She’d been hoping he’d jump out and come after her, but he’d done what he intended to do by brushing her off, and now he slammed the door again and jammed the throttle forward.
“No!” Claire screamed, and leaped back on. She collided with the metal door. He hadn’t locked it properly this time, and she stepped back and yanked it open, holding on for dear life. She’d dropped the baton somewhere, but she didn’t have room to wield it inside the cab anyway.
“Are you crazy? Get the hell out! Don’t make me hurt you!” the man said, and shoved at her. She clung on, so he let off the throttle to get a better grip on her with both hands . . . and she let him. He had hard, strong hands, and she knew it was going to leave bruises, but that was okay right now. Bruises were fine.
Because she was able to lean over across him and grab the key from the ignition before he threw her out of the cab and off the machine.
The bulldozer coughed and died, locked in its muddy tracks, and Claire shook off the fall and got to her feet, grinning. He didn’t get what had happened for a moment. He kept jamming his thumb on the button to start the engine, but then he must have spotted what was missing, because he leveled a black, furious look at Claire and jumped down from the cab to come after her.
She ran for the messy brawl that was spilling all over the lawn—Michael and Eve were tag-teaming one of the construction guys, who looked furious and frustrated, not to mention a little worried. His fellow neon-vested buddy was throwing punches at Shane, which Shane was easily dancing around while snapping hard, accurate blows to the man’s midsection, and—as Claire dashed past them—a stunning right hook that spun the guy halfway around to spiral limply to the ground.
“Hey, Claire!” Shane called to her, and then spotted the furious bulldozer operator, hard in pursuit. He stepped in the way.
That was a mistake, because the bulldozer guy had evidently paused to pick up Claire’s fallen baton, which he whipped out to its full length and smacked into Shane’s leg. Shane yelled and went down to his other knee, and his grab for the man’s foot failed to slow the guy down.
Claire ran up the steps to the house. The door opened ahead of her, because Miranda had been waiting, and the instant Claire was clear, the door tried to slam shut.
The tip of the riot baton got in the way, and the front door sprang back open, banging hard into the hallway wall.
The construction guy stepped into the Glass House, flexed his wrist, and lifted the baton as he bared his teeth at Claire and Miranda.
That was when all hell broke loose.
Miranda must have had some warning, because she grabbed Claire and pulled her down to the hardwood floor an instant before the battered little table they used as a backpack/purse/key depository lifted up off the floor and smashed hard into the intruder’s chest. He yelled in surprise, but it didn’t do much damage; he grabbed it and flung it off to the side, into the parlor, then came after the two of them with murder in his eyes.
Claire felt the equally furious surge of energy rising up—out of the floor beneath her, swirling in from the walls, down from the ceiling, a thick but invisible cloud of power that raised goose bumps and tingles all over her body.
And then the coffee table from the parlor upended itself and body-slammed him into the wall, hard enough to leave cracks in the plaster. He dropped the baton and staggered.
An old, weirdly shaped vase in a particularly unpleasant shade of brown flew off a shelf and smashed into bits against his head.
And then he was down, sagging down the wall. Groaning.
The house seemed satisfied with that—Claire felt the surge of triumph and knew it hadn’t come from her or Miranda. She scrambled up, moved the coffee table out of the way (it was heavier than she remembered), and kicked the sharp pieces of the vase aside as she picked up the riot baton.
The construction worker looked up at her woozily through bloodshot eyes. She stuck the bulldozer keys in her pants pocket and said, “Are you okay?”
He mumbled something that sounded rude, so she just assumed he was, and looked outside. Jenna’s car was screeching to a crooked halt at the curb ahead of their police cruiser; she must have sensed the house’s distress, or Miranda’s. The fight on the lawn was still going, but it was just about over, and as Jenna got out of her car and strode over to help Shane to his feet, the remaining construction worker raised his hands to signal surrender. “Okay, okay,” he yelled, as Michael and Eve paused, fists raised. “Enough already. They don’t pay us enough for this!”
“Surprise,” Jenna said crisply. “They aren’t paying you at all for this. If you think the Daylight Foundation is writing you a check, you’re in for a surprise. They just shut their doors for good.”
He must have been the foreman, Claire thought, because he just looked disgusted. “Well, crap,” he said. “I ain’t paying for that broken fence, lady. I had my orders.”
“Let’s call it even,” Eve said. “I never did like that fence, anyway. What do you think, Michael? Something Gothic, like wrought iron? With spikes?”
“Spikes are good,” he said, and grabbed her to look her over. He ran a thumb over her chin. “You’re going to have a bruise.”
“Jeez, I hope so. Didn’t do my part if I don’t.”
He kissed her, looped an arm around her shoulders, and walked her toward the house.
Shane was limping, but when he got to the door with Jenna, he gave Claire a reassuring grin. “It’s a bruise; I’ll shake it off,” he said. “You might have to kiss it better later.”
She rolled her eyes. “Dream on,” she said, but she reached up to push back the sweaty, thick hair from his face. “Look at that. Still handsome.”
“Damn straight.” Shane nudged the bulldozer guy with his foot. “Hey. Want to get the hell out of our house, fool? Don’t make me tell you that you’re not welcome. Bad things happen.”
No kidding, Claire thought. The house was practically vibrating, it was so upset. She shook her head, helped the guy up (seemed like the least she could do, really), and pushed him out the door into his foreman’s arms. “I think you’d better call it a day,” she told him.
He nodded. “You got it, kid. It’s beer o’clock.”
Claire dug the keys out of her pocket and tossed them to him. “Then get that thing off our lawn.” She hesitated, holding his stare. “You understand that if you even think about putting it in gear the wrong direction . . .”
“Oh, I get it,” he said. “Trust me. Far as I’m concerned, this damn house can stay standing until the whole town falls down around it.”
That seemed like an acceptable way to look at it, but Claire checked her friends to be sure. Miranda nodded gravely, and hugged Jenna tight. Michael raised his eyebrows at Eve, who polled Shane, and then spoke for all of them when she said, “Sounds good. Oh, and I’d get your friends checked out at the hospital just in case.”
“Them? What about me?” He rubbed his jaw. “You kick like a mule, Mrs. Glass.”
He retreated with his two weaving, staggering buddies.
Eve smiled and relaxed against Michael, who wrapped his arms around her. “We’re home. I like the sound of that,” she said, and looked up at him. “Wait, weren’t we talking about a wedding before all this?”
“We were,” he said. “Let’s go discuss it. In private.” He grabbed Eve’s hand and towed her off down the hall. Eve waved back toward the rest of them, and all the Goth makeup in the world couldn’t have concealed the blush in her cheeks.