Bite Club

NINE

Shane came home seeming just as normal as ever. He even brought brisket, and they ate, four friends together, like nothing had ever gone wrong. Even Michael’s opaque “juice” bottle didn’t set him off.

All Claire could think was that she needed to sit down and tell him about the call. But she didn’t know what she was going to say, and she didn’t want to say it in front of Eve and Michael. Not like that; it needed to be private.

But afterward, upstairs in his room, when Claire snuggled in next to him, talking didn’t seem to be important. She kept thinking she’d bring it up, but after hours of slow, delicious kissing in his arms, she still hadn’t managed to even start the conversation. Finally, she fell asleep. When she woke up, he was carrying her to her bed and tucking her in.

“Shane?” she murmured. He was leaning over her, close enough that his long, shaggy hair brushed her face.

“Still me,” he murmured back. “Were you expecting someone else?”

She smiled. “Just you.”

“Good girl.” He gave her a slow, damp kiss, one that made her warm down to her toes.

“Shane, I was thinking…”

“About?”

“About…” She didn’t want to do this—she really didn’t. Not when it had been so nice. So perfect. But she tried. “About leaving Morganville.”

To her surprise, he didn’t pull back or act surprised or anything. He kissed her again, lightly, and said, “We will. I promise.”

“I just—You know I want to go to MIT, right?”

“Of course. And you will.”

Wow. Just like that…although she hadn’t managed to work in the January part of the conversation. But it sounded good. Positive. They were on the same page, after all. One last, sleepy, damp kiss, and she slipped away into the best sleep she’d had in almost a week.

He was gone when she woke up, but he’d left a note…. He’d signed up for an extra, early-morning shift at the barbecue restaurant. He even signed it with LY, which she knew was Shane shorthand for love you.

That felt better. Lots better.

Claire was just coming down the stairs, humming and thinking about how nice it was to have things getting back to normal, and how she’d tell Shane about the January thing tonight, when Myrnin sent a message through the portal—well, more of a rock with a note tied to it, which rolled across the floor and scared Eve into a scream before the portal snapped shut. Eve kicked the rock resentfully with her thick black boots and glared at it, then at the wall. Claire, who was coming down the steps, gave her a “What the hell?” kind of look.

“Your boss,” Eve said, and reached down to grab the rock, “needs to figure out texting. Seriously. Who does this? Is he actually from the Stone Age? And you need to figure out how to put something here that we can lock. What if this thing opens when I’m naked?”

“Why would you be naked down here?”

“Well—” Eve didn’t have an answer for that one. She handed over the rock. “Okay, bad example. But I don’t like it that he can just drop in any damn time he wants. Or throw rocks at us.”

“I don’t like it much, either,” Claire admitted, as she untied the string and peeled the paper off the stone. She took a second to examine the rock. You never knew with Myrnin, but this looked just like what it appeared to be: plain granite. So the message was the paper, like if a normal person had thought of it…not that a normal person would have thrown a rock into their house in the first place.

The note said, Stay away from the lab until further notice. I am fumigating. It might kill you. Also, it appears that Our Old Friend may have left town. Oliver is sending operatives after him, but the crisis may be over. For now.

“Fumigating?” Eve said, reading over her shoulder. “What does that mean? And who’s Our Old Friend?”

That was Bishop, of course, but Claire couldn’t tell Eve any of that. “No idea. He probably thinks he’s talking to someone else, anyway. Oh, and fumigating means that he’s gassing the place. I guess he thinks there’s some kind of bug problem.”

“He usually just lets Bob loose on them.”

“Maybe Bob’s full. I hope he remembers to move him before—Maybe I’d better remind him.” Claire pulled out her phone and texted Myrnin, who promptly texted back, Of course i moved the spider. I am not an idiot.

No, he was a very smart guy who responded to texts, but threw rocks with messages tied onto them.

Claire gave up.

“I got a message from Miranda,” Eve said. “She didn’t have your e-mail. You guys have a thing today?”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m taking her shopping.”

“Shopping. Miranda. Really?” Eve looked confused, then a little bit fascinated. “Wow. Talk about the color-blind leading the blind.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, honey, but your amazing fashion sense is not the talk of anywhere. And Miranda doesn’t go shopping. She’s more of a Dumpster diver fashion victim.”

“Well, she does with me,” Claire said. She was stinging a little bit, because getting fashion dissed by a girl wearing red-and-black Halloween hose and a fake shrunken-head necklace was just too much. “Did she say where to meet her?”

“She said she’d be outside at ten.”

Claire checked her watch. It was already ten after ten. “Guess I’m going, then. You heading out?”

“Some of us have work.”

“Some of us have mad-scientist bosses who give them the day off for fumigation.”

“Okay, you win.” Eve winked and grabbed her stuff as Claire picked up hers. “Too bad I can’t come with you two and give you decent makeovers. And why don’t you ever wear that pink wig? That was the kick.”

She wasn’t wrong. The pink wig that Eve had practically made her buy in Dallas was, indeed, the kick, but away from Eve she always felt miserably self-conscious about wearing it. People looked at her. Claire was much more used to being invisible.

And right now, with all that was going on, seeming invisible sounded good.

Miranda was standing outside the fence, rocking a very unfashionable look—a plaid schoolgirl skirt that went past her knees and a wrinkled shirt in a color that might have been moss green in better light, but didn’t match that skirt or her coloring at all. Her worried face actually lit up when she saw Eve and Claire. Eve waved and got into the big, black hearse, and Miranda waved back, as enthusiastic as a kid at her first parade. She sighed, watching the tail fins turn the corner. “She is so cool.”

“She is,” Claire agreed. “But so are you. Come on. Let’s go shop.”

Those looking for clothes in Morganville had two options: the resale stores, of which there were three, or the one off-brand department store that mostly had clearance items from the better places. After considering Miranda’s budget, Claire steered her to the resale shops. College students often discarded their outfits here at the store next to the campus. Nobody was more fashion conscious than a TPU girl. It wasn’t like most of them were on campus for the education.

To be fair, that applied to the guys just as well.

Miranda followed along happily enough to the first resale shop. She didn’t say much, but there was a glow about her, something that made her seem much healthier and happier than Claire could remember. Just a little bit of attention, and the girl bloomed. That made Claire feel guilty and sad; she hadn’t gone out of her way to make friends with Miranda, and she knew nobody else did, either. No doubt the girl could be weird and upsetting, but she was just like anybody else.

She needed to be seen.

“Here,” Claire said, and held open the door of the shop for her. A tinny, cheerful bell rang overhead, and Miranda looked around as excitedly as if she’d never heard one before. That was impossible, wasn’t it? That she wouldn’t know what a shop bell sounded like?

Maybe not.

The woman at the back, dozing behind the counter, looked up and smiled sleepily. “You girls look around,” she said. “Let me know when you’re ready to try on.”

“Okay,” Miranda said, and stopped at the first rack of clothes. “Oh. Wow. There are a lot.”

“Yeah, honey. Those aren’t your size. Here. Look through these.” Claire felt like she was unexpectedly channeling Eve as she pulled things out and held them up against Miranda’s skinny frame, discarding some, keeping others. Strong colors didn’t work on her, but earth tones did. Before too long, Miranda was pulling things on her own and holding them up, staring into the mirror as if she was seeing a future that, finally, didn’t scare her at all.

“Can I try them on?” she asked. Claire waved at the shop owner, who unlocked the dressing rooms. Claire passed things over the top to Miranda, and leaned against the door.

“Nothing for you?” the woman asked, raising her eyebrows. Claire felt the look that swept over her outfit as if it had been an actual red-hot laser. She’d just been scanned, and found wanting.

“Well, maybe a top,” she said. “Maybe.”

“I have just what you need.”

And she did, too. Claire ended up modeling it in front of the triple mirror, frowning at her reflection. With the khaki pants she’d picked today, the pink-and-white lace top looked weirdly appropriate—and kind of sexy. She’d come a long way in the last few months, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for sexy in public. That just wasn’t her.

The dressing room was too quiet. Claire knocked on the door. “Miranda? Hey, come out and take a look at this. Tell me if it’s too much.”

Miranda peeked around the edge, face gone ghost pale. Her eyes were dark, with that blank stare that people found so weird.

She was having one of her things. A vision.

“It has blood on it,” she said. “You shouldn’t buy it if it has blood on it.”

Claire looked down. The top was perfectly clean. “Mir—”

Miranda suddenly opened the door. She had on one of the tops she’d been trying on, and Claire had a hurried impression that it looked totally good on her, but the girl was focused on something else entirely. She grabbed up all of the clothes, headed straight for the counter, and said, “I need this one, this one, and the one I have on.” She put the buy pile down and then handed over the other one. “I just can’t see myself in this, though.”

Claire realized she meant that literally. As in, Miranda had looked into her future and couldn’t see herself actually wearing that top. Bizarre. The shopkeeper didn’t seem to get it, though—why would she?—and named her price. Miranda paid, and Claire barely had time to dig out five bucks for the pink-and-white top she had on before Miranda grabbed her arm and said, “We have to go. Hurry.”

“But—”

“Now!”

Miranda hurried her outside, down the sidewalk, and then quickly turned her left, into an alley between two buildings. “Hide there,” she said, and pointed. “Right there. Don’t come out, Claire. Don’t come out for anything. You understand? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, but not if you come out.”

“Miranda, what in the hell—?”

Miranda’s face was chalk white now, but very determined. She looked down at herself and said, in a sad sort of voice, “It’s completely cute, isn’t it? This shirt?”

“Yes, it’s perfect. But what are you—?”

“Hush.” Miranda turned toward the mouth of the alley and pointed again into the shadows behind some trash cans. “Don’t come out!”

“Wait. What happens if I do?”

“I die,” Miranda said very simply. “Hide.”

Claire didn’t like it, but there was something utterly sure about what Miranda had just said, and for all that Claire didn’t believe in psychic predictions and that sort of stuff, she couldn’t deny that there was something about Miranda. Something weird and powerful, at times.

So she pressed herself into the shadows.

For a long few seconds, nothing happened, and then she heard footsteps. Confident high-heel taps that echoed off the bricks, then slowed and came to a stop.

“I saw you come in here,” said Gina’s voice. “Freak. Hiding in dark alleys now? What’s that about? You live in a Dumpster? Not that I’d be surprised.”

Miranda didn’t answer. Claire almost stepped out, because Gina was alone, and anyway, there was no way she was going to let Miranda face her down alone, no matter what Mir had said about it.

As if the girl knew what she was thinking, her hand moved behind her back and made a pushing motion. Stay there.

And Claire did. She didn’t like it, but she did.

“You’re going to hit me,” Miranda said. “You’re going to break my nose.”

“Damn straight,” Gina said. She sounded lazy and happy, as if she was enjoying all this. “You’re lucky that’s all I want to do. If you move, if you fight back, you’re going to get it worse. Understand?”

“Yes,” Miranda said. “I understand. If I don’t let you hit me, you’re going to kill me.”

Claire actually felt a tremor of chill run through her, like a wave, because there was just no doubt in Miranda’s voice at all. It wasn’t scared. It was just…factual, as if she’d already seen it happen.

“You’re smarter than you look, you spaced-out nutcase. So, yeah. Let me break your nose, and I’ll let you walk away. You fight, and it gets worse and the knife comes out. We’re clear?”

“Yes.”

Claire tried to move again, because she knew with a nightmarish certainty what was going to happen and that she had to do something, had to, but again, Miranda made that stay put motion.

“It’s okay,” Miranda said in an eerily empty, remote voice. “It’s not going to hurt that bad.”

“Bullshit,” Gina said, and she must have hit her, because Claire heard the wet crunch of the punch and Miranda’s thin little cry, and then the sound of a body falling.

Gina laughed. Claire pushed off from the wall, but it was too late. Gina was walking off, humming to herself while she went. If she hadn’t been wearing high heels, she’d have been skipping.

Miranda was getting up already, holding her broken, bleeding nose in one hand. Claire, angry and shocked, trembling with the sudden rush of frustrated adrenaline, started to go after Gina, but Mir grabbed her and shook her head furiously—and as she did, some of the blood gushing from her nose spattered Claire’s new pink-and-white shirt. Claire didn’t care at all. She crouched down next to the girl, helping her stand and holding her steady.

“That bitch!” Claire said. “You stay here. I’ll—”

“No!” Miranda said. Her voice was muffled and small, but her eyes were wide and fierce. “It’s the best thing. It’s only my nose. She’d kill us.”

“Then we’re calling the cops. I am not letting her get away with this….”

“Oh, don’t worry. She won’t,” Miranda said. And beneath the blood, Claire was almost sure she smiled. “She’s going to get in her car and drive real fast, and in two minutes she’s going to run a red light. And then she’s going to get hit by a big truck. My nose will set straight. She’s going to the hospital, and she’ll be there for a while.”

Claire stared at her, this little, fragile girl with her bloody face and scary smile. Finally she said, slowly, “Mir, did you plan for that to happen?”

“No,” Miranda said. “But sometimes it just happens the right way after all. It wouldn’t have been right if you’d come to help me, though. She’d have stabbed me, right here, and then you, and she’d have died, too, but later and a lot worse. Amelie wouldn’t have liked it.”

It was fascinating and freaky, but Claire believed her. Every weird and scary word of it. She shook it off, with difficulty, and took Miranda back into the resale shop, where the clerk got her cleaned off, packed her nose with tissue, and even helped Claire sponge off the blood from her shirt.

As she did, Claire heard the distant sound of a car horn, then a crash, and then silence. She looked over at Miranda, who’d tilted her head back to slow the bleeding, and Miranda glanced back and shrugged.

“Karma,” she said. “It’s a bitch.”

Miranda was dead right about Gina, not that Claire had any doubts; the accident was the talk of Morganville for days, and opinions were mostly on the “yay, finally” side of the scale. Gina had earned her suffering, not that Claire took much pleasure in it. She’d be weeks in the hospital and months in rehabilitation for the broken legs.

Miranda showed up the next morning for coffee, and the morning after, as if it had been planned that way. She probably saw it as inevitable, which it was, once she started showing up. A self-fulfilling prophecy. Eve thought it was weird, but she accepted it the way she accepted most things. It wasn’t that she disliked Miranda; she just didn’t know what to make of her, Claire thought. And she was fascinated by Miranda’s psychic abilities.

Though she was just as shocked and fascinated by the spectacular bruises on Miranda’s face and around her eyes. Double black eyes, and a swollen nose that had been reset at the hospital. “You look awful,” Eve said on the second morning. “What color is that? Eggplant? You look like a special effect, Mir.” She poured Miranda a cup of coffee and set out the milk and sugar.

“It’s okay,” Miranda said. Her voice sounded a little muffled and congested, but she was smiling. “It’s just a bruise. Nothing much.”

“It looks painful.” Eve frowned at her over her own cup of coffee. “Seriously, if Gina wasn’t already all busted up, I would be on her. I mean it.”

“I know,” Miranda said. “Thank you. But I’m okay. Really.”

Michael came in through the swinging doors and smiled at Eve, and his smile turned brittle and strange when he saw Miranda sitting there. She didn’t look at him. “Hey, Mir,” he said, and it sounded casual, but Claire had seen that first, unguarded look. Michael got his sports bottle out of the refrigerator and warmed it up in the microwave, then left.

Claire got up and followed him into the living room. “Hey,” she said. “Wait. What was that look?”

“What look?” Michael asked, trying to sound innocent. He took a drink from the sports bottle, and a little red flashed like sparks through his blue eyes. “I’m just wondering what she’s doing here.”

“Having coffee.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Why?”

“Oh, come on, Michael—”

“I don’t want to sound like a hard-ass, but Miranda’s trouble,” he interrupted. “Look, I feel for the kid—I do—but you have to understand, she’s not…she’s not safe to be around. Things happen. They always have.”

“She’s a kid. And it seems like nobody cares about her!”

“It’s not that. It’s just—” Michael gave up, sighed, and shook his head. “Not all strays are safe to bring inside, Claire. Trust me on that one.”

Miranda was still sitting in exactly the same spot when Claire came back, still stirring her coffee with the same slow, dreamlike motions. Without looking up, she said, “He’s right, you know.”

“What?”

“Michael told you it wasn’t safe to be around me. Well, he’s right, mostly. Things do happen. Bad things, mostly.”

Across the table, Eve looked up from her reading material, which looked like a celebrity gossip mag. She didn’t say anything, but there was something weird about the way she looked at Miranda. Bad memories.

Miranda sipped her coffee. “I only came today because I needed to tell you something,” she said. “They all think that the one they’re looking for left town, but he hasn’t. He’s still here. He’s got a plan; he’s had one for months. And the pretty one, she’s working for him. She’s in charge of recruitment.”

Eve’s eyebrows were going up slowly but surely. “Hey, Claire? What’s she talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Claire said, although she thought she did. She slid into the chair next to Miranda. “The pretty one. Do you mean Gloriana?”

Eve stiffened when she heard the name and rolled her eyes. “Oh, God, don’t tell me that bitch is up to something after all. I knew it.”

Miranda didn’t seem to be listening to Eve; in fact, Claire wasn’t sure she was hearing anything at all outside of her own head. “It’s not totally his fault, you know, but you have to be careful now. He isn’t in control anymore. All that anger…” She shook her head. “They’re making him like this. They want to make you all like this.”

It was impossible to follow what she was talking about…. Was she still referring to Bishop? Or…God, was she talking about Shane? “Mir,” Claire said. “Mir, are you talking about Shane?” Because Shane had a lot of anger; she’d always known that. He kept it locked down, mostly. But it was there.

Miranda, her bruised face distant and vague, sipped coffee and said, “Oh, I see. They want money first—money and soldiers. Then the rest of it. He won’t make the same mistakes again. Tell Amelie. Tell her—”

She stopped talking, and her swollen, bruised eyes suddenly widened.

“Mir?” Eve must have felt the same thing Claire did, a powerful surge of dread, because they both got to their feet. “Mir, are you okay?”

“Oh,” Miranda said. There were tears in her eyes now, and they flooded down her bruised cheeks. “Oh, that’s bad. You have to stop it. You have to stop him.”

“Stop who?”

“He’s hiding in the dark. He’s killing. He’s killing all the time,” Miranda said. And then her eyes rolled back in her head and she passed out in a dead faint, right at the breakfast table.

Bishop, Claire thought, frozen, as Eve cried out, ran to Miranda, and felt for a pulse. Claire couldn’t seem to move. She felt icy and sick.

“Help me!” Eve yelled at her, and Claire blinked and jumped to it. Helping involved moving Miranda into the living room, where they propped up her feet higher than her head and covered her with a warm afghan until Miranda’s frail eyelids fluttered and she woke up again.

“Oh,” she said. “Did I fall down?”

“More like passed out,” Eve said. “How do you feel?”

“Nauseous,” Miranda said. Her voice sounded thin and a little feeble. “Too much coffee.” She took a few deep breaths and smiled. “I don’t eat enough.”

Yeah, that much was obvious; Miranda was so thin, Claire could see the knobs of her bones at the joints. The girl needed sandwiches. “I’ll make you something,” she said.

“No, I have to go now.”

“But, Mir—”

“I have to go,” she said, and threw off the afghan and sat up, looking chalky and sick but very, very determined. “I can’t answer your questions. It’s too dangerous.”

“For you?” Eve asked.

Miranda shook her head. “For you,” she said. “You’re in enough trouble already.”

In the end, they couldn’t stop her leaving; it was all Claire could do to delay her long enough to put together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and raid Eve’s chocolate chip cookie stash. Miranda clutched the sack lunch and managed a smile as she walked, moving slowly and carefully, toward the door with them. Eve hovered near her elbow, but she seemed steady enough.

“I can’t stay,” Miranda said, and turned to meet Claire’s eyes, then Eve’s. “Michael’s right. I’m trouble for you. I’m trouble for everyone, and it’s better if I’m on my own. I’ll be okay now.”

“You’re sure?”

Miranda nodded. She paused on the porch, looking like a sad little girl off to school, and said, “He’s not going to stop this time. Claire, you need to understand, this isn’t like it was before. This is war. Amelie’s going to go to war.”

Amelie went to war last time, Claire thought, but there was something sincere in Miranda’s concern, something that made her feel anxious and breathless.

Shane. Shane was caught in the middle of all this. “Mir, is there anything else you can tell me…?”

“No. Nothing that won’t get you killed.” Miranda lifted the sack of food. “Thank you for the sandwiches. And the cookies. I’m going to like the cookies a lot.”

Then she walked away into the gray, chilly day, and they both watched until she was out of sight.

“Did we just do something bad?” Eve asked. “I mean, she’s just a kid. We should have made her stay.”

“I don’t think we could,” Claire said. “And she’s probably right. It’s safer for everybody if she goes.”

Still, she couldn’t forget about it…about Miranda, alone with all that going on in her head. As alone as Claire sometimes felt, she wasn’t anything close to as isolated.

I wish I knew how to help her.

But the truth was, sometimes there wasn’t anything that could be done.

SHANE

Once I started fighting, it was all I could think about over the next few days. There was nothing like it, especially when Gloriana was there with Vassily, watching…. I felt invincible. Even the punishment was just another kind of approval; every time Jester hit me, it felt like a pat on the back, and an invitation to hit harder.

So I did.

Yeah, I wondered about the sports drinks, the ones Gloriana kept in the refrigerator. We all drank them, and it made it easier to keep up with the vamps. Some part of me wondered what was in it, but that part was small, and got crushed down by the part that was excited by all the freedom. It was freedom—freedom to be all those things I’d been holding back. Freedom to hate. Freedom to crush. No rules; no conscience. I was fighting like them now.

Because that was what it was going to take to beat them. Fighting like an animal, without any fear.

“You’re fast,” Jester said on the last day of the scheduled sparring. “Getting faster all the time.” He sneered at me, and the sight of his fangs made my pulse jump—not with fear, but with aggression. Because I wanted to snap those fangs right off and wipe that sneer off his face. “You should take the bite,” he said. “You’d be a good vampire.”

“Shut up and fight.”

“What’s the matter? You afraid you’d bite your skinny little girlfriend?” Jester laughed. “She’s already someone else’s, you know. I can smell the bite on her. He’s marked her.”

Myrnin.

“Shut up,” I said, and kicked him in the face. He wasn’t expecting it, and he went down, but vampires were never that easy to put on the canvas for long. He bounced up, snarling now, and I danced back, watching his shifts of weight. He would come after me. Jester always came after me.

When he did, I hit fast, ducking under his rush, ramming my shoulder into his center mass and lifting him up off the canvas. Without leverage he wasn’t much better than a regular human, but I had to be careful of his hands; they could crush bone, and his fingernails were as sharp as knives. I slammed him down on his head behind me and pinned his arms fast behind his back. It must have hurt, because for the first time, I heard something like a cry of pain.

From a vampire.

It made me feel great.

Someone clapped. It was Gloriana, watching me, leaning against the ropes with beautiful grace. “That was wonderful,” she said. “Poor Jester. I think he may just be outclassed, Shane. You should let him up now. I think he’s learned his lesson. Don’t you?”

I twisted his arms tighter and felt something tear. This time, Jester screamed.

“Enough,” Vassily barked, and ducked under the ropes. He grabbed hold of my shoulder to pull me off. “I need him more than I need you, boy.”

I let go, because you didn’t fight Vassily. You just didn’t. It was the rule, one of the only rules left now. Glory and Vassily, they were off-limits.

Otherwise, though…it was just freedom. Fight until they said stop.

“Ah,” Vassily said. “He’s watching.” He didn’t sound especially happy about it. I looked up and I thought I saw a shadow upstairs, behind thick glass. A drawn, thin face, old and pale, that almost looked familiar, but it was gone in a blur of motion. Vassily sighed. “Did you see that, Shane?”

I nodded.

“I was afraid of that. Glory, if you would?”

It all blurred away, all the sharp edges and the surfacing memories. Gone. Whatever it was I was supposed to remember…Well, I didn’t.

I looked up at the window reflexively, but I couldn’t see anything. Probably just a reflection. I’d seen a reflection.

“This is too public,” Glory said to Vassily. “We need to move operations sooner than we’d planned—for the bout, at least.”

“Yes,” he said. “And we’d better have a third option, in case. I don’t want anyone crashing our party. You’ve got lists of people we can trust to fill seats?”

“By the time I’m finished in this town, you’ll be able to trust almost everyone.” She laughed. “But yes. Reliable sources. We are very close.”

“Good,” Vassily said, and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hit the showers, Shane. You’re ready.”

It was on Thursday when things started crashing down. To start with, Shane was late, really late. When he finally got home, he came bearing food—barbecue again, but with all the veggies and everything. Which made him popular, of course.

But as she set the table, Claire watched him wandering around the living room. He was pacing, and Shane usually didn’t pace—he was more inclined to drape himself over the couch and look like he was asleep, even when he wasn’t. Tonight, though, he was moving like he was pumped up and distracted, and when she touched him on the shoulder, he spun around so fast, she took a step back. It was easy to forget how big Shane was and how strong, until she saw him in action. He was usually so gentle with her.

“What?” he snapped, and then some of the shadows left his expression. “Oh. Sorry, Claire. Didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, I know. What’s up with you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Restless, I guess. Been like this all day. I think after dinner I’ll hit the gym, burn off some energy.” That was not like Shane. He was usually all about lazing around on the couch, maybe putting some energy into a video game. He wasn’t the nervous type.

“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “Maybe play a game first? I’ve hardly seen you at all. We could spend some time together.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one who runs off to High Wizard Crazy Pants every time he snaps his fingers. Don’t blame me if you never see me. I’ve got a life, too. It sucks, but I’ve got one.” Shane’s words were blunt, and his tone—it was almost mean. Claire felt it like a slap, and it shocked her—why, she didn’t know. He’d been angry enough over the Myrnin incident, but she’d thought…Well, she’d thought he’d gotten over it, that it was safe to talk to him again.

Clearly he hadn’t moved past it. She decided not to say anything at all, which was probably wrong, but she didn’t trust her voice. She didn’t want him to hear how much he’d hurt her.

After another second of silence, he looked away. “Sorry. Game sounds good. I’m just in a mood, I guess. Maybe a little unnatural-creature killing is just what I need.” Not zombies. Unnatural creatures. That might be nothing, but Claire’s instincts told her it was a very bad sign.

Michael was putting out the food. Claire knew he was listening, but he didn’t say anything, just shot her a glance. From that, she got that he was worried, too. Something was off. Definitely off.

“Hey, bro, you’d better play me first,” Michael said. “Been a week since I got to beat your punk ass. Time for you to step up.”

Shane bared his teeth. It wasn’t a smile. “You want to play? Let’s play. We’ll see who gets bloody this time.” That was Shane, but it wasn’t. All the subtext was wrong—the body language, the tone, everything but the words.

Michael knew it, too. He locked eyes with Shane, frowned, and said, “Maybe you’d better lay off the caffeine.”

“Maybe you’d better mind your own damn business.” He said something under his breath. It sounded like bloodsucker.

“Hey,” Claire said, and put her hand on his arm. “We’re all friends here.”

He flinched and shook her off. “Are we?” Shane asked. “You sure about that?”

“Hey!” Eve had come in, and now she thumped plates down on the table. She looked furious. Michael, on the other hand, was silent, watching Shane with a wariness that made Claire’s skin prickle. “Hey, Van Helsing Junior, back off. How many times do we have to play this? What crawled up your ass again? Michael is one of us; you know that.”

“He’s one of them,” Shane said. “Like my dad. Like Oliver and Amelie and all of those others. He used to be one of us. Now he just looks like us. You’d better stop drinking the suicide juice, Eve, before you wake up without a pulse, just like him.”

“What are you talking about? What the hell happened? Michael? Did you say anything?” Eve looked to him, but Michael shook his head.

“Oh, come on. Stop pretending,” Shane said, and took a step toward Michael. Michael tensed up. “I can feel it, man. I can feel you watching me. Watching Claire. Hell, Eve, too. We’re all just walking snacks to you now. You think I don’t know that?”

“Seriously,” Michael said. “You need to check yourself. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t hurt you or Claire or Eve. Never.”

“Never?” Shane laughed, high and tense. His eyes had a feverish kind of glitter. He crossed to Eve, and she shrank back, but too late. He grabbed her arm, and she dropped a handful of knives and forks with a clatter to the table.

She was wearing a black velvet choker with a skull and crossbones printed on it. He reached up and ripped it off her neck.

And on her throat were healing bite marks. Eve clapped a hand over them, eyes wide, but it was too late. They’d all seen it.

“You want to tell me that again?” Shane said. He was almost whispering now, face close to Eve’s, but it wasn’t kind. It was cruel. “You want to lie to me again about how you’d never hurt her, Mikey?”

Eve gave a little sound of distress and tried to pull free. His hand closed around her arm even tighter, holding her there.

“Shane, stop it. You’re going to break my arm….”

Maybe he would have let go—Claire didn’t know—but Shane didn’t get the chance.

Michael totally snapped, and sent Shane flying.

Shane hit the wall with a heavy thump, knocking over a table and sending a lamp crashing to the floor, which sizzled out with a frying sound as the bulb smashed. Claire was too shocked to move—it had happened too fast—but Shane rolled out of it and back to his feet in seconds. Michael was standing between him and Eve now, staring at Shane like he’d never seen him before. And Shane was glaring back, looking as angry and dangerous as Claire had ever seen him—chin down, head thrust forward.

Michael said, “Back off. You don’t get to push Eve around. Or Claire, either. Not in my house. Are you drunk? Because you’re damn sure channeling the ghost of Frank Collins.”

That should have slapped Shane out of it; Claire winced, and it wasn’t even directed at her. But Shane didn’t react as if he’d heard at all. He took a step toward Michael, then another one, and then all of a sudden he rushed him.

Fast as he was, Michael missed the wind-up. Shane hit him and had him down on the floor in less than a second, kneeling on his chest to hold him down, fist pulled back for a second blow.

Claire ran forward and grabbed Shane’s forearm, trying to hold him back, but he shook her off. She delayed him only by a second or two, but it was enough time for Eve to throw herself forward, over Michael, and look up at Shane with defiance and shock.

“No!” she yelled, right in his face. “Don’t you dare start this, Shane!”

“I’m trying to help you, you crazy bitch! You can’t trust him. Don’t you understand? He’s biting you! He’s going to hurt you worse than—”

“We’re getting married!”

Shane froze in place and his arm sagged. His fist opened and dropped to his side. He just stared at her for a couple of heartbeats, and then shook his head so violently, his shaggy dark hair lashed his face. “You’re what?”

“We’re getting married. And if I want to let him bite me, it’s none of your damn business. And, anyway, you don’t know what happened or why, so just shut your mouth, Shane.” Her voice was trembling now, but she was trying to look sure of herself. “No, never mind. Open it and congratulate us. You owe us that.”

“No.”

“Why not? Because you don’t approve? You asshole!” Eve shoved him, and Shane let her push him back, off Michael. He sat on the floor, suddenly limp, staring down at his open hands. His knuckles were bruised—they’d been bruised a lot lately, and cut and swollen. Claire had assumed at first that it had been martial arts practice, but now she was thinking…it was fights. Real fights.

Like this one.

Michael sat up, putting his arm around Eve. She touched his face where he’d been hit and said, “Does it hurt? Are you okay?”

“It stings,” he said. “Shane packs a hell of a punch these days.” He looked into her eyes for a long few seconds. “I didn’t think you wanted to tell anybody yet.”

“I didn’t,” Eve said. “But it just—it just kind of came out. Sorry. I wanted to have a big party for the announcement, you know, but…I had to say something to make him stop.”

“He wasn’t going to hurt me. Not much, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but you were going to have to hurt him if he didn’t back off. And I didn’t want that.”

Claire didn’t know how she felt about all this. Sure, she loved Michael and Eve, and she knew they were together, but this…this seemed fast and final and odd. Like they were rushing into something.

She felt anxious about it, and she had no idea why.

Michael pulled Eve close again and kissed her with authority. Eve sighed and snuggled against his chest, and both of them looked at Shane and Claire, who was kneeling beside him. She wanted to ask Shane if he was all right, but it would sound stupid under the circumstances. Of course he wasn’t all right. This was so not all right.

None of it was right.

She reached out, placed her fingers under his chin, and tipped his face up. His eyes were shimmering with tears, and he looked young and terribly frightened.

Lost.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked. “God, Claire, why did I do that? I don’t do that. I don’t get angry for—for nothing. I didn’t used to, anyway.” He swallowed. “Do you think…? Is it…? Maybe it’s because…my dad…He wasn’t always an abusive asshole, you know; he just got that way. He’d get in these moods and he’d…he’d…” He gulped for air, as if he was drowning, and the misery and pain in his voice made her ache inside. She didn’t think; she just put her arms around him and held him, fiercely loving him, afraid for him, afraid for all of them. “I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. I don’t want to be like him. I don’t. I can’t. Please help me.”

“You’re not,” she whispered, lips close to his ear. “I swear you’re not.”

“Then why did I do that? I wanted to kill him, and it’s like I couldn’t stop myself.”

She didn’t know, either. She held him and they talked in soft, almost wordless murmurs, and his arms around her were strong but shaking, and she pretended not to feel it when his tears soaked through her shirt.

Michael and Eve left sometime during all that. The food sat cold on the table when Claire raised her head to check. Shane’s skin felt cold and damp to the touch. “You should eat,” she said. “You’ll feel better if you eat.”

He laughed wretchedly. “You think if I eat I’ll stop being a complete dick?”

“You’re not.”

“Only because I’m not good at anything. Including that.”

God, he was just falling apart, and she didn’t know what to say. Claire got him to stand up and then sit down at the table. She carried the food back into the kitchen to warm it in the microwave and found that Eve and Michael were in there, engaged in a quiet, intense discussion themselves. They stopped when they saw her.

“We should eat,” she said, and pushed microwave buttons.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Eve said. “You saw. You know.”

“Let’s eat,” Claire said. “We’re all tired and hungry and nervous.”

“Claire—”

“Please.” Her voice broke when she said it, and she had to wipe her eyes to keep tears from falling. “Just sit down and eat!”

But when she carried the food out, Shane’s seat at the table was empty. She checked his room, but he wasn’t there, either.

He was gone.

And she didn’t know where.

SHANE

I sat there alone at the table, looking at the house that had meant so much to me. My home. And it didn’t feel like home anymore. Nothing felt right—least of all me. I didn’t fit here anymore. I was dangerous. Something was wrong with me, and I couldn’t take the risk I’d hurt Claire. I couldn’t stop thinking about Eve’s face as I’d been about to punch her, about the shocked, furious, haunted look she’d given me.

About how I’d seen my dad’s face in that reflection.

I hated Michael now, hated him, and I didn’t want to. He was my best friend, my buddy, my rock, but that didn’t matter inside me now. He was just one of them.

It hurt. Bad.

Hearing Eve say she was marrying him…It tore everything apart. I hated him, and I couldn’t hate him. I loved her, and I couldn’t not hate her, too, because she’d made that choice. None of it made any sense anymore. I hated the people I was supposed to love. Not Claire—that was pure; it was perfect. I couldn’t hate her.

Not until I thought about Myrnin. Not until I remembered what Jester had said… She’s marked. I can smell the bite on her. Not her fault, but I hated that Myrnin had that claim on her. That I couldn’t make it go away, no matter how much I tried.

Vassily had promised me money, and he’d delivered. He’d also promised me and Claire a way out.

And I had to take it soon, because there wasn’t going to be anything left to save.

Claire was in the kitchen, talking to Michael and Eve, and a sensation swept over me…paranoia, probably. I just knew that she was trying to make it all okay, that we would all have to sit together and pretend, just pretend that the cracks weren’t big enough to fall through.

And I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.

I got up and left, closing the door quietly behind me.

Out in the dark, no Protection, no vampires who would snap their fingers and make sure I could walk around in safety—not that it worked that way, no matter what they promised. I had gotten a letter in today’s mail; I was overdrawn at the blood bank again, and if I didn’t show up to pay my taxes soon, the Bloodmobile would come calling. They weren’t gentle when that happened. They came in, grabbed you, strapped you down, and stuck a needle in your vein, whether you liked it or not.

Sometimes they forgot to take it out when you filled up your pint. Or two. Or three.

Sometimes people just didn’t come out again.

No way I was going to do that anymore. I wasn’t part of this. I was going to get out and take Claire with me.

I walked to the gym. If there were vampires out there in the dark, stalking me, they’d be sorry, and they must have sensed it, because I made it there without anybody touching me. I was sweating, even in the cold wind; there was steam coming off my skin. I felt shaky, though. Empty again. Not hungry, but thirsty.

When I got inside the gym and behind the private door, the first thing I did was pop open a sports bottle from the common fridge and down the protein drink. Then another one. Then another. By the third one I was feeling steady again. In control. Focused.

Strong.

“Hey, man,” said Greg, another human who was training. He was a juicer, bulked up with fake muscles, but he was cool, anyway. ’Roid rage was an advantage in the ring. We high-fived as I passed him, and then I went to sit on the bench with five others waiting for a chance at the ring. Shiemaa was the only girl—buzz cut, tougher than her weight in iron. She gave me a fist bump, and so did the others. All crazy together.

“I heard Stinky Doug got his ass killed,” Shiemaa said over my head, talking to Keith, another juicer with arms as big around as Shiemaa’s whole head. “Somebody said it was because he talked. True?”

“Guess so,” Keith said. “Crazy little bastard. He wasn’t going to last—didn’t have the fire, anyway—but he could take a punch. I’ll give him that.”

“Yeah, you gave him plenty of those,” Shiemaa said. She and Keith tapped fists in front of me. “Not like I miss him, but what did he say?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Doug,” I repeated. Some of the fog cleared for me, even though I kept clenching my fists, burning off excess energy. “College guy? Got his throat cut?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Stinky Doug. ’Cause, man, he had some hygiene issues.”

“Which is a lot, coming from you,” Shiemaa said. Keith threw a punch at her, behind my back. She blocked it without any effort. “Why? Did you know him?”

“My girl found the body,” I said. “She knew him. I didn’t know he was in this.”

“Yeah, he was one of the first they asked in,” Shiemaa said. “Probably because he was crazy and a loner and cracked out half the time. Wasn’t even a Morganville kid. Guess they cut their losses.”

Funny, but the idea that Vassily and Glory would kill one of us to protect their little messed-up fight club…that didn’t surprise me. Didn’t alarm me, either. Stinky Doug had brought it on himself.

Shiemaa tapped me on the back of the head, not gently. “Yo, pretty boy, you want to go a few?” The ring was empty now. The vamps were disappearing now, heading out to do whatever it was they did during the midnight hours.

“Nah,” I said. I didn’t feel like hitting anybody right now, not even Shiemaa, who could take it. “I’m going out to hit some bags.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, and tapped Keith. “Let’s go, big guy.”

I went outside, into the public area. Didn’t matter at this time of the night, because there were few people who ventured in, and when the vamps cleared out—which they did nightly to go hit the blood bank or date or do whatever it was—we had the place mostly to ourselves. I waded into the heavy bag.

And pretty soon, the rest of them came out to join me.

Like a pack.

I hit the bag and felt better, because finally, I knew what I was doing.

I was leading the pack.

And that was okay.