She remembered what Eve had done that terrible evening after the biker shoved his way in. You need a weapon. Yeah, but Eve was older and bigger, and wasn’t drugged at the time….
She nearly tripped over a baseball bat sticking out from under the bed. She grabbed it and took up a bleary, weaving batting stance. “Don’t touch me!’” she said, and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Eve! Eve! I need help!’”
She took a wild swing at Ian, who was strolling forward, and he ducked it easily. She reversed and slammed the butt end of the bat toward him, and that one, he didn’t duck. It hit him squarely in the mouth, and he staggered back, bleeding.
“You bitch!’” he said, and spit blood. “Oh, you are gonna pay for that.’”
“Hold up,’” said the coffee bar jerk, who was leaning against the door with his arms folded. “You put the full dose in her bottle, right? And she drank it?’”
Ian nodded. He fished around in the laundry pile and found a sock to press against his mouth and nose. Good. She hoped it was filthy. And had athlete’s foot on it.
“Then all we have to do is wait a couple of minutes,’” the jerk said. “She’s not going anywhere except to la-la land.’” He high-fived his buddies. Ian continued to glare at her. They were all between her and the door. There was a window, but it was the second floor and she wasn’t even steady enough to stand, much less free-climb. Claire gripped the bat in sweaty, numbed hands, and saw sparkles at the edges of her vision. Everything looked bleary. She felt waves of heat sweep over her, and then an icy chill. Michael? Was Michael here? No, Michael couldn’t leave the house….
Somehow, she was sliding down to a sitting position on the floor. The bat was still clutched in her hands, but she was tired, very tired, and she felt so sick and hot….
Somebody rattled the doorknob. Claire summoned up whatever was left of her strength and screamed, “Help! Get help! Eve!’”
Ian said, and grinned at Claire with bloody teeth, “Just somebody looking for a place to screw. Don’t worry, baby. We won’t hurt you. Not that you’ll remember, anyway.’”
She pretended to be worse off than she really was (although truthfully, she was pretty bad) and, mumbling, let her eyes drift half-closed.
“That’s it,’” the coffee bar jerk said. “She’s out. Get her on the bed.’”
She’d never really done this before, but she was imagining hard how Eve would have handled it. She let the bat kind of wobble and fall to rest in her lap, aligned with her leg, as if it had gotten too heavy to hold up. (Not quite. Just nearly.)
And when Ian walked up to grab her, she brought the bat straight up with as much force as she could manage. It smacked him right where it would hurt the most, and Ian crumpled with a high-pitched, breathless scream, huddled in on himself.
Claire forced her legs to hold her, and slid back up to a standing position. She was leaning for support, and lucky to be in a corner, where the two angled walls let her look like she wasn’t about to topple over. Her arms were shaking, and the guys would have seen that if she’d tried to raise the bat, so she tapped it casually against her leg. “Who wants some?’” she asked. “I won’t hurt you. Much.’”
It was all show, and they only had to wait. Coffee Bar Jerk knew that, all too well, and she could feel the drug—what the hell was it?—stealing away her concentration, her strength, making her slow and stupid and all-too-easy prey.
Shane, she thought, and forced herself to stand upright just a little longer. Shane needs me. I’m not letting this happen.
“You’re bluffing,’” Coffee Bar Jerk said, and came around the bed. Claire took a swing at him, missed, and smacked the bat into the wood so hard it rattled her teeth.
He grabbed the bat on the backswing and easily twisted it out of her grip. He tossed it to one of the other two guys, who caught it one-handed. “That,’” he said, “was really stupid. This could have been real nice and easy, you know that, right?’”
“I have Amelie’s Protection,’” Claire said.
He grabbed her by the throat of her sheer black skull-printed shirt, and dragged her forward. Her legs folded when she tried to pull away.
“I don’t care,’” he said. “I’m not from this stupid town. None of us are. Monica said that was the way to go, to get around the dumbass rules, whatever they are. Whoever Amelie is, she can kiss my ass. After you’re done doing it.’”
The door to the hall gave a dry, metallic pop, and swung slowly open. Claire blinked and tried to focus her eyes, because there was someone standing there. No, two someones. One had red hair. Wasn’t there something about red hair…? Oh yeah. Sam had red hair. Sam the vampire. Sam I Am. Michael’s grandpa, wasn’t that just too weird?
The door no longer had a knob on the outside. The one on the inside fell out with a dull thud to the carpet and rolled under the bed.
“Claire!’” Oh, that was Eve. “Oh my God…’”
“Excuse me,’” Sam said, “but what did you say about Amelie?’”
Coffee Bar Jerk let go of Claire’s top, and she slid back down the wall. She fumbled around for something to use for a weapon, but all she came up with was another set of filthy socks that had missed the laundry. For some reason, that seemed funny. She giggled and rested her head against the wall to let her neck relax. Her neck was working too hard.
“I said that Amelie can kiss my ass, Red. And what are you going to do about it? Stare me to death?’”
Sam just stood there. Claire couldn’t see anything about him change, but it was like the room just went…cold. “You really don’t want to do this,’” Sam said. “Eve, go get your friend.’”
“Yeah, Eve, come on in, we’ve got a nice big bed!’” Ian giggled. “I hear you know how to have a real good time.’” He tossed the bloody sock he’d been pressing to his nose down on the floor and got ready to grab Eve if she came inside. Sam looked at the discarded sock for a second, then picked it up and squeezed it, drizzling blood into the palm of his hand.
And then he licked it up. Slowly. Meeting the eyes of every guy facing him.
“I said,’” he whispered, “you really don’t want to do this.’”
Claire heard a great big buzzing in her head, like a hive full of bees. Oh, I’m going to pass out, because that was gross.
“Shit,’” Ian whispered, and backed up. Fast. “You’re sick, man!’”
“Sometimes,’” Sam agreed. “Eve, go get her. Nobody’s going to touch you.’”
Eve cautiously edged past him, hurried to Claire, and gave her a fast embrace before she hauled her upright again. “Can you walk?’”
“Not very well,’” Claire said, and gulped down nausea. The world kept coming in hot and cold flashes, and she felt like she was going to throw up, but somehow it was all smeared and funny, even the terror in Eve’s eyes.
Not so funny when Coffee Bar Jerk decided to grab Eve, though.
He lunged over the bed, reaching for Eve’s wrist—Claire was too fuzzy to know why he was doing it. Maybe he was hoping to use her as some kind of shield against Sam. But whatever he meant, it was a bad decision.
Sam moved in a flicker, and when Claire blinked, Coffee Bar Jerk was up against the wall, eyes wide, staring at Sam’s face from a distance of about three inches.
“I said,’” Sam whispered, “nobody was going to touch her. Are you deaf?’”
Claire didn’t see it, but she imagined he probably flashed some fang right about then, because Coffee Bar Jerk whimpered like a sick dog.
The other boys moved out of Eve’s way without even trying to stop her.
“Monica,’” Claire said. “I think it was Monica. She got Ian to ask me.’”
“What?’”
“Monica got him to ask me. Told them to do this.’”