Dead Girls' Dance

6

Claire decided on the way home that maybe it wouldn’t be a good idea to blurt all of it out to Shane—not about Monica, or his dad, or the vampire Sam. Instead, she made dinner (tacos) and waited for Michael to rejoin the world. Which he did, as soon as the sun was safely under the horizon, and looked just as normal and angelic as ever.

She somehow got the message across to him that she needed to talk in private, which resulted in Michael drying dishes in the kitchen while she washed up. How that happened, she wasn’t sure—it wasn’t her turn—but the warm water and smooth suds were kind of soothing.

“Did you tell Shane about Monica?’” Michael asked when she was done relating the day’s events. He didn’t seem bothered, but then, it took a lot to faze Michael. He might have been wiping the plates a little too thoroughly, though.

“No,’” she said. “He gets a little, you know, about her.’”

“Yeah, he does. Okay, you need to be careful, you know that, right? I’d ask Shane to go with you to class, but—’”

“But that’s probably what she wants,’” Claire finished, and handed him another plate. “To get us both together so she can use us against each other. Right?’”

Michael nodded, eyebrows going up. “All she has to do is grab you and she’s got him. So be careful. I’m—not much use, outside of here. Or any use, actually.’”

She felt bad for the flash of anger in his eyes—it wasn’t directed at her but at himself. He hated this. Hated being trapped here while his friends needed him.

“I’ll be fine,’” she said. “I got a new cell phone. Mom and Dad sent it.’”

“Good. You’ve got us all on speed dial?’”

“One, two, and three. And 911 on four.’”

“Sweet.’” Michael hip-bumped her. “How are classes?’”

“Okay.’” She couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for them right at the moment. “We’re not talking about Shane’s dad?’”

“Nothing to talk about,’” he said. “You stay out of Common Grounds, and stay away from Oliver. If Shane’s dad was in there, he was probably just taking a look around. Oliver might have sent him on his way. He does a good regular-guy act.’” Michael ought to know, Claire reflected. Oliver had done a good enough regular-guy act to charm his way into the house, where he’d killed Michael, trying to make him a vampire. The house had saved Michael—partly. A kind of supernatural apology for having failed to protect him in the first place. The house did things like that. It was creepy, and occasionally flat-out scary, but it was at least mostly loyal to whoever was in residence.

Oliver, though…Oliver was loyal to Oliver. And that was about it.

“So we do nothing?’” Claire asked.

“We do the best nothing you’ve ever seen.’” Michael put the last plate away and tossed the towel over his shoulder like a bartender going on break. “Meaning, you do nothing, Claire. That’s an order.’”

She gave him a cockeyed mock salute. “Yes, sir, sorry, sir.’”

He sighed. “I liked you better when you were this timid little kid. What happened?’”

“I started living with you guys.’”

“Oh, right.’”

He fluffed her hair, smiled, and ambled off toward the living room. “It’s game night,’” he said. “I made Shane swear, no video games tonight. I think he’s blowing the dust off of Monopoly. I wouldn’t let him have Risk. He gets crazy with Risk.’”

Didn’t they all?

“So, I got a new job,’” Eve said brightly as they sat on the floor around the Monopoly board. Shane was kicking ass, but Michael had the railroads; Eve and Claire were just mostly watching their money stacks dwindle. No wonder people like this game, Claire thought. It’s just like life.

“You got a job already?’” Shane asked as Michael rattled the dice in his hand and then tossed them out on the faded, warped board. “Jeez, Eve, throw the brakes on full employment. You’re making me look bad.’”

“Shane Collins, permanent slacker. If you’d book more than one interview a month, and actually, you know, show up to them, you might get a job, too.’”

“Oh, so now you’re a career counselor?’”

“Bite me. You’re not even going to ask me where?’”

“Sure,’” Michael said as he moved his cannon across four squares. “Where?…Oh, crap.’”

“That’ll be five hundred, my man. And extra for clean towels in the hotel.’” Shane held out his palm.

“I got hired at the university,’” Eve said, watching Michael count out cash and hand it over to Shane. “In the student union coffee shop. I even got a raise.’”

“Congratulations!’” Claire said. “And you’re not working for an evil vampire. Bonus.’”

“Bosswise, a definite step up. I mean, he’s a slack-jawed loser with bad breath and a drinking problem, but that pretty much describes most of the male population of Morganville….’”

“Hey!’” both Shane and Michael chorused, and Eve gave them both a brilliant grin.

“Excluding the hotties in the room, of course. And cheer up, guys—it includes most of the female population, too. Anyway. Better hours—I’m working days, so not a lot of vamp worries—and bigger paychecks. Plus, I get to check out campus life. I hear they party hard.’”

“From the other side of the counter, all you’re going to see is people dissing you and complaining about their drinks,’” Shane said without looking up. “You watch yourself, Eve. Some of those assholes on campus think that if you’re wearing a name badge, you’re their own personal toy.’”

“Yeah, I know. I heard about Karla.’”

“Karla?’” Claire asked.

“She works at the university,’” Eve said. “Karla Gast. We went to school with her.’” Michael and Shane both looked up and nodded. “She was kind of a party girl in high school, you know? Real pretty, too. She went to work on campus—I don’t know what she was doing—but anyway, she’s missing.’”

“It was in the paper,’” Michael said. “Abducted last night walking to her car.’”

Claire frowned. “Why would it be in the paper? I mean, they don’t usually put stuff like that in the papers, right?’” Because in Morganville, murder was sort of legitimate, wasn’t it?

“They do if it wasn’t vampires,’” Eve said, and nibbled on a carrot stick as she rolled the dice. “Oooooh, pay me my two hundred, Mr. Banker. If she’d been dragged off by vamps, even rogue vamps, it would have just been swept under the carpet like usual. Payoffs to the family, end of the story. But this is different.’”

“Is that, you know, unusual? Crime? Crime that isn’t vampire related, I mean?’”

“Kinda.’” Eve shrugged. “But people tend to get nasty around Morganville. Nasty, or drunk, or timid. One of those.’”

“Which are you?’” Shane asked. Eve bared her teeth at him and growled. “Ouch. Right. Gotcha.’”

“So…Eve, I heard your brother’s out of jail,’” Michael said. Claire was rolling dice for her move, and by the time the plastic hit the board it sounded as loud as plates shattered on a tile floor. Nobody was making a sound. Nobody was breathing, so far as she could tell. From the expression on his face, Michael was clearly rethinking having brought up the subject, and Eve looked…hard and fierce and (deep down) scared.

Shane was just watching, no expression at all.

Awkward.

“Um…’” Claire cautiously slid her Scottie dog the six squares that she’d rolled. “You haven’t said much about your brother.’” She was curious what Eve would say. Because clearly Eve was not happy Michael had brought it up.

“I don’t talk about him,’” Eve said flatly. “Not anymore. His name is Jason, and he’s a dick, and let’s drop the subject, okay?’”

“Okay.’” Claire cleared her throat. “Shane?’”

“What?’” He looked down at the board where she was pointing. “Oh. Right. Three hundred.’”

She mutely handed over her last bills as Shane took the dice in hand.

“Eve, you know what he went to jail for. You don’t think—,’” Michael began, very slowly.

“Shut up, Michael,’” Eve said tensely. “Just shut up, okay? Is it possible he did it? Sure. I wouldn’t put it past him, but he just got out yesterday morning. That’s pretty fast work, even for Jason.’” But she looked shaken, under the fierce expression, and even paler than normal. “You know what? I have to get up early. ’Night.’”

“Eve—’”

She jumped up and headed for the stairs. Michael followed, two steps behind as she climbed toward her room, black tattered-silk skirt fluttering. Claire watched them go, eyebrows raised, and Shane continued to shake the dice.

“Guess the game’s over,’” he said, and rolled anyway. “Heh. Boardwalk. I think that completes Shane’s real estate empire, thank you for playing, good night.’”

“What was Michael talking about?’” Claire asked. “Does he think Eve’s brother might have taken that girl?’”

“No, he thinks Eve’s brother might have killed that girl,’” Shane said. “And the cops probably think so, too. If he did, they’ll get him, and this time, he won’t be getting out of jail. In fact, he probably won’t even make it to jail. One of Karla’s brothers is a cop.’”

“Oh,’” Claire said in a small voice. She could hear the murmur of conversation upstairs. “Well…I guess I should get to bed, too. I have early classes tomorrow.’”

Shane met her eyes. “Might want to give them some privacy for a while.’”

Oh. Right. She jiggled her foot under the table and started gathering up the cash and cards from the table. Her hands brushed Shane’s, and he let go of the cards and took hold.

And then, somehow, she was in his lap, and he was kissing her. Hadn’t meant to do that, but…well. She couldn’t exactly be sorry about it, because he tasted amazing, and his lips were so soft and his hands were so strong…

He leaned back, eyes half-shut, and he was smiling. Shane didn’t smile all that much, and it always left her breathless and tingling. There was a secrecy about it, like he only ever smiled with her, and it just felt…perfect. “Claire, you’re being careful, right?’” He smoothed hair back from her face. “Seriously. You’d tell me if you got into trouble.’”

“No trouble,’” she lied, thinking about Monica’s not-so-veiled threats, and that glimpse of Shane’s dad seated across from Oliver in the coffee shop. “No trouble at all.’”

“Good.’” He kissed her again, then moved down her jawline to her neck, and, wow, neck nibbles that took her breath away again. She closed her eyes and buried her fingers in his warm hair, trying to tell him through every touch how much she liked this, liked him, loved…

Her eyes came open, fast.

She did not just think that.

Shane’s warm hands moved up her sides, thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts again, and he traced his fingers across the thin skin of her collarbone…down to where the neck of her T-shirt stopped him. Teasing. Pulling it down an inch, then two.

And then, maddeningly, he let go and leaned back, lips damp. He licked them, watching her, and gave her that slow, crazy sexy smile again.

“Go to bed,’” he said. “Before I decide to come with.’”

She wasn’t sure she could stand up, but somehow, she got her legs to steady under her, and made it up the stairs. Michael was in Eve’s room, the door was open, and they were sitting together on her bed. Michael was so bright, with his golden hair and china blue eyes, and he didn’t match the room all draped in dramatic black and red. He looked like an angel who’d taken a massive wrong turn.

He was holding Eve in his arms and rocking her, very gently, back and forth. As Claire looked in, he met her eyes and mouthed, Close the door.

She did, and went to her own bed.

Sadly, alone.

It occurred to Claire that she’d be smart to know what Jason Rosser looked like, in order to avoid him, but she had the strong feeling that it wouldn’t be a very good idea to ask Eve for a peek at the family album. Eve was pretty touchy just now about anything to do with her brother…which, if Shane’s pessimistic assessment was right, probably wasn’t the wrong attitude.

So Claire went researching. Not the university library, which—while not too bad—didn’t really have a lot of info about Morganville itself. She’d checked. There was some history, all carefully blanded down, and some newspaper archives.

But there was a Morganville Historical Society. She found the address in the phone book, studied the map, and calculated the time it would take to walk the distance. If she hustled, she could get there, find what she needed, and still make it to her noon class.

Claire showered, dressed in blue jeans and a black knit top with a screen-printed flower on it—one of her thrift-shop buys—and grabbed her backpack on the way to the door. She set herself a blistering pace once she hit the sidewalks, heading away from the university and into the unexplored guts of Morganville. She had the map with her, which was handy, because as soon as she was out of sight of the Glass House, things became confusing. For having been master planned, Morganville was not exactly logical in the way its streets ran. There were culs-de-sac, dead ends, lots of unlit deserted areas.

But then again, maybe that was logical, from a vampire’s planning perspective. Even in the hot beat of the sunlight, Claire shuddered at that idea, and moved faster past a street that ended in a deserted field littered with piled-up lumber and assorted junk. It even smelled like decay, the ugly smell of dead things left to rot in the heat. Having too much imagination was sometimes a handicap. At least I’m not walking it at night….

No power on earth was going to make her do that.

The residential areas of Morganville were old, mostly run-down, parched and beaten by summer. It was bound to get cooler soon, but for now, Indian summer was broiling the Texas landscape. Cicadas sang in dull dental-drill whines in the grass and trees, and there was a smell of dust and hot metal in the wind. Of all the places to find vampires, this was pretty much the last she would have expected. Just not…Goth enough. Too run-down. Too…American.

The next street was her turn, according to the map. She made it, stopped in the shade of a live oak tree, and took a couple of drinks from her water bottle as she considered how much longer a walk it would be. Not long, she thought. Which was good, because she was not going to miss another class. Ever.

The street dead-ended. Claire came to a stop, frowning, and checked; nope, according to the map, it went all the way through. Claire sighed in frustration and started to turn back to retrace her path, then hesitated when she saw a narrow passage between two fences. It looked like it went through to the next street.

Lose ten minutes or take a chance. She’d always been the lose-ten-minutes kind of girl, the prudent one, but maybe living in the Glass House had corrupted her. Besides, it was hot as hell out here.

She headed for the gap between the fences.

“I wouldn’t do that, child,’” said a voice. It was coming from the deep shadow of a porch, on a house to her right. It looked better cared for than most houses in Morganville—freshly painted in a light sea blue, some brick trim, a neatly kept yard. Claire squinted and shaded her eyes, and finally saw a tiny birdlike old lady seated on a porch swing. She was as brown as a twig, with drifting pale hair like dandelion fuzz, and since she was dressed in a soft green sundress that hung on her like a bag, she looked like nothing so much as a wood spirit, something out of the old, old storybooks.

The voice, though, was pure warm Southern honey.

Claire backed up hastily from the entrance to the passageway. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean to trespass.’”

The tiny little thing cackled. “Oh, no, child, you’re not trespassin’. You’re bein’ a fool. You ever heard of ant lions? Or trapdoor spiders? Well, you walk down that path, you won’t be comin’ out the other side. Not this world.’”

Claire felt a pure cold bolt of panic, followed by a triumphant crow from the prudent side of her brain: I knew that! “But—it’s daytime!’”

“So it is,’” the old woman said, and rocked gently back and forth on her swing. “So it is. Day don’t always protect round Morganville. You should know that, too. Now, go back the way you came like a good child, and don’t come here again.’”

“Yes, ma’am,’” Claire said, and started to back away.

“Gramma, what are you—oh, hello!’” The screen door to the house opened, and a younger version of the Stick Lady stepped out—young enough to be a granddaughter. She was tall and pretty, and her skin was more cocoa than wood brown. She wore her hair in braids, lots of them, and she smiled at Claire as she came to lay a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “My gramma likes to sit out here and talk to people. I’m sorry if she bothered you.’”

“No, not at all,’” Claire said, and nervously fiddled with one of the loose adjustment straps of her backpack. “She, um, warned me about the alley.’”

The woman’s eyes moved rapidly, from Claire to the old lady and back again. “Did she?’” she said. She didn’t sound warm anymore. “Gramma, you know better than that. You need to quit scaring people with your stories.’”

“Don’t be a damn fool, Lisa. They ain’t just stories, and you know it.’”

“Gramma, there hasn’t been any—trouble around here for twenty years!’”

“Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t happen,’” Gramma said stubbornly, and pointed a stick-thin shaking finger at Claire. “You don’t go down that alley, now. I meant what I said.’”

“Yes, ma’am,’” she said faintly, and nodded to both women. “Um, thanks.’”

Claire turned to go, and as she did, she noticed something mounted on the wall next to the old woman’s porch swing. A plaque, with a symbol.

The same symbol as was on the Glass House. The Founder’s symbol.

And now that she was looking at the house, really looking, it had some of the same lines to it, and it was about the same age.

Claire turned back, smiled apologetically, and said, “I’m sorry, but could I use your restroom? I’ve been chugging water out here—’”

She thought for a second that Lisa was going to say no, but then the younger woman frowned and said, “I suppose,’” and came down the steps to open the white picket gate for Claire to enter. “Go on inside. It’s the second door off the hall.’”

“Offer the child some lemonade, Lisa.’”

“She’s not staying, Gramma!’”

“How you know if you don’t ask?’”

Claire let them argue it out, and stepped inside. She didn’t feel anything—no tingle of a force field or anything—but then, she didn’t going in and out of the Glass House, either.

Still, she recognized it immediately…. There was something about this house. It had the same quality of stillness, of weight, that she always felt at home. Not the same at all inside from a decorating point of view—Gramma and Lisa seemed to like furniture, lots of it, all in fussy floral patterns and chintz, with rugs everywhere and a smothering amount of curtains and lace. Claire walked slowly down the hardwood hallway, trailing her fingers lightly over the paneling. The wood felt warm, but all wood did, right?

“Freaky,’” she muttered, and opened the bathroom door.

It wasn’t a bathroom.

It was a study, a large one, and it couldn’t have been more different from the overblown frilly living room…severe polished wood floors, a massive dark desk, a few glowering portraits on the walls. Dark red velvet curtains blocking out the sun. The walls were lined with books, old books mostly, and in the cabinet there was something that looked like a wine rack, only it held…scrolls?

Amelie was seated at the desk, signing sheets of paper with a gold pen. One of her assistants, also a vampire, was standing attentively next to her, taking each sheet out of the way as she wrote her name.

Neither of them looked up at Claire.

“Close the door,’” Amelie said in a gentle voice accented with an almost-French sort of pronunciation. “I dislike the draft.’”

Claire thought about running, but she wasn’t stupid enough to believe she could run far enough, or fast enough, and even though the idea of shrieking and slamming the door from the other side was pretty tempting, she swallowed her fear and stepped all the way in before she shut it with a quiet click.

“Is this your house?’” Claire asked. It was the only thing she could think of to ask, frankly; every other question had been shaken right out of her head because this couldn’t be happening.

Amelie glanced up, and her eyes were just as cool and intimidating as Claire remembered. It felt a little like being frostbitten. “My house?’” she echoed. “Yes, of course. They are all my house. Oh, I see what you ask. You ask if the particular house you entered is my home. No, little Claire, it is not where I hide myself from my enemies, although it would certainly be a useful choice. Very…’” Amelie smiled slowly. “Unexpected.’”

“Then…how…?’”

“You’ll find that when I need you, Claire, you will be called.’” Amelie signed the last paper, then handed it to her assistant—a tall, dark young man in a black suit and tie—and he bowed slightly and left the room through another door. Amelie sat back in her massive carved chair, looking more like a queen than ever, including the golden coronet of hair on top of her head. Her long fingers tapped lightly on the lion-head arms of the chair. “You are not in the house where you were, my dear. Do you understand that?’”

“Teleportation,’” Claire said. “But that’s not possible.’”

“Yet you are here.’”

“That’s science fiction!’”

Amelie waved her graceful hand. “I fail to understand your conventions of literature these days. One impossible thing such as vampires, this is acceptable, but two impossible things becomes science fiction? Ah well, no matter. I cannot explain the workings of it; that is a subject for philosophers and artisans, and I am neither. Not for many years.’” Her frost-colored eyes warmed just a fraction. “Put down your pack. I’ve seen tinkers carrying lighter loads.’”

What’s a tinker? Claire wondered. She started to ask, but didn’t want to sound stupid. “Thank you,’” she said, and carefully lowered her backpack to the wooden floor, then slid into one of the two chairs facing the desk. “Ma’am.’”

“So polite,’” Amelie said. “And in a time when manners are forgotten…you do understand what manners are, don’t you, Claire? Behaviors that allow humans to live closely together without killing each other. Most of the time.’”

“Yes, ma’am.’”

Silence. Somewhere behind Claire, a big clock ticked away minutes; she felt a drop of sweat glide down her neck and splash into the fabric of her black knit shirt. Amelie was staring at her without blinking or moving, and that was weird. Wrong. People just didn’t do that.

But then, Amelie wasn’t people. In fact, of all the vampires, in many ways she was the most not-people.

“Sam asked about you,’” Claire blurted, just because it popped into her head and she wanted Amelie to stop staring at her. It worked. Amelie blinked, shifted her weight, and leaned forward to rest her pointed chin on her folded hands, elbows still braced on the arms of the chair.

“Sam,’” she said slowly, and her gaze wandered up and to her right, fixed on nothing. Trying to remember, Claire thought; she’d noticed how people—even vampires, apparently—did that with their eyes when remembering things. “Ah yes. Samuel.’” Her gaze snapped back to Claire with unnerving speed. “And how did you come to chat with dear young Samuel?’”

Claire shrugged. “He wanted to talk to me.’”

“About?’”

“He asked about you. I—think he’s lonely.’”

Amelie smiled. She wasn’t trying to impress Claire with her vampiness—no need for that!—so her teeth looked white and even, perfectly normal. “Of course he’s lonely,’” she said. “Samuel is the youngest. No one older trusts him; no one younger exists. He has no ties to the vampire community, save me, and no ties left to the human world. He is more alone than anyone you will ever meet, Claire.’”

“You say that like you…want him that way. Alone, I mean.’”

“I do,’” Amelie said calmly. “My reasons are my own. However, it is an interesting experiment, to see how someone so alone will react. Samuel has been intriguing; most vampires would have simply turned brutal and un-caring, but he continues to seek comfort. Friendship. He is unusual, I think.’”

“You’re experimenting on him!’” Claire said.

Amelie’s platinum eyebrows slowly rose to form perfect arches over her cold, amused eyes. “Clever of you to think such a thing, but attend: a rat who knows it is running a maze is no longer a useful subject. So you will keep your counsel, and you will keep your distance from dear sweet Samuel. Now. Why did you come to me today?’”

“Why did I…?’” Claire cleared her throat. “I think maybe there’s been a mistake. I was, you know, looking for a bathroom.’”

Amelie stared at her for a frozen second, and then she threw back her head and laughed. It was a full, living sound, warm and full of unexpected joy, and when it passed, Claire could see the traces of it still on her face and in her eyes. Making her look almost…human. “A bathroom,’” she repeated, and shook her head. “Child, I have been told many things, but that may yet prove the most amusing. If you wish a bathroom, please, go through that door. You will find all that you require.’” Her smile faded. “But I think you came to ask me something more.’”

“I didn’t come here at all! I was going to the Morganville Historical Society….’”

“I am the Morganville Historical Society,’” Amelie said. “What do you wish to know?’”

Claire liked books. Books didn’t talk back. They didn’t sit there in their fancy throne chairs and look all queeny and imposing and terrifying, and they didn’t have fangs and bodyguards. Books were fine. “Um…I just wanted to look something up…?’”

Amelie was already losing patience. “Just tell me, girl. Quickly. I am not without duties.’”

Claire cleared her throat nervously, coughed, and said, “I wanted to find out about Eve’s brother, Jason. Jason Rosser.’”

“Done,’” Amelie said, and although she didn’t seem to do anything, not even lift a finger, the side door opened and her cute but deathly pale assistant leaned in. “The Rosser family file,’” she told him. He nodded and was gone. “You would have wasted your time,’” Amelie said to Claire. “There are no personnel files of any kind in the Historical Society building. It is purely for show, and the information there is inaccurate, at best. If you want to know the true history of things, little one, come to someone who has lived it.’”

“But that’s just perspective,’” Claire said. “Not fact.’”

“All fact is perspective. Ah, thank you, Henry.’” Amelie accepted a folder from her assistant, who silently left again. She flipped it open, studied what was inside, and then handed it over to Claire. “An unexceptional family. Curious that it produced young Eve and her brother.’”

It was their whole lives reduced to dry entries in longhand on paper. Dates of births, details of school records…there were handwritten reports from the vampire Brandon, who gave them Protection. Even those were dry.

And then not so dry, because between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Eve changed. Big-time. The school photograph at fifteen was of a pretty, fragile-looking girl dressed in conservative clothes—something even Claire would have worn.

Eve’s photograph at sixteen was Goth City. She’d dyed her dark hair a flat glossy black, whited her face, raccooned her eyes, and generally adopted a ’tude. By seventeen she’d started getting piercings—one showed in the tongue she stuck out at the camera.

By eighteen, she looked pensive and defiant, and then the photographs stopped, except for some that looked like surveillance photos of Eve in Common Grounds, pulling espresso shots and chatting with customers.

Eve with Oliver.

You’re supposed to be looking up Jason, Claire reminded herself, and flipped the page.

Jason was just the same, only younger; about the time that Eve had turned Goth, so had Jason, although on him it looked less like a fashion choice and more like a serious turn to the dark side. Eve always had a light of humor and mischief in her eyes; Jason had no light in his eyes at all. He looked skinny, strong, and dangerous.

And Claire realized with an icy start that she’d seen him before…. He’d been on the street, staring at her just before she’d gone into Common Grounds and talked to Sam.

Jason Rosser knew who she was.

“Jason likes knives, as I recall,’” Amelie said. “He sometimes fancies himself a vampire. I should be quite careful of him, were I you. He is not likely to be as…polite as my own people.’”

Claire shivered and flipped pages, speed-reading through Jason’s not-very-impressive academic life, and then the police reports.

Eve had been the witness who’d turned him in. She’d seen him abduct this girl and drive away with her—a girl who was later found wandering the streets bleeding from a stab wound. The girl refused to testify, but Eve had gone on record. And Jason had gone away.

The file showed he’d been released from prison the day before yesterday at nine in the morning. Plenty of time for him to have grabbed Karla Gast on campus and…

Out with the bad thoughts, Claire. In with the good.

She flipped pages and looked at Eve’s mother and dad. They looked…normal. Kind of grim, maybe, but with a son like Jason, that probably wasn’t too strange. Still, they didn’t look like the kind of parents who’d just toss their daughter out on her ear and never write or call or visit.

Claire closed the file and slid it back across the desk to Amelie, who put it in a wooden out-box at the corner of her desk. “Did you find what you wished to know?’” Amelie asked.

“I don’t know.’”

“What a wise thing to say,’” Amelie said, and nodded once, like a queen to a subject. “You may go now. Use the door that brought you.’”

“Um…thanks. Bye.’” Which sounded like a dumbass thing to say to someone a billion years old, who controlled the town and everything in it, but Amelie seemed to accept it fine. Claire grabbed her backpack and hurried through the polished wood door…

…into a bathroom. With lots of floral wallpaper and really yak-worthy frilly doll-skirt toilet paper covers.

Reality whiplash.

Claire dropped her backpack and yanked open the door again.

It was the hallway. She looked right, then left. The room even smelled different—talcum powder and old-lady perfume. No trace of Amelie, her silent servants, or the room where they’d been.

“Science fiction,’” Claire said, deeply unhappy, and—feeling strangely guilty—flushed the toilet before trudging back the way she’d come. The house was warm, but the heat outside was like a slap from a microwaved towel.

Oh, she was so going to figure that trick out. She couldn’t stand the idea of it being, well, magic. Sure, vampires she could accept…grudgingly…and the whole mind-control thing. But not instantaneous transportation. Nope.

Lisa was sitting next to Gramma on the porch swing now, sipping lemonade. There was an extra one gathering beads of sweat on the small table next to her, and she nodded Claire to it without speaking.

“Thanks,’” Claire said, and took a deep, thirsty gulp. It was good—maybe too sweet, but refreshing. She drained it fast and held on to the cool glass, wondering if it was bad manners to crunch the ice cubes. “How long have you lived here?’”

“Gramma’s been in this house all her life,’” Lisa said, and gently rubbed her grandmother’s back. “Right, Gramma?’”

“Born here,’” the old woman said proudly. “Gonna die here, too, when I’m good and ready.’”

“That’s the spirit.’” Lisa poured Claire another glass of lemonade from a half-empty pitcher. “I find anything missing in Gramma’s house, college girl, and you can’t hide from me in Morganville. You feel me?’”

“Lisa!’” Gramma scolded. “I’m so sorry, honey. My granddaughter never learned proper manners.’” She smacked Lisa on the hand and gave her the parental glare. “This nice girl here, she never would steal from an old lady. Now, would you, honey?’”

“No, ma’am,’” Claire said, and drank half of the second serving of lemonade. It tasted as tart and sweet and wonderful as the first. “I was just wondering, about the symbol next to your door…’”

Lisa and Gramma both looked at her sharply. Neither one of them replied. They were both wearing bracelets, she noticed, plain silver with the Founder’s symbol on a metal plaque, like those Medic Alert bracelets. Finally, Lisa said, softly, “You need to leave now.’”

“But—’”

“Go!’” Lisa yelled it, grabbed the glass out of Claire’s hand, and thumped it down on the table. “Don’t you make me throw you down the stairs in front of my gramma!’”

“Hush, Lisa,’” Gramma said, and leaned forward with a creaking sound, from either the wooden porch swing or her old bones. “Girl’s got no better sense than God gave a sheep, but that’s all right. It’s the Founder’s symbol, child, and this is the Founder’s house, and we’re the Founder’s people. Just like you.’”

Lisa looked at her, openmouthed. “What?’” she finally said when she got control of her voice.

“Can’t you see it?’” Gramma waved her hand in front of Claire. “She shines, baby. They see it, I guarantee you they do. They won’t touch her, mark or no mark. Worth their lives if they do.’”

“But—’” Lisa looked as frustrated and helpless as Claire felt. “Gramma, you’re seeing things again.’”

“I do not see things, missy, and you better remember just who in this family stayed alive when everybody else fell.’” Gramma’s faded eyes fixed on Claire, who shivered despite the oppressive, still heat. “Don’t know why she marked you, child, but she did. Now you just got to live with it. Go on, now. Go home. You got what you came for.’”

“She did?’” Lisa scowled fiercely. “Swear to God, if you lifted anything from our house—’”

“Hush. She didn’t steal. But she got what she needed, didn’t you, girl?’”

Claire nodded and nervously ran a hand through her hair. She was sweating buckets; her hair felt sticky and wet. Home suddenly sounded like a real good idea.

“Thank you, ma’am,’” she said, and extended her hand. Gramma looked at it for a few seconds, then took it in a birdlike grip and shook. “Can I come back and see you sometime?’”

“Long as you bring me some chocolate,’” Gramma said, and smiled. “I’m partial to chocolate.’”

“Gramma, you’re diabetic.’”

“I’m old, girl. Gonna die of something. Might as well be chocolate.’”

They were still arguing as Claire retreated down the steps, through the neatly kept front garden, and out through the gate in the white picket fence. She looked at that alley, the one she’d almost taken, and this time she felt a shiver of warning. Trapdoor spiders. No, she no longer had any desire to take shortcuts. And she’d learned about as much as she could stomach about Jason Rosser. At least she knew now who to watch out for, if he started following her around again.

Claire hitched her backpack to a more comfortable position, and began walking.