“Are you trying to scare me, little girl?’”
“No,’” Claire whispered. She could barely get the word out. “I’m trying to tell you what will happen. They’ve kind of given up looking for you, but if you kill me, you lose. And if you let me go, I’m going to tell them everything.’”
“Then why shouldn’t I kill you?’”
“Because I’ll keep my mouth shut if you promise to leave Shane alone.’”
He glared at her, but she could see he was thinking about it.
“Boss,’” said the man holding her. He had a deep voice, rough like his throat was lined with gravel. “Bitch got no reason to keep her word.’”
“What makes you think I like the vamps any more than you do?’” she shot back. “Did Shane tell you about Brandon? I saw you in Common Grounds—were you looking for him? Because if you weren’t, you should be. He’s a dick.’”
Frank Collins’s eyes drifted half-shut, and she was reminded sickly of Shane, somehow. “You telling me which vamps to kill now?’”
“No.’” She swallowed again, acutely aware that at any second the kitchen door could swing open, and someone could come stumbling in, and everything could go to hell on the express train. “Just a suggestion. Because as far as I can tell, he’s just about the worst one. But you’re going to do what you want, I know that. I just want me and my friends out of it.’”
Shane’s dad smiled at her. Smiled. And it seemed, for the first time, like a mostly genuine expression, not just a freaky twist of his lips. “You’re tougher than you look, kid. That’s good. You’re going to need to be, you stick around here.’” He looked past her, at the biker (or so she thought—she could feel leather squeaking behind her when she struggled). “Let her down, man. She’s okay.’”
The biker released her. She jerked forward, spun, and set her back to the refrigerator. She scrambled for a knife in the drawer next to her, found a wicked-looking cleaver, and held it out in front of her. “You need to go,’” she said. “Right now. And don’t come back here, or I swear, I’ll tell them everything.’”
He wasn’t smiling anymore. Well, not as much. The biker behind him, though, was grinning.
“Girl, you don’t know my son at all, do you?’” he asked. “I don’t have to come back here. He’s going to come to me. Eventually.’”
He made a Let’s go gesture to his six-foot bodyguard, and together they went back out the side door of the kitchen. Claire ran to pull it shut and lock it, both locks plus the newly installed sliding bolts.
Which made her wonder why it hadn’t been locked before…oh. Of course. The cops had come in through the kitchen.
She took some deep breaths, rinsed the taste of that sweaty hand off her lips, and picked up the coffee cups.
Her hands were shaking so badly, there was no way she could carry anything liquid. She put them back down and went back to the door to call through, “Making some fresh!’”
She poured out the rest of the pot, loaded it again, and, by the time the machine finished, had mostly gotten herself under control.
Mostly.
Claire had a break between classes—it couldn’t really be called a lunch break, because it fell at ten a.m.—and she walked over to the University Center for coffee. The UC was large and kind of seedy; the carpet was ancient, and the furniture had seen the eighties, at least, and maybe the seventies. It was one large, open atrium filled with couches, chairs, and even—tucked in one corner—a grand piano. Student-activity banners, most badly painted, draped overhead and fluttered in the weak air-conditioning.
Most of the couch groupings were already claimed by students talking or separately studying. Claire had her eye on an open study table near the corner, but she’d have to hurry; there were plenty of people looking for places to settle.
She hurried to the coffee bar at the back of the atrium, and smiled and waved as she spotted Eve behind the espresso machine. Eve waved back, pulled two shots at the same time, and dumped them into steamed milk. The line was about five deep, and Claire had plenty of time to think about what Shane’s dad had said. And what he hadn’t.
What was he doing there today? Really? Maybe he’d come to fetch Shane, but she wasn’t sure. Shane’s dad seemed to have a plan, but she had no idea what it was. Maybe Shane would know, but she didn’t want to ask.
Michael. She’d tell Michael everything, as soon as he appeared.
“Large mocha,’” Claire said, and dug out the required three-fifty from her jeans pocket. It was a huge expense for her, but she figured it was only right to celebrate Eve’s first day on the job. The cashier—a bored-looking guy who was probably wishing he were anywhere else—took her cash and waved her on to the line for drinks.
She was standing there, thumbing through her English-lit book, when she heard muffled laughter, and then a wet dull thud as a drink tipped over on the counter. She looked up to see a ring of guys standing around a spilled drink, which was dripping off both sides of the counter.
“Hey, zombie chick,’” one of them said to Eve, who was standing next to the counter, still pulling shots and very obviously ignoring them. “Wanna clean that up?’”
A muscle fluttered in Eve’s jaw, but she silently got a handful of paper towels and began to mop up the mess. Once the counter was clean, she raised the hinged section of the bar and cleaned the floor on both sides.
The boys continued to snigger. “You missed a spot,’” said the one who’d spilled the drink. “Over there.’”
Eve had to bend over to get to the spot where he was pointing. He quickly stepped up behind her and began banging his crotch against her butt. “Oh, baby!’” he said, and they all laughed. Laughed. “You’re so fucking hot for a dead girl.’”
Eve calmly straightened up, turned around, and stared at him. Not a word. One thing Claire could say for Goth makeup, at least it covered up blushes…. She was blushing, furiously, on Eve’s behalf. And shaking.
“Excuse me,’” Eve finally said, and moved him aside with one hand flat against his chest. She got behind the bar again and slammed down the hatch, took the two espresso shots and dumped them into a fresh cup, stirred, put a lid on it, and put it on the bar. “Here. On the house.’”
The creep reached out, grabbed the cup, and squeezed. The top popped off. Coffee went everywhere, splattering Eve, the counter, the floor, the guy holding it. His buddies burst into open laughter when he said, “Oops. Guess I don’t know my own strength.’”
Eve looked at the guy at the register, but he just shrugged. She took a deep breath, smiled—not, Claire saw, her normal smile at all—and said, “You ought to see a doctor about that, Bullwinkle. Plus the crotch rash. Next! I have a mocha for Claire!’” Eve thumped down another cup and vigorously scrubbed the counter.
Claire hurried up. “Oh my God!’” she whispered. “What do you want me to do? Get somebody?’”
“Who?’” Eve rolled her eyes. “It’s my first day—it’s a little early to run tattling like a girlie girl. Leave it alone, Claire. Just take your coffee and go on. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a PhD in taking shit from jocks.’”
“But—Shane? Should I call Shane?’”
“Only if you want to be cleaning up blood instead of coffee—’”
“Hey, bitch, where’s my drink?’” the guy asked loudly from behind Claire. She felt him crowding up against her a second before he body-slammed her hard against the bar. “Oops, sorry, little girl, didn’t see you there.’” He didn’t move back. “Since when do we have kindergarten classes, anyway?’”
Her mocha had—of course—tumbled out of her hand and was rolling across the counter, bleeding coffee. Eve caught it and set it back upright. “Hey!’” Claire squirmed to get free; he just kept her pinned.
“Hey! Asshole!’” Eve echoed, louder, and pointed a finger over Claire’s head, glaring. “Back off, man, or I call the campus cops.’”