And then she stumbled and fell on her knees. All the anger drained out of her, just as if someone had pulled a plug, leaving her pale and empty. Her eyes were open wide, pupils contracted to pinpoints, and she stared at me with her lips parted.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. Seemed like all I could say. Had I thought this was a dream, a perfect revenge? Wish fulfillment? It wasn’t. It was just … sad. “He was okay, your brother. He always tried to be fair. And he cared about you.”
It wasn’t much, as eulogies go, but it was all I had. Whatever entertainment I’d thought I would get out of this had been pure fantasy, and all I felt now was sickness, and bone-deep discomfort. I should have let Michael do it. Michael would have been good at it; he was all sensitive and crap, knew what to say and when …
Monica just stared at me. As if she was waiting for me to tell her it was all just a really nasty joke.
This should have been Oliver’s job, I thought. Oliver was her vampire godfather Protector, wasn’t he? Where was he?
Monica finally said, in a voice I would never have recognized as belonging to her, “You’re a liar. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. He’s hurt, that’s all, he got hurt and you’re just a fucking liar. You’re messing with me, you asshole. Because of your sister.”
“I wish I was,” I said. I shook my head and started for the door, because there was nothing else I could do here. Nothing but hurt and get hurt.
“Wait,” she said. Her voice was shaking now, as her world fell apart inside. “Shane, wait. I didn’t do it—I didn’t start that fire. You don’t have to be a jerk about this. This isn’t funny ….”
“I know,” I said. I wasn’t sure which part of that I was acknowledging. Maybe all of it, with a sad kind of acceptance. “Sorry.”
She’d always had her friends with her. Gina, Jennifer, any of a dozen other hangers-on circling the orbit of Monica, Center of the Universe. She’d always been invulnerable, armored up in attitude and trendy clothing and makeup and gloss. Always the one doing the damage.
Maybe I should have taken some satisfaction at having brought her to this, alone, on her knees.
I didn’t.
“I’ll—send somebody,” I said. I didn’t know who I could possibly send, but it didn’t matter; she didn’t hear me. I looked back to see her pitch forward in slow motion, catch herself on one arm, and then roll over on her side on the carpet. Her legs slowly pulled up toward her stomach.
She started to cry in hopeless, gulping whoops.
Jesus.
I pulled in a deep, resigned breath, and went back to the couch, where I retrieved the blanket. I settled it over her, found a box of tissues and brought them to her. Then I poured her a stiff drink from an open bottle of Scotch on the counter at the back of the room—vampires liked their alcohol as much as humans, but they had a much better class of the stuff. This was single malt, and it smelled like smoke.
“Come on,” I said, and hauled her upright to lean against the sofa’s corner. I pressed the Scotch into one hand, pulled a couple of tissues out and stuffed them in the other hand. “Drink.”
She did, obeying like a child; she choked on the first sip, but got it down, and then took a second, between gasps and shudders. A little awareness came back into her eyes, and a flash of something like shame. She used the tissues to wipe her nose, then got another to blot at her eyes. The tears were still coming, and her eyes were red and swollen. Never mind what the movies say—girls don’t get prettier when they cry. That made her more … human.
“Why’d you come?” she asked, finally, when the whiskey was down to a thin amber line at the bottom of the glass. Calmer now, maybe artificially, but at least she wasn’t shaking like she was about to come apart. “Why not Claire? She’s the nice one.” She tried to make it sound like an insult, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“I figured maybe—”
“Maybe this would make you feel better about your sister?” she asked, and drained the last of the alcohol. “How’s that going for you?” Her hand was trembling.
I didn’t answer. I was seriously considering getting myself a shot, which was all kinds of wrong. Monica held out the empty glass to me, and I put it aside.
“I was hoping for a refill,” she said.
“You don’t need one. Last thing you need is to be drunk right now.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Yes,” I said. I met her gaze solidly. “You’re an evil bitch, and a bully, and I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to break your neck. But I kind of liked your brother. That’s why I came.”
She took in a deep, fluttering breath, but she didn’t break out in tears again. That was done, at least for now. I waited for the snappy comeback. It didn’t make an appearance. Finally she said, “He always said that he hoped he was adopted.” She made a weird little attempt at a laugh. “Most kids think that, but I think he was right. He deserved better.” She swiped at her eyes again. “Shit. I can’t believe I let you see me like this. You’re never going to let me forget it, are you?”
I let that pass into silence, and then asked, “You going to be okay?”
This time the laugh was a little more recognizable, but hollow, as if she was empty inside. “No,” she said. “But thanks anyway. For not—”
For not standing there smiling while she suffered, the way she’d done to me. She couldn’t say that, but I figured it was what she meant.
“Is this where we hug and say we’re BFFs?” I said. “Because I’d rather skip that part.”
“Ugh. Absolutely.” She blew her nose, threw the tissue at the coffee table, and pulled another from the box. “I guess I should—get dressed or something.” She didn’t know what to do, I could tell, but getting dressed was Monica’s go-to coping mechanism. “So get out already.”
I nodded and stood up. I put the glass on the coffee table, then said, “Richard wanted you to be less of a bitch. You might want to look into that, if you really loved him.”
She said nothing, and finally I was able to escape.
The door shut behind me, and I leaned against the wall, eyes shut, breathing in deep, cool gasps. I felt weirdly feverish, and a little sick. No satisfaction at all.
In a strange sort of way, that was good.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CLAIRE
Richard was dead.
Claire had seen it, and somehow, she just couldn’t … believe it. At the last second, she’d realized what was going to happen when Captain Obvious had fired his rifle; she’d just … known. So she’d turned and hidden her eyes.
She was sorry about that now, as if she’d somehow let Richard down. As if she’d owed him that much.
Shane had left her standing there in the rotunda while Michael and Eve hugged out their differences, and she felt … useless. Alone.
And so, so exhausted. It just all seemed overwhelming. She was so tired of being uncertain. Isolated. Scared.
She walked back to the room where their beds were, alone. Someone had neatened it up since they’d left; there were beds now, foldaway cots instead of the camping kind. The sleeping bags were neatly rolled and stowed against the wall. There were sheets, blankets, pillows.
She sat down on her cot and just … stared. What is happening to us? she thought. He went to talk to Monica instead of coming with me. Monica. Okay, that was probably mean and cruel to even think it; he’d gone to break the news of Richard’s death, and that had taken guts. She really hadn’t wanted to do it, though she’d offered. I just wish he’d come back. I need …