's surprised face, then locked it. She jumped when she turned to find Shane standing right behind her, staring at her as though he'd never seen her before.

‘‘Thank you?''
he mimicked. ‘‘You're thanking that bitch? For what, Claire? For beating you? For trying to kill you? For killing my sister? Christ. First Michael, then you. I don't know any of you anymore.''

In true Shane fashion, he just took off. She listened to the heavy tread of his footsteps cross the living room and then go up the stairs. Heard the familiar slam of his door.

‘‘Hey!'' she shouted after him. ‘‘I was just being polite!''

2

‘‘So,'' Eve said as she drove Claire to school, ‘‘what was up with the Monica thing? I mean, maybe you ought to watch your back with her. Even more than you already do.''

‘‘She sounded like she really kind of meant it. It took a lot for her to come eat crow like that.''

Eve shot her a look. One of
those
looks, doubly effective coming from a girl wearing rice-powder makeup and flawless eye liner and black-cherry lips. ‘‘In Monica's world, being friends means doing whatever Monica wants, when Monica wants to do it. Somehow, I can't see you as one of her brain-dead backup singers.''

‘‘No! That's not—I didn't say I was
going
to be her friend, just—you asked.'' Claire crossed her arms and settled back in the bucket seat of Eve's ancient black Caddy, shooting for a stubborn look. ‘‘She's not my friend, okay? You're my friend.''

‘‘So when Monica starts bringing the in-crowd to hang at your study table, you'll get up and leave? No way. You're too nice. Before you know it, you're tagging along with them, and then you start to actually feel sorry for them. You'll tell me how Monica's not bad, she's just misunderstood, and before you know it you're braiding each others' hair and giggling over boy bands.''

Claire made a retching sound. ‘‘I wouldn't do that.''

‘‘Please. You like everybody. You even like me. You like
Shane,
and let's face it, Shane's kind of an idiot, at least right now.'' Eve's eyes narrowed as she thought about that. ‘‘And about Shane, I swear, if he doesn't snap out of it, I'm going to punch him in the face. Well, punch him in the face and then run like hell.''

Claire played that out in her head and nearly laughed. Eve's best possible punch wouldn't do more than surprise Shane, she figured, but she could just picture the wounded look of confusion on his face.
What the hell did I do?

‘‘I'm not popular,'' she declared. ‘‘Monica's not my friend, and I'm not hanging with her, ever, end of story.''

‘‘Swear?''

Claire held up her hand. ‘‘Swear.''

‘‘Huh.'' Eve didn't sound convinced. ‘‘Whatev.''

‘‘Look, if we're friends, how about buying me a mocha?''

‘‘Mooch.''

‘‘You're the one with the job.''

 
Midafternoon, and it was raining, which was kind of a rarity—a cold, early-fall rain that came down in glittering sheets. Claire, like about 90 percent of the other students, hadn't thought to bring an umbrella, so she sloshed along miserably along the Quadrangle, past the empty benches and rain-soaked message boards, toward her chem lab. She loved Chem Lab. She hated rain. She hated being soaked to the skin and frankly, living in this part of Texas made it usually not that much of a risk. There was no room in her backpack for anything frivolous, like a raincoat. She worried her books were getting soggy, but the backpack was supposed to be waterproof. . . .

‘‘You look cold,'' said a voice from behind her, and then the rain cut off, and she heard the hollow thump of raindrops hitting the thin skin of an umbrella. Claire looked up, blinked water out of her eyes, and saw she was walking under a golf umbrella big enough for four or five of her . . . or one of her, plus the guy holding the umbrella. Because he was
huge.
Also cute, in that big-boned football player kind of way. He would have made Shane look small. Well proportioned, though, so the height (had to be at least six feet five, Claire thought) and weight just seemed right on him. He had chocolate brown skin and gorgeous brown eyes, and he seemed . . . kind of nice.

‘‘I'm Jerome,'' he said. ‘‘Hey.''

‘‘Hey,'' she said back, still amazed that somebody who was clearly
somebody
would stop to hang an umbrella over her head. ‘‘Thanks. Um, I'm Claire. Hi.''

She juggled her dripping backpack to her other hand and offered him her right. He took it and shook. His was about three times as large, big enough (she bet) to cup most of an entire football.

He was wearing a TPU athletic department T-shirt. No mystery about his major.

‘‘Where're you heading, Claire?''

‘‘Chem Lab,'' she said, and pointed at the building, which was about a football field-length away, on the other side of the Quad. He nodded and steered that direction. ‘‘Look, it's nice of you, but you don't have to—''

‘‘It's no problem.'' He smiled at her. He had dimples. ‘‘I hear the Science Building is nice this time of year. And anything for a friend.''

‘‘But I'm not—''

Jerome nodded to a group of girls standing huddled together under the awning of the Language Arts Building. Pretty girls. In the center of them was Monica Morrell, and she blew Jerome a flirty sort of kiss.

‘‘Oh,'' Claire said. ‘‘
That
friend.'' Her estimate of Jerome fell by several dozen notches, hit bottom, and started digging for China. ‘‘Look, I appreciate it, but I'm not sugar. I won't melt.''

She veered away and walked fast. Jerome took about two long strides and put the umbrella over her again without comment. She glared at him.

He lifted an eyebrow. ‘‘I can play this game all day.''

‘‘Fine,'' she said. ‘‘But I don't need favors from Monica.''

‘‘Girl, it's an umbrella, not a Lamborghini,'' he pointed out. Way too reasonably. ‘‘I'm not even lending it to you. It's not really that much of a favor.''

She kept her mouth shut, head down, and walked fast. Jerome stopped at the foot of the Science Building's stairs, and she bounded up and darted under the concrete porch, which was already choked with other students hiding from the rain. She looked back down. Jerome smiled and waved, and a bronze or copper bracelet caught her eye.

He was Protected. Probably a native of Morganville.

‘‘I'm not her friend. That was not my fault,'' she complained, defending herself to an Eve who wasn't even there.

And then she sneezed, sniffled, and dragged her soggy butt to class.

 
The rain kept up all day and all night, but the next day dawned bright and shiny, with a pale silver sun not quite as fierce as Claire expected. Kind of nice, actually. She'd already showered by the time Eve stumbled into the bathroom, looking more like the walking dead than most vampires. Eve mumbled something and ignored Claire as she started up the shower again. Claire finished at the sink and hurried downstairs. She found Michael at the coffeepot, emptying the filter of cold grounds. Deeply weird that he was
more
of a morning person as a vampire. Maybe he was just enjoying having a morning again, instead of becoming a floaty ghost at dawn.

‘‘Eve's up. You'd better make it so dark the spoon melts.''

Michael shot her a half smile, still almost lethal enough to stop a girl's heart. Luckily he knew just how much current to use on his charm. ‘‘That bad, huh?''

She thought about it for a second as she took down a bowl and the box of Rice Krispies, and found the milk behind the bottles of beer—contraband, from Shane—in the fridge. ‘‘You've seen that movie where the zombies eat people's brains?''

‘‘
Night of the Living Dead
?''