Midnight Alley (7 page)

‘‘Back in the old days, they got hanged. These days, I think they just throw 'em in jail until they rot, if the vampires don't eat 'em. But hey, not like you and me have to worry about it, right? Live free or die!'' Eve held up her hand. ‘‘High five!''

Claire slapped it, without much enthusiasm. She was thinking about the way the pen had felt in her hand, moving across that stiff paper. Signing her life away. And she felt ashamed.

‘‘Why?'' Eve asked.

‘‘Huh?''

‘‘Why are you asking?'' Eve made the turn onto Lot Street, and the glow of the windows of the Glass House—home—spilled out into the street. ‘‘C'mon, Claire. Someone you know thinking about it?''

‘‘Um . . . there's this guy at school. I just heard him say—I wondered, that's all.''

‘‘Well, quit wondering. His problem, not yours. Ready for the fire drill? Quick like a bunny. Go!'' Eve braked the black Caddy hard, Claire threw open her passenger-side door and jogged around the back of the car, banged open the white picket gate, and raced up the walk to the steps with her house keys in her hand. She heard the engine die, and the noisy clatter of Eve's shoes behind her.

Eve's steps stopped. Stopped dead. Claire whirled, scared and expecting to see a vampire on the prowl, but Eve was just checking the mailbox, grabbing a small handful of stuff, and then hurrying up the steps as she sorted through it. Claire stepped over the threshold, and Eve followed, hip-bumping the door shut behind them and shooting the bolt with her elbow, a feat Claire would never have tried—or been able to accomplish with half that grace.

‘‘Electric bill, water bill—Internet bill. Oh, and something for you.'' Eve pulled out a small bubble-padded mailer from the pile and handed it over. ‘‘No return address.''

Who'd send her anything? Well, Mom and Dad, sure, and the occasional card from another relative. Her former BFF Elizabeth had sent a postcard from Texas A&M, but only the one. Claire didn't recognize the neat handwriting on the outside of the envelope. Eve left her to it and walked down the hallway, yelling to let Shane and Michael know they were back, to which Michael yelled back, ‘‘Get in here and make me some dinner—now, woman.''

‘‘News flash, Michael, you're supposed to have turned evil, not redneck!''

Claire ripped open the package and upended it, and a small jewelry box slid into her hand. A nice one— red velvet, with some kind of gold crest embossed into it. She felt the skin tighten up on the back of her neck.
Oh no.

Her suspicions were confirmed as she flipped up the lid and saw the gold bracelet nestled on bloodred velvet. It was pretty, and it wasn't too big; delicate enough to circle one of her small wrists.

The Founder's Symbol was embossed discreetly in a small gold cartouche.

Claire bit her lip and stared at the bracelet for a long time, then snapped the lid shut, put it back in the envelope, and went to join Eve and Michael in the kitchen.

‘‘So?'' Eve was getting down pots, and Michael was rummaging in the refrigerator. ‘‘Spaghetti okay with you?''

‘‘Fine,'' Claire said. She wondered if she looked spooked. She hoped not, but even if she did, Eve was looking at Michael, and he was looking back, and she was safe from any kind of major inspection while they were making eyes at each other.

Until she turned, and ran into Shane, who'd come in the kitchen door behind her. The package felt hot and heavy in her right hand, and she took an involuntary step back.

Which hurt him. She saw the flash of it in his eyes. ‘‘Hey,'' he said. ‘‘You all right?''

She nodded, unable to speak, because if she said anything, it would have to be a lie. Shane stepped closer and put a warm hand on her face; it felt good, so very good that she leaned into it, then further, into his arms. He made her feel small and loved, and for just a second, what was in the package in her hand didn't matter.

‘‘You're working too hard,'' he said. ‘‘You look pale. School okay?''

‘‘School's fine,'' she said. That wasn't a lie, school was definitely not what scared her anymore. ‘‘I guess I need more sleep.''

‘‘Just a few more days until the weekend.'' He kissed the top of her head, bent closer, and whispered, ‘‘My room. I need to talk to you.''

She blinked, but he was already stepping back and heading out the door. She looked over her shoulder at Eve and Michael, but they were happily talking as Eve adjusted the flame under the pots, and they hadn't noticed anything.

Claire shoved the package into her backpack, zipped it up, and followed Shane upstairs.

Shane's room was very utilitarian—his bed was never made, though he made an attempt as she came in to straighten out the sheets and toss the blanket over it. A couple of posters on the wall, nothing special. No photos, no mementos. He didn't spend a lot of time here, except to sleep. Most of his stuff was crammed into the closet.

Claire leaned her backpack against the wall and sat down next to him on the bed. ‘‘What?'' she asked. If she'd expected a wild predinner make-out session, she was disappointed. He didn't even put his arm around her.

‘‘I'm thinking of leaving,'' he said.

‘‘Leaving? But Eve's making dinner—''

He turned and made eye contact. ‘‘Leaving Morganville.''

She felt a surge of utter panic. ‘‘No. You can't!'' ‘‘Done it before. Look, this place, it's—I didn't come back here because I missed it. I came back because my dad sent me, and now that he's been and gone and I'm not doing his dirty work anymore . . .'' Shane's eyes were begging her to understand. ‘‘I want a life, Claire. And you don't belong here. You can't stay. They'll kill you. No, worse. They'll make you into one of them, one of the walking dead. I'm not talking about the vampires, either. Nobody who lives here has a pulse, not really.''

‘‘Shane—''

He kissed her, and his lips were warm and damp and soft and urgent. ‘‘Please,'' he whispered. ‘‘We need to leave this town. It's going to get bad. I can feel it.''

God,
why
was he doing this? Why now? ‘‘I can't,'' she said. ‘‘I—school, and—I just can't, Shane. I can't leave.'' Her signature on a piece of paper. Her soul on a platter. It had been the price to keep them safe, but she'd have to keep on paying, right? As apprentice to Myrnin. And she guessed that wouldn't be a long-distance study course.

‘‘Please.'' It was barely a whisper from him, his lips brushing hers, and honestly, she would have done almost anything for him when he used that tone, but this time . . .

‘‘What happened?'' she asked.

‘‘What?''

‘‘Was it something with Michael? Did he—did you—?'' She didn't even know what she was asking, but something had deeply disturbed Shane, and she had no idea what it was.

He looked at her for a long few seconds, then pulled away, stood up, and walked to his window to look down on the backyard they never really used. ‘‘My dad called,'' he said. ‘‘He told me that he was coming back, and he wanted me to be prepared to take out some vampires. If I stay, I'm going to have to kill Michael. I don't want to be here, Claire. I can't.''

He didn't want to make the choice, not again. Claire bit her lip, hard; she could hear the pain in his voice, although he wasn't going to let her see it in his expression. ‘‘You really think your dad will come back?''

‘‘Yeah. Eventually. Maybe not this month, maybe not this year, but . . . someday. And next time, he'll have what he needs to start a real war around here.'' Shane shivered; she saw the muscles in his back tense up under the tight gray shirt he was wearing. ‘‘I need to get you out of here before you get hurt.''

Claire got up, walked to him, and put her arms around him from behind. She leaned against him, her head on his back, and sighed. ‘‘I'm more worried about you,'' she said. ‘‘You and trouble . . .''

‘‘Yeah.'' She heard the smile in his voice. ‘‘We're like that.''

4

The spaghetti was good, and a little pleading got Shane to sit down and eat. He sat across from Michael, but they didn't talk, and they didn't make eye contact. All in all, pretty polite. Claire was just starting to relax when Shane asked, blandly, ‘‘You put extra garlic in this, Eve? You know how I like the garlic.''

She shot him a dirty look. ‘‘Oh, the
neighborhood
knows.'' And then an apologetic one toward Michael. ‘‘It's okay, right? Not too much?'' Because garlic wasn't something vampires were especially fond of. That was why Shane tended to use it as garnish on everything he ate.

‘‘It's fine,'' Michael said, but he was picking at his food, and he looked a little pale. ‘‘Monica stopped by today. Looking for you, Claire.''

Both Shane and Eve groaned. For once, all three of her housemates were entirely in agreement. And they were all looking at her.

‘‘What?'' she asked. ‘‘I swear, it's not—I'm not sucking up to her or anything! She's just—crazy, okay? I'm not her friend. I don't know why she's coming around.''

‘‘She's probably going to set you up again,'' Eve said, and scooped more spaghetti into her bowl. ‘‘Like she did at the frat dance. Hey, she's throwing a party this Friday, did you hear? Superexclusive, flying in out of towners and everything. I guess it's her birthday, or Daddy-gave-me-money day, or whatever. We should crash.''

‘‘I like the sound of that,'' Shane said. ‘‘Crashing Monica's party.'' He glanced at Michael, then quickly away. ‘‘What about you? That break some kind of vampire rules of conduct or something?''

‘‘Blow me, Shane.''

‘‘Boys,'' Eve said primly. ‘‘Language. Minor at the table.''

‘‘Well,'' Shane said, ‘‘I wasn't actually planning to do it.''

Claire rolled her eyes. ‘‘Not like it's the first time I've heard it. Or said it.''

‘‘You shouldn't say it,'' Michael said, all seriousness. ‘‘No, I mean it. Girls should say ‘eat me,' not ‘blow me.' Wouldn't recommend ‘bite me,' though. Not around here.''

Eve choked on her spaghetti. Shane pounded her on the back, but he was laughing, too, and so was Michael, and Claire glared at them for a little bit before giving in and admitting it was funny, after all.

Everything was all right.

‘‘So. Friday night?'' Eve asked, wiping her eyes and gasping through her giggles. ‘‘Par-tay? Because I could so use a good blowout.''

‘‘I'm in,'' Michael said, and took a manful bite of spaghetti. Claire wondered if it burned him. ‘‘I think if I'm with you, there's no way she can keep us out. Vampire VIP status. Might as well be good for something.''

Shane looked at him, and for a second there was that warmth that Claire missed so much, but then it was gone again, and the wall was back firmly in place between the two of them.

‘‘Must be nice,'' he said. ‘‘We should all go, if it's going to ruin Monica's night.''

They finished the rest of the meal in uncomfortable silence. Claire realized that she kept thinking about that red velvet box sitting upstairs in her room, and struggled not to look guilty. Probably didn't succeed. She caught Michael watching her with a strange intensity; whether he was picking up on her discomfort or still wondering about why she didn't jump at the chance to go to Monica's party.

She ate too fast, cleaned her dishes, and dashed upstairs with a mumbled excuse about homework. Well, it wasn't as though they weren't used to her studying. It was Shane's turn for dishes, so that would keep him busy for a while. . . .

The box was right where she'd left it, sitting on the dresser. She grabbed it, put her back against the wall, and slid down to a cross-legged sitting position as she weighed the box in her hand.

‘‘You're wondering whether or not to wear it,'' Amelie said, and Claire yelped in surprise. The elegant older vampire, completely at her ease, was seated in the antique old velvet chair in the corner, her hands folded primly in her lap. She looked like a painting, not a person; there was something about her—now more than ever—that seemed antique and cold as marble.

Claire scrambled to her feet, feeling stupid about it, but you just didn't sit like that in Amelie's presence. Amelie acknowledged the courtesy with a graceful nod, but didn't otherwise move.

‘‘I apologize for surprising you, Claire, but I needed to speak with you alone,'' she said.

‘‘How can you get in here? I mean, this is our house; aren't vampires . . . ?''

‘‘Prevented from entry? Not into another vampire's home, and even were you all human, this house ultimately belongs to me. I built it, as I built all of the Founder Houses. The house knows me, and so I need no permissions to enter.'' Amelie's eyes glinted in the dark. ‘‘Does that disturb you?''

Claire swallowed and didn't answer. ‘‘What did you want?''

Amelie raised one long, slender finger and pointed at the velvet box in Claire's hand. ‘‘I want you to put that on.''

‘‘But—''

‘‘I am not asking. I am instructing.''

Claire shivered, because although Amelie's voice stayed level, it sounded . . . hard. She opened the box and shook the bracelet out. It felt heavy and warm in her hand, and she peered at it carefully.