The Dead Girls' Dance (6 page)

 

Around noon, Claire heard the doorbell, and ran downstairs. Shane was lying on the couch, sound asleep. Still no sign of Eve, and she didn't expect to have any Michael sightings, given the daylight hours. She raced down the hall to the door, which was braced with a wooden chair as a temporary lock, and hesitated.

“Michael? You there?'” A chilly breeze swept across her, ruffling her hair. Wow. He was strong today. “Can I open the door? One for yes, two for no.'”

Apparently, yes. She pulled the chair away and peered outside. There were two men standing on the porch, both tall; one was lean and hard-looking, with black hair; the other one was a little pale (but not vamp pale) and heavyset, and where he wasn't balding, his very short hair looked brown.

They both displayed badges. Police.

“You're Claire, right?'” the lean one said, and extended his hand. “Joe Hess. This is my partner, Travis Lowe. How you doing?'”

“Um…'” She fumbled for the handshake. “Fine, I guess.'” Lowe also shook her hand. “Is something—I mean, did you find—?'” Because she both hoped that Shane's dad was in a holding cell, and was afraid of what that would mean for Shane. She rocked nervously back and forth on her heels, her eyes darting from one of them to the other.

Joe Hess smiled. Unlike most smiles she'd seen since coming to Morganville, this one seemed…uncomplicated. Clean, sort of. Not happy, because that would have been weird, but comforting. “It's okay,'” he said. “No, we haven't found them, but you've got nothing to be afraid of. May we come inside?'”

She heard shuffling footsteps behind her. Shane had woken up, and was standing in the hallway, barefoot and rumpled, with a fierce bed-head that got worse as he yawned and ran fingers through his hair, standing part of it on end.

How sick was it that she found that sexy?

Claire collected herself and pointed at the cops on the doorstep. Shane's eyes focused fast.

“Officers,'” he said, and came toward the door. “Anything you need?'”

“I was just asking if we can come in and talk,'” Detective Hess said. He'd stopped smiling, but he still looked kind. “Informally.'”

A chill moved softly over Claire's skin. A single wave of chill.
Yes.
Michael was okay with it.

“Sure,'” Claire said, and stepped back to swing the door wider. The cops stepped over the threshold, Hess first, then Lowe, and Shane shot Claire a look she couldn't quite figure out and led the men back to the living room.

Lowe studied the place more than the two of them; he seemed to really appreciate it. “Nice,'” he murmured, which was the first thing he'd said. “Great use of wood in here. Real organic.'”

She couldn't really say
thank you,
because, hey, she didn't build it. She didn't even own it. But on Michael's behalf she said, “We think so, too, sir.'” Claire settled nervously back on the sofa, perched on the edge. Shane remained standing, and Hess and Lowe moved around, not exactly searching, but cataloging everything. Hess stayed focused on the two of them, and after a moment, he bent his knees and sat down in the chair that Michael had occupied last night. Déjà vu, Claire thought. Hess seemed to shiver a little, and he looked up, maybe trying to locate the source of the draft that had just brushed past him.

Michael liked that chair.

“You had some trouble here last night,'” Hess said. “I know you had a talk with our colleagues Gretchen and Hans. I read the report this morning.'”

No harm in admitting to that. Both Shane and Claire nodded.

“A little scary, huh?'”

Claire nodded. Shane didn't. He gave the detective a narrow little smile. “I'm a Morganville lifer. Define scary,'” he said. “Anyway, if you're playing good cop, bad cop—'”

“I'm not,'” Hess said. “Trust me, you'd know if I was, because I'd be the bad cop.'” And there was something in his eyes that—oddly—made Claire believe it. “Look, I won't lie to you. Gretchen and Hans, they've got their own agendas. But so do we. We want to make sure you're protected, understand me? That's our job. We serve and protect, and Travis and I believe in that.'”

Lowe paused in his slow amble to nod.

“We're neutral. There's a few of us in town who did enough good for each side to earn a little freedom, as long as we're careful.'”

“What Joe means,'” Detective Lowe said, “is that they ignore us as long as we keep it on our side of the tracks. Humans are the slave race here—forget about skin color. So we have to take care of our own when we can.'”

“And when we
can't,
'” Hess said, as smoothly as if they'd rehearsed all this, “things get ugly. It ain't like the two of us are free agents. We're Switzerland. If you cross the line, you're on your own.'”

Shane frowned at him. “What can you do for us, if you're Switzerland?'”

“I can make sure that Gretchen and Hans don't make any follow-up visits,'” Hess said. “I can keep most of the cops away from you, maybe not all. I can put out the word—widely—that you're not just under a Founder's seal; Travis and I are keeping an eye on you. That'll keep anybody else from trying to win friends by smacking you around.'”

“Anybody human, he means,'” Lowe amended. “The vamps, they'll scare the shit out of you if they can, but they won't hurt you. Not unless you screw up and that Founder's seal goes away. Got me?'”

Which had already happened, really. The screwing-up part. Well, technically, she supposed Shane's dad hadn't broken any laws—yet—because Michael hadn't really died.

Except that he had.

God, Morganville made her head hurt.

A door slammed upstairs, and Eve came clattering down the stairs, fully dressed in Goth finery: a purple sheer shirt over a black corset thingie, a skirt that looked like it had gotten caught in a shredder, hose with skulls woven in, and her black Mary Janes. Very fierce. Her makeup was back in full force, ice white face, black-rimmed eyes, lips like three-day-old bruises.

“Officer Joe!'” Eve practically flew across the room to hug him. Shane and Claire exchanged a look. Yeah, this wasn't something they were going to see every day. “Joe Joe Joe! I've been wondering where you were!'”

“Hi, Skippy. You remember Travis, right?'”

“Big T.!'” Another hug. This, Claire thought, had tipped over the edge into the surreal, even for Morganville. “I'm so glad to see you guys!'”

“Ditto, kid,'” Lowe said. He was smiling, and it transformed his face into something that was almost angelic. “You've still got the numbers, right?'”

Eve slapped her hand on the mobile phone strapped to her belt in a coffin-shaped holder. “Oh yeah. Speed dial. But there hasn't been—um—'”

Claire had the sudden weird feeling that Eve had something she couldn't talk about in front of them. The cops seemed to think so, too, because their eyes met briefly, and then Hess said, “You want an update? How about showing us to your coffeepot?'”

“Sure!'” Eve said brightly, and led them off into the kitchen.

“Well,'” Shane said as the door shut behind them, “that's bizarre.'”

“Did I miss a chapter?'” Claire asked. “And are there Cliff's Notes?'”

“No idea.'”

The sound of conversation drifted in from the kitchen, music without words. Claire fidgeted, then got up and tiptoed over.

“Hey!'” Shane protested, but he followed.

Hess was talking about somebody named Jason. Shane reacted, putting his hand on Claire's shoulder and lifting his finger to his lips.

What?
she mouthed silently.

I want to hear.

Detective Lowe was talking. “—you probably would want to know that he's getting out today. Now, before you say anything, he's been warned. He's not about to go near you or your parents. He'll be monitored.'”

“Monitored.'” Eve sounded shaken. “But—I thought he was going to be in jail for a long time! What about that girl…?'”

“She withdrew the complaint,'” Hess said. “We couldn't keep him locked up forever, honey. I'm sorry.'”

“But he's
guilty!
'”

“I know. But now it's your word against his, and you know how that gets decided. You're not sworn to anybody, Eve. He is.'”

Eve cursed. It sounded like she was trying not to cry. “Does he know where I am?'”

“He'll find out,'” Hess said. “But like I said, he's being monitored, and we'll keep an eye on all of you kids here. You leave Jason alone, he'll leave you alone. Okay?'”

If Eve agreed, she did it silently. Claire nearly tipped backward as Shane tugged on her shoulder; then she caught her balance and followed him back to the couch. “Who's Jason?'” She couldn't even wait until they were seated to ask.

“Crap,'” he sighed. “Jason's her brother. Last I heard, he was in jail for stabbing somebody. He's kind of a psycho, and Eve turned him in. No wonder she's freaked.'”

“Her older brother?'” Because Claire was picturing some Gothed-out muscular football type about ten feet tall, with a steroid habit.

“Younger,'” Shane said. “Seventeen, I guess. Skinny, creepy kid. I never liked him.'”

“Do you think—?'”

“What?'”

“Do you think he'll come
here
? Try to hurt Eve?'”

Shane shrugged. “If he does, he'll be regretting it all the way to the hospital.'” He said it in a matter-of-fact kind of way that made Claire feel strangely warm. She fought to catch her breath. If Shane noticed, he didn't show it. “As long as we stay here, we're safe.'” He looked up at the blank ceiling. “Right, Michael?'”

A chill drifted over Claire's skin. “Right,'” she said, on Michael's behalf.

But she wondered.

T
he cops left, Shane played some video games, and Claire studied. It was a normal kind of day, all things considered. Shane had the TV on, looking for any news that might show a clue as to what his dad was up to, but Morganville's local station (it had only one) seemed bland, vanilla, and content-free even on the newscast.

The night came; Michael drifted back into human form; they had dinner.

Normal life, such as it passed for in a place like Morganville. In the Glass House.

It was only at midnight, when Claire was drifting off to sleep to the distant, sweet sound of Michael's guitar, that she started wondering about what she was going to do in the morning. She couldn't just
hide,
no matter what Michael thought. She had a life—sort of—and she'd already missed enough classes this semester. It was go or withdraw, and withdrawing would make things worse. She'd never get her academic life together and go on to the Ivy League schools she was dreaming about.

She fell asleep thinking of vampires, fangs, pretty girls with mean smiles and cigarette lighters. Of fires and screaming. Of Shane's mom floating in the bathtub.

Of Shane, huddled in a corner, crying.

Not a great night. She woke up at first light, wondering if Michael was already gone again, and yawned and struggled her way out of bed and to the bathroom. Nobody else was up, of course. The shower felt good, and by the time she'd dried her hair and pulled on a plain white shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, and loaded up her backpack with the daily essentials, she felt ready to face the outside world.

Shane was asleep on the couch downstairs. She tiptoed past him, but a squeaky floorboard made it a useless exercise; he came bolt upright and stared at her with wild, uncomprehending eyes for a few seconds before he blinked and sighed. “Claire.'” He swung his legs off, sat up, and rested his head on the palms of his hands. “Ow. Man, remind me that two hours of sleep doesn't really cut it.'”

“I think you just reminded yourself. What were you doing up?'”

“Talking,'” he said. “Michael needed to talk.'”

Oh. Guy stuff. Stuff Michael hadn't wanted to share with the girls. Okay, fine, not her business. Claire hitched up her backpack and edged toward the hallway.

“Where are you going?'” Shane asked without lifting his head.

“You know where I'm going.'”

“Oh no, you're not!'”

“Shane, I'm
going
. Sorry, but you don't get to tell me what to do.'” Technically, she supposed he could; he was older, and in Michael's absence he was sort of the owner and operator of the house. But…no. Not even then. Once she started letting that happen—or happen again—she'd lose whatever independence she'd earned. “I have to go to class. Look, I'll be fine. Amelie's Protection's still good, and the campus is neutral ground, you know that. Unless I screw up, I'll be okay.'”

“It's not neutral ground for Monica,'” he said, and looked up. “She tried to kill you, Claire.'”

True. Claire gulped down a hard little bubble of fear. “I can handle Monica.'” She didn't think she could, but at least she could avoid her. Running was always an option.

Shane stared at her with bloodshot, tired eyes for a few long seconds, then shook his head and flopped back against the couch cushions, arms spread wide. “Whatever,'” he said. “Call if you get into trouble.'”

Something in his tone made Claire want to shed the backpack and crawl up on the couch next to him, cuddling close, but she straightened her spine and said, “I will,'” and marched to the door.

Two hard, fast chills swept over her. Michael, telling her a firm
no
.

“Bite me,'” she said, shot the brand-new locks that Shane had installed, and exited into the warm Texas morning sun.

 

English class was boring, and she'd already read through everything in the curriculum, so Claire spent her time writing out her thoughts in the back of her journal. A lot of them centered on Shane, and Shane's lips, and Shane's hands. And curses on the fact that she wasn't eighteen yet, and that it was a stupid rule anyway.

She was still thinking about the injustice of all that after class, when she ran into trouble.

Literally.

Claire turned the corner, head down, and collided with a tall, firm body that instantly grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her,
hard,
backward. Claire nearly lost her balance, but skidded to a shaky and upright halt, bracing herself against the wall. “Hey!'” she yelled, more in shock than anger, and then her brain caught up with her eyes and she thought,
Oh, crap
.

It was Monica.

Monica Morrell looked polished and perfect, from her shining straight hair to her flawless makeup to the cute, trendy sheer top over baby doll T she was wearing. No backpack for Monica. She had a designer bag, and she looked Claire up and down, glossed lips twisting in disdain. Of course, she wasn't alone. Monica never went anywhere without an entourage, and today it was her usual wing girls, Jennifer and Gina, as well as a hovering flock of hard-bodied boys, most of them athletes of some kind or other.

Everybody was taller than Claire.

“Watch it, freak!'” Monica said, and glared at her. And then started to smile. It didn't lessen the menace in her pretty eyes. “Oh, it's you. You ought to watch where you're going.'” She half turned to her little gaggle of followers. “Poor Claire. She's got a syndrome or something. Falls down stairs, hits her head, nearly burns down her house…'” She focused back on Claire as Jennifer and Gina giggled. “Isn't that right? Didn't your house burn?'”

“Little bit,'” Claire said. She was shaking, deep down, but she knew that if she backed down, she risked a lot worse. “But I heard it's not the first time that's happened when you stop by for a visit.'”

Monica's clique made a low
ooooooooooh
sound, a no-she-didn't murmur evenly split between appreciation and anticipation. Monica's eyes turned cold. -Er.

“Don't even go there, freak. Not my fault you live with a bunch of losers and jerks. Probably that Goth whore lighting candles all over the place. She's a walking fire hazard, not to mention a fashion disaster.'”

Claire bit the inside of her lip and swallowed her reply, which would have had to do with who the real whore was in the conversation. She just raised her own eyebrows—well aware they weren't plucked, or perfect, or anything—and smiled like she knew something Monica didn't.

“She's not the only one. Isn't that top from Wal-Mart? The Trailer Park collection?'” She turned around to go as Monica's friends
oooooh
ed again, this time with an edge of laughter.

Monica grabbed her by the backpack, yanking her off-balance. “Tell Shane I said hi,'” she said, her breath hot against Claire's ear. “Tell him I don't care who's put out the truce flag—I'm going to get him, and you, and he's going to be sorry he
ever
screwed with me.'”

Claire pulled herself free from Monica's highly polished manicured grip and said, “He wouldn't screw you if you were the last girl on earth and it was survival of the species.'”

She thought that Monica was going to scratch her eyes out with those perfectly manicured talons, and backed off fast. Monica, strangely, let her go. She was even smiling, a little, but it was a weird kind of smile, and it made Claire's stomach lurch when she looked back.

“Bye now,'” Monica said. “Freak.'”

Chem class was already under way when Claire breathlessly slid into an empty seat and unpacked her notebook and text. She kept an eye out for Monica, Gina, Jennifer, or any random chemicals being flung her way—it had happened before—but she didn't run into Monica there, or on her way to her next class, or the next. By midafternoon she was aching from the tension, but her heart rate was pretty normal, and she'd gotten back into the groove of listening for comprehension. Not that she wasn't way ahead in the classes—she had a habit of reading the whole book at the beginning of the semester—but it was always nice when professors dropped some tidbit that wasn't in the book or the published notes. Even the classes she didn't much like seemed relatively interesting. History had a quiz, which she finished in five minutes and handed in, then escaped with a silent thumbs-up from the professor.

It was late afternoon when she exited into the quadrangle outside of the science building; the crowds of students had thinned, since a lot of people tried to finish classes early and get on with the all-important party schedule. Texas Prairie University wasn't exactly Harvard on the Plains; most of the students were here to plow through two years of required courses, then transfer out to a legitimate university. So it was “Party till you puke,'” mostly.

It was funny as she looked around now, knowing what she knew about Morganville. She'd never realized what an insulated little world college was; she'd be willing to bet that ninety percent of the kids attending had no idea what the real score was in town, or ever would. TPU was like a wildlife park, and the students were the wildlife.

And sometimes, the herd got culled.

Claire shivered, looked around for any signs of lurking Monicas, and took off for home. It wasn't a long walk, but it took her over the nicely tended (though sun-seared) grounds and out into Morganville proper's “business district'”—which really wasn't. It was a sideshow for the students, all coffee shops (she wondered what poor fool Oliver had gotten to fill Eve's empty barista apron) and bookstores and trendy clothing emporiums. Buildings sported school colors—green and white—and usually had
STUDENT DISCOUNT
signs fading in the windows.

There was a weedy-looking guy in black standing at the corner, watching her with burning dark eyes. He looked familiar, but she couldn't think why…somebody from class, maybe? Scary, anyway. She wondered why he was staring at
her
. There were other girls on the street. Prettier ones.

Claire walked faster. When she looked back, he wasn't there anymore. Was that better, or way creepier?

Walking even faster seemed like a great idea suddenly.

As Claire passed Common Grounds, the coffee shop, she glanced inside and saw someone she thought she recognized…but what the hell would Shane's dad be doing
here
? In the middle of the day? He didn't exactly blend in with the college crowd, and every cop in town was shaking the trees for him, right?

But there he was. Granted, she'd gotten only a quick look, but how many Frank Collins look-alikes could there be in Morganville?

I should get the hell out of here,
she thought, but then she wondered. If she could find out what he was doing, maybe that would help Michael and Shane with planning what to do next. Besides, it was the middle of the day, broad daylight, and it wasn't like Mr. Collins didn't know where to find her if he wanted—he knew where she lived, after all.

So Claire opened the door and slipped inside, hiding behind a couple of big jocks with bulky laptop-laden backpacks who were having some earnest conversation about whether baseball stats were legitimate during the steroid years, or had to be thrown out. Yes, that
was
Shane's dad, and he was sitting in the corner of the coffee bar, sipping from a cup. Plain as day.

What the
hell
…?

She caught her breath as Oliver slipped into the seat opposite him. Oliver was a lanky guy, tall and a bit stooped, with long curling hair that was sprinkled and shot through with gray. Not very threatening, Oliver, until you saw the fangs and the real personality lurking underneath what he put on for the public. Oliver was terrifying, and she had no desire
at all
to get into any position where she'd have to deal with him again.

Claire turned to go, and ran into a broad chest clad in a soft gray T-shirt. She looked up, and saw a guy she didn't recognize—a little older than Shane, maybe, but not much. He had soft, short red hair, and he was fair-skinned and freckled. Big blue eyes, the kind of blue that made her think of clear skies or deep oceans. He was just…pretty. And kind of peaceful.

Big and solid, and wearing—of all things, in this Texas late-summer heat wave—an old, worn brown leather jacket. No backpack, but he looked like a student.

He smiled down at her. She expected him to step out of the way, but he didn't; instead, he reached down, took her hand, and said, “Hello, Claire. I'm Sam. Let's talk.'”

His fingers felt cool, like clay. And he was, under the freckles, a little
too
pale. And there was something fey and sad in his eyes, too.

Oh, crap. Vampire.

Claire tried to pull free. He held on effortlessly. He could break bones if he wanted to—she sensed it—but he used just enough strength to keep her from getting loose. “Don't,'” Sam said. “I need to talk to you. Please, I promise not to hurt you. Let's sit down, okay?'”

“But—'” Claire looked around, alarmed. The two jocks were moving away, heading for the bar to get drinks. The place was busy, and there were students everywhere—chatting, laughing, playing games, tapping away on laptops, talking on cell phones. And, of course, nobody was paying attention to her. She could make a scene and probably get away, but that would draw the attention of Oliver, not to mention Shane's dad, and she didn't want that. Low-pro was the order of the day.

Claire swallowed and let the vampire pull her to a secluded table near the window. He sat far from the hard white line of sunshine that had crept in across the wooden floor. The canopy outside screened most of it, but there was a tiny little area of risk left, she supposed.

Sam kept hold of her hand. She sat down, tried to make her voice strong and steady, and said, “Would you mind letting go now? Since I'm sitting?'”