Dead Girls' Dance tmv-2, Page 2
Rachel Caine
Mom and Dad? She shuddered to think what would happen if she put in a frantic yell to them…For one thing, they’d already had their memories altered by Morganville’s strange psychic field, or so she assumed, since they’d forgotten all about ordering her home for living off campus. With boys. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly the kind of backup she needed, not up against Shane’s dad and his bikers.
Her cousin Rex…now, there was an idea. No, Rex had been sent to jail three months ago. She remembered Mom saying so.
Face facts, Danvers. There’s nobody. Nobody coming riding to the rescue.
It was her, Eve, and Shane against the world.
So the odds were about three billion to one.
2
It was a long, long day. Claire eventually stretched out on one side of the bed, Eve on the other, each wrapped in her own separate cocoon of misery and heartache. They didn’t talk much. There didn’t seem to be a lot to talk about.
It was almost dark when the doorknob rattled, sending Claire into a heart-pounding terror seizure; she advanced slowly, and whispered, “Who is it?’”
“Shane.’”
She unlocked fast and opened up. Shane came in, head down, carrying a tray on which sat two bowls of chili—which made sense, because it was nearly the only thing Shane knew how to fix. He set it down on the edge of the bed, next to Eve, who was sitting like an unstuffed rag doll, limp with grief and dejection.
“Eat something,’” he said. Eve shook her head. Shane picked up a bowl and shoved it in her direction; she took it just to avoid wearing it, and glared at him.
Claire saw her expression change into something else. Blank at first, then horrified.
“It’s nothing,’” Shane said as Claire came around to see. It wasn’t nothing. It was bruises, dark ones, spilling over his cheek and jaw. Shane avoided looking at her. “My fault.’”
“Jesus,’” Eve whispered. “Your dad—’”
“My fault,’” Shane snapped back, got up, and headed for the door. “Look, you don’t understand. He’s right, okay? I was wrong.’”
“No, I don’t understand,’” Claire said, and grabbed his arm. He pulled free without any effort at all and kept walking. “Shane!’”
He paused in the doorway and looked back at her. He looked bruised, beaten, and sullen, but it was the desperation in his eyes that scared her. Shane was always strong, wasn’t he? He had to be. She needed him to be.
“Dad’s right,’” he said. “This town is sick, it’s poisoned, and it’s poisoning us, too. We can’t let it beat us. We have to take them out.’”
“The vampires? Shane, that’s stupid! You can’t! You know what’ll happen!’” Eve said. She put the bowl of chili back on the tray and got off the bed, looking tear streaked and forlorn but more like herself. “Your dad’s crazy. I’m sorry, but he is. And you can’t let him drag you down with him. He’s going to get you killed, and Claire and me, too. He already—’” She caught her breath and gulped. “He already got Michael. We can’t let him do this. Who knows how many people are going to get hurt?’”
“Like Lyssa got hurt?’” Shane asked. “Like my mom? They killed my mom, Eve! They were willing to burn us up in this house yesterday, don’t forget, and that included Michael.’”
“But—’”
“This town is bad,’” Shane said, and looked at Claire, almost pleading. “You understand, right? You understand that there’s a whole world out there, a whole world that isn’t like this?’”
“Yes,’” she said faintly. “I understand that. But—’”
“We’re doing this. And then we’re getting out of this place.’”
“With your father?’” Eve managed to put a whole dictionary of contempt into that. “I don’t think so. I look good in black, but not so great in black and blue.’”
Shane flinched. “I didn’t say—look, just the three of us. We get out of town while my dad and the others…’”
“We run?’” Eve shook her head. “Brilliant. And when the vamps have a big party and roast your dad and his buddies, what then? Because they’re definitely going to come looking for us. Nobody escapes who had any part in killing a vampire, you know that. Unless you really believe that your dad and his idiot muscle are going to be able to take down hundreds of vamps, all their human allies, the cops, and, for all I know, the U.S. Marines.’”
“Eat your damn chili,’” Shane said.
“Not without something to drink. I know your chili.’”
“Fine! I’ll get you Cokes!’” He slammed the door behind him. “Lock it!’”
Claire did. This time, Shane didn’t linger in the hall; she heard the hard thump of his boots as he went downstairs.
“Did you have to do that?’” she asked Eve. She leaned against the door and folded her arms.
“Do what, exactly?’”
“He’s confused. He lost Michael, his dad’s got him—’”
“Say it, Claire: his dad’s got him brainwashed. Worse. I think his dad’s beaten the fight out of him. He’s certainly beaten the brains out of him.’” Eve wiped at her face impatiently; there were more tears streaming down her cheeks, but it was more like water escaping under pressure than real sobs. “His dad wasn’t always like this. He used to be—well, not nice, because he was kind of a drunk, but better. Way better than this. After Lyssa he just went—crazy. I didn’t know about Shane’s mom. I thought she just, you know…killed herself. Shane never really said.’”
Claire hadn’t heard any footsteps on the stairs, but she heard and felt a soft knock through the door, and then a rattle of the doorknob. She unlocked and swung it open, holding out her hands for the Cokes she expected Shane to thrust at her…
…and there was a grinning, smelly mountain of a man in the doorway. The one who’d stabbed Michael.
Claire let go of the door and stumbled back, thinking only an instant later, Stupid, that was stupid—you should have slammed it… but it was too late; he was already inside, closing the door behind him.
And locking it.
She looked in terror at Eve. Eve lunged forward, grabbed Claire, and hustled her around to the far side of the bed…and stepped in front of her. Claire looked frantically around for a weapon. Anything. She picked up a heavy-looking skull, but it was plastic, light and utterly useless.
Eve yanked a field hockey stick from under her bed.
“Let’s do this nice,’” the man said. “That little stick isn’t going to do you any good, and it’s only going to piss me off.’” His lips widened in a grin, revealing big, square, yellow teeth. “Or get me all excited.’”
Claire felt sick and faint. This wasn’t like Shane coming into her room the other night, not at all. This was the flip side of men, and although she’d heard about it—you couldn’t grow up without that—she’d never really seen it. Some jerks, sure, but there was something horrible about this guy. Something that looked at her and Eve like pieces of meat he was about to devour.
“You’re not touching us,’” Eve said, and raised her voice. “Shane! Shane, get your ass up here now!’”
There was a touch of panic in her voice, although she was putting on a good front. Her hands were shaking where they gripped the hockey stick.
The man glided around the end of the bed, prowling like a cat. Six feet tall, at least, and as broad as two of Eve, maybe bigger. His bare arms were ripped with muscle. His blue eyes looked shallow and hungry.
Claire heard the thump of footsteps outside, and then a bang as Shane fetched up against the locked door. He rattled the knob and pounded hard. “Eve! Eve, open up!’”
“She’s busy!’” the biker yelled, and laughed. “Oh yeah, gonna be real busy.’”
“No!’” Shane screamed it, and the door shook with the strength of the blows he put into it. “Stay away from them!’”
Eve backed Claire up, all the way to the window. She took a swipe at the biker, who just stepped back out of range, still laughing.
“I’m not leaving you!’”
“Do it, Shane, now!’”
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Claire swallowed, feeling suddenly even more alone and vulnerable. “Do you think his dad will come?’” she whispered. Eve didn’t answer.
“Swear to God, you come near us and—’”
“Like this?’” The biker sidestepped a slash from the hockey stick, grabbed it on the way, and yanked it out of Eve’s hands. He tossed it over his shoulder to land on the floor with a clatter. “This near enough? Whatcha gonna do, doll girl? Cry all over me?’”
Claire hid her eyes as the biker reached out for Eve with one tattooed hand.
“No,’” Eve said breathlessly. “I’m going to let my boyfriend beat the crap out of you.’”
There was a dull thunk of wood meeting flesh, and a howl. Then another, harder thunk, and a crash as a body hit the floor.
The biker was down. Claire stared at him in disbelief, then looked past him, to the figure standing there with the field hockey stick in both hands.
Michael Glass. Back from the dead, again, a gorgeous blond avenging angel, breathing hard. Flushed with anger, blue eyes flashing. He glanced at the two girls, making sure they were okay, and then put the blade of the hockey stick on the biker’s throat. The biker’s eyes fluttered and tried to open, but didn’t make it. He relaxed into unconsciousness.
Eve flew toward Michael, leaped over the biker’s body, and fastened herself around Michael like she was trying to be sure he was all there. He must have been; he winced from the force of the impact, then kissed her on the top of her head without looking away from the man lying limp at their feet.
“Eve,’” he said, and then glanced at her and gentled his tone. “Eve, honey, go open the door.’”
She nodded, stepped away, and followed instructions. Michael handed her the hockey stick, grabbed the biker by the shoulders, and towed him quickly out into the hallway. He closed the door again, locked it, and said, “Right, here’s the story—Eve, you knocked him out with the hockey stick and—’”
He didn’t finish, because Eve grabbed him and pushed him back against the door, wrapping herself around him like a Goth-girl coat. She was crying again, but silently; Claire could see her shoulders shaking. Michael sighed, put his arms around her, and bent his blond head to rest against her dark one.
“It’s okay,’” he murmured. “You’re okay, Eve. We’re all okay.’”
“You were dead!’” she wailed, muffled by the fact that her face was still pressed against his chest. “Damn you, Michael, you were dead, I saw them kill you, and—they—’”
“Yeah, it wasn’t too pleasant.’” Something passed fast and hot across Michael’s eyes, the reflection of a horror that Claire thought he didn’t want to remember or share. “But I’m not a vampire, and they can’t kill me like a vampire. Not while the house owns my soul. They can do pretty much anything to my body, but it just—gets fixed.’”
The prospects of that made Claire sick, like standing on the edge of a huge and unexpected drop. She stared at Michael, wide-eyed, and saw he understood the same things she did: that if Shane’s father and his merry band of thugs found out, they might decide to test that out. Just for fun.
“That’s why I’m not here,’” Michael said. “You can’t tell them. Or Shane.’”
“Not tell Shane?’” Eve pulled back. “Why not?’”
“I’ve been watching,’” he said. “Listening. I can do that when I’m, you know—’”
“A ghost?’” Claire supplied.
“Exactly. I saw—’” Michael didn’t go on, but Claire thought she knew what he’d been about to say.
“You saw Shane’s dad hit him,’” she said. “Right?’”
“I don’t want to make him keep secrets from his dad. Not now.’”
Footsteps pounding up the stairs, then slowing when they hit the hallway. Michael touched his finger to his lips and eased out from Eve’s frantic grip. He pressed his lips silently to hers.
“Hide!’” Claire whispered. He nodded and opened the closet, rolled his eyes at the mess inside, and forced his way in. Burying himself in piles of clothes, Claire hoped. Miranda had been trapped in that closet after trying to knife Eve, before the house had caught fire; she’d really done a job of messing things up. Eve was going to be furious.
Both girls jumped at a hard blow on the door. Eve hastily unlocked the door and stepped back as it flew open, and Shane charged through.
“How—?’” He was breathing hard, and he had a crowbar in his hand. He’d have broken through the locks, Claire realized, if he’d had to. She came toward him slowly, trying to figure out what he was feeling, and he dropped the crowbar and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up off the ground. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, and the warm, fast pump of his breath on her skin made her shiver in raw delight. “Oh Christ, Claire. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’”
“Not your fault,’” Eve said. She held out the field hockey stick. “Look! I hit him. Um, twice.’”
“Good.’” Shane kissed Claire’s cheek and let her slide back down to the floor, but he kept hold of her arms. His eyes, bright under the bruises and swelling, surveyed her carefully. “He didn’t hurt you? Either of you?’”
“I hit him!’” Eve repeated brightly, and brandished the stick again for emphasis. “So, no, he didn’t hurt us. We hurt him. You know, all alone. Without any help. Um, so…where’s your dad? He charges to the rescue pretty slow.’”
Shane closed the door and locked it again as the biker in the hall groaned and rolled over on his side. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. Shane’s dad needed his bikers more than he needed Eve or Claire. They were expendable. Worse, they’d probably just become rewards.
“We can’t stay here,’” Eve said. “It isn’t safe. You know that.’”
Shane nodded, but he looked bleak. “I can’t come with you.’”
“Yes, you can! Shane—’”
“He’s my dad, Eve. He’s all I’ve got.’”
Eve snorted. “Yeah, well, what you’ve got I’d give back.’”
“Sure, you just walked away from your folks—’”
“Hey!’”
“Didn’t even care what happened to them—’”
“They didn’t care what happened to me!’” Eve almost shouted it. Suddenly, the hockey stick in her hands wasn’t so much for display. “Leave my family out of this, Shane—you don’t have a clue. Not a clue.’”
“I’ve met your brother,’” Shane shot back.
They both went quiet. Dangerously quiet. Claire cleared her throat. “Brother?’”
“Leave it alone, Claire,’” Eve said. She sounded dead calm, not at all like herself. “You really don’t want to get into it.’”
“Bones in every family closet in Morganville,’” Shane said. “Yours rattle pretty loud, Eve. So don’t judge me.’”
“Here’s a thought: why don’t you get the hell out of my room, you asshole!’”
Shane picked up his crowbar, opened the door, and stepped outside. He reached down and hauled the biker to his feet, and shoved him toward the stairs. The biker went, still groaning and weaving.
Claire peeked through the gap in the door until she was sure they were gone, then nodded to Eve, who dumped the hockey stick and opened the closet door. “Oh, crap,’” she sighed. “I hope nothing’s torn in there. It is not easy to get clothes in this town. Michael?’”
Claire looked over her shoulder. A pile of black and red netting stirred, and Michael’s blond head appeared. He sat up, brushing off Goth, and silently held up a pair of black lace panties. Thong.
“Hey!’” Eve yelped, and grabbed them from his fingers. “Personal! And…laundry!’”
Michael just smiled. For a guy who’d been stabbed, hacked up, and buried less than twenty-four hours ago, he looked re
markably composed. “I’m not even going to ask what you wore them with,’” he said. “It’s more fun to imagine.’”
Eve snorted and gave him a hand up. “Shane’s taken our new boyfriend downstairs. What now? We can’t exactly shimmy down a drainpipe.’”
“Not in fishnets, you can’t,’” he agreed, straight-faced. “Get changed. The less attention you attract from these guys, the better.’”
Eve grabbed a pair of blue jeans from the floor of the closet, and a baby-doll T that must have been a gift; it was aqua blue, with a sparkle rainbow over the chest. Very not Eve. She glared at Michael and tapped her foot.
“What?’” he asked.
“Gentlemen turn around. Or so I’ve heard.’”
He faced the corner. Eve stripped off her spiderweb-lace shirt and the red top beneath, and stepped out of the red and black tartan skirt. The fishnets were garters—totally sexy. “Not a word,’” she warned Claire, and rolled them down. She didn’t take her eyes off of Michael. There was red burning hot in her cheeks.
Dressing took thirty seconds, and then Eve grabbed up the scattered clothes, the garter belt, and the fishnets, and stuffed them into the closet before saying, “Okay, you can turn around.’”
Michael did, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He was smiling slightly, eyes half-closed.
“What?’” Eve demanded. She was still blushing. “Don’t I look stupid enough now?’”
“You look great,’” he said, and crossed to kiss her lightly on the lips. “Go wash your face.’”
Eve went to the bathroom and shut the door. Claire said, “You’ve got some kind of a plan, right? Because we don’t. Well, Shane thinks we should let his dad do whatever, and run, but Eve doesn’t think it’s a good idea—’”
“It’s suicide,’” Michael said flatly. “Shane’s dad is an idiot, and he’s going to get Shane killed. You, too.’”
“But you’ve got a plan.’”
“Yeah,’” Michael said. “I have a plan.’”
When Eve came back from the bathroom, Michael put his finger to his lips again, unlocked the door, and walked them across the hall. He reached behind the picture frame and pushed the hidden button, and the paneling creaked open to reveal one of the secret rooms of the Glass House. Amelie’s room, Claire remembered. The one the vampire liked the best, probably because there were no windows and the only exit was from a concealed button. How weird was it to be living in a house built—and, really, owned—by a vampire?
