Dead Girls' Dance

5

The 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 ooooohed 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?’”

“What? Oh. Sure.’” He released her, and gave her a smile that even her biased, suspicious (verging on paranoid) mind interpreted as…sweet. “Sorry. You’re just so warm. It feels good.’”

He sounded wistful. She couldn’t afford to feel sorry for him, no way in hell. Couldn’t. “How do you know my name?’” she asked.

His blue eyes narrowed when he smiled. “You’re kidding. Everybody knows your name. You, Shane, Eve, Michael. The Founder put out a Directive. First time in, oh, I guess about thirty years, maybe forty. Pretty dramatic stuff. We’re all on our best behavior around you, don’t worry.’” His gaze flicked around, touched on Oliver, and came back to her. “Well, except for people who don’t really have a best behavior.’”

“People,’” Claire said, and crossed her arms. She hoped it made her look tough and strong, but she really did it because she was feeling cold. “You’re not people.’”

Sam looked a bit hurt. “Harsh, Claire. Of course we’re people. We’re just…different.’”

“No, you kill people. You’re—parasites!’” And she had no idea why she was getting into a debate about it with a total stranger. A vampire, at that. At least he hadn’t done that thing to her like Brandon had done, that mesmerizing thing. Oh, and she wasn’t supposed to be looking him in the eye. Crap. She’d forgotten. Sam seemed kind of, well, normal. And he did have lovely eyes.

Sam was thinking over what she’d said, as if it was a serious argument. “Food chain,’” he offered.

“What?’”

“Well, humans are parasites and mass murderers, from the point of view of vegetables.’”

That…almost made some kind of weird sense. Almost. “I’m not a carrot. What do you want from me? Besides the obvious, I mean.’” She mimed fangs in the neck.

He looked a little ashamed. “I need to ask you a favor. Can you give something to Eve for me?’”

She couldn’t imagine anything Eve would want less than a gift from a vampire. “No,’” she said. “Is that it? Can I go?’”

“Wait! It’s nothing bad, I swear. It’s just that I always thought she was a lot of fun. I’m going to miss her coming in here. She always brightened up the place.’” He reached in his pocket and took out a small black box, which he handed over. Claire frowned and fidgeted with it for a second, then snapped the cover open. Not that it was any of her business, but…

It was a necklace. A pretty one, silver, with a shiny coffin-shaped locket. Claire raised her eyes to Sam’s, reminded herself again not to do that, and focused somewhere in the middle of his chest. (He had a nice chest. Kind of built, actually.) “What’s in it?’”

“Open it,’” he said, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to hide anything. I told you, it’s nothing dangerous.’”

She snapped the lid of the coffin open. Inside, there was a tiny silver statue of a girl with her arms crossed over her chest. Creepy, but kind of cool, too. Claire had to admit, Eve would probably be delighted.

“Look, I’m not stalking her,’” Sam said. “We’re just…friends. She’s not the biggest fan of the not quite breathing, thanks to that asshole Brandon—I get that. I’m not trying to be her boyfriend. I just thought she might like it.’”

Sam was not fitting into Claire’s recently built pigeonholes, so new they still smelled of mental sawdust. VAMPIRES—BAD, one said. The one next to it said VAMPIRES—DOWNRIGHT EVIL. Those were pretty much the only two vampire slots available.

She didn’t know where to put him. Sam just looked like a guy with sad eyes and a sweet smile, who could use some sun. A normal guy, one she’d probably get her heart rate up over talking to in class.

But that was probably how he got his victims, she reminded herself. She snapped the cover shut on the locket, closed the case, and slid it back across the table to him. “Sorry,’” she said. “I’m not taking anything. If you want her to have it, give it to her yourself. Not that I think she’ll ever come in here again.’”

Sam looked taken aback, but he took the case and put it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “Okay,’” he said. “Thanks for listening. Can I ask you something else? Not a favor, just information.’”

She wasn’t sure, but she nodded.

“It’s about Amelie.’” Sam had lowered his voice, and his eyes were suddenly fierce and intense. Not so normal-guy. This was what he’d really wanted, not just the gift to Eve. This was personal. “You talked to her, I heard. How is she? How did she seem?’”

“Why?’”

He didn’t break the stare. “She doesn’t talk to me anymore. None of them do. I don’t care about the others, but…I worry about her.’”

Claire couldn’t believe what she was hearing. A vampire wanted her to talk about his vampire queen? Weirdy McWeird. “Um…she seems…fine…. She doesn’t talk to you anymore? Why not?’”

“I don’t know,’” he said, and sat back. “She hasn’t spoken to me for fifty years, give or take a few months. And no matter how many times I ask, I can’t see her. They won’t accept messages.’” Something dark and wounded flickered in those innocent-looking eyes. “She made me, and she abandoned me. Nobody’s seen her in public in a long time. Now suddenly she’s talking to you. Why?’”

Fifty years. She was talking to an at-least-seventy-year-old man, with skin finer than hers. With a gorgeous, unlined face, and eyes that had seen…well…more than she ever would, most likely. Fifty years? “How old are you?’” she blurted, because it was seriously freaking her out.

“Seventy-two. I’m the youngest,’” he said.

“In town?’”

“In the world.’” He fiddled with the sugar container on the table. “Vampires are dying out, you know. That’s why we’re here, in Morganville. We were being slaughtered out there, in the world. But even here, Amelie’s only made two new vampires in the last hundred and fifty years.’” He looked up slowly and met her eyes, and this time, she felt an echo of that thing Brandon did, that compulsion that held her in place. “I know how it looks to you, because I’ve been there. I was born in Morganville; I grew up Protected. I know it sucks to be you around here. You’re slaves. Just because you don’t wear chains and get branded doesn’t make you any less slaves.’”

She flashed on an image of Shane’s mother, dead in the bathtub. “And if we run, you kill us,’” she whispered. She would have expected him to flinch, or have some kind of reaction to that, but Sam’s expression didn’t change at all.

“Sometimes,’” he said. “But Claire, it isn’t like we want to. We’re trying to survive, that’s all. You understand?’”

Claire could almost see him standing there, looking down at Shane’s mom as she bled to death. He’d have that same gentle, sad look in his eyes. Molly Collins would have been just a pet he had to put down, that was all, and it wouldn’t matter to him enough to make him lose a night’s sleep. If vampires slept. Which she was starting to doubt.

She stood up so fast, her chair hit the wall with a clatter. Sam leaned back, surprised, as she grabbed up her backpack. “Oh, I understand,’” Claire said through gritted teeth. “I can’t trust any of you. You want to know how Amelie is? Go ask. There’s probably a good reason why she won’t talk to you!’”

“Claire!’”

She stiff-armed open the door and escaped into the day. She looked back to see Sam standing there at the edge of the strip of sunlight inside Common Grounds, staring after her with an expression on his face like he’d lost his best—his only—friend.

Dammit, she was not any vampire’s friend. She couldn’t be. And she wasn’t going to be, ever.