Morganville - 10 - Bite Club (22 page)

that she'd seen only an hour ago. He stared at her, then at Michael.

She reached for Michael's arm for support. Something flared hot in Shane's eyes.

"That how it is? You and Claire?" Shane asked. "Not surprised, man. Every girl I ever knew ended up liking you better than me. It's almost like you set out to make it happen."

"That's so not true!" Claire said, shocked -- shocked he would even think it, much less say it -- and stepped away from Michael. "You think -- You think me and Michael...?"

"Why not? He's cooler, right? He's rocking that whole guitar hero thing. Oh, and he's a vampire -- I know how much all you chicks dig that. He could snap his fingers and pull any girl he wanted. Including you. Don't kid yourself thinking you've got a choice."

He didn't even say her name. Somehow, that hurt worse than anything else -- and it made her angrier, too, which probably wasn't right, but she couldn't help it. "No, he couldn't get me, because I don't love him. I love you, Shane."

He gave her a cynical smile. "You don't have to love somebody to screw them."

"Shane!" Now she was embarrassed and horrified and sick, and she wished he would just shut up.

"I saw how he looked at you. C'mon, Michael, tell her. Tell her I'm wrong. Tell her you never think about it."

Michael didn't say anything. There was an odd light in his eyes, one Claire couldn't remember seeing before. She punched him in the arm. "Well?" she demanded. "Tell him!"

"Won't do any good," Michael said. "He's not listening to anything I have to say. Or you, for that matter. Come on, Claire. We should go."

"No! I'm not leaving him here like this, thinking that I'm -- "

Shane lunged forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and put his face very close to hers. Close enough to kiss, but that didn't seem to be on his mind at all. It was Shane, but...not. Not the Shane she'd always known. Even when he'd lost his memory, there'd been this core of gentleness, of control...and now that was gone.

It was like part of him had died. The best part.

"Let me make it real clear," he said. "I don't date fang-bangers. If it's not him, then it's that crazy-ass, bloodsucking boss of yours. So, go on. Do what you know you want to do. None of my business anymore. We're done."

And he pushed her away, hard. She banged against a steel post, which knocked the breath out of her and brought tears to her eyes from the instant, white-hot pain of bone ringing on metal.

Through the tears, she saw Michael grab Shane's arm and yank him away from her, unbelievably fast and strong. But Shane had strength and quickness of his own, more than he should have, more than she'd ever seen any human have, and he swung around inside Michael's defenses and slammed a fist into his stomach, then his chin, snapping Michael's head back. Then again and again and again, so fast it was a blur.

And Michael went down flat on his back. He rolled over, blinking, and got back to his feet, but his mouth was bleeding, and Eve was yelling and trying to get between him and Shane, and it was all just insane how this was happening. How could it possibly be --

Claire caught sight of a figure standing at a metal railing upstairs, looking down at them. A petite woman, masses of honey-colored wavy hair, a sweet face.

Gloriana. The vampire.

She was smiling -- not an evil smile, which Claire could have understood, but a smile of childlike delight.

A smile that should have been reserved for puppies and rainbows and true love.

Not for seeing Shane kick Michael in the side with enough force to shatter bone.

The onlookers watched with a kind of strange, hungry approval, and nobody moved in to stop it until a tattooed, muscled guy -- Rad, from the car and motorcycle shops --

grabbed Shane from behind, winding his arms through and locking his fingers together behind Shane's neck in a unbreakable restraining hold.

He kicked the joints of Shane's legs and got him down on his knees.

Eve was down next to Michael, helping him sit up, wiping the slightly too-pale blood from his face with a lacy black handkerchief. "My God," she was saying numbly.

"My God, my God...Oh, sweetie..."

Shane was trying to throw off Rad's hold, but his buddies were moving in now. As if he realized it was useless to try to break Rad's hold on him, Shane went still.

Eve must have decided Michael was okay, because she looked at Claire and asked her if she was hurt, at increasingly worried volumes. Claire shook off her daze and said,

"No, I'm fine. Michael?"

He didn't answer. He was sitting up and all his attention was on Shane. Just Shane.

"Let him go, Rad," he said.

"Dude," Rad said. "Don't think that's too good an idea. He ain't givin' up. He's just waiting. I can feel it."

"I said let him go."

"Your funeral." Rad released Shane, who turned and shoved him back. Rad held up his hands, signaling surrender.

And Shane turned back toward Michael, who wasn't showing anything like that. In fact, he was on his feet again, moving Eve -- gently -- and facing Shane squarely.

"This isn't you, man. What is causing this?" Michael asked.

"It's her," Claire said, and looked up at the railing above them. "She's screwing with him."

Only Gloriana was gone. No sign she'd ever been there. Claire looked around, but there were no vampires in view. Not one.

Just Michael.

Shane turned a scorching look on her. "Her who?"

"Gloriana," Claire said. "She's doing this to you."

He laughed. "I don't do vamps. You ought to remember that."

"It's a glamour."

"No, it's not," Michael said, very quietly. "Not exactly. Or not completely. Right, Shane? This is something else."

"Yeah," Shane said. "It's something else. Because there's a lot of us who are sick as hell of getting our asses kicked by vampires, sick of being your cheap wine bottles with legs, sick of letting you rule this town like lords. It's not going to happen anymore. Right, guys?"

The gym guys -- and girl, too -- had gathered around in a circle, and the rest had the same predatory glitter in their eyes, the same barely under-the-surface violence. Rad seemed to be the only muscled-up dude who was in the wrong place and had the wrong motives, and he was looking around now, frowning uneasily.

"Look, maybe you should go," he said to Michael, and then glanced at Eve and Claire. "All of you. Work this out later."

Her impulse was to say that she was staying, that no power on earth could make her leave Shane when he was like this, but if she did that, she knew that Michael and Eve would stick it out, too. And that would be bad. Shane seemed especially angry about Michael being here -- and, from the look he gave her now, Eve, too.

A big, over muscled guy dressed in microfiber sweats and gold chains, like some cheesy reality-show reject, gave Eve a really nasty grin. It was mostly a snarl. "You always ran around town, dressing like a wannabe bloodsucker, and now you're banging one," he said. Well, he didn't actually say banging, but Claire's brain refused to completely translate it. It was too shocking when it was said with that much venom. "I hate fang-bangers worse than the vamps. At least the vamps are just doing what comes natural. Your kind, you're perverts."

Eve flinched a little, but then she lifted her chin. "Really? Considering what I hear from the girls you date, Sandro, maybe you ought to think twice about throwing that word around. 'Cause I had to look up half the things you wanted them to do on Urban Dictionary, and it was disgusting."

She was wearing the choker again, having tied it back on before they'd left the house, but now Sandro -- like Shane had before -- reached out and yanked on it. He didn't manage to pull it off, but he pulled it down far enough that Eve's fang marks were clearly visible. "Look at that. Walking blood bank. I heard you're a walking ATM, too. That stands for Any Time Michael wants it -- "

Michael stepped in front of Eve, facing Sandro, and said, "You want to say it to me?"

Sandro laughed. "You didn't learn your lesson from your little friend there? Sure.

'Cause you ain't got no backup, Glass. Your whole family's been vamp pets from the Dark Ages, but we ain't having any more of that better-than-you crap. Not here.

Here, you're all on your own, bitch."

Shane had gone very quiet behind them. Claire looked at him, at his set, unsmiling face, and felt panic ignite. This was real, and it was dangerous. Rad and the few others who didn't seem angry were backing off, edging out of the crowd. Maybe they'd send for some help, or maybe not. She certainly didn't trust that the dude taking their money at the door would bother to come charging to the rescue.

Michael was a vampire, but he was young, and he couldn't fight this crowd on his own. Plus, he'd be trying to protect Eve, and her, too.

And Shane didn't have his back. Or any of their backs. It was obvious and painful, and Eve gave him the worst, most heartbroken and betrayed look Claire could imagine. "You'd just stand there," she said.

"You'd stand there and let this happen to us. To us. To your own girlfriend."

Shane turned away to start slugging the heavy bag again.

"Shane," Claire whispered. "Please. Please."

He faltered, and one of his punches landed light. He grabbed the bag and stopped its swing, and looked over his shoulder at her. For a long, awful second, she thought he'd just go back to what he was doing, but then he nodded sharply at Sandro. "Let them go," he said.

Sandro cracked his knuckles. "Gimme a reason."

"I owe her that much," Shane said. "Let them leave." He punched the bag again with stunning force.

"But take my advice, friends . Don't come looking for me again. Any of you."

There was some grumbling, but the circle slowly parted. Eve grabbed Michael's hand and towed him off, heading for the exit. Claire hesitated, staring at Shane's back as he bobbed, weaved, and punched.

"Shane," she said. "I still love you."

He didn't answer. Sandro shoved her after her friends.

"You heard him," Sandro said. "Get the hell out and stay out. He ain't interested."

She looked back just once. There was pain -- real pain -- on Shane's face as he fought the training bag, and their eyes locked just for a second before he looked away.

His were red. It wasn't possible to tell tears from sweat, but she thought -- no, she knew -- how devastated he felt.

Because she felt exactly the same.

Tears welled up and spilled over, and she sucked in a trembling breath that smelled like sweat and metal and despair.

Eve took her hand. "Come on," she said. "Nothing you can do here."

That was true, and it hurt so, so badly.

SHANE

I wish I could say I don't know why I did it. That would make me feel better, cleaner, about what I said to her. But I knew. It was just like Claire figured: Glory had glamoured me. But I didn't care, because under the glamour there was a real bad streak of...me. I felt right. More than that, I felt righteous, like a knight in the old stories riding off to some God-justified war. I felt like I had when I'd had a purpose and my dad had been alive to tell me what it was.

I punched the heavy bag until my arms trembled and my legs felt like lead, and then collapsed on a metal bench. Somebody brought me another protein shake, and I downed the bottle in thick, thirsty gulps. My head was hurting, and I was having trouble catching my breath.

"Hey, man, you all right?" That was Sandro. I hated Sandro, I hated his greasy smile and his gold chains and his fake New Jersey cred. He was from Morganville, like the rest of us. Hell, his dad was a baker.

You can't be a badass when your dad makes cakes.

Sandro squeezed my shoulder, tightly enough to bend tendons. I knocked his hand away. "Fine," I said.

"Get lost."

"Good job dumping that little Renfield. I don't know what you ever saw in her, anyway. She looks like half a boy. Me, I like my women with curves and bounce, if you know what I mean."

I drained the last of the shake and felt a fresh burst of anger and hunger. "Maybe you need to look up what get lost means." Michael wasn't here to take it out on, but Sandro would do just as well.

"Don't get attitude with me, Collins. You ain't that tough."

I knew better. Sandro was schoolyard tough. I was fight-for-your-life tough. But I wasn't going to teach him the difference, because for all his faults, for all he was a prime, grade-A jackass, he was breathing and his heart was beating, and that's all it took to put him on my side. Two kinds of fighters: us and them.

None of them were here right now. Glory and Vassily had separated us into humans and vamps, and it had worked. Now every time I saw a vamp it made me want to rip into it.

Including Michael.

That made me feel weird inside, but not weird enough to want to change it. This was where I belonged.

This was what I was meant to do. Born and bred to it, honestly. My dad had taught me well.

In here, I didn't have to be Shane Collins, eternal slacker, orphan, lost boy. In here, with these guys, I was part of something. Part of the war.

Even if, right now, that war was fought one on one, in the ring, with people cheering.

Someday, it would be fought in the streets, and people would cheer there, too.

Even Claire.

Soon.

"It's Gloriana," Claire said once they were safely in the car. "I saw her, Michael. I saw her watching you and Shane fight. She was smiling."

"I don't know how she could do it without affecting me or you or Eve," he said.

"Glamour isn't that specific."

"Hers is," Eve said. He gave her an odd look as he drove down the street, heading for home. "What, you didn't know that? She can grab one guy out of a room if she wants to. I've seen her do it. I've seen her do it to you."

Claire had seen it, too, at her welcome party -- Gloriana had lured Michael away with just a smile and a wink, right out of Eve's arms. She hadn't been serious about it -- at least, Claire didn't think she'd been serious -- and Eve had gotten him back fast, but she'd felt Glory's influence now, and the worst thing about it was that it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Frank had even warned her, and she still hadn't believed that there was anything wrong with what she was feeling or doing.