“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 remarkably 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?
“Inside,’” Michael whispered. “Eve. Cell phone?’”
She patted her pockets, held up a finger, and dashed back to her room. She came back holding it up. Michael hustled them up the narrow staircase, and the door hissed shut behind them. No knob on this side, either.
Upstairs, the room was just as Claire had last seen it—elegant Victorian splendor, a little dusty. This room, like all of the house, seemed to have a sense of something present in it, something just out of sight. Ghosts, she thought. But Michael seemed to be the only ghost, and he was as normal as could be.
Then again, the house was alive, kind of, and it was keeping Michael alive, too. So maybe not so normal.
“Phone,’” Michael said, and held out his hand as he sat down on the couch. Eve handed it over, frowning.
“Just who are you planning to call?’” she asked. “Ghostbusters? It’s not like we have a lot of options….’”
Michael grinned at her and pressed three keys, then activated the call. The response was nearly immediate. “Hello, 911? This is Michael Glass, 716 Lot Street. I have intruders in my house. No, I don’t know who they are, but there are at least three of them.’”
Eve’s mouth flopped open in surprise, and Claire blinked, too. Calling the police seemed so…normal. And so wrong.
“You might want to tell the officers that this house and its occupants are under the Founder’s Protection,’” he said. “They can verify that, I guess.’”
He smiled and hung up a moment later, handed the phone back, and looked very smug.
“And Shane?’” Claire asked. “What about Shane?’”
Michael’s self-assurance faded. “He’s making his own choices,’” he said. “He’d want me to look out for the two of you first. And the only way I can do that is to get these guys out of my house. I can’t protect you twenty-four/seven—in the daytime, you’re vulnerable. And I’m not going to float around and watch while you get—’” He didn’t finish, but Claire—and Eve—knew where that was going. They both nodded. “Once they’re out of the house, I can keep them from coming back, unless Shane lets them in. Or one of you, though I can’t see that happening.’”
More headshakes, this time more violent. Michael kissed Eve’s forehead with obvious affection, and ruffled Claire’s hair. “Then this is the best way,’” he said. “It’ll shake them up, anyway.’”
“I’m sorry,’” Eve said in a small voice. “I didn’t think—I’m so used to thinking of the cops as enemies, and besides, they were just trying to kill us. Right?’”
“Things change. We have to adapt.’”
Michael was pretty much the king of that, Claire thought. He’d gone from a serious musician with his whole focus on making a name for himself, to a part-time ghost trapped in a house, to a part-time ghost trapped in a house forced to take in roommates to make the bills. And now he was trying to save their lives, and he still couldn’t escape himself.
Michael was just so…responsible. Claire couldn’t even imagine how someone got that way. Maturity, she guessed, but that was a lot like a road through fog to her. She had no idea how she was supposed to get there. Then again, she supposed nobody really did know, and you just stumbled through it.
They waited.
After about five minutes there was a wail of sirens in the distance—very faint, because the room was well soundproofed. That meant the sirens were close. Maybe even by the house already. Claire rose and pressed the button concealed in the lion’s-head arm of the couch, and the sirens immediately increased in volume as the secret door opened. She hurried down the steps and peered out. No one in the hallway, but from downstairs she heard angry shouting, and then the sound of a door banging open. Motorcycle engines roaring, tires squealing.
“They’re going,’” she yelled up, and pelted out into the hallway, down the stairs, breathless to find Shane.
Shane was up against the wall, and his father was holding him by the throat. Outside, police sirens suddenly cut off.
“Traitor,’” Shane’s dad said. He had a knife in his hand. “You’re a traitor. You’re dead to me.’”
Claire skidded to a stop, found her voice, and said, “Sir, you’d better get out of here unless you want to end up talking to the vampires.’”
Shane’s father turned his face toward her, and his expression was twisted with fury. “You little bitch,’” he said. “Turning my son against me.’”
“No—’” Shane grabbed at his father’s hand, trying to pry it free. “Don’t—’”
Claire backed up. For a second, neither Shane nor his dad moved, and then Shane’s father let him go, and raced for the kitchen door. Shane dropped to his knees, choking, and Claire went to him…
…just as the front door banged open, splintering around the lock, and the police charged in.
“Oh man,’” Shane whispered, “that sucks. We just fixed that door.’”
Claire clung to him, terrified, as the police swarmed through the house.
3
Shane wasn’t talking to the cops. Not about his dad, and not about anything. He just sat like a lump, eyes down, and refused to answer any questions from the human patrol officers; Claire didn’t know what to say—or, more importantly, what not to—and stammered out a lot of “I don’t know’” and “I was in my room’” sort of answers. Eve—more self-possessed than Claire had ever seen her—stepped in to say that she’d heard the intruders downstairs breaking things, and she’d pulled Claire into her room and locked the door for protection. It sounded good. Claire supported it with a lot of nodding.